Staring into the Darkness (Urban & Brazil Book 1)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Can I see?’ Katie asked, extending her hand.

  ‘Read, you mean.’ Eliza took out a roll of newspaper cuttings from her bag and passed them to Katie. ‘The crime reporter at the time was called Jimmy Watt. I’ve obviously heard about him, but he’s been dead twenty years now. In 1916, the Herald was still a fledgling newspaper and the reporting wasn’t of the standard that it is today. There’s an article about what happened in the park on February 10, 1916, but no pictures.’

  ‘No pictures?’

  ‘None. No picture of the body, the boy, or the sketch artist’s drawing of the killer. Erik asked me for the original report, but when I saw that it didn’t include any pictures I looked at subsequent articles in the Herald and other newspapers – still nothing. In fact, the articles became smaller and smaller until there were none at all. The police originally arrested the silent movie director Trent Duncan for the murder, but released him without charge shortly afterwards. Then the investigation eventually petered out until there were no further reports and people forgot all about the murder in the park.’

  ‘Why did they arrest Trent Duncan?’

  ‘It was rumoured that he was the father of Jeanne Taylor’s son, but he always denied it. He directed her in a couple of early silent films in Fort Lee, before he moved to LA. What’s interesting is that he died in February two years ago and his obituary included the details of Jeanne Taylor’s murder and his arrest.’

  Katie glanced at the pin-boards. ‘That was when the murders began.’

  ‘Which is why I said his death was interesting.’

  ‘Erik thinks the killer is Anthony Taylor, doesn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Howard’s psychological description of Taylor was right then?’

  ‘So it would seem.’

  ‘It says here,’ Katie said, referring to one of the articles. ‘That Jeanne Taylor had no relatives and her son – Anthony, was taken into care by Family Services.’

  ‘Yes, I saw that. I thought about trying to find out where they’d taken him, but I’m hoping Erik has found that out, which will save me having to do it.’

  Katie pinned the articles to the board and sat back down on the sofa with Eliza. ‘We’ll just have to wait for Erik to come and tell us what’s happening now then.’

  ***

  The drive back from Long Beach was nice and easy with the roof down. He’d forgotten how good it felt with the sun caressing his skin. He glanced at himself in the rear view mirror and saw a shadow of a man with sunken eyes and cheekbones like sharp crags on Mount Lukens, but the sun had given him some colour. He wasn’t going to win any awards for his tan, but he didn’t look so much like a corpse that had just climbed off the autopsy table and started walking again.

  His stomach was making noises, so he decided to stop off at Ruby’s Diner, just off the I-710 in Downey. It wasn’t the picnic Marilyn had promised him on Santa Monica beach, but it would have to do. He kept it simple and ordered a burger with fries, slaw and a shake.

  Was Anthony Taylor the killer they were looking for? So far, Howard Caplan had been right with his psychological description of the boy, but Katie had previously seen the importance of an earlier crime in a municipal park. If she could curb her gung-ho mentality Katie would make a fine detective. He’d seen gung-ho guys in the Marines, and they hadn’t lasted very long.

  After eating lunch and paying, he carried on with his journey and arrived back at the police department at four thirty-five.

  Carl Seger was sitting with his legs crossed on his desk reading the sports section of the Herald-Express.

  ‘You got nothing else better to do, Carl?’

  ‘Nope. I don’t suppose you were keeping up with the Looloos while you were sitting in your apartment guzzling beer?’

  ‘Baseball passed me by.’

  ‘I can’t believe they’ve gone out in round one of the playoffs when they were league champions last year.’

  ‘You want to put the paper down and tell me what you’ve found out, Carl?’

  ‘Sure, Erik. All you had to do was ask.’

  ‘I am asking.’

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you. I found the emergency number for Family Services and they sure as hell don’t make it easy. If it really had been an emergency I’d have given up. Anyway, I eventually found it and called the number. Got a prickly old bitch who I had to threaten with arrest and torture before she’d even agree to take a look for someone called Anthony Taylor.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Yeah, they had him. Sent him to Saint Vincent de Paul’s Convent and Orphans Asylum in Boyle Heights to be looked after by the nuns.’

  ‘Is that it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you call the orphanage?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  ‘Nothing. Wouldn’t tell me any details over the phone, said it was against their policy. If I wanted to know more, I’d have to go there and confess to the Mother Superior.’

  ‘And yet here you are, sitting around the office reading the sports section.’

  ‘Tomorrow. Eleven o’clock after morning prayers.’

  ‘That’s something at least.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘What about the original police file on Jeanne Taylor’s murder?’

  ‘Sergeant Gallo called me back about fifteen minutes ago and said it’s not there.’

  ‘Not there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Where is it then?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  ‘And you didn’t ask?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good work, Carl.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Erik sat down at his desk and called Sergeant Gallo in the Records Division.

  ‘Sergeant Gallo.’

  ‘It’s Sergeant Urban from Homicide.’

  ‘Hey! How strange is that? I was just talking to one of your guys.’

  ‘I know. You told him that the original file on the Jeanne Taylor murder wasn’t there?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Where is it then?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you meant to be keeping a record of where all your files are?’

  ‘It’s no good getting shirty with me, Urban. February 1916 was a long time ago – thirty-two years to be exact . . . Well, nearly. I’ve been here fifteen.’

  ‘Any idea how long it’s been missing?’

  ‘No. As far as I’m aware, it’s the first time anybody has ever asked for the file.’

  ‘Do you keep a record of who signs the files in and out once the case is closed or shelved?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Is that record still there?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘Whose names are on it?’

  ‘You want me to tell you the names on the record?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘I’ll have to go down to the basement again.’

  ‘I’d appreciate it.’

  ‘Sheesh! I’ll call you back in twenty minutes.’

  ‘Thanks.’ He put the phone down. ‘Didn’t you say you were making coffee?’ he said to Carl.

  ‘Not that I recall. Hey, there’s a short piece here that says . . .’

  ‘A coffee would be good, Carl.’

  ‘Oh! Sure thing, Erik.’ He folded up the newspaper and stood up. ‘I keep forgetting you’re one of the walking wounded.’

  Now that he was a Sergeant, he seemed to be looking at people in a different way. Was it him? Had his illness changed him? Or had everyone else changed while he’d been away sick? Mike O’Meara hadn’t been the brightest Sergeant in the division, but it wasn’t just Mike’s fault. He hadn’t received the support of the men working for him. And going back even further, before he’d got sick, neither had he.

  Changes needed to be made. He’d speak to the Lieutenant as soon as this case was concluded. Some of these men had been homicide detectives fo
r far too long. They’d gotten far too comfortable and forgotten why they were here.

  Carl came back in carrying two mugs of steaming coffee. ‘Just what the doctor ordered.’

  ‘Thanks, Carl.’

  ‘No problem.’ He sat back down in his chair, picked up the newspaper again and began reading.

  The telephone jangled.

  ‘Urban.’

  ‘It’s Sergeant Gallo. You got paper and pencil?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘There are five names on that record.’

  ‘Shoot?’

  ‘Three detectives: Martin Miller, Henry Glynn and Wayland Jones. I checked and they’re all deceased. Miller and Jones were killed in the line of duty, and Glynn committed suicide in 1933. Of the other two names: Sergeant Roswell Higgins took early retirement and lives with his daughter in Bakersfield. You want the address?’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘3411 Palm Street, Bakersfield, 93309.’

  He wrote it in his notebook. ‘Got it.’

  ‘Lastly, Sergeant John Fenton . . .’

  ‘Any relation to the Deputy Chief?’

  ‘You could say he was related to himself, I suppose.’

  ‘It’s the same John Fenton?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Whose name is the last on the record?’

  ‘Have a guess.’

  ‘Sergeant John Fenton?’

  ‘You got it, but according to the record he signed the file back in.’

  ‘Thanks, Sergeant Gallo.’

  ‘I’m here to serve.’

  He put the phone down. The Deputy Chief of Police didn’t work at weekends, but even if Fenton had been in his office, would he have gone up there and questioned him on Jeanne Taylor’s murder? All Fenton had to say was that the record clearly showed he’d signed the file back in and who did newly-promoted Sergeant Urban think he was to doubt the word of the Deputy Chief of Police? Urban would be unlikely to remain a Sergeant for longer than it took for him to hand in his badge and gun.

  The missing file wasn’t prima facie evidence of a conspiracy to pervert the course of justice, but it certainly raised a number of questions. Why was the file missing? Had it been removed because it contained incriminating evidence? Did the sketch artist’s drawing look like Trent Duncan? Or someone else just as famous? Had Sergeant John Fenton found Jeanne Taylor’s killer, but covered it up? Had he been paid to make the file disappear and keep his mouth shut? It all happened thirty-two years ago. If Fenton was corrupt, how could he prove it? And was it worth trying to prove it?

  Dennis Whipple and Greg Lombardi clomped into the office and sat down in their respective seats.

  ‘Her name was Eva Steiner,’ Greg said. ‘She’s been in LA a week. Came here on a Greyhound bus from Salt Lake City in Utah.’

  Dennis added, ‘We found the apartment she was sharing with two other women and we have her personal effects in the car, but there’s nothing there that will help us.’

  ‘We spoke to the other two women,’ Greg continued. ‘But they knew nothing. She left the apartment late on Friday afternoon, but she didn’t tell them where she was going and that was the last time they saw her.’

  ‘Good work.’

  ‘Doesn’t get us anywhere though, does it?’ Dennis said. ‘Same as the others.’

  ‘Hey!’ Carl said. ‘Don’t you worry yourselves none. Sergeant Urban and myself have made some headway while you two deadbeats were out chasing your tails.’

  They both stared at Erik.

  ‘Sergeant?’ Greg queried.

  ‘The Lieutenant promoted him,’ Carl said.

  ‘Congratulations, Erik,’ Dennis and Greg said in unison and shook his hand one after the other.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said.

  ‘What’s this about making some headway?’ Dennis asked.

  Erik told them about solving the riddle of the clues and that the peacock feather representing silent movie star Gloria Swanson . . .’

  ‘But why? Greg said. ‘What’s it all for?’

  He told them about the personality characteristics that the criminalist lecturer at the University – Doctor Howard Caplan – had provided of the killer based on his behaviour at the crime scenes; about how he’d obtained a list of over three hundred male stylists’ names in Los Angeles and split it between George and Bill, and John and Jack . . .

  ‘I was wondering where they were,’ Dennis said. ‘I’ll bet they’re in a bar somewhere knocking back Jack Daniels like there’s a world shortage.’

  ‘It’ll be their last day on the job if they are,’ Erik said.

  The other three eyed him.

  ‘You don’t mean that,’ Carl said.

  ‘Is the Pope a Catholic?’ He told them how the four detectives were narrowing down that list based on the description of the killer’s characteristics.

  Greg’s eyes opened wide. ‘So three hundred should become more manageable once they’ve finished crossing off names and then we can focus on the smaller number they’re left with?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I’m feeling optimistic for the first time in ages,’ Greg said with a smile.

  He told them how Carl had found the original murder of Jeanne Taylor and that she’d had her six year-old son – Anthony Taylor – with her at the crime scene who saw his mother being raped and murdered . . .

  Greg and Dennis stared at Carl.

  Carl stood up and took a bow. ‘I’m expecting the Mayor to come along and present me with the freedom of the city any time now.’

  ‘In your dreams, Carl,’ Greg said. ‘If it hadn’t been for Erik telling you where and when to look for the report of the crime, you’d still be bumping into things.’

  Erik continued. He told them how six year-old Anthony Taylor had given the police a description of the killer and how a sketch artist had drawn a likeness based on that description . . .

  Greg and Dennis looked at the board and then at Erik.

  ‘Have we obtained the original police report?’ Dennis asked.

  Erik pulled a face. ‘This is where it gets messy and complicated. The file is missing from the Records Division.’

  ‘Missing!’ Greg said. ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means it’s not there. In the space where it should have been is an empty hole. I spoke to Sergeant Gallo and he has no idea where it is, because no one has signed it out in thirty-two years. There are five names who signed the file out and back in again during the investigation in 1916 on the record card. Three of those detectives are dead, one is retired and living with his daughter in Bakersfield, and the fifth person is now Deputy Chief of Police John Fenton.’

  Dennis screwed up his face. ‘I guess you’ve not been to Fenton’s office and demanded the file back?’

  ‘You guess right. It’s Saturday, so he’s not there. His name is the last name on the list, but according to the record he signed the file back in.’

  ‘Which means there’s no evidence of wrongdoing,’ Carl clarified.

  Erik shook his head. ‘There’s no evidence of anything. The file could have been removed by anyone, or gone missing in any number of other ways. Accusing Fenton of corruption thirty-two years ago would be the quickest way to a change of career for all of us, so nobody says anything. Not only that, if he did get his hands dirty back then, we don’t want to tip him off we’re onto him.’

  They all nodded.

  ‘Surely there must be copies of the sketch artist’s drawing?’ Greg offered in disbelief.

  ‘Not that I’ve been able to find,’ Erik said. ‘Carl also discovered that the silent movie director – Trent Duncan – who died two years ago around the same time the murders began, was rumoured to be Anthony Taylor’s father. He was initially arrested for Jeanne Taylor’s murder, but then released. I drove to Long Beach this afternoon to speak to his wife – Isabella – who met him about six months after the murder and she doesn’t think he killed Jeanne Taylor. According to her, he said he never even slept with the w
oman. Anyway, I obtained a photograph of Trent Duncan, which was taken around the time of Jeanne Taylor’s murder. Being of suspicious mind, I had the idea that the file had gone missing to protect someone famous and with enough money to pay for said file to go missing.’

  ‘And that someone could be Trent Duncan?’ Dennis suggested.

  ‘Exactly. What we need is a copy of that drawing. Greg, I’d like you to find out tomorrow who that sketch artist was, see if he’s still alive and track down a copy of the drawing.’

  ‘Tomorrow! It’s Sunday tomorrow.’

  ‘Were you told when you joined the police department that this was a Monday to Friday job?

  ‘Well no, but . . .’

  ‘Good. Don’t worry, you won’t be the only one working.’ He stared at Dennis. ‘I’d like you to find a photograph of Anthony Taylor from the time of his mother’s murder, take it to a sketch artist and see if they can age-progress the photograph thirty-two years to give us some idea of what he might look like now.’

  ‘Do police sketch artists work on a Sunday?’

  ‘Use you wit and charm.’

  Carl laughed. ‘Don’t say that, Erik. He’ll never persuade a sketch artist to do anything for him.’

  They all laughed.

  Dennis said, ‘That’s true. Don’t worry, I have other tricks up my sleeve.’

  ‘You needn’t laugh anyway, Carl. I want you to contact the local police in Salt Lake City, have them go round to her parents’ house and inform them of their daughter’s death. Give them my number to contact on Monday.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ll do that.’

  ‘Also . . .’

  ‘Two things again?’

  ‘You’ve proved you can be trusted to do two things at once, so you’re the man, Carl. You have a date with the Mother Superior at the orphanage, don’t you?’

  ‘So I do.’

  ‘What’s this?’ Greg said.

  ‘After the murder of his mother, Anthony was sent to Saint Vincent de Paul’s Convent and Orphans Asylum in Boyle Heights by Family Services.’

  Greg pursed his lips. ‘Yeah, I suppose he would have been without any parents to look after him.’

  Erik said, ‘I want to know what happened to Anthony Taylor, Greg.’

  ‘Okay.’