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“About what?”
“Well, we’d rather not talk about it here on the doorstep. Could we come in and sit down with you?”
“Not until you tell me what this is all about.”
“It’s about your daughter, ma’am. Mallory.”
If Richardson had been tipped off to their impending arrival by Judge Purcell, she did a masterful job of covering and looking surprised, then apprehensive. Ballard read the reaction as legit. Richardson opened the door all the way and invited them in.
She led them into a living room with a mid-century design to the furnishings. Richardson took a seat on a couch while Ballard and Masser sat across a glass-topped coffee table in two cushioned chairs.
“We work cold cases for the LAPD,” Ballard began. “We were given your name by Judge Purcell, who was your neighbor when you lived in Pasadena.”
“Why would he give you my name?” Richardson said. “What is this about?”
“It’s about an old case involving sexual assault and murder. We went to Judge Purcell because of his son, Nick. A familial DNA match in our case indicated that Nick’s father is our suspect. Only it turns out, Judge Purcell is not Nick’s father. And his wife is not Nick’s mother. When we found out that Nick was adopted, the judge told us that his biological mother was Mallory.”
“You’re saying that the son my daughter gave up is a killer?”
“No, not at all. We believe his father is the man we’re looking for. We came out here to ask you who that was.”
“There must be a mistake. How could this be?”
“The DNA analysis confirms it. Do you know who the father was, Mrs. Richardson? Did your daughter ever tell you?”
“She didn’t, because she was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“What my husband might do to him.”
“Why? Did someone hurt your daughter, Mrs. Richardson?”
“I don’t like talking about this. You’re bringing up the worst part of my life.”
“I understand and I apologize. But the person we’re looking for may still be out there hurting women. We need to find him and I’m sure you want to help. Do you remember anything at all from that time that could tell us who the father might have been?”
“You have to understand that I’ve blocked so much of it out. Those years—they were the worst years of our lives for my husband and me. And now suddenly you come here and… I don’t know anything that can help you.”
Ballard leaned in. She knew the next part of her questioning would be especially difficult.
“We understand that your daughter took her own life, Mrs. Richardson. We are very sorry for your loss. Did she leave behind anything that might help us identify the father of her child?”
Richardson’s eyes were not focused on anything in front of her. She was time-traveling back to those difficult years. She slowly shook her head. “She was never the same, you know,” Richardson said. “After giving up the baby, she wasn’t the same. She used my pills. She didn’t leave a note.”
Ballard nodded. She was aware that she had upended this woman’s fragile existence with just a few questions, and she didn’t think pushing her further would yield anything useful. It had been a long drive to another dead end.
“Can I ask a question?” Masser said. “Mallory went to school at St. Vincent’s, right?”
“That was our church too,” Richardson said.
“Was it possible that the father was a boy—a student—from the school? Was she dating anyone at the time?”
“She didn’t have a boyfriend. That year a boy asked her to the senior prom and she went, but they weren’t dating.”
“Do you remember his name?”
“It was Rodney.”
