Limits of Justice, The (36 page)

“And after that week ended?”

“Mr. Fuentes, he tell us that we can all stay there except one boy, because the blood from his arm, it show he has some sickness in him. That boy have to go away, and he cry but Mr. Fuentes say they take good care of him, they make him well and maybe he come back later.”

“Did you ever see this boy again?”

“No, we never see him no more.”

“What happened to the rest of you?”

“Mr. Fuentes, he take the new boys and maybe four or five of the other boys who was there before me and he say that we are going to a party where some rich men will be. He tell us that these men, they like to make a good time for kids like us, and then we go.”

“Mr. Fuentes drove you to this party?”

“The drivers in the big cars, the long ones that are black, they take us.”

“Limousines.”

“
Sí,
I think they call them that.”

“Do you know where this party was?”

“I am not sure, maybe not too far. We drive for maybe one hour, maybe less than that. To a big house with a place to swim.
Muy refinado.
Very fancy, that place.”

“This was still in the desert, where it was hot?”

“Sí.”

“Sounds like Palm Springs maybe.”

“This I cannot say.”

“And what happened at the party?”

“Mr. Fuentes, he have us to meet these older guys, and he give us names. Like he call me Prettyboy, which make the older guys laugh. They are drinking and using cocaine, and they are looking at us really hard, you know?”

“Was that all they did, Chucho? Just look at you?”

The line fell silent for a few moments.

“No, they do other stuff.”

“What did they do, Chucho?”

More silence passed.

“I do not think I should say these things to a lady. It make me feel funny.”

“I’m a reporter, Chucho. I know it’s awkward, but I need you to tell me the whole story, the complete truth.”

Chucho’s voice was barely audible.

“
Sí,
I understand.”

“You’ll need to speak up, Chucho.”

I heard him clear his throat.

“These men, they are very friendly with us. They ask us questions, like how we like our new place to live, how old we is, where we come from. They are very friendly, you know? Then, they start touching us, maybe just our hair or our faces, like that. Then, this man who like me, he say he want me to go up the stairs with him, he want to show me something. So I go with him, and I see the other boys go with other guys into rooms. I go with this guy and he close the door and he start doing things to me that nobody never do before.”

“What things, Chucho?”

“Do I have to say this part?”

“Try to be specific, please.”

“He touch my face and then he ask me to sit on the bed with him and when I do he start to kiss me. And he tell me he like me very much, that he think I am very pretty and he want to see me with no clothes. I tell him I do not want to do that but he say I have to or I cannot live at the big house or get any money no more for
mi familia.
That make me cry and I feel very bad and he hold me, you know, with his arms, very close, like
mi padre
hold me when I am a little boy before he go to be with Jesus. And this guy tell me that what we are doing is OK, he is just going to show me things that feel good, and if I do them, he will tell Mr. Fuentes I do good and to put extra money away for me, for when I am older. So I do what he want, just like he say, everything.”

“This man had sex with you?”

Ever so faintly, I heard Chucho begin to cry.

“
Sí,
he do things to me, to my
pajarito.
He touch it, and put it in his mouth.”

“Explain
pajarito
for us, Chucho.”

“You know, down there.”

“Your penis?”

“
Sí, my pipi.
”

“Did he do anything else?”

Chucho was crying again.

“Here’s a tissue, Chucho.”

I heard him blow his nose.

“Later on, this guy, he hurt me very bad.”

“How did he do that, Chucho?”

“He put his
pipi
in my
pompi,
he push it in very hard, even though I am crying because it hurt so bad.”

“This man forced you to have anal sex?”

Suddenly, Chucho was screaming, deep-voiced and hard.

“He fuck me in the ass, OK? Is that what you want me to say?”

“OK, Chucho. I’m sorry. I know this is difficult for you.”

“Could I have a Coke, please?”

“Sure. Maybe we should all take a break.”

I heard the voice of the attorney.

“I’d prefer to break for lunch, give the boy a chance to get his bearings. Let’s reconvene at two.”

“Chucho and I will see you then.”

I heard Chucho ask to use the restroom and the attorney offer to show him where it was, then a door opening and closing. Templeton came on the line.

“You there, Justice?”

“I’m here. You sound a little shell-shocked.”

“I’m not too comfortable with this.”

“That’s a good sign. It means you’re still human.”

“Maybe we should end the interview here. Maybe it’s enough.”

“Keep going, get it all.”

“Where do I go with this? What am I looking for?”

“The kid Mike, who first told me about Chucho, said Chucho had seen something terrible. It was something that shook up even a hardened street kid like Mike.”

“I’ve pushed Chucho awfully far.”

“It’s your job, Templeton, it’s what they pay you to do.”

“He’s just a kid.”

“He’s survived a lot. He’ll be OK.”

“I don’t know if I will.”

“Don’t quit on me, Templeton.”

She sucked in some air, held it a moment, exhaled slowly.

“At least I’ve got lunch to recuperate. I’ll drive Chucho over to Chinatown, try to get his mind off the newspaper for a while. By the way, while I’ve got you on the phone—I ran the plates on that Caddy you asked me to check. It’s a forty-eight model, registered to Anna Farthing.”

“Farthing—as in Farthing Mortuaries?”

“That’s the one.”

“Farthing Mortuaries has a long association with the Miller clinics. Farthing handled Rod Preston’s body before he was interred at Forest Lawn. Ditto for Charlotte Preston.”

“I know. I’ve got more, if you’re interested.”

“Let me guess—Mrs. Farthing also owns that spooky old place on West Adams where the car was parked when I first saw it.”

“Actually, property records show the house under Dr. Stanley Miller’s name.”

“Score one for you, Alexandra.”

“You haven’t heard the best of it. Anna Farthing and Stanley Miller are brother and sister.”

“You don’t say.”

“I started peeling away some layers of the Miller family, using my best Internet search engines, in addition to the usual directories and other biographical sources. The name Anna came up, and I put two and two together. You want to hear the family background?”

“What do you think?”

“I made some calls, gathered more data, eventually connected with a source at the State Department. I convinced him to open a confidential file dating back to the late forties. I told him we’d get it eventually through Freedom of Information, anyway, so he might as well give it up now. We compromised, and he read it to me over the phone, putting everything he said off the record. I’ll get the file later, through official channels.”

“Off the record suits me fine for now.”

“Let me get my notes.”

A moment later, she was talking again.

“Anna and Stanley Miller were born in Germany in the late thirties, at the peak of Hitler’s rise to power. Their birth name was actually Bergenhausen. Stanley was younger than his sister by nearly three years. Their mother was Italian, pro-Fascist. Their father was a prominent German doctor, loyal to the Reich. He was also a very perverse man, according to the file on him in Washington. After the camps opened, both children were encouraged to watch their father at work, carving up live prisoners for the good of science.”

“I see a sitcom in this—
Leave It to Cleaver.
”

Templeton’s reaction was sharp.

“Do you want to hear the rest of this or not?”

“Sorry.”

“At the end of the war, as the Russians were swarming into Berlin, on the same day that Hitler and Eva Braun committed suicide, the two Bergenhausen children watched their own parents swallow cyanide capsules, joining Adolph and Eva in hell. When things got sorted out after the war, Anna and Stanley were allowed to emigrate to the States to live with relatives. He eventually took up medicine like Daddy Dearest, while Anna was drawn to the mortuary trade. They apparently both became frozen in a forties time warp, drawn to the style of the period when they came here to start a new life, trying so hard to be American, to put their dark past behind them. They even changed their legal name to Miller, after Glenn Miller, the most popular band leader of the period, before he died in the war.”

“That explains the wardrobe.”

“Anna was reportedly very protective of her little brother. Forced him to rid himself of his German accent, even though she retained a trace of her own. According to the files, they were inseparable, at least until she married Mr. Farthing in the seventies. There’s not much on them after that, other than Stanley’s rise in the medical profession and Anna’s association with the Farthing mortuary business.”

“Quite a pair, Anna and Stanley.”

“Try to picture what it must have been like, Justice—seeing what they saw as children, finding ways to survive the horror of it. They must have forged an awfully close emotional bond, especially after the loss of their parents, a feeling that all they had was each other.”

“Family histories have an awfully long reach, don’t they?”

I heard noises in the background, then Templeton’s voice again.

“Chucho just came back. We’d better grab some lunch before we resume the inquisition.”

“I’ll call you later this afternoon, see how it went.”

“Where will you be?”

“Visiting the Riverside branch of Farthing Mortuaries.”

“I’m not sure you should go out there on your own.”

“It’s the closest of the three funeral homes to Joshua Tree National Park, in the vicinity of Dr. Miller’s private compound. Seems like it’s worth a look.”

“Maybe we should pull the cops in on this.”

“Still too early, Templeton. Keep asking the good questions. I’ll be in touch.”

While Templeton forced more questions on Chucho Pernales, I was in the Mustang on Interstate 10, heading due east through Los Angeles toward the vast Sonoran Desert.

It was midafternoon, and the farther out I got, the more intensely the heat beat down. I drove with the top up, keeping the speedometer at a steady seventy-five and my mind fixed on what Chucho had told Templeton about Dr. Miller’s altruistic program for disadvantaged youth, imagining what the rest of it might be. The possibilities pushed me on through the heat, through the fever that was still with me from the parasites in my gut, through the exhaustion I was feeling from my alcohol binge and pummeling in Tijuana and the angry Malibu surf before that. When your body’s telling you it’s had enough, there’s nothing like good, old-fashioned rage to keep you going, with a dash of cold fear for that extra adrenaline rush.

Still, I was light-headed and reeling with sickness, and my race toward the land of the Joshua Tree took on something of a surreal quality. Horace Hyatt’s photos floated around in my head, and somewhere in there was the more concrete image of Mike, and then of Mike when the coroner began collecting pieces of him from a string of filthy Dumpsters. I wondered if he had a family somewhere that was grieving for him now, or if anybody besides Horace Hyatt had ever cared about him at all. I thought about all the other boys in the world like Mike, thousands upon thousands of them, maybe a million or more if you forgot the borders, kids driven to the streets by parents who beat the crap out of them, who drank or drugged themselves into catatonia every night, who used their children as emotional punching bags or objects of their own twisted sexual pleasure—kids for whom the dangerous streets and the notion of peddling their own flesh to survive were preferable to staying at home with dear old Mom and Dad.

Nobody really wanted to hear about that kind of thing anymore. Most people had had their fill of abuse and dysfunctional families, and there was a rising chorus dismissing such stories as annoying and overblown. They wanted the Mikes of the world, male and female, to just shut up and straighten out their lives, or at least disappear so they didn’t have to hear the whining of the social workers and the bleeding hearts anymore. Mike had disappeared, all right, and whoever had carved him up was still out there, waiting and watching for his next victim. There would always be a Chucho or a Jimmy to take Mike’s place, because we don’t raise our boys to think they’re vulnerable to that kind of thing, the way we raise girls. We expect young females to be preyed upon, and constantly warn them to be vigilant. Somehow, we understand that among heterosexual men there’s a staggering number of sick and deadly predators. We don’t educate boys the same way, we don’t protect them. For every Mike found in a Dumpster, there are a hundred more who will never be found, whose murders will never be solved. My feverish head was swimming with all this dark, ugly stuff and I was getting dangerously close to losing my emotional bearings when I suddenly saw a freeway sign indicating the turnoff for Riverside.

*

I took a sharp right, swinging south toward the last city of any substantial size for about a million miles. The
Times
had sent me here back in eighty-nine, to write a feature on the relocation program at the Sherman Indian High School. It was spring, following a winter of long rains and the wildflowers had exploded with color across the low hills, much like they did now. With its quarter of a million residents and nearly a hundred thousand trees—something the city took great pride in—Riverside was like a final outpost of civilization at the edge of a wasteland where rattlesnakes curled up under weather-beaten trailers and the occasional lonely gas station was visited more often by tumbleweeds than vehicles. A string of oasislike resort towns popped up around Palm Springs farther down the road, with their swimming pools, tennis courts, and lush, green golf courses. Beyond that lay hundreds of miles of nearly barren desert, bordered by Nevada and Arizona, that opened up like a set of gaping jaws to form the most desolate corner of California.

I found the county building downtown, and entered the records department, where bright computer screens shared space with ancient, musty-smelling documents. Behind the counter was a small, plump brown woman with gray hair pulled back and held by a turquoise-and-silver clasp, and bifocals perched on her blunt nose. She looked as if she might be descended from any one of the dozen Indian tribes that had once roamed and proliferated in the region but now accounted for less than one percent of the city’s population, excluding those who lived on the reservations scattered over the county’s more than seven thousand square miles. She spoke to me in a small, flat voice and simple manner, neither friendly nor unfriendly, but willing and helpful.

My request was an odd one: I needed to find the exact location of a compound out near Joshua Tree that served as a private residence or medical facility for a Dr. Stanley Miller, but which was not listed in the phone book.

“It’s within Riverside County?”

“I believe so. I’ve been told it’s quite isolated, that it was once owned by Hollywood people, later turned into a resort, before Dr. Miller occupied it.”

“I would need more information to help you, sir. An address, a deed number, that kind of thing.”

I described the building the way Chucho had—two stories, possibly dozens of rooms, built around a courtyard large enough for numerous cars to enter and exit easily through a massive double gate with spires on either side.

“That sounds like the Farthing place to me.”

“You’re speaking of Anna Farthing?”

She nodded lackadaisically, speaking in her slow, droning monotone.

“It’s the only private building of that size and description out that way that I can think of. But it’s not in Riverside County, it’s across the line in San Bernardino County. We wouldn’t have the information you need here.”

“This Anna Farthing—I believe she has a mortuary here in town.”

“She’s the owner, yes, since her husband passed on. It’s the original branch. They’ve got more, out toward Los Angeles. Two others, I think.”

“You seem to know a good deal about the area.”

“I’ve worked in county records for almost forty years.”

She shrugged, unsmiling, more like an apology than a boast.

“And Mrs. Farthing’s compound, the one I’m looking for—do you know where it is?”

“Somewhere out past Moreno Valley. I saw it once when I was a little girl. It was a hotel with a hot springs back then. My brother could tell you exactly.”

“Where would I find your brother?”

“He has a gas station in Yucca Valley, out that way.”

“Which station would that be?”

“There’s only one. It’s a Mobil. It still has the old Flying Pegasus, the neon horse with wings. He wouldn’t give up his sign when the marketing people changed it. He said the Pegasus was prettier.”

“He’s usually there in the evening?”

“Until eight. Then he closes up and goes and loses his money at the casino.”

She said it matter-of-factly, without judgment.

“You mind if I ask your brother’s name?”

“Ned Romero. They call him Big Bag of Warm Wind.”

She finally smiled, just a little.

*

It was after six when I pulled into the Riverside branch of Farthing Mortuaries. I parked in a nearly empty side lot and left the windows down because of the heat.

The funeral home was housed in a Mission-style building typical of the area, with lots of trees all around, and beneath the trees struggling ferns that must have been thirsty in the crackling, desert air. A fountain formed of sandstone blocks splashed in the middle of the lawn, and near the entrance was a replica of the Riverside symbol one saw all over town: a bell and a cross, combining a replica of Father Junipero Serra’s mass bell and the two-tiered cross that Navajo and Central American Indians had prayed to in ancient times. I found the front door locked and rang a buzzer.

A moment later the door was opened by a man slightly younger than me. He was pale, rapier thin, well groomed, dressed impeccably in a pinstriped gray suit with a dusky blue tie and a matching pocket square. I told him I was there to see Anna Farthing. When he spoke, his slender fingers fluttered open and came together as if he were pinching the air, and his words passed from his delicate lips with a lisp that was almost musical.

“I’m afraid Mrs. Farthing has gone for the day.”

“She’s usually here?”

“Not all that often, really. She comes out now and then from Los Angeles to attend to business. Although she has been here quite a bit of late, working almost every night. Might I ask what it is you need?”

“I’m handling arrangements for a friend who’s terminally ill. I was referred to Mrs. Farthing by Dr. Stanley Miller’s office.”

“Of course, we do a good deal of work with them, as you might imagine.”

“You’re referring to their sibling relationship.”

“Yes, exactly.”

He pressed his long fingers together, bowing slightly.

“Perhaps I could answer some of your questions. We have a body lying in state, but the family’s not due for viewing for another hour or so. I could show you around, if you’d like.”

“I was really hoping to see Mrs. Farthing. I don’t have much time.”

“If you’ll leave your name, I’ll be happy to have her contact you.”

“You mentioned that she’s been working here more often lately.”

“The last week or two. She keeps odd hours, so none of us sees her much.”

“After closing, you mean.”

He nodded.

“She’s something of a night owl, Mrs. Farthing. Once or twice, I’ve bumped into her when I’ve come in early, just as she was finishing up or leaving.”

“Administrative work during the night?”

“Oh, no—Mrs. Farthing’s a practicing mortician. I believe she first met Mr. Farthing when she was in school getting her training. She came to work here not long after Mr. Farthing’s first wife made her transition.”

“They had children?”

“No, no—Miss Miller was in her late forties when they married, and Mr. Farthing was in his seventies.”

“And when he died, she got the company.”

“That’s correct.”

“As well as the compound out near Joshua Tree, I imagine.”

“How did you know about that?”

“Is it supposed to be a secret?”

“It’s awfully private—Dr. Miller’s retreat, really, from what I understand.”

“She goes out there, though?”

“From time to time.”

“Perhaps she’s there now.”

“It’s possible. She didn’t say.”

“You saw her today?”

“An hour or so ago. She took one of the coaches and went on her way without saying exactly where. She’s a very private person, Mrs. Farthing.”

“You say she took a hearse.”

“We prefer the term ‘casket coach.’ Yes, I imagine there’s been a bereavement, which means remains to be transported.”

“You’d know if that were the case, wouldn’t you?”

“Not really. Mrs. Farthing handles all the business for this particular branch, all the formal paperwork. I’m the memorial counselor, and if the deceased undergoes embalming and remains with us for viewing, I’d be aware of it. But Mrs. Farthing attends to some of the deceased on her own, particularly when cremation is requested.”

“She’s in charge of the crematorium?”

“She’s trained and certified in the cremation of remains and handles a number of those requests. She sometimes prefers to attend to crematorium matters after business hours, when the staff is gone. We’re state-of-the-art in the cremation department, by the way, should that be of interest to your sick friend.”

“It appears you’ve got a very smoothly run operation here.”

He beamed, looking pleased.

“We pride ourselves on our sensitivity and discretion.”

I thanked him for his time, accepted his business card, and turned away, past the bell and cross and toward the front walk. Half a minute later, I was in the Mustang, pulling around the rear of the rambling building on my way to the exit on the other side.

Near the back doors, parked in a staff-designated space, I saw the familiar black Cadillac sedan, circa 1948, its gleaming grillwork grinning at me like a shark.

*

I picked up Highway 60 back to Interstate 10, speeding on toward Joshua Tree, with the sun going down behind me like a wildfire slowly dying across the western sky.

Traffic slowed slightly through the smallish towns of Beaumont and Banning, but then the highway was cutting a straight swath through wide-open sagebrush country, and I pushed the speedometer up to eighty-five. I kept it there, racing past isolated little communities like Cabazon, Snow Creek, and White Water, which were nestled below barren hills and towering, wind-gathering turbines that stretched for miles along the ridges, adding another surreal touch to the bleak terrain. At Highway 62, I turned sharply north toward Yucca Valley, following the asphalt ribbon as it curved around the western end of Joshua Tree National Park. The vehicles became fewer and the road eventually narrowed to only two lanes, and I began to feel as if I’d landed on a different planet.