Dead Eyes Read online

  “I think it’s fair to say that,” Ripley agreed. “I first got interested in the phenomenon when I was the staff psychiatrist at San Quentin, and that was fifteen years ago, long before there was any public awareness of stalkers, not to mention police awareness.”

  “Then you must have studied a large number of cases over the years.”

  “About three thousand, at last count.”

  “What I’d like to do is to tell you about this particular stalker—we call him ‘Admirer’—and I’d like to see what conclusions, if any, you can draw about him.”

  “Shoot.”

  Reading from his notes, Larsen reconstructed each incidence in which Admirer had contacted Chris Callaway. “On one occasion, he assaulted her,” Larsen said, and told the doctor about the tattooing.

  “That’s very interesting,” Ripley said. “Go on, tell me everything, and then I’ll respond.”

  Larsen took him through each event, up through the motorcyclist of the previous day.

  “Is that everything?” Ripley asked.

  “No, there is one further incident, but it is so different from the others that I’d like to wait until after your initial response before we discuss it.”

  “All right,” Ripley said. “Let’s see; there are many characteristics of this man that are common to stalkers: the degree of obsession; the regularity, nay—infallibility—of his attention; the gifts; the admiring letters; the veiled threats; his following her about; his contention that she needs no one but him. None of these things distinguishes him from other stalkers for purposes of identity.

  “Some useful information you have already gleaned: he seems affluent; he has some technical competence; he is highly intelligent.”

  Larsen nodded. “I’m assuming, of course, that Admirer is, in fact, responsible for each of these incidents, and that Miss Callaway’s perceptions of his presence are correct.”

  “I think we have to assume that,” Ripley agreed. “Some random thoughts: I think he either has private means or is self-employed—he seems to have a lot of personal freedom. I am inclined toward self-employment of a technical bent—computers, electronics, some sort of consulting, or he may have employees who carry on his business without his constant supervision. His lack of fear, his contempt of the police is interesting. There is a touch of megalomania there—any reasonable person, even a practiced criminal, fears the police. I think it is remotely possible, but not likely, that he has spent time in prison. More likely, he has a long-standing record of unlawful behavior without getting caught. He sees himself beyond the reach of the law, because of his intelligence and ingenuity, and not without some justification. He will not be easy to identify or apprehend.

  “Certainly, he has problems establishing close relationships with women, and probably with men as well. He’s a loner, but superficially, at least, is personable in his dealings with others. His reluctance to meet his victim face-to-face could indicate some physical deformity, real or imagined—anything from dwarfism to acne—that he feels he must conceal until his prey gets to know and love him.” Ripley paused. “Has his use of language been syntactical and grammatical?”

  “Yes, as a matter of fact. Miss Callaway noticed that. She thought he seemed educated.”

  “Not beyond high school or technical training, I would wager. From what we know of his possessions—a van, a motorcycle; of his skills—electronics and tattooing; and his rather mundane choice of gifts—roses and chocolates—I’d place him in a lower socioeconomic background. These are not things that someone from an upper-class milieu would spend his money on; there’s an element of the nouveau riche here. I think his language skills have been picked up from watching television or movies—or, less likely, from reading.” Ripley shrugged. “I know I’m pontificating here, but I’m just giving you my immediate impressions. I couldn’t substantiate any of this, of course.”

  “I understand,” Larsen said, “and this is very helpful.”

  Ripley sighed. “What else? His running the secretary off the road doesn’t necessarily show a tendency to violence; it may well be that he holds a sort of comic-book attitude toward that kind of action, something acquired from too much TV or movies. I doubt that he seriously considered that he might have killed the woman. His lack of appreciation of the consequences of his actions, however, could make him inadvertently dangerous.” Ripley massaged the bridge of his nose. “I must say, I find the forced tattooing much more disturbing. It shows a willingness to physically coerce in order to get his way.”

  Larsen spoke up. “As I’m sure you know, Chuck, there have been incidents in the past when stalkers have harmed, even murdered their prey, but these are rare. There was a murder some years ago, but in the time since the LAPD Threat Management Unit was established, they haven’t had a case of a stalker physically harming his victim, and in our shorter experience, neither have we.”

  “I wouldn’t take a great deal of comfort from statistics,” Ripley said, shaking his head. “Each of these stalkers is an individual, with his own psychological problems, even psychoses, and you can never predict with any degree of accuracy when one of them will become violent. However, in the case of Admirer, I feel quite certain that he believes completely that if he should wish to harm Miss Callaway, the police could never apprehend him.”

  Larsen greeted this opinion with silence.

  “I think that’s about all I can suggest,” Ripley said, “until I know about the most recent incident, the one you’ve been reluctant to tell me about.”

  Larsen nodded and placed the Polaroid photograph on the desk between them. The two men looked at it together. It was a picture of another photograph from an open book, lying on a corner of a rug. A wooden floor was revealed in a corner of the picture.

  “Mmmm,” Ripley mused. “It seems to be from a book of medical photographs; you wouldn’t ordinarily see a shot of an open chest in a consumer magazine or book. The sight of stainless-steel retractors pushing apart the rib cage might cause a lot of suburban housewives to faint.”

  “Notice the printed caption,” Larsen said. “It appears to have been done on an electronic labeling machine. You see them in mail-order catalogues for around a hundred and fifty dollars.”

  “‘One of my favorite pastimes,’” Ripley read aloud. “And have you noticed that the torso is that of a woman?”

  “I noticed,” Larsen said.

  “Does Miss Callaway know about this?” Ripley asked.

  “No. I didn’t think it would be helpful.”

  “Quite right.”

  “What do you think of the arrival of this photograph?” Larsen asked.

  “Rather a jarring note, isn’t it?” Ripley replied.

  “It certainly jarred me.”

  “I think the photograph means that Admirer has moved the game to a new level. There seems to be little doubt, in light of this message, that he could very well become violent. In fact, I would regard the photograph as a promise.”

  “I was afraid you’d say something like that,” Larsen said.

  “You may have something else to be afraid of,” Dr. Ripley said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Tell me, has Admirer had an opportunity to observe you and Miss Callaway together in circumstances that he might construe as romantic?”

  Larsen thought about their drive up to Mulholland Drive in his car. “Yes, he has.”

  “Then I should think you have at least as much to fear from him as does the young lady.”

  CHAPTER

  19

  Back in his car, Larsen took the Polaroid photograph from his pocket and stared at it again, willing it to yield more information. Suddenly it did. He held it as close to his eyes as he could and still focus, wishing he had a magnifying glass. He didn’t know much about these things, but he had a strong urge to talk to somebody who did.

  He started the car and began driving. There was an expensive-looking shop on Melrose that dealt in such things; he had passed it a d
ozen times and had meant to go in and browse but never had. Now was the time.

  He invented a parking place on a yellow line, flipped down the sun visor with the police ID, and jaywalked across the street to the shop, which was called Westward Ho! There was a display of Indian pots in the window, and some of them looked very old. Inside, he waited while the only person in attendance, a small man in his early fifties, carried on a lengthy conversation with a young couple about the rising value of beaded clothing of the Plains Indians. Finally the couple took their leave, and the man turned his attention to Larsen.

  “I’m terribly sorry to keep you waiting,” he said. “May I show you something or answer a question?”

  “Thank you, yes,” Larsen said, producing the photograph. “I know there’s not much of it visible, but I wonder if you could tell me anything about this.”

  The man looked at the photograph. “Ooooh, yuck,” he said.

  “I’m sorry about the nature of the photograph,” Larsen said. “It’s the rug under it that interests me.”

  “Oh, yes,” the man said, looking at the photograph closely.

  “I thought it looked like something that might be found in a shop such as yours. Can you tell me anything about it?”

  “How large a rug were you interested in?” the man asked.

  “Forgive me, I’m not shopping for a rug,” Larsen said. “I just want to know as much as possible about this particular rug.”

  The man looked at him. “Why?” he demanded.

  Larsen produced his badge. “I’m with the Beverly Hills Police Department; this photograph is evidence in a case, and I hope the rug might tell me something about the person who took the picture.”

  “I see,” the man replied, but he did not seem enthusiastic about speaking with a policeman.

  Larsen stuck out his hand. “I’m Jon Larsen.”

  The man shook hands. “Jason Willoughby.” He glanced at the photograph. “Well, Officer, the rug is unquestionably Navajo—a chief’s blanket; I would place it in the mid-nineteen twenties.”

  “You can tell that much about it from just the corner visible in the picture?”

  “Not everyone could,” Willoughby said. “I can.”

  “That’s remarkable,” Larsen said admiringly. “Can you show me what about the rug gives you that information?”

  “Of course. The design is Navajo, for a start, and although the Zapotec Indians in Mexico regularly copy Navajo designs, they use different wools and dyes. This rug is thicker and softer than a Zapotec knockoff. Also, the stitching on the edge here…” Willoughby stopped talking and stared at the photograph.

  “What sort of value would you place on a Navajo rug like this?” Larsen asked, anxious to keep the man talking.

  Willoughby didn’t speak for a moment, then he looked up at Larsen. “I can tell you exactly what it would have sold for a couple of years ago,” he said. “Eighteen thousand dollars.”

  “And what would it be worth today?” Larsen asked.

  “I could get twenty-five thousand from the right buyer,” Willoughby replied. “It’s not the rarest sort of Navajo, but it’s a very good one. I found it in an estate sale.”

  Larsen blinked. “Do I understand you to say that you sold this same rug?”

  “That’s right; two years ago, give or take.”

  This was too good to be true. “Are you certain?”

  “Let’s see,” Willoughby said. He walked to a card file in a corner of the gallery, opened a drawer, and began flipping through cards. He kept looking for a good two minutes while Larsen waited nervously. “Aha!” he said, and extracted an index card from the file, handing it to Larsen.

  There was a photograph of the rug stapled to the card. Larsen compared it with his Polaroid shot; they were identical. He grinned. “That’s extraordinary,” he said. “You keep very good records.”

  “Well, it pays. You see, I could have a customer walk in here and ask for something in particular. If I’ve sold something similar, I can always call the client and ask if he’s willing to part with it. I’ve made many sales that way.”

  “And do you have a record of who you sold it to?”

  “On the back of the index card.”

  Larsen flipped over the card. “Bennett Millman,” he read aloud.

  “Ah, yes, Millman. The rug was the second piece he bought from me.”

  The address was on Copa de Oro, in Bel Air, not half a mile from Chris Callaway’s house. “Do you know if Mr. Millman is still at this address?”

  “No; I haven’t seen him since he bought the rug.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Willoughby; you’ve been very helpful.”

  “Not at all,” Willoughby replied. “Do you know the most extraordinary thing about that rug?”

  “What?”

  “It’s on the floor. A knowledgeable collector would hang a textile of that quality, not walk on it. Mr. Millman is awfully cavalier with his possessions. Makes me wonder what he did with the pot I sold him.” Willoughby shook his head sadly.

  Larsen sprinted for his car. As he drove toward Bel Air, it occurred to him that he might not want to face Millman alone, especially since the man knew what he looked like. He picked up the microphone and radioed for a squad car to meet him at the Copa de Oro address.

  There was a wrought-iron gate at the entrance to the property, but it was open. Larsen waited a couple of minutes for the squad car to show up, and when it did, he got out and spoke to the two uniformed cops inside.

  “I don’t expect to kick down the door,” he said, “so you guys sort of hang back. Don’t get involved unless there’s trouble.”

  The cops nodded, and Larsen got back into his car. The driveway was curving and short, and it ended in a circle of European-style cobblestones. Larsen parked his car and got out. The place was beautifully landscaped and manicured, as was most of the property in such an expensive neighborhood. He reckoned the house was worth four or five million.

  Larsen walked to the door and rang the bell. He expected a servant to answer, but no one came. Larsen was about to walk around to the rear of the house when a car, a white Cadillac, pulled into the driveway and three people got out—an attractive young woman and a middle-aged couple. The young woman approached him.

  “Can I help you?” she asked.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Millman,” Larsen said.

  She looked at him oddly. “May I ask what for?”

  “I’m Detective Larsen, Beverly Hills PD. I need to speak to Mr. Millman.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible,” the woman said. “Mr. Millman died nearly three months ago.”

  “What?”

  “I’m a real-estate agent; I’m here to show the house.”

  “I see,” Larsen said. “Tell me, are the furnishings still in the house?”

  “No. Mrs. Millman held an auction a couple of weeks ago and sold everything, right to the walls.”

  “Can you tell me who the auctioneer was?” Auctioneers kept careful records of sales; he could trace the rug.

  “Mrs. Millman was. She didn’t want to pay an auctioneer, so she put an ad in the Times and sold it all herself, cash only. She wouldn’t even take a check. Tell you the truth, I’ve never seen anybody so tight with a buck; I think she wanted to hide the proceeds from the IRS.”

  “Were you at the auction, by any chance?” He was grasping at straws again.

  “Yes, I bought two chairs—got them for half what I’d have paid in a shop. Tell you the truth, I think she’d have done better with a professional auctioneer, somebody who knew the value of things, who’d have advertised the sale properly.”

  “Do you, by any chance, recall the sale of a Navajo rug?”

  “Mr. Millman had a number of Indian rugs and pots, a very nice collection, but that wasn’t where my interest lay, so I didn’t pay much attention.”

  “You don’t remember who might have bought the rug?”

  “I’m afraid not.” She leaned in
closer. “Listen, I don’t want to scare my clients off, having the cops here. If there’s nothing else, would you and your buddies mind leaving?”

  “Sure,” Larsen said wearily. “There’s nothing else for us here. Tell me, where can I get in touch with Mrs. Millman?”

  “She’s living in Palm Springs.” The woman produced her business card. “If you’ll call my office, they’ll give you her address.”

  “Thanks, I’ll do that.”

  Back in the car, Larsen laid his head against the headrest and sighed. His hot lead was getting colder by the minute.

  CHAPTER

  20

  Chris blinked. The light hurt her eyes. It hurt her eyes! How grateful she was for the pain!

  “Tell me how it happened.” Dr. Villiers said.

  “I woke up this morning, and I was lying on my side, facing the windows in my bedroom, and I had to put my hand over my eyes. It took me a minute to realize that I was seeing something new—bright light!”

  “I’m very pleased about this,” Villiers said. “It means you’re responding to treatment. Can you make out people or shapes?”

  “Just barely. I mean, I could look at Melanie when she was talking to me, instead of having to guess where she was by the sound of her voice, but she was still just a blob. When will I be able to see again?” she asked.

  “Hold on, now; you’re going to have to be patient. It’s taken all this time for you to perceive light well, and it’s going to take a while longer before we’ll know just how much of your vision is going to be regenerated.”

  “Could this be it?” Chris asked. “Could this be all I’ll ever see? I’d like to know the worst.”

  “I think that’s unlikely in the extreme,” Villiers replied. “What’s happened is only the first step. I can’t guarantee you that you’ll end up with the eyesight of an eagle, but the prognosis is very good.”

  “I’ve never been very good at being patient,” Chris said.

  Villiers chuckled. “Sometimes Nature forces it on us. Just be sure that when this is over, you don’t forget the lesson.”