Chapter 21
Chapter
Two hours gave me plenty of time to learn about Pamela Lee Buttons. A robust social media presence made the process easy.
Her photos showed her as late thirties, tall, with an outdoor tan and long blond hair.
Former college volleyball player at the University of Colorado, into parasailing, rock climbing, skydiving, bungee jumping, Bikram Yoga.
And crocheting. Her training was in management, not clinical work, her most advanced degree, a master’s in public administration.
She had taken the job at Safe Place a year ago, moving from Denver where she’d worked in HR at an orthopedic hospital.
The woman who marched up to us at the entrance to the station hadn’t changed but for darkened hair cut short. Pam Buttons reached Milo’s six-three in flat shoes. Unlike Katherine Santos, no slouch. Quite the opposite.
She said, “You’ve got to be the psychologist.”
I said, “Good guess.”
“My ex was one. That same look in the eyes. Okay, let’s do this. Is Pocan going to be involved?”
Milo said, “Don’t see any pigs soaring overhead.”
Pamela Buttons hazarded a half smile. “I just might like you.”
A glance in my direction said, You? Not so sure.
—
Milo gave her the choice of stairs or elevator.
She said, “One flight? Stairs, unless one of you is cardiac-insufficient.”
Out in the second-floor corridor, she walked ahead of us despite not knowing her destination.
Milo said, “Here, ma’am,” as she passed the door to one of the smaller interview rooms, causing her to backtrack.
He’d set the space up with three chairs arranged around a small square table. Center of the room, not pushed into a corner like when he wanted to crowd a suspect. Atop the table were energy bars and bottled water.
She wrinkled her nose. “Not exactly fresh in here. This where you pressure people and make them sweat?”
Milo said, “When necessary. Have a seat, please.”
Pam Buttons inspected the lone chair as if checking for mold and finally settled, facing us. Touching one of the energy bars with a fingertip, she smiled. “My brand. You investigated me?”
“That’s us, thorough,” said Milo. “Nope, lucky break. First of all, I want to apologize for the response you got from Detective Pocan.”
“Forget it,” said Pam Buttons. “There’s deadweight in every organization.
Fortunately that doesn’t include David, our receptionist. We’ve got her listed as Lynne Gutierrez, not Matthias, but when David heard ‘Lynne’ he notified me.
I knew her mother’s name is Matthias and put it together immediately. ”
Milo scrawled in his pad.
Pam Buttons said, “I’m assuming Gutierrez is her father.”
“Was. Her mother’s first husband,” said Milo. “Deceased.”
I flashed back to Martha’s marital history. Remarried with no time to spare after Pablo Gutierrez’s death. Maybe an affair, maybe wanting someone to help her care for a child with special needs.
Maybe both.
Pam Buttons said, “Whatever. Now can you please tell me what’s going on?”
“Lynne’s mother was murdered.”
Pam Buttons’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God, that I wasn’t expecting.
I’ve been worried Lynne was a victim of something.
Which is why I agreed to come here. Also, my dad is a retired deputy sheriff.
When I told him about getting nowhere with you guys, he said don’t push it anymore but on the off chance someone does call be cooperative. ”
“Appreciate your dad,” said Milo. “So what can you tell us about Lynne?”
“You don’t seriously think she could’ve done it.”
“We don’t know enough to think anything, Ms. Buttons, but we want to talk to her. What’s she like?”
Pam Buttons thought for a moment. “Quiet, no problems. Our approach is problem prevention so we try to select residents unlikely to pose any serious issues. And Lynne’s been there for—I guess decades, and has never caused a disturbance.
Safe Place is her home. She has her own room and keeps it beautifully. ”
“Well behaved.”
“Always. That’s the rule when it comes to our residents, not the exception. We’re not a clinic, we don’t administer any kind of medication or formal treatment. We’re a home for otherwise well-adjusted delayed individuals without alternatives.”
I said, “People with no family.”
“No family or a family unable to take care of them. They get nutritious meals plus ample snacks, TV, content-protected internet, and, if they want, classes. Crafts, exercise, music. I teach crocheting.”
Injecting some lilt into her voice as she recited. A walking brochure.
I said, “The residents are free to come and go as they please.”
“Exactly, they’re residents, not inmates. For their security, the doors are locked from the outside but callers ring in and are evaluated. Or they can text.”
“The residents have cellphones.”
“Those whose families fund cellphones do.”
“Did that include Lynne?”
“No,” she said. “I learned that when I tried to locate her.”
Milo said, “They don’t find being out by themselves scary?”
“Residents who are anxious don’t leave. Others take guided outings with relatives.”
“Lynne was relaxed enough to go solo.”
“She came and went successfully so I’d assume so.” Buttons fooled with her hair.
“Did she have any friends?”
“Not that I saw.”
“A love interest?”
“None that I’ve seen. Look, I’m not going to lie.
I’ve only been there a year and I have my hands full running the place, you won’t believe the organizational mess I inherited.
From someone like Pocan, actually. But we don’t have that many residents—eighteen at last count—so I do have opportunity to observe and Lynne was not problematic in any way.
That’s why I can’t believe she’d harm anyone, let alone her mother. That’s just a crazy notion.”
I said, “She’s been there for decades.”
“Most of the residents have. That should indicate the caliber of the services we provide.”
Milo said, “Despite issues caused by your predecessor.”
“Those,” said Pamela Buttons, “were organizational. Even he was okay when it came to providing service. The problem was…but that’s not your concern.”
“Where does the funding come from?”
“Inheritance and trust funds, private insurance, and whatever supplements Medicare and Medicaid and other agencies provide. Okay, I’ll tell you the problem I had to deal with: inadequate billing for services rendered. Invoices were never sent and deadlines passed. I’ve just gotten on top of it.”
“Who owns the place?”
“We’re a nonprofit corporation set up by three charitable family trusts fifty-five years ago.
The Steins, the DuBuques, and the Landermans.
Wealthy families with DD children wanting to help the less fortunate.
They’ve funded all kinds of things—cultural, artistic, medical.
Our endowment is a drop in their bucket. ”
I said, “Is there anyone on your staff who could tell us more about Lynne?”
“I guess David. In addition to handling front desk, he’s our exercise coach and music teacher and popular with the residents.”
“Including Lynne?”
“I’d have no reason to exclude her from that appraisal.”
I have no clue but don’t feel like saying so.
Milo said, “What’s David’s last name, please.”
“David Le Gallee.”
He had her spell it. “Thanks. So how much contact did you have with Lynne’s mother?”
“I’ve never met her, only spoke to her once.
It was shortly after I arrived. The state had cut back on payments and while the trusts were solvent, lower interest rates cut into our income.
So the families’ co-pays rose. Nothing extreme, a couple of percentages, and I had the fun job of notifying everyone.
When I tried to email Ms. Matthias, there was no address in the file, so I called. ”
Sighing, as if use of the telephone required self-sacrifice. “I informed her, she said she’d send a check for a year’s worth of the overage. Which she did.”
I said, “Brief conversation.”
“She didn’t come across as someone who liked to talk. Kind of icy, actually. Which I guess fits with her never visiting.”
“That’s not typical.”
“Some residents have no living family but those with relatives often do receive visits. But it didn’t seem to be a problem for Lynne. At least from what I saw. Maybe because she could visit her mom whenever she wanted.”
“No complaints about being alone.”
“No complaints about anything. And I don’t believe it was just because of her speech limitations.”
“She had difficulty talking?”
“She slurs pretty bad, is hard to understand. Maybe that’s why she doesn’t try to talk much. Or she just doesn’t like it. Her mother wasn’t exactly chatty.”
Milo said, “That sounds below a twelve-year-old’s developmental level.”
“Not necessarily,” said Pamela Buttons. “People can have problems in one area but be okay in others. She can read a bit, do simple arithmetic. But you probably should speak with David. Want me to text him?”
Milo said, “Please.”
She worked her phone keyboard, put it down on the table. “I can’t believe you’d suspect Lynne in a murder. When did it happen?”
He fudged. “Right around the time Lynne left.”
“Well, that doesn’t mean a thing. If anything, she might have also been victimized.”
Her phone rang and she snatched it up, grateful for the interruption. “David? Thanks for getting back. I’m with the cops…yup, Lynne…no, they haven’t, but it’s complicated. I figured if anyone could tell them about her, you could. Can I hand you over to them? Thanks.”
Milo took her phone and put it on speaker.
“Mr. Le Gallee? Lieutenant Sturgis.”
One of those voices that manages to be buoyant even when faced with a gray day said, “David. No word on Lynne?”
“Would it be possible to talk in person?”
Pam Buttons scowled and shook her head.
David Le Gallee said, “I guess…sure. I’m off in forty-five minutes. If you can meet me in front of Safe, we can do it.”
“Perfect. Thank you, sir.”
Milo returned the phone to Buttons.
She said, “Can you find another place to talk to David? We like to keep things calm for the residents.”
“Ma’am, we’re not talking about a SWAT team charging in, guns blazing. Just chatting with Mr. Le Gallee out front. At some point, if we do need to enter, all we’d do is take a quick look at Lynne’s room. If you’d allow us.”
Pam Buttons said nothing.
Milo said, “Okay, we’ll table that for the time being.”
“A quick look will be unnecessary, Lieutenant. I already checked Lynne’s room after she was gone for two days and trust me you won’t learn anything. Like I said, she keeps it nice. And organized, which seeing how much stuff she has is pretty impressive.”
I said, “She’s a collector.”
“Quite a collector. Dolls, toys, ribbons, hair clips, costume jewelry. And lots of old magazines—teenage stuff, mostly. I’m sure she’s had them for years. In stacks up to here.”
She leveled her arm three feet off the ground. “But neatly arranged and she keeps a little whisk broom to make sure dust doesn’t settle.”
I said, “Any diaries?”
“Nope,” said Buttons. “That’s what I was hoping for. A diary, some sort of personal note that could help me locate her, and believe me, I wanted to. I mean, this has been crazy-stressful. I even went so far as to contact Culver City PD. Guess what they said?”
“Not their jurisdiction.”
She aimed a finger-gun at me. “Bingo. Anything else?”
Milo said, “No, ma’am. Thanks.”
“Let’s hope,” she said and stood.