by Tim Ellis
‘Nothing contagious, I hope?’
‘No.’
She took a reel out of the top box from a stack of four that were loaded onto a steel hand truck and showed him how to load the reels into the reader and move through the pages of the newspaper by turning the handle on the side.
‘I think I’ve got it.’
‘Good. Typically, there’s a thousand pages on each reel, which equates to approximately fifty newspapers at twenty pages each. The one that’s in the reader now is the Los Angeles Times for January and February, 1946. The newspaper and the date each reel covers is written on the top of the metal container. You know where I am if you need any further assistance.’
‘Thanks for your help.’
‘Don’t forget to rewind them, otherwise they’ll all be back-to-front.’
‘I will.’
‘What are you looking for exactly?’
‘Crimes in municipal parks.’
Her brow furrowed. ‘I thought your name sounded familiar. You’re the detective in charge of the investigation into the starlet murders, aren’t you?’
‘I was six months ago, but as I said – I’ve been unwell.’
‘You don’t look a hundred percent.’
‘More like forty.’
‘And they’ve got you back working already?’
‘No, this is me resting and recuperating.’
‘You should be lying in a bed for that.’
‘Nothing I’d like better.’
Mrs Rackham shuffled off back to the front desk.
He turned the handle on the side of the reader and began scrolling through the pages. He was under no illusion that it was going to be a long day.
***
‘Where to, lady?’ the cabbie asked her once she’d settled into the back of his cab and closed the door. He was in his fifties, had deep lines under his eyes, a bulbous nose and a squashed face. He wore a donkey jacket displaying his numbered Public Hack Driver badge, a flat cap and a half-chewed unlit cheroot was hanging from the corner of his mouth.
‘County Poor Farm in Downey, please,’ she said. The interior smelled of leather polish, sweat and tobacco. Something else women didn’t do was drive cabs. If they did, the insides would smell a lot better than this one did.
‘One way trip’ll be twenty miles and cost you about sixteen bucks, lady.’
‘All right.’
‘You staying there?’
‘No.’
‘You want me to wait and bring you back?’
‘If it’s not too much trouble’
‘Nothing’s too much trouble for an even forty bucks?’
‘I’m happy with that.’
‘You got yourself a cabbie for as long as it takes then, lady. Name’s Jersey, if you ever need a cab in the future.’ He passed her a card over his shoulder. ‘Call that number and I’ll drop everything to come get you.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘That’s all I ask.’
He pulled out into the traffic.
While she was deciding what to wear earlier, she’d telephoned ahead and booked an appointment with Doctor Randolph Q Levitsky for ten-thirty. In the end, she’d opted to wear her emerald-green pleated swing dress that matched her green eyes, her matching open-toe sandals and carried her black reefer coat in case the temperature dropped, or it began to rain. Neither was likely, but only a fool would hope for the best and she was nobody’s fool.
A short while into the journey the cabbie said, ‘So, which films you been in, lady?’
‘Films! Me? No, I’m not an actress.’
‘You gotta be kidding me? Someone as beautiful as you ought to be in every film they got going.’
‘That’s very kind of you, but I have no interest in becoming an actress.’
‘Probably a wise decision, if you ask me. A lot of those actresses lead tragic lives and die young. Makes you wonder about the nature of life and death. And let me tell you, I got lots of time on my hands for wondering in this here cab.’
‘I can imagine.’
‘Well, if you ever do get yourself into a film as a leading lady, give me a call on that number. I’ll be the first one in the queue at the cinema to see you.’
‘You’ll have a long wait.’
When they arrived at the County Poor Farm Jersey parked up under the shade of a eucalyptus tree, turned in his seat and asked, ‘How long you reckon you’re gonna be, lady?’
‘I don’t really know, but certainly no more than an hour.’
‘If I’ve dozed off when you get back, just give me a shake.’
‘I will.’
As she walked towards the imposing administration building, she thought the place was more like a college campus than a farm for the poor. It was set in the midst of an orange grove with cypress hedges, lawns and flowers. There was a church; a Spanish-style mansion; a giant water tank; row upon row of housing that formed streets like the old Wild West; a bus stop; wide green fields and concrete yards. She walked into the main reception and spoke to the woman behind the wooden counter. ‘Good morning. I’m Katie Brazil. I have an appointment to see Doctor Levitsky at ten-thirty.’
‘Please take a seat. I’ll let him know you’re here.’
It wasn’t long before a thin bald man in his late fifties with a head that leaned towards the left arrived. He held out his hand. ‘Miss Brazil?’
‘Yes.’ She shook the proffered hand and said, ‘Thank you for seeing me at such short notice.’
‘I was intrigued. It’s not often I have a woman calling me up to discuss the perpetrator of a crime.’
‘I’m not your usual woman.’
‘Please, come through into my office.’
He led her along a whitewashed echoing corridor to a room with a high ceiling, a wall full of books on shelves, a walnut desk, a low treatment couch and five easy chairs around a coffee table. ‘Please take a seat. Can I ask my secretary to get you anything to drink?’
‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’
‘So, what can I do for you, Miss Brazil?’
‘I was hoping you could give me some idea of the type of man who is committing the starlet murders.’
‘Ah! Although I have an interest in the criminal mind,’ Levitsky said, ‘I’m probably not the person you should be speaking to, but I do know someone who’s been working on exactly what you’re here enquiring about. Psychiatry is more interested in diagnosing and classifying mental illness from an organic basis. Whereas psychology focuses more on personality and behaviour and also deals with non-mentally disordered offenders. Psychologists engage in aspects of the investigation and prosecution of the crime as well as searching for causes and treating offenders. With that in mind, a young man came to see me eighteen months ago. He developed a hypothesis that he’d be able to determine the kind of person he was looking for by what he could see at the crime scene. He reviewed unusual homicides from a number of police agencies to test his hypothesis. He examines all the data and prepared a tentative description of the perpetrator, then he would look at the individual found to have committed the crime and compare the actual perpetrator to his description. He consulted me on the details of psychological disorders. And do you know what?
‘What?’
‘There was an uncanny accuracy in his descriptions. Of course, it’s still early days yet, but I have no doubt that the work he’s doing will bear fruit one day.’
‘Yes, that does sound like the type of thing I want.’
‘Let me call him. His name is Doctor Howard Caplan. I’m sure he’d welcome the opportunity to become involved in your investigation. Psychologists like nothing better than to get down in the mud and play with the other boys.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘I don’t know where he lives, but he’s employed as an instructor in the criminalistics department at the university, which you probably passed on your way up here?’
‘Yes, I did.’
Doctor Levitsky called
Howard Caplan using the phone on his desk and then put his hand over the receiver. ‘Howard says he’s teaching all day, but that he’s free for lunch between twelve and two if you’re interested?’
She nodded. ‘Yes, I can meet him for lunch.’
Once the conversation had ended, he came and sat back down. ‘He’ll meet you in the Pacific Dining Car at 6th Street and Witmer at twelve o’clock.’
‘Is that close to the university?’
‘Yes, not far away.’
‘I have a cab waiting, so the driver should know where it is.’ She stood up and thrust her hand forward. ‘Thank you for all your help, Doctor.’
‘It’s been my pleasure. Sorry I couldn’t be more illuminating on the subject of murderers.’
He escorted her out of the administration building and she made her way back to the cab under the eucalyptus tree in the car park.
Jersey was fast asleep and snoring like a mini-tornado.
She nudged his shoulder.
‘Yep! Yep! Just coming.’
‘Jersey, it’s me.’
‘You ready for going back?’
‘Yes, except I’ll now be going to the Pacific Dining Car . . .’
‘On 6th Street and Witmer? Fred and Lovey Cook’s place. Know it well from the outside. Ready when you are.’
She clambered into the back seat.
Jersey reversed up, pulled out of the car park and headed back the way they come along Imperial Highway.
‘You get what you wanted?’
‘Not yet, but I’m hoping I will during lunch.’
***
He felt someone nudge him. His face was stuck to the screen of the microfilm reader.
‘Sleeping is strictly forbidden in the library, Detective Urban,’ Mrs Rackham said. ‘Often punishable by withdrawal of a library card and all the perks that come with it.’
‘Sorry. I must have dropped off.’
‘Dropping off is akin to sleeping in my book.’ She was standing next to him holding a steaming mug of coffee and a plate with a sandwich sitting on it. ‘So is eating and drinking, but seeing as it’s your first day, I’m willing to forgive such transgressions.’ She thrust the food and drink towards him. ‘I hope you like tuna fish salad?’
‘It’s one of my favourites.’ He hated tuna, but he was so hungry he didn’t care. Taking the drink first, he placed it on a side table and then set the plate on his lap. ‘You’re a life-saver, Mrs Rackham.’
‘I have many responsibilities as the Chief Librarian. How’s the research going?’
‘Slow to boring. It’s simply a question of ploughing through each paper until I find what I’m looking for . . . If, that is, what I’m looking for is actually there at all.’
‘What are you looking for?’
‘Something that happened in a municipal park in the past, which might explain why dead naked starlets are being left in the parks now.’
‘Still no idea who’s doing it?’
‘Between you and me – no.’
‘I’ll let you carry on then.’
‘Thanks for the coffee and sandwich.’
‘I was looking after my own interests. A dead body in the library wouldn’t look good on my record.’
‘No, I suppose not.’
After he’d devoured the sandwich and drank the coffee, he felt much better and continued ploughing through the papers. However, it was mind-numbingly boring work. His eyes kept glazing over and each time they began to close, he got up and shuffled up and down the book aisles.
He was reaching the end of his stamina when he noticed something interesting on page five of the Los Angeles Times dated June 7, 1936, which gave a roundup of the entertainment news from the night before. It was a brief article about Theda Bara, whose real name was Theodosia Goodman, and who had been a silent movie star between 1914 and 1926. She had made an appearance during a broadcast of a version of Dashiell Hammett’s The Thin Man starring William Powell and Myrna Loy on Lux Radio Theatre announcing her plans to stage a movie comeback. The article was accompanied by a promotional photograph of Theda Bara as Cleopatra in 1917. What was interesting about the photograph was the coiled metal snake brassiere she wore over her breasts, which made him think of the first victim – Hildegard Zinn – and the dead rattlesnake placed between her breasts. Was it connected? Or was it merely a coincidence?
Once he reached the end of the reel he rewound it, switched the microfilm reader off, picked up the mug and plate and walked back to the main desk with them.
Mrs Rackham was dealing with a customer, so he waited until she was free.
‘Thanks again for the coffee and sandwich,’ he said, placing the mug and plate on the counter.
‘Don’t get the idea that it’s part of our regular service.’
He smiled. ‘I won’t. I’ve switched the microreader off, but I’d like to come back again tomorrow morning and continue from where I left off, if that’s all right with you?’
‘Of course it is. That’s what we’re here for.’
‘What do you want me to do with the boxes of reels?’
‘If you’re coming back tomorrow, then leave everything where it is. I’ll go over there in a short while and make sure it’s as it should be.’
‘I’ll see you in the morning then.’
‘And get some rest.’
‘I plan to. Thanks for your help today.’
‘A Chief Librarian’s work is never done.’
Outside, he flagged down a cab. ‘George Washington Heights on Arlington Avenue in Old Town Torrance, please.’
‘Sure thing.’
He thought about the metal coiled snake brassiere barely covering Theda Bara’s breasts. The victims had been washed and made up, their hair coiffured, nails painted and items left between their breasts. Why had the killer gone to all that trouble? Was Hildegard Zinn meant to represent Theda Bara? Or Cleopatra? And who did the other victims represent? Why? What was the point of it all?
This was a new kind of killing to him. One that he had trouble wrapping his brain around. Murder came in different shapes and sizes, but it always had an underlying motive such as money, greed, hate, sex or jealousy. What was the motive for these murders – sex? He doubted it was about sex. Katie had said the killer had a rhyme and reason, but they just couldn’t see it yet. Maybe he needed to think about these murders differently. Maybe Katie was right, maybe there was a rhyme and reason that made perfect sense to the killer. Maybe he needed to understand the murders from the killer’s perspective.
‘That’ll be eight bucks, fella,’ the cabbie said as he pulled up outside George Washington Heights.
Erik gave the man a ten and said, ‘Keep it.’
‘Thanks. Enjoy your evening.’
‘And you.’
He made his way up to the fifth floor in the lift. As he stepped into the corridor he thought about knocking on Katie’s door, but he desperately need to lie down before he fell down, so he made his way to Ruby’s. Maybe later, after a sleep and some food, he’d go along and discuss his day, and Cleopatra’s coiled snake brassiere with her.
Chapter Seven
In 1921 the Pacific Dining Car was originally a rail car. More rooms and a larger bar area were added over the next twenty years. It had wood beamed ceilings, stained glass windows, chairs covered in deep green velvet, leather booths and luggage racks with vintage baggage to further carry the train theme. Prices weren’t cheap, but it was elegant dining and the atmosphere was worth the additional expense.
Howard Caplan hurried over when Katie entered the restaurant and greeted her. ‘Miss Brazil?’
‘Yes.’ She shook the extended hand.
‘I have a booth already. I dine here often.’
‘They must pay you well at the university?’
‘Not nearly enough. I have additional income from my books on criminalistics and the advisory work I do for the studios.’
‘A celebrity?’
He laughed. ‘Hardly.’
>
She followed him through the busy room. It really did look like the dining car on a train, but without the movement and clackety-clack of steel wheels on tracks.
‘I won’t point,’ Caplan whispered. ‘They don’t like people pointing at them, but you’ve just walked past Bud Abbott and Lou Costello; and over in the corner there . . .’ He rolled his eyes and cocked his head to the left. ‘. . . are Spencer Tracy and Katherine Hepburn. They’ve just appeared together in the film Sea of Grass. He’s married to someone else, but it’s an open secret in Hollywood that they’re together.’
‘Are they not people just like us?’
‘Oh no! They’re celebrities.’
‘I see.’
Doctor Howard Caplan was in his mid-thirties, at least six feet tall with a muscular physique, slicked-back hair and an angular face. He wore dark-rimmed glasses, a double-breasted dark-grey suit with a light-blue shirt, brogues and a striped red and blue tie held down with a gold tie pin clasping a large black onyx.
She thought him quite handsome, but she wasn’t here to become entangled in any kind of relationship. The only thing she was interested in was finding Annie’s killer. After that, then she’d decide what to do with the rest of her life.
‘You’re here for lunch, aren’t you?’
‘You invited me to meet you here, so I hope you’re offering me lunch, Doctor Caplan?’
‘Of course.’
A waiter appeared and passed them a menu each. ‘Would Sir like to order wine?’
Caplan looked at Katie. ‘Are you drinking wine?’
‘No, just water for me please.’
‘In which case I’ll have a large glass of the 1929 Le Corton Bouchard, Antoine.’
‘Certainly, Sir,’ the waiter said, turned on his heel and left.
They studied their menus.
‘Not a wine drinker?’ Caplan asked her.
‘No. I don’t drink alcohol, never have.’
‘A sensible woman.’
‘So I’ve been told.’
The waiter returned with the wine and water and then took out his notepad. ‘Madam?’