“When the time’s right you’ll tell me the story?”
“Got a few minutes right now?”
* * *
—
With Maxine in the loop, everyone on campus knew by morning. By noon the following day, lurid details, some of them true, quite a bit not, spread to social media.
As Thurston Nobach became the fiend of the moment, the people who’d created him withdrew from public life.
No attempt to achieve accuracy. That’s the way it is, nowadays: facts, lies, the stuff in between.
CHAPTER
49
I got to read the material soon after Milo.
LAPD Document 18-4326-187D: Materials seized from two units at Academo-Strathmore Student Residences, Westwood Village.
Unit C-418
1. One socket wrench yielding blood, hair, and cranial bone matching that of assault victim Sandra Burdette, the handle additionally yielding latent fingerprints consistent with those of suspect T. Nobach.
2. Additional latent fingerprints consistent with those of suspect T. Nobach on the edge of a dresser and a bathroom counter in Unit C-418, the latter admixed with blood from victim Burdette.
A. Supplementary data: eyewitness identification of suspect T. Nobach by victim Burdette as the man who assaulted her from behind when she attempted to leave an argument she’d had regarding his relationship with her daughter, attempted homicide victim Amanda Burdette.
B. Related supplementary data obtained at 12345 Wilshire Boulevard, Unit 24, PH1, former primary residence of suspect T. Nobach: latent fingerprints from a used hypodermic syringe containing traces of heroin and fentanyl matching Suspect T. Nobach’s fingerprints and found near the unconscious form of attempted homicide victim A. Burdette, subsequently revived by LAPD Lieutenant Detective Milo Bernard Sturgis.
Unit B-425
Two glassine envelopes containing heroin laced with fentanyl. The proportion of fentanyl consistent with that found in the system of homicide victims Susan Koster and Michael Lotz and attempted homicide victim Amanda Burdette.
Three glassine envelopes containing powdered cocaine.
A bottle containing five benzodiazepam tablets, the label authorizing prescription of 50 tablets issued to Michael Lotz, prescribing physician Manuel Licht, M.D., The East Venice Community Clinic.
An acoustic guitar labeled King-Tone internally, manufactured seven years ago in South Korea. Five of six metal strings intact, the A-string missing and consistent with a ligature used in the homicide of victim Susan Koster.
One roll of 200 adhesive-backed decal-type stickers with the word “Thirsty” printed in black ink. Match to similar decals found on twelve textbooks belonging to attempted homicide victim A. Burdette.
Four color photographs of what appears to be a young deceased white female, subsequently identified as Cassandra Booker, manner of death previously registered as undetermined and subsequently altered to homicide. The images placed in an envelope embossed with suspect Nobach’s name on the flap, along with a page of handwritten doggerel credited to suspect Nobach by himself, the cursive writing subsequently matched to samples from suspect Nobach’s checkbook. The young pass quickly. But never slickly. Dully na?ve, they take their leave. Leaving no mark but a tiny little prick-ly.
Four color photographs of what appears to be a middle-aged, deceased white male, subsequently identified as homicide victim Michael Lotz. Similar envelope to Booker, another page of doggerel. He lives in a hole, the humanoid mole. No more than a prole, a step above the dole. Was there even a soul?
Four color photographs of what appears to be a deceased young woman, subsequently identified as homicide victim Susan Koster. Similar envelope to Booker and Lotz. More extensive doggerel.
Ooh, the shape. The curves, the swoops. The nape. She swings she prances. Pretends she dances. Playing a role. Riding the pole. Ceding her hole. Without resistance. Though there was assistance! Ah, the allure of the page. Believing she was sage. Not filth in a cage.
Four color photographs of what appears to be a deceased young woman, thin, long blond hair, as yet unidentified. Placed in an unmarked envelope along with a postcard depicting the Honolulu Hilton, Oahu, Hawaii.
Four color photographs of what appears to be a deceased young woman, thin, short brunette hair, as yet unidentified. Placed in an unmarked envelope along with a postcard depicting the Lord Byron Hotel, Rome, Italy.
I finished reading, poured myself a double Chivas, sat back, and thought.
For all the probative value of the drugs, the prints, the guitar, and the bad verse, the piece of evidence I found most interesting had never made it to the murder book.
A collection of correspondence, including room measurement charts and bills of sale, exchanged over a two-year period between “Dr. Thurston Nobach, Esq.,” and Smythe-Sheetley Booksellers, 65 Cambria Lane, London SW2V 5PS.
The company’s motto:
DECORATIVE, VINTAGE VOLUMES PURVEYED BY THE METRE.
CHAPTER
50
Within ten days, the swelling that had ballooned my left cheek subsided. Three days after that, I got a call from Brearely Burdette.
“I heard you got socked in the jaw, Dr. Delaware. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine, thanks. How’s everyone doing?”
“Sandy’s still in the hospital. She’s got three skull fractures and will probably have headaches for a while but they say she’ll be basically okay. They think. Amanda…you know, she’s Amanda. Will told me he asked you to treat her but you said you couldn’t and referred her to another therapist. That was probably a good idea. I wouldn’t want her for a patient.”
No sense getting into ethics. I said, “That’s true.” I’d just heard from the psychologist I recommended, Michelle Tessler. (“Obviously not a short-termer, Alex. At least she’s honest. You might say to a fault, but that beats digging through layers of bullshit.”)
“Anyway,” said Brearely, “I’m glad you’re okay and I’m calling to invite you to lunch with me and Garrett. To express our thanks.”
“That’s lovely but unnecessary.”
“That’s exactly what Lieutenant Sturgis said—though he said ‘kind’ not ‘lovely.’ But I convinced him and he convinced Detective Binchy. So I said he should convince you, too, but he said you’re your own person, he’s got no influence.”
“You’re meeting with them?”
She laughed. “Not a meeting, we’re having lunch with them and we’d really like you to be there.”
I hesitated.
“Puh-leeze, Dr. Delaware? It would mean so so much.”
“When and where, Brearely?”
“Tomorrow, The Shack in Malibu. Do you know it?”
“I do.”
“Great! One o’clock, I hope that’s not too short notice, if it is we’ll change it.”
I checked my calendar. “It’s fine.”
“Awesome. I knew I could pull it off!”
* * *
—
Gorgeous day in Malibu. When isn’t it? Excepting fires, sewage leaks, fatal accidents, and other human assaults on Divine Intention.
The Shack was twenty-eight miles north of Sunset on the land side of PCH. I’d passed it but had never been there.
A quick turn off the highway took the Seville up a dirt mound to a clearing. Weathered redwood picnic tables were scattered in front of a white clapboard former bait stand.
I’d gotten stuck in a traffic snarl just south of the Colony—from the length of the SUV motorcade, a politician coming to rattle a tin cup at celebrities—and by the time I arrived Milo had finished two of four cardboard containers of fried shrimp, each with a side of curly fries. Sean sat next to him, working on an oversized soft-tortilla mahi-mahi taco.