Chapter 19
Chapter
Saturday, he phoned at eleven-twenty a.m. Weekends off isn’t a concept for homicide D’s.
“Good idea you gave me, Mr. Wizard. Took a while but I finally managed to find someone Martha worked with who’s still alive.
Not a fraud guy, a homicide D well before my time named Hans Lieder.
Eighty-three, lives in Coeur d’Alene, sounds sharp.
He was shocked to hear about Martha but had no first-impression suspicions. ”
“As in the daughter probably did it.”
“As in. He met the daughter once, didn’t remember her name.
His impression was she was mentally slow.
But Martha didn’t share anything about her personal life and yes, she did work alone.
The only reason he found out she had a daughter was one day after shift, Martha’s car broke down.
She was supposed to pick the girl up from some kind of special school and she asked Lieder to drive her.
He said she clearly wasn’t overjoyed at having to ask.
The school was somewhere in Venice, near the canals.
More like a house than an institution. Ring any bells? ”
“No, but I can try to find out.”
“I couldn’t find anything that fit the bill but sure, give it a go. Anyway, Lieder lived in Huntington Beach so it was on his way home. He waited while Martha went in, she brought the girl out, Lieder described her as quiet, maybe a little sad-looking. He dropped them off and drove home.”
“Did he go inside Martha’s house?”
“Nope, and when I told him how Martha was living he was stunned. Said she’d been a sharp detective, extremely detail-oriented.”
That wasn’t at odds with compulsive tendencies. Quite the opposite.
I said, “Did Lieder have any idea why she transferred out of Homicide?”
“Nope, that was another surprise for him, it happened after he retired. Then he said come to think about it he’d noticed things about Martha.
Holding on to memos and other crap she didn’t need, stuffing her desk drawers full.
Also, she liked to line stuff up on her desk—pens, pads, whatever.
If someone moved anything, she’d get annoyed and put it right back. So I guess there were signs.”
“How old was the daughter when Lieder saw her?”
“Early teens but she seemed younger mentally.”
“If she was developmentally disabled and had no other issues, violence would theoretically be unlikely.”
“Theoretically. But?”
“She could’ve had serious behavioral problems that Lieder didn’t see. Let me make some calls and see what I can learn about the school. Reputation, philosophy, the types of students they took.”
“Assuming it’s still there,” he said. “Sure. Thanks.”
But his tone said, Not gonna make a difference.
—
I paged through a mental Rolodex, looking for people I knew who specialized in developmental disabilities, and came up with a list of three names. The first two didn’t answer the phone. Irwin Baumgarten, MSW, did.
He said, “Alex, it’s been a while. You still doing that thrilling police stuff?”
“I am, hence my call.”
“Oh no, I swear I’ve been law-abiding.”
When he stopped chuckling, he said, “What can I do for you?”
“I’m looking for information on a school for DD kids. Venice, a house near the canals. But a while back.”
Irwin said, “Has to be the Kadar Institute. Run by a couple of Hungarian immigrants, both physicians. Bela and Edith were old when they started, very nice people. They died and the school closed down. I rotated through for a couple of weeks when I was doing a practicum. Which shows you the kind of ancient history we’re talking about. ”
“Good place?”
“I thought so. The atmosphere was nice—structured but humanistic. Terrific student-teacher ratio, meaning expensive.”
“No one took over from the Kadars.”
“Definitely not. My new gig’s working for United Way and I know all the current places. Why all the curiosity?”
“The mother of a possible student has been murdered.”
“An alumnus with antisocial tendencies? I suppose it’s possible, Alex, but the Kadars had a pretty narrow focus so I’m sure they screened for severe behavioral issues.”
“What focus was that?”
“Raising the academic level of medium to mildly slow kids so they could be productive members of society. The kids that I saw were a quiet, compliant bunch. Occasionally there’d be tears—frustration, that kind of thing. But nothing beyond that.”
Consistent with Hans Lieder’s brief observation.
“Still,” said Irwin, “you know.”
“People change.”
“That they do,” said Irwin. “That they definitely do. But killing your own mother? Whew, I hope not.”
“Thanks for the information, Irwin.”
“Sure.”
“If I was looking for a place that handles DD adults nowadays, where would I go? Residential but with an open-door policy.”
“That,” said Irwin, “would depend on how broad a geographic area you want to tap.”
The disheveled woman had been seen on foot. I gave him Martha’s address. “Say a two-mile radius from there.”
“I have no idea where that is—hold on, I’ll use Google Maps…okay, here we go. You’re talking West L.A…. pretty close to the Westside police station. Is that the crime scene?”
“It is.”
“That could be annoying to your cop pal, no? His home turf getting violated.”
“He’s got other things on his mind.”
“Oh sure, don’t mean to be flippant…okay, two miles…let me check my book…looks like four places would fit the bill. Want the addresses now or should I email them to you?”
“I’m listening.”
“Old school,” said Irwin. “Speaking of which, how’s your car?”
“Third engine.”
“No planned obsolescence for you. Okay, ready?”