Staring into the Darkness (Urban & Brazil Book 1)

by Tim Ellis

She phoned Erik back and told him what Milton had said.

  ‘Thanks, Katie.’

  ‘See,’ Ruby said. ‘You don’t have to put your life in danger to help Erik with his investigation. All he needs is a good woman to get him organised. You mark my words. Now that he has you pointing him in the right direction, he’ll soon solve the murders.’

  ‘I hope so, Ruby.’

  She took two Aspirin and went for a bath. Acting as Erik’s secretary wasn’t her idea of helping with the investigation – she had a much better idea.

  ***

  He replaced the new-fangled telephone in its cradle, and then wrote all the new information on the board, which took him less than thirty minutes. After that, he made himself a coffee. He didn’t expect to see any of the other guys for the rest of the day.

  He found Don Carroll’s number and called him.

  ‘Carroll.’

  ‘It’s Sergeant Urban from Homicide.’

  ‘What can I do for you, Sergeant?’

  ‘You were acting as bodyguard to Katie Brazil yesterday . . .’

  ‘Ah! They were your men following me, were they? I wondered who they were.’

  ‘Has she asked for your services today?’

  ‘That’s confidential information, Sergeant Urban.’

  ‘Katie and I are friends. Besides that, I could make it known that you’re a suspect in the murders of those women. How much business do you think you’ll get then?’

  ‘No, she hasn’t asked for my services today.’

  ‘Thanks, Mister . . .’

  ‘If you’re a friend, do you know about last night?’

  ‘What about last night?’

  ‘That Sam Rich guy took her to a party at Gottfried Beck’s house in Santa Monica. Within an hour, she was staggering out of there barely able to stand. My guess was that they’d drugged her. I don’t know the details of exactly what happened, because after she’d vomited down the side of my pride and joy – a maroon 1946 Plymouth 15C Special convertible – she passed out. I took her home, helped her up to her apartment and left her.’

  Anger rose up in him. Katie was a fool to herself. All he needed was for her to get herself into trouble, or worse. He’d have stronger words with her tonight, threaten her with incarceration, or worse. He didn’t know what “worse”, but he’d think of something.

  ‘If she does call you again, I’d like you to call me.’

  ‘If you want me to be a police informer on all my clients, then maybe you should put me on the payroll.’

  He ignored Carroll’s sarcastic comment and said, ‘Thanks for your assistance. It’s much appreciated.’ He put the phone down and dialled Katie’s number again.

  Ruby answered. ‘She’s in the bath, Erik. Do you want me to ask her to come to the phone?’

  ‘No, it can wait until later.’

  ‘I’ll let her know you called again.’

  ‘Okay, but she needn’t call me back. It’s not important and I’m going out.’ He put the phone down again.

  Maybe he should go and have a word with Sam Rich. A year ago he might have done, but now all Rich had to do was blow on him and he’d fall over. He needed to stay focused on the investigation. Katie was all right for now, that was the important thing.

  He stared at the information on the board. Before, they’d had no idea where to start, or who they were looking for. Now, they’d narrowed down the suspect list to around three hundred, and they were in the process of narrowing it down even further based on Doctor Caplan’s description of the killer’s personality characteristics. If they found the original crime, then they’d know who his mother was, and possibly who he was. This was a new type of killing, which required a new type of policing. Maybe he’d write an article for the police magazine. Not to crow about anything, because taking two years to catch a killer was hardly a success worth crowing about, but to document the process they’d gone through, so that others could learn from it.

  What now? Had he missed anything? Was there more he could do? They knew what had happened, but not where it had happened. If only they could trace the victims’ final hours. Where were they? Where had they gone? They knew when, why and how, but the who and the where continually eluded them and were inextricably linked. He was sure that once they found out where the actual rape and murders had happened, they’d know who the killer was. Maybe that was what they needed to focus their resources on next – where. Once they had a manageable suspect list, then it was possible to do that.

  He had a plan. Now it was just a matter of waiting for the men to return with the lists. It was also possible that Greg and Dennis could find out something useful in their search for the identity of the ninth victim. He decided to go down to the crime laboratory in the basement to catch up with Ray Pinker, the police chemist. Ray had attended, harvested and analysed traces from all eight of the known crime scenes, but he’d found nothing useful before Erik had gone off sick – no dust, hair, fibres or fingerprints. Two of the murders had occurred during the time he’d been off ill, but surely if Ray had found anything Mike would have put it on the board.

  It was two floors down and he was glad there was an elevator. Going down wasn’t particularly the problem, but he’d have struggled getting back up without an elevator. After knocking on the laboratory door, he opened it and walked straight in.

  Ray was sitting on a stool hunched over a bench looking through a microscope. He turned when Erik entered. The police chemist had been with the department since 1929. He was a thin man, mostly bald with big ears and no chin to speak of. ‘Hello, Erik. I didn’t realise you knew where I worked.’

  ‘I’m a detective. I know a lot of useless things.’

  ‘What brings you down here?’

  ‘Questions.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Last I heard, six months ago, you’d found nothing of any value at any of the crime scenes.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Is that still the case?’

  ‘Yes and no.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Did you speak to Sergeant O’Meara before he left?’

  ‘No. About what?’

  He spun round on the stool, walked to a metal shelving unit, pulled out a cardboard box, took off the lid and passed Erik a small sealed clear plastic bag. ‘I didn’t find it, the Coroner found it on victim number eight – Lola Coburn, and sent it to me.’

  Erik stared at the single strand of long dark hair in the bag. ‘And?’

  ‘Well, I told Mike about it, but he dismissed it.’

  ‘Dismissed it?’

  ‘Yes. He said it could have come from anywhere and had probably fallen onto the victim from a passer-by, one of us, another police officer, that bitch Eliza Linton – his words, not mine – or any number of other people who had access to the crime scene and the body before, during and after we came and went.’

  ‘Why would he say that?’

  ‘The hair’s not real. Well, that’s not strictly true. I carried out a microscopic analysis and there are only dead cells on the strand of hair.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It’s from a real person, but it came from a wig.’

  ‘A wig?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Mike dismissed it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  Ray shrugged. ‘Mike could very well be right, but it’s just as likely that he could be wrong as well. One of the main features of these murders is the process the killer goes through after he’s raped and strangled each woman – the washing, the coiffured hair, the application of make-up and the manicure. It’s entirely possible that the wig hair came from the murder scene.’

  ‘It is, isn’t it? How does it help us though?’

  ‘I have no idea. Other than telling you it’s from a wig, I can’t tell you anything more. I did plan to speak to a professional wigmaker, but after Mike dismissed it I forgot all about that idea.’

  ‘Yes, I thi
nk you should contact a professional wigmaker. They might be able to give us a clue about where the hair could have come from.’

  ‘I wouldn’t get your hopes up. Don’t forget, this is Hollywood. Wigs are commonplace. They use them all the time in films.’

  ‘That’s true. In any other place, a wig would be a rarity I suppose.’

  ‘Yes, possibly. There’s also another reason Mike dismissed it.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘The length of the hair. And to my mind he has a point. Men sometimes do wear long-haired wigs, but it’s more likely to have come from a woman’s shoulder-length wig.’

  ‘And we know the killer isn’t a woman.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Can you follow-up on that wigmaker idea anyway, and see if they can throw any light on the hair?’

  ‘Yes, of course. It won’t be until Monday now though. Unlike the crazy people who work here, most normal people take weekends off.’

  ‘Monday will have to do then.’

  He made his way back up to the office and fell asleep in his chair again.

  ***

  Her headache had eased and she’d brightened up. She’d never been one to stay miserable for long. Her mother had called her “Happy Face”, because she always wore a smile. The last six months hadn’t been so happy though. First her sister had been murdered, and then her father had died of a broken heart. Before, she’d had a family, a job and a home. Now, she had friends and an apartment. She reassured herself that it was a temporary condition only. As soon as she’d found her sister’s killer, she’d reassess her situation. Life was full of new opportunities and possibilities. For a brief time she’d embraced the idea of becoming a famous movie star, but Owen Stark, Neville Lyons and Sam Rich had completely ruined that idea. She’d been swept up in the moment that was all, but she’d never really wanted to be an actress – it wasn’t who she was. Annie could have been an actress, but it wasn’t to be.

  Ruby had finished the cleaning and left. Before she went, she’d said Erik had called while she was in the bath, but not to call him back. What was that about? She wondered whether she should call him back, but decided not to.

  After getting dressed and eating a slice of toast and drinking a cup of tea, she left the apartment, went down in the lift and hailed a cab outside the building.

  ‘Where to, Miss?’

  ‘The Page Photographic Studio on Fountain Avenue.’

  ‘Sit back and enjoy the ride. It’ll take about forty-five minutes.’

  ‘Thanks, I will.’ She needed some more sleep anyway, so she closed her eyes and slept the whole way.

  ‘We’re here, lady.’

  ‘Oh! All right. How much do I owe you?’

  ‘Call it fifteen bucks. I should also charge you for the damage to my hearing, because you snore like a freight train.’

  She laughed. ‘I do not.’

  The corner of his mouth creased upwards. ‘As God is my witness, Miss.’

  She gave him a twenty and said, ‘Keep the change and get a hearing aid.’

  ‘You’re an angel in disguise.’

  Frank Page was busy taking photographs when she went inside his studio, so she had to wait twenty minutes for him to finish. Lilly Carter didn’t seem to be anywhere in sight.

  ‘I heard what happened at the party last night,’ Frank said to her when he’d finished and the client had left.

  ‘It was terrible.’

  ‘What did you think was going to happen?’

  ‘I thought I’d be treated as a human being, not a piece of meat.’

  ‘As I said yesterday: You’re naïve, Katie. Men have the power here. And where they’re concerned power corrupts; absolute power corrupts absolutely. Hollywood is a corrupt system fraught with many dangers for women. If I’m being honest with you, you’re better off today than you were yesterday. Today, you have no chance of becoming an actress, which is the best thing that could have happened to you. If you’d submitted to what Owen Stark and Neville Lyons wanted to do to you last night, it would have been your undoing, not your big break.’

  ‘You could have told me that yesterday.’

  ‘Would you have listened to me?’

  ‘I might have.’

  ‘And hogs might fly as well.’

  ‘Anyway, I really came to talk to Lilly.’

  ‘Not here.’

  ‘Doesn’t she work on Saturdays?’

  ‘Not here, and not in her own studio either. She has a studio at 1493 Wiltshire Boulevard, she only works for me when I need her, but specifically on Fridays. The rest of the time she works out of her own styling studio for budding actresses.’

  ‘And she’s not there today?’

  ‘No. She makes it a rule never to work at weekends.’

  ‘Do you have her home address?’

  ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘Well, that’s disappointing. I came all this way to speak to her and she’s not here.’

  ‘Can I help?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I need to speak to a woman.’

  ‘It’s one of those conversations, is it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, well. It was nice seeing you again. Close the door on your way out.’

  Frank Page was right. If Lilly wasn’t there, then there was no point in staying. ‘Thank you for your help, Frank.’

  ‘You’re welcome. And stay well away from the movie business.’

  ‘I plan to.’

  She walked outside and hailed a taxi.

  ‘Where to, lady?’

  ‘Home.’

  ‘Which is where?’

  ‘George Washington Heights, Old Town Torrance.’

  ‘Make yourself comfortable.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  He jerked awake and Carl Seger’s face came into view.

  Carl was in his mid-forties, slightly overweight with a thick moustache and a bald head. Over the years that Erik had known him, Carl’s hairline had gradually worked its way backwards like some form of creeping rot. Now the hairline was just behind his ears. He wore dark slacks, a striped shirt unbuttoned at the neck, a dark tie and a light grey jacket.

  ‘You been there long watching me?’ Erik said, dabbing at the beads of sweat on his forehead with a handkerchief from his trouser pocket.

  ‘Long enough. You ought to see someone.’

  ‘I take it that you found something at the library, otherwise you wouldn’t be here giving me medical advice?’

  He smiled. ‘That Chief Librarian broad was asking after you. You got a thing going with her? You could do a lot worse. I mean, let’s face it, you’re not exactly the catch of the day, are you?’

  ‘If you were as interested in solving the murders as you are in what I’m doing and not doing, the Mayor would be giving you the keys to the city by now. Well, what did you find?’

  ‘The body of twenty-two year old silent movie star – Jeanne Taylor – was discovered in Harbour Regional Park on the morning of Sunday, February 10, 1916 . . .’

  ‘Thirty years to the day of Hildegard Zinn’s murder.’

  Carl glanced at the board. ‘Hey! You’re right. I hadn’t spotted that coincidence.’

  ‘Hardly a coincidence. What else?’

  ‘She’d been raped, strangled and stripped naked. The police never found the perpetrator. She also had a six year-old son called Anthony who was with her in the park. According to the report, he was hiding in the bushes, saw everything that happened and was able to give the police a good description of her assailant, but it didn’t help them catch anyone.’

  ‘Were there any pictures of the boy or the sketch artist’s impression of the killer?’

  ‘No. Don’t forget the information came from a movie magazine, not a newspaper.’

  ‘And you didn’t think to get a copy of the newspaper report?’

  ‘You never asked me to do that.’

  ‘No, I didn’t, did I? Call Sergeant Gallo in the Records Division and get the original police repo
rt.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘What happened to the boy?’

  ‘The report stated that he was taken into care.’

  ‘What about the boy’s father?’

  ‘The unconfirmed rumour reported in the magazine was that he was the son of film director Trent Duncan, but he died two years ago.’

  ‘Which is when the murders started?’

  ‘Yeah, that’s right.’

  ‘Good work, Carl. I think you just found our killer.’

  He looked around the office. ‘Just my luck. When you feel like doing a standing ovation, there’s no one here to clap and cheer you on.’

  ‘Get onto Family Services. I want Anthony Taylor found . . . I’m assuming that he was called Taylor, because Jeanne wasn’t married to Duncan.’

  ‘Sounds about right. Are you sure you want me to do that as well as getting the police file on the murder?’

  ‘You can do two things at the same time, can’t you?’

  ‘Well yeah, but . . .’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘He’d be about thirty-eight or thirty-nine now.’

  ‘I expect so. While you’re doing those two things, I’ll go and look into this rumour that Trent Duncan was his father.’

  ‘Okay. No word from any of the others yet?’

  ‘No.’

  Carl brushed his palm over his scalp. ‘It’s Saturday, isn’t it?’

  ‘All day.’

  ‘I only say that, because Family Services probably won’t be open on a Saturday.’

  ‘They’ll have an emergency number.’

  ‘Yeah! And this is definitely an emergency, isn’t it? I’ll find the number.’

  Erik called Katie’s number – his old number, but there was no response. What trouble was she getting herself into now? He tried Eliza Linton – she picked up after two rings.

  ‘Linton.’

  ‘It’s Detective . . . Sergeant Urban.’

  ‘You sound confused. Are you a Detective, a Sergeant or a Detective Sergeant now?’

  ‘Sorry. I’ve just been promoted to Sergeant, which is backdated to the first of the month.’

  ‘Congratulations. And thanks for letting me know. I’ll update my article on this morning’s murder accordingly.’