Part 11 (1/2)

Twenty-four.

WHAT ABOUT THORPE?” HENRY ASKED ME once.

It was December 8, 2004, the fifteenth anniversary of Lila's death, and we had just visited her grave with my parents.

It was a cool day in Palo Alto, the sun s.h.i.+ning after a night of heavy rain. As there were no civilian cemeteries in San Francisco, we had been at a loss as to where to bury Lila. We ended up choosing Alta Mesa Memorial Park because it was the closest cemetery to Stanford. Even though it was a longer drive from the city than the large cemeteries in Colma and Daly City, it seemed like a more fitting place. We liked that trees had grown up around some of the older headstones, and that the grounds were well-kept without appearing overly manicured.

Much of that day is a blur. I remember that we rode to the cemetery in Henry's Jeep Cherokee, because my car was in the shop. I remember that he had made a mixed CD for the drive, which began with Lila's favorite song, Elvis Costello's ”Peace, Love & Understanding,” and ended with Gram Parsons's ”She Once Lived Here.” I remember that he held my hand while we drove, and that we had to stop at a 76 station in Burlingame because the gas light came on. I remember that, when we arrived, we had a difficult time finding Lila's grave, despite the fact that I'd been there many times, and I felt embarra.s.sed that I got lost. Surely, if the situation were reversed, Lila would have had a clear picture in her mind of the layout of the cemetery, would have been able to remember not only the plot number, but exactly which path we needed to take to get there.

After wandering for a few minutes, we finally saw my parents standing in the distance, and made our way to them. My mother was wearing a navy dress and matching knee-high boots. She'd gotten a new haircut, with bangs, that made her look younger than she had in years. My father was dressed in a suit, and it took me a moment to realize he was going to the office later that day. It angered me that he would treat it like a regular day, that he would abandon my mother on such an important anniversary. Even though they had seen each other rarely in the five years since their divorce, this was one day I believed they should be together. When I pulled him aside and whispered, ”I think Mom would really like it if you hung around today,” he replied, ”Actually, sweetheart, that's the last thing your mother would want.” He gave me a quick squeeze on the shoulder and walked away. And I couldn't be angry anymore, because he had used that simple term of endearment left over from my childhood, a word he hadn't used for me since Lila died.

It was early that afternoon, while Henry and I were eating lunch with my mother at Maven Lane Cafe, Lila's favorite restaurant, that he posed the question: ”What about Thorpe?”

I sat across the table from the two of them. I shot him a look, but he didn't seem to understand.

”What about him?” my mother said warily.

”I just wonder about his motives,” Henry said. ”I wonder why he went to great lengths to make a case against Peter McConnell.”

”It wasn't that hard to do, Henry,” my mother said. I recognized the tone of voice-I'd heard it when I watched her trying cases in court. It meant he was on thin ice. I tried to telepathically will him to back off, but he continued.

”I'm just saying, did anyone ever look at him?”

”Look at him?” my mother asked.

”You deal with crime all the time,” Henry said. ”Surely the person who appears at first glance to be guilty isn't always the one.”

”Henry,” I said. ”This isn't the time.”

”Actually,” my mother said, ”nine times out of ten, the person who appears to be guilty is.”

Henry's face flushed.

”Please pa.s.s the salt,” I said.

But it was too late. My mother had laid down her fork and had turned to face Henry. ”Go ahead.”

Henry took a sip of water and looked at me, as if I might rescue him. But I knew my mother. Now that he'd baited her into this, he wasn't getting out until he'd made his case, whatever it was.

”I just can't help but think that Thorpe's interest in the whole thing was bizarre. In the book, he tried to make it sound as if McConnell had something to gain from Lila's death, but in truth McConnell could only lose. His career was at stake, his marriage. Everything about him pointed to his being a rational man, the kind of person who would weigh the consequences of his actions. To me, something about it just doesn't add up. Technically, the only person who came out at an advantage in the end was Thorpe.”

”Where is this coming from, anyway?” I asked. ”Why on earth are you bringing this up now?”

”I saw something in Esquire last week,” he said. ”An article about the three murders last year in Golden Gate Park.”

”The homeless men who were killed in their sleep?” my mother asked. I remembered it, too. It had been a big local news item for a couple of months. People in the Outer Sunset, near where the murders occurred, had begun to get nervous.

”Yes,” Henry said. ”The article was by Thorpe.”

”Big deal,” I said. ”That's how he makes a living. Other people's tragedies.”

”But there was something strange about the tone of the article,” Henry said, ”something almost gleeful. I got the feeling Thorpe actually took pleasure in the details. The police have never linked the three murders-one was a stabbing, one was a shooting, and the other was a strangulation-but Thorpe kept referring to the Golden Gate Park serial killer, as if it was a given that they were all related. As if he knew something no one else did.”

It was unlike Henry to have such bad timing, such lack of subtlety. I regretted bringing him along. My mother had enough to contend with on the anniversary of Lila's death. She didn't need this. ”You're coming out of left field,” I said. ”Leave it alone.”

My mother picked up her fork again and began moving her salad around on her plate. ”It's okay, Ellie,” she said. ”It's not like it's something I've never thought of.”

”It's not?”

She looked at me, her eyes soft. ”Oh, I don't think there's any credibility to it. But I've thought of pretty much everything. Every possibility, no matter how far-fetched. In my mind, I've diagrammed a hundred different scenarios. For what it's worth, I do believe, in my heart, that it was probably Peter McConnell. But if I were to look at it objectively, as a prosecutor, I'd have to say the case against him is flimsy. There's only one thing I know for certain.” She reached across the table and squeezed my hand. ”Not a day goes by that I don't think about your sister. Fifteen years, not one day.”

Twenty-five.

THERE WERE OVER A HUNDRED HITS FOR ”Billy Boudreaux” on Google, but when I added the search term ”San Francisco,” it narrowed the results to half a dozen. One of the links was to a spa.r.s.e Wikipedia page dedicated to a band called Potrero Sound Station. Two brief paragraphs identified it as a San Francis...o...b..nd that formed in 1975 and was defunct by 1979. The person I was looking for received a single mention-Billy Boudreaux on ba.s.s.

A search for ”Potrero Sound Station” turned up a fan site, which had last been updated five years before. The site was devoted mostly to the lead singer, who went by the name Sound. Following the breakup of the band, Sound had embarked upon a lackl.u.s.ter solo career before opening a mechanic shop in Aurora, Colorado. His real name was Kevin Walsh. His first solo alb.u.m in sixteen years, Engine Days, had been released in 2003 and had received a favorable review from an alternative Denver weekly, as well as Time Out Scotland. The writer lamented the fact that the alb.u.m had been pa.s.sed over by all of the major publications, save for a one-line mention in a trivia question in Paste magazine. According to the site, the other original band member, Drew Letheid, was living with his banker wife and two children in Greenwich, and he never gave interviews. As for Billy Boudreaux, the site said only ”whereabouts unknown.”

It didn't take long to find a Walsh Mechanics in Aurora, Colorado. It was four-thirty p.m. mountain time when I dialed the number.

”Walsh here,” a voice said. ”What can I do for you?”

”Kevin Walsh?”

”That's me.”

”I'm calling about the band,” I blurted.

”What band?”

”Potrero Sound Station.”

He laughed. ”Now there's a blast from the past. Are you with VH1? No offense, but I'm not interested in going on Bands Reunited. That was a long time ago, a totally different life.”

”I'm just an old acquaintance of Billy Boudreaux,” I said.

”Acquaintance? Sounds like he owes you money. You might want to take a number.”

”It's nothing like that. I've just been wondering what became of him.” Walsh hadn't hung up yet. I figured that was a good sign and plunged on. ”Do you by any chance know where he is?”

”Sorry, doll. You're asking the wrong person. I haven't heard from him in decades. He got messed up in some bad stuff, you know.”

”What kind of bad stuff?”

”c.o.ke, meth, whatever.”