Ripper
An hour later the fire department set up a telescopic ladder in the street, broke a window, entered the apartment, and opened the door for the police. The austere home consisted of a living room, a minuscule bedroom, a kitchen built into one wall, and a bathroom. The furniture was minimal—although a number of suitcases and boxes were scattered around the place—and the only personal possessions were a color picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus and a plaster statuette of the Virgin Mary. The place smelled stale and looked completely uninhabited, and yet the door was locked as though the owner had stepped out to buy some milk. In the kitchen they found cereal boxes, jam jars, milk bottles, and an orange juice carton, all of them empty. The only signs that the girl had ever existed were her clothes and some school notebooks; there was not a single toy. The police were ready to leave again when one of them thought to take a last look in the closet, pulling the clothes apart on their hangers. Crouched on the floor was the girl, huddled like an animal beneath a heap of rags. When she saw the man, the creature howled so frightfully that he didn’t dare to prise her out of her hiding place by force, and had to ask for help. It took a woman police officer some time to persuade the girl to come out. Thin, filthy, and unkempt, she had a deranged look. Before she had taken three steps, she collapsed in the policewoman’s arms.
Angelique Larson first saw Lee Galespi in the hospital, three hours after her dramatic rescue from the Daly City apartment. She was in an emergency ward, hooked up to a drip and half asleep, but attentive enough to anybody who came over to her. The resident physician who admitted her said that she seemed malnourished and dehydrated; though she devoured cookies, custard, Jell-O, and anything else they put in front of her, she vomited it all up immediately. Despite her weak state, she defended herself like a wildcat when they tried to take off her dress to examine her. The doctor decided it wasn’t worth restraining her—it would be better to wait until the tranquilizers she had been given took effect. The girl shrieked whenever a man came near, the doctor told Larson. The social worker took Lee by the hand, explained who she was and why she was there, told her she had nothing to be afraid of and that she would stay with her however long it took for her family to arrive. “Mommy, I want my mommy,” the girl repeated, and Angelique Larson didn’t have the heart to tell her then and there that her mother had died. When Lee Galespi was in a deep sleep, they undressed her so the doctor could examine her. It was only then that they discovered she was a boy.
Galespi was transferred to the hospital’s pediatric department while the police searched in vain for relatives. Marion Galespi and her son seemed to have appeared out of thin air—they had no family, no past, no roots. The boy suffered from allergic eczema and alopecia, and was in need of dental treatment, fresh air, sunshine, and exercise, but he showed no sign of physical or mental illness, contrary to what his neighbors in Daly City believed. His birth certificate, signed by a Dr. Jean-Claude Castel, which was dated July 23, 1981, recorded that the birth had taken place at home in Fresno, California, and that the baby was a Caucasian male weighing seven pounds and measuring twenty inches.
In January 1994 Dr. Richard Ashton filed his initial psychiatric assessment of Lee Galespi with the juvenile court. The boy had a normal level of physical development for a pubescent male and an above-average IQ, but he was held back by serious emotional and social problems and suffered from insomnia and an addiction to the tranquilizers his mother had used to keep him calm during his confinement. It had been a battle to get him to cut his hair and wear boys’ clothing—Galespi insisted he was a girl and that “boys were bad.” He missed his mother, wet the bed, cried frequently, and always seemed afraid—especially of men, which brought conflict into the therapist-patient relationship and meant that eventually hypnosis and drugs had to be used. His mother had kept him locked in the house and dressed him as a girl, teaching him that people were dangerous and that the end of the world was near. They were always moving: the boy couldn’t remember or didn’t know in what cities he had lived, and could only say that his mother worked in hospitals or geriatric care homes and would often change jobs “because they had to leave.” The psychiatrist finished by saying that, in light of his symptoms, the patient Lee Galespi would need electroshock therapy.
The social worker explained that psychotherapy was proving counterproductive because the boy was terrified of Dr. Ashton, but Rachel Rosen did not seek a second opinion; she ordered that the treatment be continued, and that Galespi be settled in a home and attend school. In a report dated 1995, Angelique Larson noted that the boy was a good student but lacked friends; he was bullied for being effeminate, and his teachers found him uncooperative. When he was thirteen, he arrived at the home of Michael and Doris Constante.
I can tell you’re thirsty, Indi. So as a reward for how good you’ve been, I’m going to give you some orange juice. Don’t try and get up, just suck on the straw. That’s it. What, more? No, one glass is enough for now, I’ll give you a little more before I go as long as you eat the food I brought you. It’s rice and beans—you’ll need it to get your strength back. You’re shivering—you must be freezing cold. It’s very damp down here; there are even parts that are flooded where the groundwater has seeped through. Goodness knows how long you’ve been frozen half to death. I left you wrapped up good with a couple blankets—I even gave you woolen socks—but you started wriggling and managed to get out from under the covers. You need to stay still when I’m not here; struggling’s not going to help you. The straps are tight, and however hard you try, you won’t be able to get free. I can’t keep an eye on you all the time—I’ve got a life out there, as I’m sure you can imagine. I’ve explained the situation to you quite a few times, but either you ignore me or you forget. So I’ll say again that nobody’s going to find us here: we’re in the middle of nowhere, in a building that’s been abandoned for years. The property is fenced off, and it’s impossible to get in; even if you weren’t gagged, you could shout yourself hoarse and no one would hear you. You’re quiet as a mouse, so maybe you don’t need the gag—but I can’t take any risks. What are you thinking? You might as well give up any fantasies you have about escaping, because in the unlikely event of you managing to stand up, you won’t be able to get out. This little nest I’ve created is screened off with black drapes, but it’s in an enormous basement of reinforced concrete and iron pillars. The door’s made of iron, too, and I’ve got the key.
You seem a little groggy. Maybe you’re sicker than I thought—it could be the blood loss. What’s up, Indiana? Maybe you’re not afraid anymore? Have you given up? Your silence is frustrating, because the whole purpose of your being here is that we can talk and come to understand one another. You remind me of those Tibetan monks who escape from the world by meditating. They say that some of them can control their pulse, their blood pressure, heartbeat—even die at will. Is that true? This is your opportunity to put into practice those techniques you’re always recommending to your patients: meditating, relaxing, and all the rest of your cherished New Age garbage. I can bring you magnets and essential oils, if you like. While you’re meditating, by the way, why don’t you use the time to reflect on the reasons you’re here, on how willful and evil you have been? I know you’re sorry, but it’s too late to go back now. You could promise me that you realize all your mistakes and that you’re going to mend your ways—you could promise me anything you like, but I’d have to be a fool to believe you. And I assure you: I’m no fool.
Thursday, 5
After listening to the rest of the Lee Galespi story, the Ripper players decided unanimously to tell the deputy chief about him. Amanda dialed her father’s cell number straight away. When there was no answer, she called Petra Horr, who told her that the FBI had called the whole homicide detail in for a meeting.
“They think we’re sabotaging them with the Miller investigation,” said Petra. “They’ve lost a lot of time, and they haven’t found anything. I suggested they enjoy it while they’re here and do a bit of si
ghtseeing, and let’s just say they didn’t take it well. They aren’t the laughing type.”
“Maybe Miller went to Afghanistan,” said Amanda, hoping to throw Petra off the trail. “He talked about some debt of honor he had over there.”
“They want us to look for Miller as though we had nothing better to do. Why don’t they find him themselves? That’s why they got everybody under surveillance. Nothing’s private any more in this fricking country, Amanda, you know that? Every time you buy something, use your cell phone or the internet or a credit card—hell, every time you blow your nose—you leave a trail, and the government knows about it.”
“You sure?” asked Amanda, feeling alarmed. If the government and her father knew that she was playing Ripper with Ryan Miller, she could end up in jail.
“No doubt.”
“Tell my dad to call me as soon as he gets out of his meeting—it’s urgent.”
Bob Martín was dialing her number twenty minutes later. In recent days he had grabbed what sleep he could on the sofa in his office, subsisted on coffee and sandwiches, and had no time to go to the gym. His body felt stiff, as though he was wearing a suit of armor, and he was so irritable that the meeting had ended with raised voices. He hated that bitter woman Lorraine Barcott, and that Napoleon guy drove him nuts with all his little tics. Amanda’s voice, which could still touch him like it did when she was a little girl, soothed his nerves a little.
“You wanted to tell me something?” he asked her.
“You tell me your news first.”
“We’ve had the Farkas trailer impounded since December, but nobody had checked it, because the department’s had other priorities. We analyzed the bottle of gin that was inside, turns out it was spiked with Xanax. And you know what else we found, Amanda?”
“A stuffed toy wolf.”
“An album of holiday photos of places the Farkases had been—they traveled through a number of states before settling in California. There was an interesting postcard signed by Joe’s brother, dated November fourteenth last year, suggesting they meet up in San Francisco in December.”
“What’s interesting about it?”
“Two things. First, the picture on the postcard is of a wolf. Second, the brother swears he never sent it.”
“So, the Wolf made a date to kill them.”
“Absolutely. The only thing is, the postcard means nothing as evidence. It wouldn’t stand up to the slightest examination.”
“So throw in the Xanax and the full moon.”
“Say the Wolf gets into the trailer on some kind of pretext—I bet he brought them the liquor as a gift, ’cause he knew they liked a drink. The gin is spiked with the drug. He waits for it to knock them out, maybe a half hour, then turns on the gas before walking out. He leaves the bottle so it looks like just the kind of accident a pair of old drunks would have, which is exactly what the police assumed it was.”
“That doesn’t get us any closer to the Wolf, Dad. We’ve got thirty-nine hours to save Mom.”
“I know, sweetheart.”
“Hey, I got news for you too,” said Amanda, in that excited tone Martín had come to respect in the last few weeks.
His daughter’s news did not disappoint. He immediately called the director of Child Protective Services, who couriered over the file on Lee Galespi that Angelique Larson had compiled over the seven years the boy was in her care.
On a separate sheet, written by hand, the social worker reflected that Lee Galespi had suffered much, and that the people at Child Protective Services, like everyone else who ought to have helped him, had failed him time and again. She felt she had done little for him herself. The only good thing that had come Lee Galespi’s way in the whole of his wretched existence was the $250,000 of life insurance left to him by his mother. The juvenile court had set up a trust fund for him, which he would be able to access when he turned eighteen.
I’ve brought you chocolates to cheer you up—they’re the same ones Keller used to bring you. Weird combination, chocolate and chili. Sugar is bad for you, it makes you fat. You’ve never worried about your weight—you think those few extra pounds make you look voluptuous, don’t you? Well, take it from me, when you’re forty they just make you look fat. Right now you think it’s funny. You’re very beautiful. I’m not surprised men lose their heads over you, Indiana, but beauty is not a gift, like they tell you in the fairy tales, it’s a curse. Remember Helen of Troy, who set off a bloody war between the Greeks? Fate almost always turns against beauty. Then there’s Marilyn Monroe, the quintessential sex symbol, a depressive and a drug addict who died alone. It’s something I know a lot about. Femmes fatales captivate and repel me, they fascinate and scare me, like reptiles. You’re so used to being the center of attention, to being worshipped and desired, that you don’t even realize the suffering you cause. Wanton women like you strut around, arousing, seducing, and tormenting other people with no sense of honor or responsibility. Nothing in the world is worse than unrequited love: it is a cruel torture, a slow death. Just think about Gary Brunswick, a good man who selflessly offered you his love; or Ryan Miller, whom you tossed aside like garbage—not to mention Alan Keller, who died for you. It’s not fair. You have to pay the consequences, Indiana. These last days, I’ve been studying you closely, from the scar on your buttocks to every fold of your vulva. I’ve even counted your beauty spots.
Lee Galespi spent two years with the Constantes until a routine medical exam found cigarette burns on the boy. Although Galespi refused to say what had happened, Angelique Larson concluded that this had probably been the Constantes’ way of teaching him not to wet the bed. She took the child away from them, but did not succeed in having their foster care license revoked. Not long afterward, Galespi was sent for a year to Boys’ Camp in Arizona. Angelique Larson begged Rachel Rosen to reconsider her decision—a camp notorious for its brutality and its harsh military-style discipline was utterly unsuited to a vulnerable, traumatized child like Galespi—but Judge Rosen ignored her pleas.
Every one of the letters Larson received from the boy while he was in the camp was censored using a thick black marker, so in December 1998 the social worker decided to visit him in Arizona. Boys’ Camp did not allow visitors, but Larson managed to get a court authorization. Lee was pale, thin, and withdrawn, and there were extensive cuts and bruises on his arms and legs. The counselor, an ex-soldier named Ed Staton, said that was normal, since the boys exercised outdoors; besides, Lee often fought with the other inmates, who hated him because he was a whiner, a crybaby, and a faggot. “But I’ll make a man outta him, sure as my name’s Ed Staton,” the counselor had said.
Angelique insisted on talking to Lee alone, but she could get nothing out of him. To every question he robotically answered that he had nothing to complain about. She spoke to the nurse who worked at the camp, a fat, unsympathetic woman, who told her that Galespi had been on a hunger strike, that he wasn’t the first to resort to such tricks, but he’d quickly given up when he discovered how unpleasant it was to be force-fed through a tube. In her report, Larson wrote that Lee was in a terrible state—“He looks like a zombie”—and recommended that he immediately be removed from Boys’ Camp. Once again her pleas to Rachel Rosen fell on deaf ears, so she lodged a formal complaint against Ed Staton, which also came to nothing. Lee Galespi served out his sentence of one year in that hell.
When he came back to California, Larson had him fostered by Jane and Edgar Fernwood, an evangelical family who welcomed him with a kindness he had long since ceased to expect from anyone. Edgar Fernwood, who worked as a builder, took the boy on as an apprentice, and he began learning a trade; Lee Galespi finally seemed to have found a safe haven in the world. In the two years that followed, he got good grades in high school and worked part-time with Fernwood. Fresh-faced and with blond hair, he was short and skinny for his age, a shy, solitary boy who enjoyed comics, video games, and action movies. Once Angelique Larson asked whether he still believed that “boys were evi
l and girls were good,” but Galespi didn’t know what she was referring to; he had blocked from his memory that period when he had wanted to be a girl.
In the dossier there were photos of Lee Galespi, the last taken in 1999, when the boy turned eighteen and Child Protective Services ceased to have responsibility for him. Rachel Rosen decided that, given his behavioral problems, he should not receive the insurance money left to him by his mother until he was twenty-one. That was the year that Angelique Larson retired and moved to Alaska.
Deputy Chief Bob Martín set his team to tracking down Lee Galespi, Angelique Larson, and the Fernwoods.
I’ve brought you some Coke. You need to drink lots of fluids, and a bit of caffeine might perk you up, don’t you think? Come on, Indi, don’t make this difficult. If you’re refusing to eat and drink because you figure I’m trying to drug you, think about it—I could just inject you the way I did with the antibiotics. It was the right thing to do—it brought down your temperature, and you’re not bleeding so much. Give it a little time, and you should be on your feet again.