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The cops traced her Saturday night。
She left the house at 8：oo P。M。 She was alone。 She drove to the Five Points strip in El Monte。 She checked out Mama Mia's Pizza〃like she was looking for someone。〃 She was seen at the Manger Bar。 She was alone。
10：30 P。M。 Saturday； 6/2 1/58：
My mother and a swarthy white man dine at Stan's Drive…In。 They sit in his cara '55 or '56 Olds。
11：15 P。M。； 6/21/58：
My mother and the Swarthy Man hit the Desert Inna nightclub that caters to Okies and middle…aged drunks。 A blonde woman walks in with them。 The three drink； dance； and talk。 They leave at midnight。
2：30A。M。 Sunday； 6/22/58：
My mother and the Swarthy Man hit Stan's Drive…In again。 They're alone。 They sit in his car。 The Swarthy Man has coffee。 My mother has a late snack。
10：10A。M。； 6/22/58：
Pedestrians spot my mother's body。
It's tight and local。
The house is 1。5 miles from Five Points。 The pizza joint and bar are just south。 Stan's Drive…In sits at the hub。 The Desert Inn is seven blocks west。 The dump site is 2。8 miles northwest。
My parents were divorced。 I spent that weekend with my father。 I didn't see my mother walk out。 I didn't panic at her absence or fear that she'd never return。 I was 10 years old。 I didn't know the term 〃body dump。〃 I did not endure a rain…prolonged deathwatch or view my mother's deposed remains。
I was a cold little kid。 I hated and lusted for my mother and went at her through postmortem surrogates。 I buried her in haste and burned flames for other murdered women。 My mother's death corrupted and emboldened my imagination。 It liberated and constrained me concurrently。 It mandated my mental curriculum。 I majored in crime and minored in vivisected women。 I grew up and wrote novels about the male world that sanctioned their deaths。
I ran from my mother。 I put years and miles between us。 I ran back to her in 1994。 I was 46 years old。 Fate intervened。 It sparked a confrontation。
A friend called me。 He said he was writing a piece on unsolved murders in the San Gabriel Valley。 It would spotlight the Sheriff's Unsolved Unit。 My friend would see my mother's file and know things that I didn't know。
The call announced an opportunity。 I could see my mother's file。
My friend set me up on a hot blind date。 I didn't know that I would take an epic fall for my mother。
I saw the file。 I read the reports and saw my mother dead at Arroyo High School。 It was shocking and revelatory。 I knew that her death shaped my curiosity and gift for storytelling。 It was long…standing knowledge。 It was coldly reasoned and mockobjectified。 I sensed the full weight of it now。 I sensed that it carried a debt of recognition and homage。 I sensed that I came out of her in a way that superseded all ties of shared blood。 I sensed that I 〃was〃 her。
A Homicide detective showed me the file。 His name was Bill Stoner。 He was 53 years old and set to retire。 He had thirty…two years on the Sheriff's。 He broke the Cotton Club Case and the Mini…Manson Case and worked on the Night Stalker Task Force。 He worked Homicide for fifteen years。
Stoner impressed me。 I appraised him as he appraised me。 I glimpsed a powerful and orderly intellect。 I sensed that he balanced a vital passion against strict levies of judgment。 I sensed that he could teach me things。
Stoner retired from active duty。 He remained on the Sheriff's reserve force and retained his full cop status。
I decided to reinvestigate my mother's homicide。 I asked Stoner to help me。 He agreed。
The investigation spanned fifteen months。 I stayed in L。A。 and worked with Stoner full…time。
We studied every paper scrap in the file。 We contacted the surviving witnesses。 We hypothetically reconstructed my mother's final movements io；ooo times。 We installed a toll…free tip line and logged hundreds of worthless tips。 We stalked the Swarthy Man extrapolatively。
Was he a salesman passing through El Monte？ Did he book racetrack bets at the Desert Inn？ Did the Blonde work with my mother or frequent the same cocktail bars？
We extrapolated。 We targeted local lifers and retoured the late '50s。 We bed the San Gabriel Valley。 We hit El Monte； Baldwin Park； Irwindale； Duarte； Azusa； Temple City； Covina； West Covina； and Rosemead。 We stalked my mother back to Chicago and rural Wisconsin。 We found people who knew her sixty years ago。
We did not find the Blonde or the Swarthy Man。 We heard the oral history of bumfuck L。A。 County。 People told us intimate things。 I mimicked Stoner's inquisitor's stance and learned when to talk and when to listen。 I was a voyeur/observer with a vindictive streak in deep camouflage。 Cops liked me because I knew I wasn't one of them and didn't want to be。 They liked me because I loved and hated along their lines of rectitude。
Bill Stoner became my closest friend。 Our mitment ran bilateral and exceeded the investigation。 Our worldviews meshed and expanded to enpass two distinct visions。 We discussed crime for hours running。 Bill told cop stories。 I described my petty…crime exploits and county…jail stints twenty years back。 We laughed。 We satirized macho absurdity and admitted our plicity in perpetuating it。 Bill gave me things。 He empiricized L。A。 crime。 He embellished it with great verve and let me place my mother in context。
We talked about her。 We did not defer to her status as a murder victim or my mother。 We bluntly discussed her alcoholism and bent for cheap men。 We followed the evidentiary track of her life and charted the detours。 We shared a genderwide and wholly idealized crush on women。 We were indictable coconspirators in the court of murder…victim preference。 Bill reveled in the luxury of a sustained investigation with a probable dead suspect and negative oute。 It let him live with the victim and explore her life and honor her at leisure。
The investigation faded out。 The Swarthy Man became less relevant。 We targeted a killer and amassed facts on his victim。 I wanted to write a book and give my mother to the world。 I wanted to take what I learned about her and portray my arc of recognition and love。
I wrote 〃My Dark Places〃 in seven months。 I went at it with deliberate intention。 I spilled the most sordid facts of my mother's life and did not cite mitigation。 I did not want people to think that I loved her in spite of her unconsciousness and erratic and negligent acts。 I wanted people to know that I loved her because of themand that my debt of gratitude derived from the fact that she was precisely who she wasand that the specific ponents of her ambiguously defined psyche and her sexual hold on me all contributed to shape and save my life。
〃My Dark Places〃 was a best…seller and a critical success。 I booktoured in America and Europe。 Bill Stoner joined me in France and L。A。 We took camera crews to El Monte。 We showed them Arroyo High and the spots where the Desert Inn and Stan's Drive…In stood。 I summarized my mother's story 6；ooo times。 I reduced it to prehensible sound bites。 I gave her to the world in a spirit of passion and joy。
The book sparked a string of worthless tips。 Bill checked them out。 I went home to Kansas City and researched my next novel。
M