The Forgotten Man by Robert Crais
"Oh, yes. Marjorie spoke with him, too."
"The man was murdered. He was living in a motel under an assumed name with no way to trace him until now. You guys were sending him checks. If the police can find out why he was using an assumed name and why he came to Los Angeles, it might give them a line back to who murdered him. Someone at the receiving end of his checks might know those things."
Brasher glanced at the door, but Marjorie still hadn't arrived. The smile faltered as if he wouldn't be able to hold out much longer without her.
"We intend to cooperate to the full extent of our legal responsibility, but there are issues to be resolved."
"What issues?"
He glanced at the door again, and suddenly looked relieved. The aluminum-siding smile returned.
"C'mon in, Marjorie. This is Mr. Cole. Mr. Cole, this is Marjorie Lawrence from our legal department."
Marjorie Lawrence was a short, humorless woman in a blue business suit. She nodded politely, shook my hand, then pulled a chair as far from me as possible before she sat. She was carrying a thick file that looked dingy and old.
She said, "We were told Mr. Reinnike made a dying declaration that you were his son. Are you?"
She stared into my eyes, and I let her. I felt awkward and surprised, but I didn't want her to know it. I hadn't mentioned that part of the business to Brasher because I didn't know and it didn't seem relevant. Beckett must have told them.
He did, but I have no reason to believe I am. I never mot the man."
She nodded, and everything in her body language said that all the power in the room was hers.
"Regardless. I'm sure you can understand our position, you possibly being an heir."
They thought I had come to chisel. I looked from her to Brasher, then shook my head. An heir.
"All I want is to know where the checks were going. I'd like to get that information from you now because that will speed things up, but if you don't share it with me, you know you'll have to give it to the police, and I'll see it then. If you'd like me to sign something releasing you from any claim by me, I'll sign it."
She glanced at Brasher, and Brasher shrugged.
Marjorie had already prepared the paper. She slipped it out of the file, and I signed it on Brasher's desk. While I was signing, he gave back my licenses. When I finished, we went back to our seats. Easy come, easy go.
She opened the file again, studied the top page, then looked up at me.
"In 1948, this hospital—through our insurance supplier at that time—entered into a settlement agreement with Ray and Lita Reinnike—George Reinnike's parents—in their son's name. Rather than a lump-sum payment, we agreed upon a monthly payment in the patient's name that would span thirty years. The payments would have ended in nineteen seventy-eight."
"Seventy-eight."
"Yes."
I felt a dull sense of defeat. If the payments had ended in nineteen seventy-eight, then the most recent address they had would be almost thirty years old.
"Just because I'm curious—why did I have to sign a release? Any money would have been long gone."
"Mr. Cole, it's a bit more complicated than that."
She opened the file again, fingered out another sheet, and handed it to me. It was a payment record for George L. Reinnike showing addresses, check numbers, and dates of payment. It was cut-and-dried bean-counting except for a stamp affixed at the bottom that didn't seem part of an accountancy record: EXHIBIT 54.
"You can see for yourself that checks were sent to Mr. Reinnike at three addresses, the first being the original home address with his parents in Anson, California—"
She leaned closer to point out the Anson address at the top of the sheet. I was still thinking about the exhibit number.
"Why is there an exhibit number here?"
"Checks were sent to Mr. Reinnike at the Anson address until 1953 when he filed a change of address to Calexico, California, where he received checks for five years and seven months before moving to—"
Her finger traced down the page.
"—Temecula, California. He filed an appropriate change of address, and his checks were redirected to Temecula, where the checks continued until 1975, at which time we discovered that a theft was taking place and terminated the payments."
I looked up, and discovered Marjorie and Brasher watching me.
"What theft?"
Brasher said, "Reinnike moved in 1969, but failed to file a change of address. A man named Todd Edward Jordan moved in, and banked Reinnike's checks—"
Marjorie interrupted. She was guarding the hospital's liability base like a Gold Glove third baseman.
"If Mr. Reinnike had filed a change of address as was required, or contacted us to inquire about his payments, we would have acted immediately to resolve the problem. We were as much the victims here as Mr. Reinnike."
Brasher went on.
"Right, so we continued sending the checks to Temecula, only Reinnike wasn't getting them. Jordan got them. Jordan forged Reinnike's name, and deposited the money into his own account. People do this kind of forgery with Social Security checks all the time. We discovered the theft in 1975, and that's when we terminated the payments, and contacted the police."
"Reinnike just moved away?"
"So far as was known, yes. All we know is what we've read in the file, Mr. Cole. None of us were here at that time."
Marjorie said, "I was in junior high."
I stared at the page as if I were studying it, but mostly I was giving myself time to think. George Reinnike would have gotten a check every month for another nine years, but he had walked away.
Marjorie Lawrence opened the file again, and this time she took out a bound collection of newspaper clippings.
"These were in our files. They're news clippings of Jordan's arrest and prosecution. Maybe they will help you, Mr. Cole."
Marjorie Lawrence brought me to an empty conference room, and left me with the file.
28
The file contained eleven yellowed newspaper articles, all clipped from the San Diego Union-Tribune and filed by date. The first piece reported that an unemployed electrician named Todd Edward Jordan had been charged with theft, forgery, and mail fraud for cashing insurance-settlement checks intended for a former tenant of the house Jordan rented. The facts were light, indicating that the reporter had filed his piece before he knew of Reinnike's disappearance. The next story was more interesting. Investigators had been unable to locate George Reinnike, and sources within the Sheriffs Department suggested that Reinnike was a possible homicide victim. Some of the speculations read like lurid noir potboilers.
The next story stopped me cold—
Forgery Victim Still Missing
by Eric Weiss
San Diego Union-Tribune
Six years ago, George Reinnike disappeared from the modest home he rented on 1612 Adams Drive in Temecula. According to his former landlord, Reinnike told no one he was moving. Reinnike not only abandoned a house—he left behind a small fortune in monthly disability payments. Foul play is suspected.
Todd Edward Jordan, 38, has been charged with forging Reinnike's name to cash the monthly checks. Jordan, an unemployed electrician, moved into the house several weeks after Reinnike disappeared in May of 1969. When Jordan discovered Reinnike's mail included a monthly disability payment from the Claremont Insurance Group, Jordan cashed the check. He continued to cash the monthly checks for the next six years.
Sheriffs investigators do not believe Jordan had anything to do with Reinnike's disappearance.
"Mr. Jordan responded to an ad in a local paper, and rented the house. We don't believe he ever met Mr. Reinnike," said Detective Martin Poole of the San Diego County Sheriffs Department.
Reinnike's landlord at the time, Charles Izzatola, knew nothing of the forgery.
"Todd was a good tenant. He was polite, and his rent was on time."
According to Izzatola, Reinnike moved out without informing him.
"The rent was late, so I went to ask about it. The house was empty. They left without saying a word."
Reinnike, who was a single parent with a teenage son, was not well liked by neighbors.
"The neighbors complained about George and his kid. They even called the cops a couple of times. Maybe one of the neighbors got fed up and ran them off."
According to Poole, Sheriffs investigators tried to locate Reinnike when Jordan was arrested, but by then Reinnike had been missing for six years.
Poole said, "A man doesn't walk away from free money like this. Reinnike could have filed a change of address or notified the insurance company. He did neither, and he never came back for his money. I'd like to know what happened."
Anyone with knowledge of George Reinnike or his son, David, 16 at the time of their disappearance, should contact Det. Martin Poole of the San Diego County Sheriffs Department.
I walked the length of the conference room, and listened to the silence. It was a lovely conference room with lush carpet and richly upholstered chairs. The kind of conference room where important decisions were made.
Anyone with knowledge of George Reinnike, his son, David, 16...
I went back to my chair.
Reinnike had lived as a single parent with a teenage son, and that son was not me. I turned to the next article.
The next three stories recounted more or less the same details as Jordan's prosecution proceeded. Jordan initially denied forging the checks; bank records indicated a steady deposit history of like amounts into Jordan's account; Jordan's handwriting matched the endorsements on the checks; Jordan claimed no knowledge of Reinnike and had never met the man; local homicide detectives failed to establish a connection between the two men. Jordan was convicted. A final sidebar piece appeared with the crime reports, accompanying the story that reported Jordan's conviction—
No One Waved Good-bye
by Eric Weiss
San Diego Union-Tribune
George Reinnike and his son, David, 16, lived on a quiet street on the outskirts of Temecula for almost ten years. Reinnike, a single parent, kept to himself, paid his rent on time, and often argued with neighbors about his unruly son. Then, one spring night six years ago, the Reinnikes packed their car, drove away without a word, and have neither been seen nor heard from since.
"People move all the time," said Detective Martin Poole of the San Diego County Sheriffs Department. "But this one has us baffled."
The police might be baffled, but when George Reinnike and his son moved away, most of their neighbors breathed a sigh of relief.
After ten years in the small rented house on Adams Drive in Temecula, the Reinnikes had made no friends, and seemed not to care. Many of the problems seemed to stem from Reinnike's son, David.
"George was sullen and unfriendly, and I tried to avoid David," said Mrs. Alma Sims, 48, the Reinnike's next-door neighbor. "I wouldn't let my children play with him."
She recalls the time David Reinnike, then twelve, was walking in the street as she was bringing her own children home from soccer practice.
"David was walking in the middle of the street and he wouldn't move to the side. When I beeped my horn, he started making faces at me, but he still didn't get out of the way. I tried to go around him, but he stayed in front of the car, calling me the most terrible names. He was out of control."
That night, when Mrs. Sims' husband, Warren, went next door to discuss the matter with Mr. Reinnike, Reinnike allegedly threatened him.
Mrs. Sims said, "George was defensive and belligerent when it came to David. No matter what David had done, if you tried to say something, George would act threatening."
According to neighbors, the younger Reinnike was in trouble often. Stories of vandalism, fights with other children, and bizarre behavior were common.
"Someone broke windows in every house on this block one night," said Pam Wally, 39. "Everyone knew it was David, but no one could prove it."
Neighbors believe David broke the windows, because only the Reinnikes' house was spared.
Karen Reese, 47, described a similiar incident. Her two sons had gotten into an argument with David. The following day, when Mrs. Reese was driving her sons home from school, they passed the Reinnike home where David waited at the curb.
Said Mrs. Reese, "As we passed, he threw a hammer at us. It was the strangest thing, because he didn't care if we saw him or not. The back window shattered and glass was everywhere. Thank God no one was hurt."
Mrs. Reese summoned the police, but no charges were filed. Mr. Reinnike agreed to pay for repairs.
"I'm not sure the boy even went to school," said Chester Kerr, 52, who lived across the street. "It would be midday during the school year, and you'd see him running around."
Tabitha Williams, 44, the mother of two small children, tells a slightly different story.
"David had a learning disability and was being home-schooled. I never had any problems with David or George. It was hard for both of them without David's mother."
The absence of David Reinnike's mother was a mystery, too, because George Reinnike gave differing explanations. At different times, Reinnike told neighbors his wife was deceased, had abandoned them when David was an infant, or had remarried and lived in Europe with her new family.
Now, the whereabouts of George Reinnike and his son, David, are as mysterious as that of David's mother. Though police are suspicious of the circumstances surrounding the Reinnikes' disappearance, they have no evidence of foul play, and have cleared Jordan of any involvement.
"It could be the guy just wanted to live somewhere else and didn't think enough of his neighbors to tell them," said Det. Poole. "There's no law against moving, but we'd still like to know."
If you have any information about George or David Reinnike, please contact Detective Martin Poole of the San Diego County Sheriffs Department.
After the cold facts of the crime reports, the sidebar article made the Reinnikes real.
I compared what I knew with what was reported. Neither the Sheriffs nor the neighbors mentioned George Reinnike's tattoos or any sort of religious zeal. The tattoos were of such a dramatic nature that this omission indicated Reinnike had not been tattooed when he lived in Temecula. The tattoos coming later suggested a significant change in Reinnike's emotional state. The police had suspected foul play in Reinnike's disappearance, but thirty years later I knew that Reinnike had not been murdered at that time; it took another thirty-five years for someone to kill him. A rational person might not walk away from the insurance payments, but an emotionally troubled man might, and so might a desperate man. It had been the sixties. A lot of people dropped out, and plenty of them had good reasons. Maybe Reinnike felt a radical change would help his son. Maybe he walked away from the checks because they were a monthly reminder of everything he had hated about his earlier life. Maybe he needed to escape himself to heal, and the tattoos and prayers were part of the process. And thirty-five years later, he had come to Los Angeles with the belief he had fathered a child named Elvis Cole. Maybe he was crazy.
After a while I grew tired of thinking about it. I gathered together the clippings, found Marjorie Lawrence, and asked for copies of the articles. I also asked if I could use her phone. She was happy to let me do so.
I called Starkey. I could have called Diaz and Pardy, but Starkey worked the Juvenile desk. If David showed only a Juvie file, his record would be more difficult to find. Juvenile records are often sealed or expunged.
Starkey said, "Hey, dude, where are you?"
"San Diego. I found something down here maybe you can help me with."
"Oh, I live for that. You've made my day, adding more work to my load."
I gave her the headline version of Reinnike's disappearance, and told her about David Reinnike.
She said, "The guy had another son?"
"That's not funny, Starkey."
"Oh, hey."
"Will you check it out for me or not?"
&nb
"Yeah. The lead was a guy named Poole. San Diego County Sheriffs Department."
"Are you coming back tonight?"
"Yeah, I'm going to leave in a few minutes."
"I'd like to see the articles. With all this happening thirty years ago, having the names might help me out."
"Okay, sure."
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"Seeing as how I'm going to so much trouble, maybe I should come up to your house tonight and you should feed me dinner. An invitation would be nice."
Starkey made me smile.
"How about eight o'clock. I should be back by then."
"Eight o'clock. Don't get killed driving home."
Starkey always knew what to say.
I found my way back to the freeway. It had been a long, difficult day, and I had logged a lot of miles. I had more miles ahead of me, and all of it would be grudging.
My head buzzed with a remote ache from all the thinking about George Reinnike, and what he might mean to me, or not. If Reinnike believed he had a child named Elvis Cole, why did he wait so many years to get in touch? I tried to make sense of what I knew, and nothing good came to mind. Anything was possible. Reinnike might have lost both his son and his mind, then convinced himself I was a long-lost replacement. Dial-a-Child, at your service. My picture had been in the newspapers, magazines, and on television. Maybe David Reinnike looked like me; the two of us interchangeable American males, brown, brown, medium, average. George Reinnike might have seen me in the news, convinced himself I was the long-lost "other," and swept me up in his madness. Here I was, driving in traffic, thinking about a total stranger named George Reinnike, and Reinnike had become real to me. He had flesh and weakness, and his tortured path had somehow crossed mine. Even if he was not part of my past, he had begun to feel like my past. When I remembered my mother, he was now in the memory like a transparent haunt. All through my life those memories had been a puzzle with a missing piece, but now George Reinnike filled the hole. The picture was complete. Daddy was home whether he was real or not.