Dear Irene

“The Express is especially concerned,” Mark said, “not only because of the way this affects our community, but also because this individual who calls himself Thanatos has focused on Miss Kelly here. We don’t know why, and we don’t know what he has in mind. But he has done his best to make her fearful of him. He has discovered where she lives and on one occasion, broke into her home.”

“He broke into your home?” Edgerton asked, looking directly at me for the first time since we walked in.

“Yes,” I said, and told him the story of being carried into the bedroom.

“Jeee-zus.” The sulle

“The Marx Brothers?”

“Harpo and Zeppo. My dogs. My ex-wife kept Groucho and Chico.”

“Irene’s not the one who’s afraid of dogs,” Mark said. “I am. She was just trying to keep me from being embarrassed in front of those two detectives out there.”

“You covered for him?” he asked me.

I shrugged. “He would have done the same for me.”

He shook his head again.

I asked him about the Olympus Child Care Center, going over the same ground we had covered with Justin Davis and Howard Parker.

“No, I really don’t remember much about it,” Edgerton said. “Some kid got taken off in an ambulance. I remember that.”

“Do you remember moving to Las Piernas?”

“Yeah, sure. During the war. I liked the kids here better than the ones at my school in L.A. And before my mom met her second husband, there was a nice old couple that took care of me in the afternoons. Mr. and Mrs. York. He taught me how to play baseball.”

“So you didn’t go back into child care after that?”

He laughed, but not as if he were amused. “No, not unless you call ru

“The Yorks abused you?” Mark asked.

“No. My stepfather was a drunken asshole.” He turned to me. “Pardon me, Miss Kelly, but it’s the truth. I used to run away all the time. I’d go over to the Yorks’ place. He’d fetch me back. One day, about three years after they were married, he was driving over to the Yorks’ to come get me. I remember seeing the car come down the street – in one lane, then the other. He was looped, as usual. Then all of a sudden, a dog ran out in front of the car. He swerved to avoid hitting the dog, and ran the car up over the curb and hit a tree instead. Killed him. I’ve loved dogs ever since.”

We sat staring at him for a fraction of a moment, then Mark said, “So your mom wouldn’t have met your stepfather if the child care center hadn’t closed?”

He shrugged. “I guess not. But I wouldn’t have met the Yorks either, or lived in a better house. To tell the truth, I’d forgotten about the day care thing having anything to do with moving to Las Piernas.”

We asked about his memories of the Olympus Child Care Center. Although he vaguely remembered the routine of being taken there after school each day, he didn’t remember Pauline or Jimmy Grant, and had no real recollection of Robbie Robinson.

“Is your mother still living?” Mark asked.

“No, my mom died in 1977.” He paused, then asked, “How come all you ask me about is this child care center?”

I explained that the victims had all come to Las Piernas at the same time, following the closure of the center.

He frowned. He kept his eyes on the beer bottle when he asked, “Does this mean I haven’t helped you out after all?”

“You’ve helped,” I said.

Mark surprised me by changing the subject. “Mind if I look at that photo over there?”

Edgerton shifted a little in his chair, and suddenly became fascinated with peeling the label off the bottle. But he said, “No, go ahead.”

Mark stood up and walked to the other end of the room.

“Sorry if I was a little abrupt with you when you first got here,” Edgerton said, still concentrating his gaze on the label. “I’ve been on edge since I read about the Mercury Aircraft thing, and having the cops around here all the time – well, I feel like I’m the one who’s done something wrong. I feel hemmed in. I was supposed to go hunting tomorrow, now they tell me I probably shouldn’t be off alone anywhere. Guess I blamed the paper for the cops camping out here.”

I was about to reply when Mark shouted, “The Dodgers! Good Lord, look at this, Irene!”

Edgerton glanced up at me, then shrugged. I went over to where Mark stood.

“Duke Snider, Gil Hodges, Jim Gilliam, Carl Furillo, Joh

“ 1958,” Edgerton said.

“1958? The first year they played in L.A.?”

“Yeah. Otherwise not a ba

“We?” I asked, but Mark had already picked him out.

“Look, he’s right here!”

Sure enough, a younger Don Edgerton stared back at us from the photo, his posture just as good in those days. He was right in among those people whose baseball cards I used to carry in my back pocket like a family photo album. My collection didn’t start until the 1960s, but I was a devoted Dodgers fan. While Barbara screamed her way through ten or eleven screenings of A Hard Day’s Night, I was wondering if Sandy Koufax would marry me.

“You played with the Dodgers?” I was still amazed.

“Just about long enough for them to take that photo,” Edgerton said. “They called me up for a cup of coffee. I was back in the minors after three games that year.”

“Still, you made it to the big show,” Mark said. “And it was tougher then. Fewer teams, smaller rosters.”

“Oh, I got called back a few times. I was a utility infielder with a decent glove, but I couldn’t consistently hit a curveball, so I’d always end up back in the minors again.”

“How long did you play in the minors?”

“Oh, about eight years. Coached for a while in the minors. Then I came back here and worked for Las Piernas College. Coach baseball, teach fencing and archery.”

“Fencing and archery?” I asked. The guy was full of surprises.

“Yeah, outdated skills, some might say. But I’m a believer in them. I have this theory. Men aren’t men anymore. We’re all getting too soft. Fencing requires grace and agility and quick reflexes. I’d like to see some of these kids that are so hot with video games try it. As for archery, well, that’s how I do my hunting – strictly bow and arrow. Guns aren’t sporting, if you ask me.”

Before I could make a response, he turned to Mark and said, “You did pretty good on that photo. Most people your age can’t name half those guys. Are you a player or a fan?”

Mark smiled. “Both, I guess. I played center field for a semester in college before I ruined a knee.”

The next thing I knew, a serious – and I mean serious – baseball discussion ensued. “Let me show you some other photos,” Edgerton said. He took us down a hallway to a small back bedroom that had been converted into an office.

There was an old olive green filing cabinet and a big wooden desk. A computer sat on the desk, a bulky plastic cover tossed to one side of it. There were framed photos covering almost every inch of wall space. Most were of the Dodgers, many much more recent than the one in the living room.

“These are terrific,” Mark said. “Are you friends with the team photographer?”

“No,” he said, turning red. “I took them. Hobby of mine.” He saw me walk over to the desk – I admit I was hoping to snoop a little – and quickly ushered us out of the room again. “Look, if there’s nothing more I can do for you…”

“Nothing more at the moment,” I said. “Thanks for your help. And for the opportunity to see your photos.”

We said pleasant, if somewhat rushed, good-byes and left.

“OKAY, OUT WITH it,” Mark said, starting up the car.