used sick time and taken the afternoon off. He needed to talk.
The DA was conducting a John Doe hearing, which was a secret proceeding used as an investigative tool to obtain sworn testimony. Doyle employed the John Doe to get evidence on record regarding the Berge homicide.
He spotted Davies as he exited a courtroom, and they rode the elevator to Doyle's office. Davies spewed his worries in jumbled sentences. He knew Barbara was innocent. It seemed the police kept coming back to her, seeking ways to involve her when she could never have participated in such an act. He hadn't lied to them about the body; thus he wasn't lying about Barbaras innocence.
Doyle didn't challenge the curious logic. In order to change the topic Doyle asked if the name Linda Millar meant anything to him. The sad Davies nodded without thinking.
Doyle repeated the question, and Davies elucidated. Linda Millar, he said, was an alias Barbara had chosen after she'd quit working the massage parlors. She wanted to bury those years and start her life anew. Because she was afraid the old and painful associations would haunt her, she decided that a different name would help cut her ties to the old life. To begin the future, she had explained to Davies, she had to rid herself of the past.
Had she ever actually used her alias? asked Doyle.
Occasionally, Davies replied. Once she'd had him send her an envelope with no letter that was addressed to Linda
Millar, at Barbaras State Street residence, to check whether the post office would deliver mail to the bogus name.
As soon as Davies left, Doyle phoned Lulling with what he had learned. Barbara Hoffman was Linda Millar, who had a savings account, a social security number, a post office box. Harry Berge had died with no will or testament. But two months before he had perished, he had made Linda Millar a joint tenant on his home for "one dollar and due considerations/ 7 and he had made her beneficiary of his life insurance policies, which totaled $34,500.
It seemed that Barbara Hoffman had planned Berge's death. Her motive was money.
26
Barbara Hoffman and Harry Berge were introduced on a lazy winter afternoon in 1975. Barbara was snuggled into a chair at Jans Health Spa, reading a paperback novel, when one of the girls bolted out of a session with a customer. She cried for the manager to give the man a refund.
"The guys a fucking weirdo," she said, flustered. "HI do the usual, but I ain't doing freaky things."
Barbara watched the scene unfold. Three weeks and the girl was already burned out. Probably the angel dust she was smoking had been cut with something weird. That was partly why Barbara herself preferred Quaaludes. The pills were obtained with a prescription, from a pharmacist. She knew what she was getting.
Barbara walked over to the girl and said she'd handle the gentleman.
Down the hallway heat ducts crawled the ceiling like huge silver worms. Wire splicings surfaced and disappeared. Hot air gushed from an open vent. Barbara tapped on a door, stepped into a room with black walls. A blue bulb cast a strange, moonish glow.
A naked man sat in a chair in the center of the room. His skin looked as soft as blue cheese, and the pockmarks on his shoulders resembled mold. His hair was short and as bright as aluminum in the blue light. Black hairs dotted his shoulders and back. Thin dime-store handcuffs were at his feet.
When the man saw Barbara, his expression of dejection did not change. A simple favor, he implored. He deserved to be punished. He tossed an electrical cord across the floor.
Barbara picked up the cord. She locked the mans wrists to the slats of the chair with the cheap handcuffs. Barbara hit him once with the cord. Then she hit him harder. The blue light seemed to crackle as the cord cut his skin.
She cracked him across the shoulders, across the meat of his spine. The tip of the cord whipped around and bit his chest, and he yelped like a puppy. His flesh flushed with creases of
The DA was conducting a John Doe hearing, which was a secret proceeding used as an investigative tool to obtain sworn testimony. Doyle employed the John Doe to get evidence on record regarding the Berge homicide.
He spotted Davies as he exited a courtroom, and they rode the elevator to Doyle's office. Davies spewed his worries in jumbled sentences. He knew Barbara was innocent. It seemed the police kept coming back to her, seeking ways to involve her when she could never have participated in such an act. He hadn't lied to them about the body; thus he wasn't lying about Barbaras innocence.
Doyle didn't challenge the curious logic. In order to change the topic Doyle asked if the name Linda Millar meant anything to him. The sad Davies nodded without thinking.
Doyle repeated the question, and Davies elucidated. Linda Millar, he said, was an alias Barbara had chosen after she'd quit working the massage parlors. She wanted to bury those years and start her life anew. Because she was afraid the old and painful associations would haunt her, she decided that a different name would help cut her ties to the old life. To begin the future, she had explained to Davies, she had to rid herself of the past.
Had she ever actually used her alias? asked Doyle.
Occasionally, Davies replied. Once she'd had him send her an envelope with no letter that was addressed to Linda
Millar, at Barbaras State Street residence, to check whether the post office would deliver mail to the bogus name.
As soon as Davies left, Doyle phoned Lulling with what he had learned. Barbara Hoffman was Linda Millar, who had a savings account, a social security number, a post office box. Harry Berge had died with no will or testament. But two months before he had perished, he had made Linda Millar a joint tenant on his home for "one dollar and due considerations/ 7 and he had made her beneficiary of his life insurance policies, which totaled $34,500.
It seemed that Barbara Hoffman had planned Berge's death. Her motive was money.
26
Barbara Hoffman and Harry Berge were introduced on a lazy winter afternoon in 1975. Barbara was snuggled into a chair at Jans Health Spa, reading a paperback novel, when one of the girls bolted out of a session with a customer. She cried for the manager to give the man a refund.
"The guys a fucking weirdo," she said, flustered. "HI do the usual, but I ain't doing freaky things."
Barbara watched the scene unfold. Three weeks and the girl was already burned out. Probably the angel dust she was smoking had been cut with something weird. That was partly why Barbara herself preferred Quaaludes. The pills were obtained with a prescription, from a pharmacist. She knew what she was getting.
Barbara walked over to the girl and said she'd handle the gentleman.
Down the hallway heat ducts crawled the ceiling like huge silver worms. Wire splicings surfaced and disappeared. Hot air gushed from an open vent. Barbara tapped on a door, stepped into a room with black walls. A blue bulb cast a strange, moonish glow.
A naked man sat in a chair in the center of the room. His skin looked as soft as blue cheese, and the pockmarks on his shoulders resembled mold. His hair was short and as bright as aluminum in the blue light. Black hairs dotted his shoulders and back. Thin dime-store handcuffs were at his feet.
When the man saw Barbara, his expression of dejection did not change. A simple favor, he implored. He deserved to be punished. He tossed an electrical cord across the floor.
Barbara picked up the cord. She locked the mans wrists to the slats of the chair with the cheap handcuffs. Barbara hit him once with the cord. Then she hit him harder. The blue light seemed to crackle as the cord cut his skin.
She cracked him across the shoulders, across the meat of his spine. The tip of the cord whipped around and bit his chest, and he yelped like a puppy. His flesh flushed with creases of
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