Staring into the Darkness (Urban & Brazil Book 1)

by Tim Ellis

  Once he’d eaten breakfast, he drove to the police department.

  ‘Don’t sit down, Urban,’ the Lieutenant called as the tip-tap of his walking stick betrayed his arrival. ‘My office – now.’

  He continued on to the Lieutenant’s office.

  ‘Sit,’ the Lieutenant said, leaning forwards and steepling his massive hands.

  Erik sat and waited.

  ‘I’m hearing some ugly rumours, Urban.’

  ‘Oh! About what, Sir?’

  ‘The Deputy Chief of Police.’

  So, one of his men was the Lieutenant’s spy. ‘What rumours would they be, Lieutenant?’

  ‘That he took a bribe in 1916 to hide the identity of Jeanne Taylor’s murderer.’

  ‘I don’t know where . . .’

  ‘Can you prove it?’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘What did Roswell Higgins say when you visited him yesterday?’

  ‘You seem to know a lot about my movements, Sir.’

  ‘Well?’

  ‘That they all took a hundred thousand dollars to stop looking for the killer, but only John Fenton knew who the killer actually was.’

  ‘Not a shred of proof other than Higgins’ word?’

  ‘No. The file and the sketch artist’s drawing of the killer have both disappeared.’

  ‘If you can’t prove any of it, I don’t want to see anything on the board about Fenton.’

  ‘No, Sir.’

  ‘And there’s to be no discussion about him, or his men, taking bribes.’

  ‘Understood, Sir.’

  ‘Focus on the current murders, Urban. Let’s leave the past in the past until you have evidence of Fenton’s corruption.’

  ‘If I may say so Lieutenant, you don’t seem surprised about the Deputy Chief’s involvement in a cover-up.’

  ‘No, but what I am surprised about is that you don’t seem to know what everyone else knows – Fenton is a dirty cop. Has been for a long time.’

  ‘As you know, I’ve not been well, Sir.’

  ‘It also doesn’t surprise me that you can’t find any evidence. The one thing Fenton knows how to do – besides taking bribes – is how to dispose of evidence, and that includes detectives who ask too many questions.’

  ‘Maybe I should go and talk to the Deputy Chief and make it appear as if I know nothing?’

  ‘You think that’ll fool him?’

  Erik shrugged.

  ‘Fenton will have had his eye on the progress of this case since the first murder. He knows what you know, and he’s not going to sit idly by and wait for you to destroy him. Forget about Fenton – he’s untouchable.’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘You can go, Sergeant.’

  He made his way back out to the office and sat at his desk.

  All the others were there waiting to begin. Which one of them was the Lieutenant’s spy? Did Fenton have a spy in his team as well? If he did, who could it be? And how much were they being paid to pass on the details of the investigation? The Lieutenant was right, without evidence Fenton was untouchable.

  He stared at his desk and then said, ‘There’s something missing off my desk.’

  The guys looked at each other.

  ‘Nobody’s taken anything off your desk, Erik,’ Bill said. ‘I was here first, and I haven’t moved since I arrived.’

  ‘And nobody’s put anything on my desk either, such as a mug of coffee.’

  The guys laughed.

  He’d missed that laughter, the jokes, the camaraderie and the esprit de corps. He was also sad that Jan wasn’t there with them to be a part of it anymore. Homicide Division had reminded him of his time in the Marines, and apart from the war and the killing, his time as a soldier had been the best time of his life. Now, he glanced at each one of them in turn and tasted the bitterness of betrayal. One or more of them was a spy. Whatever had happened to loyalty, honesty and integrity?

  Greg pushed himself up. ‘I’ll make it.’

  ‘Thanks,’ he said, when Greg returned with a steaming mug of coffee for him. ‘Right, let’s catch up. Carl called in sick yesterday . . .’

  They all stared at Carl. Nobody accused him outright, but they all knew he hadn’t been sick.

  ‘Anyway, in the morning, in the absence of Carl, I went to the orphanage in Boyle Heights where Anthony Taylor was sent after his mother’s murder and spoke to the Mother Superior. He was admitted as an inmate, but was only there five days until he ran away.’

  ‘Was it that bad there?’ Bill said.

  Erik nodded. ‘For him it was. The other boys found out that he was a hermaphrodite . . .’

  It was clear that, like him, none of them knew what the term meant.

  He told them what Katie had told him.

  ‘Sounds like an attraction from Barnum’s Freak Show,’ Jack said.

  ‘The condition was new to me as well. I had to call in at the library and look it up. So, the boy ran away and that was the last they saw or heard of him. According to the description of the boy at the time, he had a fair complexion, with blue eyes and fair hair. Doesn’t really help us now. After that, I travelled to Bakersfield to interview retired detective Roswell Higgins about the Jeanne Taylor murder. He was less than helpful. Couldn’t tell me anything about the file, the boy or the drawing by the sketch artist. A waste of a Sunday afternoon in my view. What about the rest of you? Greg, how did you get on?’

  ‘You asked me to find the sketch artist who drew the killer based on the boy’s description, and get a copy of the drawing.’ He pursed his lips and shook his head. ‘No such luck, I’m afraid. The sketch artist’s name was Silas Pitcher. He often worked from home and apparently burned to death in a fire during the night of March 13, 1917. His wife, three year-old daughter and all his sketches went up in flames with him. Fire investigators couldn’t find the cause of the fire and concluded it was probably an electrical fault. So, like you Erik, I got nothing.’

  He couldn’t prove it, but he had the feeling that Fenton had covered his tracks well. He’d be surprised if any of those drawings existed. If one did, it would lead directly to Jeanne Taylor’s killer and Fenton and his team had been paid a lot of money to prevent that from happening. ‘Dennis, what about you?’

  ‘Took me a good three hours trawling through the newspaper archives at the central library, but I eventually found a photograph of Anthony Taylor in the Imperial Press. It’s a Saturday newspaper serving the community of Imperial in San Diego County, but it had an article about the murder in there, which incorporated a picture of the boy. Wasn’t much of a picture, but I did find a sketch artist called Nicola Burgess who said she could work with it as long as I didn’t expect too much. I said we’d be grateful for anything she could produce. Did you know that there’s very few people who can age-progress a photograph? Anyway, she said that she’d do what she could, but she wouldn’t guarantee its accuracy due to the fact that I couldn’t tell her anything about the boy. Age-progression is a lot of guesswork based on what type of life the person has led. She created the drawing in stages of ten years, so the actual likeness of the thirty-eight year-old Anthony Taylor is three times removed from the original photograph, which wasn’t particularly good in the first place, but that’s what we have.’ He stood up and pinned the age-progressed drawing of Anthony Taylor onto the board.

  They all stared at the drawing. It depicted a good-looking clean-shaven thin-faced man with receding hair.

  Everyone looked at Erik.

  ‘Good work, Dennis.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘What are we going to do with it?’ Carl queried.

  ‘Ask the ladies in the typing pool to mimeograph copies and then hand them to every patrol officer, pass copies to the newspapers . . .’

  ‘But what if it’s nothing like the killer? John asked.

  Erik pulled a face. ‘We won’t know that until we find him, will we?’

  John’s brow furrowed. ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘It
’s the best lead we’ve had in two years,’ Erik said. ‘In fact, it’s the only lead we’ve had during that time.’

  ‘And it’ll show the public we’re still working the case instead of sitting around on our butts drinking coffee,’ Carl suggested.

  They all nodded.

  ‘What about the lists of stylists,’ Erik asked.

  Bill said, ‘Me and George are three-quarters of the way through our list. We could have finished it yesterday, but it was Sunday and quite a few of the independents were closed.’

  ‘Ditto,’ Jack said.

  Erik said, ‘Presumably, of the three-quarters you’ve completed, you have some likely suspects?’

  The four detectives nodded.

  ‘All right. Well, Greg can finish off the quarter you’ve got left of your list Bill, while you and George pay closer attention to the ones you consider possible suspects. Dennis can finish off the quarter John and Jack have got left, while you two look closer at the likely suspects you’ve identified. Does that make sense?’

  They nodded.

  ‘One other thing . . .’ He told them about speaking to Ray Pinker – the chemist, and the long strand of dark hair found on Lola Coburn, which Mike had dismissed as irrelevant.

  ‘He never told us about that,’ John said.

  ‘So Carl said. Anyway, Ray is seeing a professional wigmaker today, so we’ll find out if it is relevant, or not as Mike decided.’

  ‘What about me?’ Carl said. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘You feeling okay today?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah. It was just one of those twenty-four-hour bugs people get. I’m feeling just fine today.’

  He thought for a handful of seconds and then said, ‘Divide the two lists of likely suspects into three lists. It’ll be a lot quicker with three people checking them out, than two.’

  Carl nodded. ‘Yeah, we can do that.’

  ‘Also, take copies of the age-progressed drawing with you. Show it to people. You never know, we might strike lucky.’

  ‘What about you?’ Bill asked.

  He stared at Bill. ‘What about me?’

  ‘What will you be doing?’

  ‘Is that question running through everyone’s mind?’

  None of them looked directly at him.

  ‘Let’s be clear. The Lieutenant ordered me back to work to move this case forward. As far as I’m concerned, I’m still sick . . .’ He glanced at Carl. ‘And what I’ve got is not just a twenty-four-hour thing either. It takes me an hour just to get out of bed in the mornings. Regardless of any of that, have I moved this case forward since I returned?’

  They nodded and mumbled in the affirmative.

  ‘So, I’m doing my part. I’m directing you guys to do your part instead of sitting around on your butts drinking coffee like you have been doing. So, if any of you guys ask me what I’m doing again, it’ll be the last thing you ask me before you join Mike O’Meara in Pomona Valley. All you need to worry about now is that you’re doing enough to keep your place on the team, because I’m not convinced any of you are. As far as I’m concerned, it’s a privilege to be working homicide. If any of you don’t feel the same, then I suggest you request a transfer. Anybody else got any more stupid questions?’

  Nobody had.

  ‘Good. Get your butts moving then. And I want everyone back here by four o’clock.’

  He watched as they moved faster than he’d seen them moving for a long time.

  His phone jangled.

  ‘Sergeant Urban.’

  ‘You got a Mister Steiner from Salt Lake City asking to speak to you,’ Betty on the switchboard said in his ear.

  ‘Thanks, Betty. Yeah, I’ll take the call.’

  ‘You feeling better now, detective?’

  ‘Much better. Thanks for asking, Betty.’

  ‘Here’s your call.’

  ‘Hello?’ a man’s voice said over the crackling line.

  ‘Mister Steiner?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’m Sergeant Urban from the Homicide Division. Did the local police tell you about your daughter?’

  ‘Yes . . . They said Eva had been murdered, but they never gave me and Mrs Steiner any other details.’

  He told Mister Steiner as much as he could over the telephone and invited him and his wife to Los Angeles.

  ‘No, we won’t be doing that, Sergeant. Got another three children and money is a bit tight at the moment. Is it your responsibility to bring Eva home, or do we have to do it?’

  ‘I’m afraid you have to do it, Mister Steiner.’ He gave the man the County Coroner’s number. ‘As far as we’re concerned, you can make those arrangements at your convenience.’

  ‘Do you know who killed our daughter, Sergeant?’

  ‘Not yet, but we’re getting close. That’s really all I can say for now.’

  ‘Thank you for taking the time to talk to me, Sergeant Urban.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Mister Steiner. I’m sorry for your loss.’

  He put the phone down.

  Not a pleasant task, but it needed to be done. Now, he had the whole day in front of him. What was he going to do?

  He pushed himself up and made his way to the toilet.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  After a long soak in the bathtub, she got herself ready and left the apartment. She didn’t want to arrive at Lilly Carter’s studio too early.

  Outside, she hailed a cab

  ‘Where to, lady?’

  ‘Number 1493 Wiltshire Boulevard, please.’

  ‘About forty minutes. You could catch up with your beauty sleep, if you want.’

  ‘Am I not beautiful enough already?’

  The driver laughed. ‘That’s one of those questions that can get a guy into a whole heap of trouble, ain’t it? I think I’ll just drive and leave you to do whatever it is you want to do. But for what it’s worth lady, I wouldn’t climb over you to get to the wife, if you get my drift.’

  ‘You have a way with words.’

  ‘It’s not gone unnoticed.’

  The journey took forty-five minutes.

  She paid the cabbie.

  ‘You want me to wait?’

  ‘No. I have no idea how long I’ll be.’

  ‘Sure thing. You have a nice day, you hear.’

  ‘Thanks, and you.’

  She watched him drive away and then followed the arrow on a sign at the corner of the building that directed her down an alleyway to the main door.

  Parked along one wall was a brown and maroon Chevrolet van with writing on the side:

  Lilly Carter’s Styling Studio

  1493 Wiltshire Boulevard

  Wiltshire 2756

  The door was ajar, so she went inside. Unlike Frank Page’s studio, there was no reception, but there were still black and white photographs on the walls.

  ‘Hello, Katie,’ a woman’s voice came from behind her. ‘How did you enjoy the party?’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Oh?’

  She told Lilly what had happened.

  ‘That’s terrible. So, what will you do now?’

  ‘Well, to be honest, I’m not really an actress.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘My sister Annie came to Hollywood to become an actress, but she was murdered. I’m here to catch her killer. I thought that if I could pretend to be someone wanting to be a movie star, then I might draw the killer out.’

  ‘That’s terribly brave of you. And what brings you to my studio this morning?’

  ‘I was hoping you could help me.’

  ‘Me? In what way?’

  ‘Well, I’m working with the detective in charge of the investigation, and we’ve identified the suspect as a male stylist, but there are over three hundred on our list. You must know a lot of them, and I was wondering if you could help me to narrow it down?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Well, if you could identify men who you think could be the person we were looking for.’


  ‘I could do that, I suppose. Do you have the list with you?’

  ‘No, sorry.’

  ‘Mmmm! I think I might have a list in my office. Wait here while I go and get it.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  While she was waiting, she walked around the walls staring at the photographs. They were all stills of silent movie stars from films they’d performed in: Theda Bara in Cleopatra; Mabel Normand in The Squaw’s Love; Jean Harlow in The Saturday Night Kid; Barbara La Marr in The Three Musketeers; Thelma Todd in The Haunted House; Nita Naldi in Reported Missing wearing a Chinese hair stick; Asta Nielsen in Intoxication with a black bow on her wrist; Vilma Banky in The Dark Angel with a red rose attached to her dress; Gloria Swanson in Her Golden Cage wearing a peacock feather headdress; and Jeanne Taylor in Kiss Me Again.

  There were photographs of other silent movie stars as well: Mary Pickford; Louise Brooks; Clara Bow; Norma Talmadge; Pola Negri; Janet Gaynor . . .

  She didn’t understand. Why did Lilly have photographs of all the silent movie stars that mirrored each of the clues in the murders?

  ‘Do you like them?’ Lilly’s voice came from behind her.

  But she didn’t get a chance to answer as a hand holding a rag covered her nose and mouth. As she sank into a black void, she could smell ether and the sweet taste of almonds on her tongue.

  ***

  When he returned to the office he found Deputy Chief of Police John Fenton standing in front of the board. He glanced through the internal window into the Lieutenant’s office, but there was no one there.

  With everything he’d learned about Fenton over the past forty-eight hours, he wasn’t surprised to see the man in his office.

  ‘Good morning, Sir,’ he said.

  He would like to have said a whole lot more, but then he’d have been out of a job and looking at a shorter life expectancy as well.

  Fenton was a short man with white-hair, a nondescript face and a paunch. He had not long ago celebrated his sixtieth birthday, and even though he was scheduled to retire in another five years, there was talk of him being shoehorned into the Chief of Police position to enhance his pension.