“An alcoholic is used to functioning at those levels. I’m telling you, if someone had chained her down there against her will, we’d be seeing some sign of a struggle.”
I imagined how a killer—or killers—might have done it. “Suppose they got her drunk and talked her into a sunrise scuba dive. They took her out, showed her the buoy chain, and before she knew what was happening, they handcuffed her to it. Then put the key in the pouch around her neck, just to torment her.”
“Yeah, okay. So where’s her scuba gear?” Baxter asked.
“They cut it from her body and left her there without oxygen.”
“Without putting a scratch on her,” he said sarcastically.
“She was drunk. The deed was done by the time she caught on.”
Baxter sighed and looked at his watch. I took the hint and got up to leave. “One more question,” I said at the door. “Isn’t it pretty standard to get two keys with a pair of handcuffs?”
“Yeah.”
“If one key was in the pouch around her neck, where do you think the other key is?”
“Moot question, Chase. The case is closed.”
I did my best to push Wendy Woskowicz from my mind and tend to my own work. I was doing an investigation for a high-tech manufacturer, tracking down a disgruntled employee who’d erased the company’s hard drives. The company directors were eager to find the former systems analyst they now called Hell Boy, since his tantrum had caused a $3 million loss in revenue.
But Wendy Woskowicz wouldn’t go away. Granted, she didn’t come to me as a specter in the night, rattling her chains. But every morning I’d see the handcuff key on my dresser and churn with the feeling that her case wasn’t settled. I began to obsess about her suicide note. What had she written? I wanted to read her words for myself, if for no other reason than to come to peace about her death.
I shelled out ten bucks for a copy of the police report on Wendy’s drowning. Her brother, Joseph Woskowicz, was listed as next of kin. He lived in Normal Heights, a mixed neighborhood north of downtown.
The house was a 1920s bungalow, refurbished and neatly landscaped. Like a crafty telemarketer, I picked dinnertime to ring Mr. Woskowicz’s bell. A wholesome-looking man in his mid-thirties answered the door. He wore the classic white-collar uniform: khakis and a button-down shirt. With his conservative demeanor and haircut, he bore only the faintest resemblance to his late sister. The resemblance was there, though, in his wide green eyes.
“Joe Woskowicz?”
“Yes?”
“My name’s Elizabeth Chase. Sorry to disturb you at home. I’m the woman who found your sister in La Jolla Cove.”
His eyes got even wider. His mouth opened, but no words came out.
“I was wondering if I could talk to you for a few minutes,” I said.
He came out of his daze. “Sure. Come on in.”
He led me into a small but pleasant sitting room—hardwood floors polished to a bright shine—and offered me the comfort of a large leather armchair.
“Please, have a seat.” He lowered himself into the chair facing mine. “It must have been pretty traumatic, finding her that way.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I know the police have closed the case, but I’m having a hard time getting my own closure.”
“Me too, but it’s only been a week. It’ll take time. For both of us.”
“Are you convinced she killed herself?” I watched him closely. He’d passed his interview with the police department, but he hadn’t passed mine.
“Yeah, I guess. Wendy wasn’t a well person. Even as a kid she was difficult.” His shoulders sagged. “She really went downhill after she dropped out of college. Started living on the street. Or the beach, to be more accurate.”
“When was that?”
“About three years ago. I did everything I could for her. Psychologists, psychiatrists, rehabs. Tried to find her jobs, support groups, you name it. A year ago, I pulled away. I had to, for my own sanity.”
The guy’s torment was palpable. He sounded like a man struggling to convince himself that he wasn’t somehow at fault for his sister’s death. Or like a man who was flat-out guilty.
“So you believe she killed herself,” I said, rephrasing my earlier question.
“I guess so. I mean, she had a hard life.”
He paused and looked away, a stoic expression on his face. But the emotions roiling inside him were broadcasting loud and clear to my solar plexus. Beneath Joe’s guilt, I sensed a mother lode of unexpressed grief.
“The police said all the evidence pointed to suicide,” he said at last.
Living on the street—or in Wendy’s case, the beach—carried certain risks, particularly for a substance abuser.
“Any possibility she got into trouble over a drug debt?” I asked.
“No. Wendy refused to put drugs in her system, including antidepressants. The irony is, if she’d been open to drugs, she’d probably be alive today.”
“So I take it there was a lot of despair in the note she left.”
“Note?”
“Detective Baxter told me she left a suicide note.”
“Oh, that. It wasn’t a note, really. More like a diary entry.” He went into the back of the house and came out with a dogeared journal. He flipped through the pages and handed the open book to me. “This is it,” he said.
The entry was written in a slanting, uneven hand:
I guess the years and escapades have finally done me in. I’m sorry I’m letting so many people down. People who love me. But I don’t love myself anymore, so what’s the use? Going down, down, down …
“Down, down, down,” I read.
“That’s the part the police picked up on,” he said.
“She doesn’t come right out and say she’s killing herself, though.”
“Not in so many words, but—”
We were interrupted by a banging noise coming from the back of the house.
“That’s Tiny,” he said. “She wants in.”
I followed Joe into the kitchen. Outside, an enormous gray pig on tiny cloven hooves stared through the sliding glass door, impatiently switching her tail. This was no pot-bellied piglet. Tiny weighed a hundred pounds if she weighed an ounce. Much of her mass hung in flabby folds from her neck and belly. She jammed her flat, round snout against the glass and kicked the door with a foreleg.
Bang.
“All right, all right, just a second.” Joe slid the door open. With surprising grace, the pig trotted right up to me. She plopped her fat bottom on the floor like a dog and looked longingly into my face.
“She wants to be petted,” he said.
“I see.” I scratched Tiny’s ears and she blinked thoughtfully. Scientists say that pigs are the fourth smartest creature on the planet, behind humans, apes, and dolphins. This pig had more going on behind her eyes than a lot of people I knew. “What a charmer,” I said.
“Isn’t she? I think having to give up Tiny was the final straw for Wendy. This pig was her soul mate.”
“Did she have to give Tiny up? I thought she left the pig with you voluntarily, because she was planning to take her life. Tying up loose ends and all.”
“Not exactly. People were complaining to the city about Tiny. Wendy was forced to give her to me.”
That put a slightly different spin on the matter.
“Did she ever mention who was making the complaints?” I asked.
“No. I don’t think she ever knew who made them.”
Watch enough TV and you’ll think that murder motives must be dark and deep. Hang out with cops and you’ll discover that many murders are utterly stupid, with motives so lame officers are ashamed to write them into their reports. The man who killed his brother fighting over whether the angel or the star went on top of the Christmas tree is a classic example. The guy who shoots the neighbor whose dog won’t stop barking is commonplace. With that in mind, the following morning I went to the city’s code compliance department to see who had made the complaints against Tiny.