the bridge. And such as it is, I should not be denied permission and my paternity rights to see my lawful, legal daughters, Chondra Wallace and Tiffani Wallace.
I have never done anything to hurt them and have always worked hard to support them even when this was hard. I don’t have any other children and need to see them for us to have a family.
Children need their fathers as I’m sure I don’t have to tell a trained doctor like yourself. One day I will be out of incarceration. I am their father and will be taking care of them. Chondra Wallace and Tiffani Wallace need me. Please pay attention to these facts.
Yours sincerely,
Donald Dell Wallace
I filed the letter in the thick folder, next to the coroner’s report on Ruthanne. Milo called at noon and I told him about the fish. “Makes it more than a prank, doesn’t it?”
Pause. “More than I expected.”
“Donald Dell knows my address. I just got a letter from him.”
“Saying what?”
“One day he’ll be out and wanting to be a full-time dad, so I shouldn’t deny him his rights now.”
“Subtle threat?”
“Could you prove it?”
“No, he could have gotten your address through his lawyer — you’re reviewing his claim, so he’d be entitled to it legally. Incidentally, according to my sources he doesn’t have an audio recorder in his cell. TV and VCR, yes.”
“Cruel and unusual. So what do I do?”
“Let me come over and check out your pond. Notice any footprints or obvious evidence?”
“There were some prints,” I said, “though they didn’t look like much to my amateur eyes. Maybe there’s some other evidence that I wasn’t sophisticated enough to spot. I was careful not to disturb anything — oh, hell, I buried the fish. Was that a screw-up?”
“Don’t worry about it, it’s not like we’re gonna do an autopsy.” He sounded uneasy.
“What’s the matter?” I said.
“Nothing. I’ll come by and have a look as soon as I can. Probably the afternoon.”
He spoke the last words tentatively, almost turning the statement into a question.
I said, “What is it, Milo?”
“What it
is
, is that I can’t do any full-court press for you on this. Killing a fish just isn’t a major felony — at the most, we’ve got trespassing and malicious mischief.”
“I understand.”
“I can probably take some footprint molds myself,” he said. “For what it’s worth.”
“Look,” I said, “I still don’t consider it a federal case. This is cowardly bullshit. Whoever’s behind it probably doesn’t want a confrontation.”
“Probably not,” he said. But he still sounded troubled, and that started to rattle me.
“Something else,” I said. “Though it’s also probably no big deal. I was looking at the conference brochure again and tried to contact the three local therapists who gave speeches. Two weren’t listed, but the one who was had been killed this past spring. Hit by a car while attending a psychiatric symposium. I found out because his answering service just happens to be the same one I use and the operator told me.”
“Killed here in L.A.?”
“Out of town, she didn’t remember where. I’ve got a call in to one of his associates.”
“Symposium,” he said. “Curse of the conference?”
“Like I said, it’s probably nothing — the only thing that is starting to bug me is I can’t reach anyone associated with the de Bosch meeting. Then again, it’s been a long time, people move.”
“Yeah.”
“Milo,
you’re
bugged about something. What is it?”
Pause. “I think, given everything that’s been happening — putting it all together — you’d be justified getting a little . . . watchful. No paranoia, just be extra careful.”
“Fine,” I said. “Robin’s coming home early — tonight. I’m picking her up at the airport. What do I tell her?”
“Tell her the truth — she’s a tough kid.”
“Some welcome home.”
“What time are you picking her
I have never done anything to hurt them and have always worked hard to support them even when this was hard. I don’t have any other children and need to see them for us to have a family.
Children need their fathers as I’m sure I don’t have to tell a trained doctor like yourself. One day I will be out of incarceration. I am their father and will be taking care of them. Chondra Wallace and Tiffani Wallace need me. Please pay attention to these facts.
Yours sincerely,
Donald Dell Wallace
I filed the letter in the thick folder, next to the coroner’s report on Ruthanne. Milo called at noon and I told him about the fish. “Makes it more than a prank, doesn’t it?”
Pause. “More than I expected.”
“Donald Dell knows my address. I just got a letter from him.”
“Saying what?”
“One day he’ll be out and wanting to be a full-time dad, so I shouldn’t deny him his rights now.”
“Subtle threat?”
“Could you prove it?”
“No, he could have gotten your address through his lawyer — you’re reviewing his claim, so he’d be entitled to it legally. Incidentally, according to my sources he doesn’t have an audio recorder in his cell. TV and VCR, yes.”
“Cruel and unusual. So what do I do?”
“Let me come over and check out your pond. Notice any footprints or obvious evidence?”
“There were some prints,” I said, “though they didn’t look like much to my amateur eyes. Maybe there’s some other evidence that I wasn’t sophisticated enough to spot. I was careful not to disturb anything — oh, hell, I buried the fish. Was that a screw-up?”
“Don’t worry about it, it’s not like we’re gonna do an autopsy.” He sounded uneasy.
“What’s the matter?” I said.
“Nothing. I’ll come by and have a look as soon as I can. Probably the afternoon.”
He spoke the last words tentatively, almost turning the statement into a question.
I said, “What is it, Milo?”
“What it
is
, is that I can’t do any full-court press for you on this. Killing a fish just isn’t a major felony — at the most, we’ve got trespassing and malicious mischief.”
“I understand.”
“I can probably take some footprint molds myself,” he said. “For what it’s worth.”
“Look,” I said, “I still don’t consider it a federal case. This is cowardly bullshit. Whoever’s behind it probably doesn’t want a confrontation.”
“Probably not,” he said. But he still sounded troubled, and that started to rattle me.
“Something else,” I said. “Though it’s also probably no big deal. I was looking at the conference brochure again and tried to contact the three local therapists who gave speeches. Two weren’t listed, but the one who was had been killed this past spring. Hit by a car while attending a psychiatric symposium. I found out because his answering service just happens to be the same one I use and the operator told me.”
“Killed here in L.A.?”
“Out of town, she didn’t remember where. I’ve got a call in to one of his associates.”
“Symposium,” he said. “Curse of the conference?”
“Like I said, it’s probably nothing — the only thing that is starting to bug me is I can’t reach anyone associated with the de Bosch meeting. Then again, it’s been a long time, people move.”
“Yeah.”
“Milo,
you’re
bugged about something. What is it?”
Pause. “I think, given everything that’s been happening — putting it all together — you’d be justified getting a little . . . watchful. No paranoia, just be extra careful.”
“Fine,” I said. “Robin’s coming home early — tonight. I’m picking her up at the airport. What do I tell her?”
“Tell her the truth — she’s a tough kid.”
“Some welcome home.”
“What time are you picking her
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