Riding and Writing with Jigsaw

September 1, 2025. Looking back at the photo I took of Detective John “Jigsaw” St. John driving his sky-blue undercover car through LA traffic, my thoughts forty-two years later were the same as I had then – what is he thinking? What puzzle is he trying to solve? Have we really run out of things to say to each other? That almost never happened. But once in a while, especially when we’d hit a dead end in the writing or he had an especially difficult case, he’d stare straight ahead and get quiet. I knew he needed that quiet to think.

That thought led me to remember the first day I drove to Los Angeles without my husband, Jim. I’d been dreading that day for three months. Before that day, Jim had driven to LA for those meetings with John St. John while I sat comfortably in the passenger seat, watching the scenery or pelting Jim with questions about the writing project. By the end of March, we had experienced six meetings with St. John. Our first meeting was on November 11, 1982, at Taylor’s Steak House in LA. The next time we met was in our Camarillo home. A few weeks later, I had a heartbreaking interview with victim Steven Wood’s mother. Next, St. John gave Jim and me a tour of the LA Morgue, followed by an interview with Scott Fraser, the snitch who broke the Freeway Killer case. Last, St. John took us to the Los Angeles Police Academy.

For each of those meetings, Jim was my crutch, my fail-safe support if our conversation hit dead space, which it never did because the doctor and the detective had established a friendly rapport, talking about their service in the Air Force, their never-ending home improvement projects, and sports, particularly football.

I listened half-heartedly to their “guy talk,” but I was worried about what I’d do if St. John and I were alone and hit that horrible moment when conversation stops and neither person knows how to get it started. I knew lots about tennis, Little League, how to plan a dinner, and how to hike in the Sierras without getting lost, but I didn’t want to talk about those things. All I wanted to talk about was the Freeway Killer case.

The day finally came in April when Jim had ER duty, and St. John wanted to discuss new thoughts on a chapter. When he suggested I drive to LA, I thought of all the terrible things that could happen if I drove instead of Jim. All four tires went flat, and the engine exploded. I’d swerve to avoid a ten-car collision, then hit the guardrail, and would be critically injured. What if I got lost and was captured by gang members in South Central LA and got in touch with Jim and force him to pay a ransom? What if I took the wrong exit and drove for hours lost in LA?

I made it to LA body and soul intact and pulled into the Parker Center reserved parking lot space St. John saved for me. Ron, the attendant, probably thought I was a lost soul who mistook the Parker Center for the Dorthy Chadler Pavillion and was late for the afternoon performance.   

I met St. John in the lobby canteen that resembled every Greyhound bus station I’d been in. When he asked how the drive into LA went, I lied like one of his snitches. “I sailed right in!” I told the man who could sense a lie almost before it was said. “Traffic was a breeze! No big deal!” From that day forward, I was the chauffeur and never got lost.

Jigsaw John’s Crown Vic became my home away from home until the day he retired. I still miss St. John’s Crown Vic with the worn passenger seat and my makeup kit in the glove compartment.

Whenever I see a Crown Vic I get a little catch in my throat remembering those glorious days.