Cottonwood, seven miles further south along the 101, is known for the tar springs a Spanish expedition spotted on the beach in 1769. Petroleum-derived pitch is black in color, thus giving rise to the phrase “pitch-black.” The native Indian tribes used this foul-smelling substance to caulk their canoes. Petroleum seeps are still visible in the area, which is also home to a number of scenic off-shore drilling platforms. A small cottage industry has sprung up creating products that remove pitch from the bottoms of your feet after a day at the Cottonwood beach.
“Naturally occurring asphalt or bitumen, a type of pitch, is a viscoelastic polymer.” I know this because I looked it up in the encyclopedia set my Aunt Gin was conned into buying from a door-to-door salesman. In the fourth grade, I wrote a report on the subject, which I knew was accurate because I copied it word for word. “Even though this polymer seems to be solid at room temperature and can be shattered on impact,” I wrote, “it is actually fluid and flows over time, but extremely slowly. The ‘pitch drop’ experiment taking place at the University of Queensland demonstrates the movement of a pitch sample over many years. For the experiment, pitch was put in a glass funnel and allowed to drip out. Since the pitch experiment began in 1930, only eight drops have fallen. It was recently calculated that the pitch in the experiment has a viscosity that’s approximately two hundred and thirty billion times that of water.”
I got an F on the report and a testy lecture on plagiarism, which was news to me. I went back and added quote marks, but Miss Manning wouldn’t raise my grade. Shit. What did she expect? I was nine years old.
The combined townships of Winterset and Cottonwood boast one hotel, twelve motels, and three inns, the latter being a fancy designation for an overpriced B&B. These establishments are located just far enough away from each other that I was forced to drive from point to point. I also stopped in at chain restaurants, diners, and service stations, doling out Ned’s mug shot, the brief note about his criminal history, and my business card. Fourteen of the businesses I approached had nothing to report, though the employees expressed suitable alarm at the notion of offering courtesies to a homicidal maniac.
The clerk in the second-to-last motel was a fellow named Bradley Benoit: white, in his seventies, with gray bushy eyebrows and a bald, freckled pate. When I slid the bulletin across the reception desk to him, he politely slid it back.
He said, “Let me tell you something, young lady. The law in California requires hotel and motel operators to collect and record data about their guests in either paper or electronic form. The register must contain the guest’s name and address; the number of people in the guest’s party; the make, model, and license plate number of the guest’s vehicle if the vehicle will be parked on hotel property; the guest’s date and time of arrival and scheduled date of departure; the room number assigned to the guest; the rate charged and the amount collected for the room; and the method of payment.”
I was about to cut into the conversation, but he was just warming up.
“In addition, we’re required to turn such records over to law enforcement upon request. I don’t see any reason to comply since this compels business owners to collect personal data on our customers and turn it over without proper warrants or consent. As citizens, we have privacy rights which we shouldn’t be expected to waive simply because we’re traveling. You know what this violates?”
“No clue.”
“The Fourth Amendment of the United States Constitution.”
I tapped a finger on the police bulletin. “Do you see this gentleman? He’s wanted in connection with the kidnapping, assault, rape, and murder of a number of teenaged girls, so while I applaud and support your point, I’m really not concerned about his constitutional rights. All I want to know is whether you’ve seen him. A simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ will suffice.”
“I have not.”
I handed him a business card. “Thank you for your time.”
“You needn’t be impertinent,” he said.
At the last motel, the Sand Bar, I had better luck.
A registration clerk named Sebastian Palfrey recognized Ned, but said he’d checked out three days earlier. As was true of the previous clerk, Sebastian was white and in his seventies. Perhaps this was a new employment trend among retirees. He wore wire-rimmed spectacles and his long gray hair was pulled back in a ponytail. The second and third fingers on his right hand had turned golden from cigarette smoke.
“Is Ned Lowe the name he used?”
“I don’t believe so, but I can check.”
“Thanks.”
He pulled up a stack of registration cards. “This may take a minute. These are in date order and I’m behind on my filing.” He went through the cards, reading each in turn. “Here we go. Hoover. J. E. Hoover.”
“J. Edgar Hoover. Very cute,” I said. “Can I see the address?”
He turned the card so I could read it and then handed me a piece of scratch paper. “Probably bogus,” he remarked.
“You never know. As long as he’s being cocky, he might have thrown in a truth or two just to amuse himself.” I made a note of the address, which was in Louisville. “Did he show you a photo ID?”
“A Kentucky driver’s license, which looked all right, but might have been counterfeit. I’ve never seen a real one, so there was no way I could challenge him even if it had occurred to me.”
“Any idea why he chose this motel?”
“Rooms are forty-nine dollars a night, which is cheaper than most. He paid cash, stayed for three nights, and checked out on Monday.”
“What about his mode of transportation?”
He angled the registration card. “You can see here, we have a box for vehicle make and model. He left it blank.”
“You didn’t see a car parked outside his room?”
“I never thought to look. We don’t charge for parking, so it’s all the same to me. He had a backpack, now that I think about it. Lightweight aluminum frame with a red nylon sleeping bag secured across the top.”
“If he was traveling on foot, it seems like he’d have been conspicuous in an area like this.”
Palfrey offered an apologetic shrug. “He said he was passing through. Given his boots and camping gear, I assumed he’d been hiking. He might have been headed to a trailhead.”
“Don’t think so. He showed up in Santa Teresa midday on Monday,” I said. “Did he mention his destination?”
“Not a word. He’s a quiet fellow. I like to chat with guests because it establishes a friendlier atmosphere for folks away from home. Small talk didn’t interest him. He was polite, I was polite, and we let it go at that.”
“If you think of anything else, could you let me know?”
“I’ll be happy to. Wish I had more to offer.”
“You’ve been a big help.”