Chapter 90
THIS WAS WHERE it had all started, wasn’t it? All of the murders so far.
Becki’s House of Pie was a hole-in-the-wall eatery on Hyperion. It was gloomy, and it smelled of coffee and the disinfectant a busboy was using to mop the floor. There was an electric clock on the wall above the cash register. It made a loud tick every time the second hand moved.
Justine wondered what the Schoolgirl killers were doing right now, at this very second.
“This is where we sat,” Christine said, pointing to a red vinyl booth with a table scarred by decades of blue-plate specials.
A picture window alongside the booth faced onto the lunch hour traffic streaming up and down Hyperion. A motorcycle farted through a yellow light, the rider’s fat ass slowly moving away.
Christine said, “I sat here. My mom sat there. I can still see it.”
The waitress had bushy gray hair, a pinafore over her blue velvet dress, and a name tag reading “Becki.” She looked as though she’d been in the house of pie for fifty years.
Justine ordered coffee, black. Christine asked for tuna salad, then said, “To be honest, Dr. Smith? I wouldn’t want to get someone in trouble if I’m not sure.”
“Don’t worry about that, Christine. Your word alone can’t hurt anyone. We’ll still need proof. It’s not that easy to convict somebody of murder.”
“The van stopped in the middle of the road,” Christine said, pointing to the cross street. “I looked away, and when I turned back? These two guys were swinging the blond girl into the van.”
“Would you like to look at some pictures for me?”
“Sure. If it will help.”
Justine got the three heavy yearbooks out of her briefcase, then pushed the short stack across the table to the girl.
Justine sipped her coffee and watched Christine scan the pages. The girl paused to examine not just the portraits, but the group and candid photos too. For a few long moments, she stared at a black-and-white group shot under a heading “The Staff of The Wolverine.”
“What do you see?” Justine finally asked.
Christine stabbed the photo with a finger, pointing out a boy in a line with nine or ten other kids.
Then Christine exclaimed, “It’s him.”
Justine turned the book around and pulled it toward her.
The caption identified the yearbook staff and their graduating classes. She checked the caption against the students’ faces, then flipped to the portraits of the class of 2006.
The boy Christine had stabbed with her chewed-up fingernail had dark hair, a nose that could be called pointy, and ears that might be described as sticking out.
Suddenly Justine was so wired, she felt as if she could run electricity for all of East Los Angeles off her mood.
Was Christine’s memory this good? Or was she just trying to please Justine like her mother had said she would?
Justine said, “Christine? It was nighttime, right? The van stopped for a minute, and the kids were moving. Are you sure this is the boy you saw?”
Christine was a bright girl, and she understood the potential problem instantly.
“I worried that I wouldn’t be able to recognize him? But I do. Like I said the first time, Dr. Smith, I’ll never forget his face.”
“Okay, Christine. Great job. And now that face has a name. This is Rudolph Crocker.”