City of Dark Corners

She said, “What if she came by your card herself? What if she were coming to see you for something?”

I’d thought about that. When I set up my PI business, I’d persuaded several businesses to set out my cards on their countertops. I’d handed them out to lawyers, too. But whoever killed her had taken anything that could identify her from the purse. They either left the card by carelessness or by design. I didn’t dare assume it was an oversight. The card was meant to be found.

“I would ask you to let this alone,” she said, “but I know you won’t.”

“I can’t.” I struggled to articulate a rationale. “The police won’t find her killer. Somewhere a mother and father are wondering what’s happened to their daughter. And what if he kills again?”

“Then I’m going to help you.”

“No!” I reacted too quickly and soon regretted it.

“Don’t you dare...” Her dark eyes torched me. “Who did you just call just now? Your brother? No. You called me. As you should have.” She pulled a small snub-nosed .38 out of her pocket briefly, slid it back in. “I can take care of myself. You know that, Eugene. And I can help take care of you. So, give me an assignment.”

The rain came down harder, settling the matter. Looking back later, I regretted not proposing to her right then.

Ten

The next morning, I put on my best suit and drove east on the Tempe Road. In daylight, it was a different view from the night when I visited the Hooverville: Two lanes of concrete, telephone poles on both sides, farmhouses and outbuildings, and ancient farm equipment. The vast Tovrea Stockyards and slaughterhouse. The strange new birthday-cake castle atop a rocky knoll intended as a hotel by Alessio Carraro. The Depression ended that dream, and “Big Daddy” Tovrea bought the property in ’31, just before his death. Now the castle was only occupied by his young widow, Della. Next, off to the left, the Papago Buttes where Victoria and I sometimes hiked.

Across the Salt River, I was in Tempe, then parked and walked across campus to the Old Main building of Arizona State Teachers College. Not so long ago, it had been Tempe Normal, then Tempe State Teachers College, offering a teaching certificate. Since ’29, it was also bestowing a four-year bachelor of arts in education. Now it had a new name and would soon have a new president, Grady Gammage, a man said to have ambitions for the school. The sun was out, but the weather remained chilly, in the fifties.

The registrar was a man with a shock of white hair and a lavish mustache that seemed on the verge of cascading down the sides of his mouth. He was suspicious of helping a private investigator until he read my card.

“Gene Hammons,” he said. “You were a Phoenix Police detective.”

I said that I had been.

He took in a long breath of air. “You solved the University Park Strangler case.”

Right again. It was a hell of an icebreaker.

He looked away for a moment and when he faced me again his eyes were wet. “My granddaughter was one he killed. Grace Chambers.” He reached out and took my hand in both of his. “She had her whole life ahead of her when this monster took her from us. The not knowing who did it was one of the hardest things. And you got him. It’s un-Christian of me, but I was glad when they hanged the bastard.” He looked around, but no one was nearby. “Thank you.”

I squeezed his hands back with both of mine. “It was my job. I’m so sorry about Grace and the other girls.”

Grace Chambers: Sixteen, redhead, pretty, fit his pattern. Disappeared one night and her body was dumped on a lawn at Thirteenth Avenue and Polk Street two days later. Like the others, she had been raped and strangled. In her case, she was also tortured. I was happy to see the SOB swing.

“How can I help you, Detective Hammons?”

I pulled out the photograph and laid it on the counter. “All I have is a name, Carrie Thayer.”

He bent down and studied it carefully.

“I’ve seen this girl.” He retreated to a filing cabinet and thumbed through it. Then he pulled out a ledger and went through several pages.

“No Carrie Thayer,” he said, which didn’t surprise me. I wasn’t even sure this was her name. “But she looks familiar. Now we have 875 students. It’s harder to keep track.”

“Do you mind if I show her picture around campus?”

“No. Not at all. If anyone questions you, tell them I gave you permission.”

* * *

I walked down the steps and into a flock of students changing classes or lounging on the grass by droopy palm trees and sitting on the side of the circular fountain, despite the cool air. “T Mountain”—really more of a rocky butte—sat in the distance. Before the war, I thought about going to college. Teaching held no appeal, so that would have meant attending the University of Arizona in Tucson. And study what? I was a bit aimless, as any good seventeen-year-old should be. Don, four years older, went to Tucson and studied history. He worked his way through the university with a part-time railroad job thanks to our father’s pull. He thought about becoming a lawyer but was made an officer when the war came. He was awarded a Bronze Star. Without a degree, I rose to sergeant and got a Purple Heart. Now I surveyed this campus a bit wistfully before getting to work.

It was easiest to approach a group of coeds chatting at the fountain. Easier on the eyes, too. No teacher of mine ever looked like these four.

“You look like a cop,” one said, a green-eyed, chestnut-haired wren. The others laughed.