“Justine Merck. Why, what’s happened?”
“It would be better if we discussed this inside—”
“Somethinghappenedto Benny?”
This time, Milo used the card.
Justine Merck read and swayed and clutched the doorjamb for support. “Homicide…Benny? Oh, God, no!” One of her feet gave way and began skidding out from under her.
I caught her by the arm, Milo gripped the other, and we guided her inside.
—
Like the interior of most genuine Craftsman structures, the ground floor was dimmed by dark wood walls and matching ceiling coffers. A cheap plastic fixture dangled overhead, casting merciless light.
Off to the side was a living room furnished with couches that looked as if they’d been rescued curbside. But the space looked well tended and smelled of lemon-scented cleanser.
Big room, uninhabited. No sights or sounds of human habitation from anywhere in the house.
I said, “Is anyone else home?”
Justine Merck, now crying and gulping air, shook her head violently.
We sat her in a decrepit armchair facing a sofa and waited as she took several breaths.
“The other residents are at the zoo with our student volunteers. We go there a lot because it’s open and relaxed. Benny loved it. The flamingos, he loved their color. Even though they smelled bad. He’d joke about that, hold his nose and make a funny face—oh, here I go again, you don’t care about any of that!”
Milo said, “Actually we care about anything you can tell us about Benny.” He produced the wad of death-knock tissues he keeps in his jacket pocket and gave her one. She dabbed and sniffled.
Milo said, “Justine, when it comes to a homicide investigation, there’s no such thing as oversharing.”
She hung her head, tapped her knees. Placed both hands on her temples and pressed until the nails blanched. “In a couple of hours, they’ll be coming home and I’ll have to tell them. I should also call Andrea, she’ll know what to do. Or maybe she won’t. This never happened before.”
“Who’s Andrea?”
“Andrea Bauer, she owns Casa Clara and other havens. She lives in Santa Barbara but she comes here regularly. I told her about Benny not coming home, she said follow up with the police. This morning she called me back and said you guys were looking for him. That’s why when you showed up…”
Tears.
“Could we have Andrea’s number?”
“Sure.” Slow recitation, hurried jotting.
I said, “Justine, tell us about Benny.”
“Like what?”
“The kind of person he was.”
“Sweet,” she said. “Sweet, nice boy—I mean he was a middle-aged man, I’m not intending to juvenilize him. But that’s what you think of when you think of Benny. Innocent, like a young boy. Just the gentlest little guy.”
“How mentally challenged was he?”
“He was officially classified as DD—developmentally disabled—but it wasn’t severe. I think he tested out in the midseventies—his IQ. He could read a little, although usually he faked it.”
“Pretended to be higher functioning than he was.”
“I mean everyone needs to feel good about themselves, right? It’s not like he lied or bragged or did stupid stuff. What I’m talking about is like the time he got hold of one of my textbooks and ran this little plastic magnifying glass over it and started humming and nodding, like he understood it. I said, ‘So what have you learned about educational curriculum, Benny?’ He looked up at me with the sweetest expression and said, ‘I learned you’re smart, Justine.’ That was Benny, always a nice word for everyone. Everyone loved him. Who’d hurt him? I don’tunderstand!”
