by Daniel Fox
Eyes turned to George. Detectives from Homicide and other divisions made way as he walked over to Pointe. Pointe steered him into a corner for an ears-only conversation.
“A savage-looking example of humanity, wouldn’t you say?”
“I’ve seen worse.”
“He doesn’t intimidate you?”
“His smell, maybe.”
Pointe nodded. “Good. Some of your colleagues were suggesting that they handle the interrogation in your place. Your, ah, questioning methods from past cases won’t be permissible in this situation. Too many eyes. I’m sure whatever happens in the next few minutes in that room is going to be leaked to more than one reporter. The flip side of that coin is that I don’t think it would be wise to banish everyone from witnessing the exchange, we might be accused of hiding improper activities.”
“I can handle it sir.”
“I believe you. Make the others in this room believe it too.”
George nodded. Went over to the door, put his hand on the doorknob. Squared his shoulders, then in.
The suspect looked up at him through veils of greasy hair. He had dark eyes, brown edging on black, almost no difference between pupil and iris.
“I’m Sergeant George Schuttman.”
“Hello George. I’m David.”
“David what?”
“David...” The man’s eyes rolled up to the left, like it took some effort to remember. “...Mehner. Yeah. David Mehner.”
“You know a girl was found murdered a few blocks from where you live?”
“Oh yes. Her death has stained the psycho-strata. Everyone on Skid Row knows, even if they don’t know they know.”
George sat down across from him. “Psycho-what?”
“Strata. The layers of consciousness we share with one another. A linking of me to you to the men outside and beyond.”
“Uh-huh. If we’re sharing feelings how should I feel about you being found with the girl’s shoes?”
“Are they hers?”
“I think you know that they are. You were found having a real good time with them.”
“The erotic is personal. Fear is widespread and elemental. The shoes had remnants of the female in them. I felt gifted to be able to share in that.”
“When you killed her did you want to share her fear with everyone else in Skid Row? In the whole entire city maybe?”
“I didn’t kill her.”
“I’m just saying, a guy like you, cares about sharing, you did a bang-up job with her death. Hell, you know they’re talking about her over in Europe? You made it worldwide.”
“I found the shoes in a gutter.”
“Were her feet still in them?”
“Only her essence, not her form.”
“They had blood all over them.”
“It was dark. They were certainly wet. But there’s always something trickling in gutters, isn’t there?”
George put his hands on the table. “Look, you want to share some feelings, how about sharing some relief? Right now some poor family is wondering where their daughter or their sister or maybe their mother has gone. You tell us where you met her, who she is, you’d be-”
“Were you always like this?”
“Like what?”
“A liar.”
“I’m the one that’s lying?”
“You said there was blood on the shoes. Maybe... I can’t see them in my head anymore. I can smell them, feel them, feel the joy they gave me.. but I can’t see them. But even if there was blood, how long does it take to make sure it’s the same kind of blood the girl had? How long since your people found me? Maybe two hours have passed. I think. Time has escaped me... But not so much that I think you could have figured out it was the same blood on the shoes as in the girl. You lied and said that you knew they were her shoes for sure.”
The man’s bitter body odour pressed in on George. He loosened his tie, undid the top button of his collar. “Lookit, outside that door, it’s chaos. Detectives and officers and even my superiors running themselves to exhaustion, looking to do right by this girl.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Well then help us out and confess.”
“No.” David leaned back. “I mean, I’m sorry to hear that it’s chaos. Chaos is a specific word. It means wildness. It means a loss of control. In chaos, mistakes are made. Innocent men can be accused of horrible things. Instead of...” David waved his hands around, “...this, perhaps you and your friends could serve the girl better by getting yourselves under control.”
“I know you did it.”
“You don’t.”
“You had her shoes.”
“You have her justice. You’re soiling it far worse than anything I ever did to her mere items.”
George bolted up. “Listen you cocksucker-”
The suspect didn’t flinch. “That’s it.”
George went around the table. The door crashed open. He grabbed the man by his shirtfront. Tore it. Cocked a fist back.
“Show the girl the kind of man who has her justice rotting in his hands.”
Detectives and uniforms pulled George out, sputtering, yelling, humiliated, red-faced.
The man with the dark eyes watched him go. “She deserves better than you.”
CHAPTER 20
Ida had one last play. One last chance to hop off the Clifford-conducted train that was carrying her to nowheresville.
City Hall. Through to L.A.P.D. HQ.
Into a madhouse. Noisier than the actual madhouse at Camarillo. Phones ringing fit to burst. Civilian workers scribbling out phone tips a mile a minute. Fellow reporters right in amongst the desks, flipping through files, bugging detectives trying to do paperwork.
Oddly enough, the one detective that had a great big clear zone around him was the detective of the day, Schuttman. Ida was surprised – people should have been on him like sucker-fish. Maybe he had finally lost his temper and put his frying-pan hands on a reporter, twisted him into a pretzel. Something had happened anyway, no way no-how the lead detective on the biggest murder case in the city should be cooling his heels all alone.
He was bent over his desk, studying some pictures in a file. He reached into a box of a dozen doughnuts, grabbed one, dropped it. He picked it up and without even dusting it off he brought it to his mouth.
“No. Don’t do it.”
He took a bite. He closed the file as she approached.
Ida threw up her hands. “You did it. You went and you did it.” She pointed at the doughnuts on his desk. “You’ve got a whole box of ‘em right here.”
He took another bite. “I wanted this one.”
Ida fished in her bag, came up with the flask he had given her at the crime scene to wash the vomit taste out of her mouth. She handed it over.
He shook it, heard the whisky sloshing around inside. “You refilled it. Nice.”
“With gratitude.”
“How’d you get in here?”
Ida pointed at the chaos surrounding them. “What’re ya, kidding?”
“So what do you want?”
“I wanted to say thanks.”
George snorted. “You’re a reporter, aren’t you? So I say again, what do you want?”
“I was wondering if maybe there were any additional inside pics of the crime scene being made avail-”
“Nope.”
“I could make it worth your while.”
George raised his eyebrows. “Now you’re talking. Been a dog’s age since I had a body nice as yours pressed up against-”
“I’m flattered. And dream on.”
George laughed. “Oh, I will.”
Ida leaned in a bit, turned her scar away to the side. “Come on big guy, one picture. I’ll garnish you with roses in the paper. How the wonderful Detective-”
“Sergeant.”
Ida turned George’s nameplate so she could look at it. “Oof. ‘Schuttman’? Dirty Kraut.”
“Beat it. I can dream of doughnu
ts instead.”
Ida stood back up. “Well, I had to try. Thanks for the drink anyway.” She turned away, then turned back. “Just one thing. Off the record, I promise. Just for me. You ever catch a call this bad? I mean, what I saw of her...”
“No.”
“How does someone do something like that?”
“You asking as a reporter or as a human being? If it’s the first, then no comment. If it’s the second, then I’m thinking with a whole lotta anger.”
A phone rang two desks down. A reporter grabbed it and answered, like he owned the place.
George bolted up, hurled a doughnut at him, charged forward. “Are you kiddin’ me?”
Ida turned to go again, but caught the file folder George had closed out of the corner of her eye. She looked over – George was busy wrangling reporters, chasing them away from detectives’ desks, red-faced and shouting.
The desk – a notepad with “calls” jotted in a surprisingly neat hand in block letters, like a school-kid trying his best to impress teacher with his writing. There were three names beneath, each with an address and “wit” written beside them. “Wit” for “witnesses”?
She looked over again. George had the phone-answering reporter by the scruff of his neck, escorting him out to enjoy the L.A. sunshine.
Do it – she ripped off the page with the names, stuffed it in her bag.
Get out while the big ape was distracted.
Except... the file folder was right there. It had “morgue” written on its tab.
Holy shit.
She could hear him coming back, his voice thundering around, angry, yelling at the reporters still milling around. Maybe seconds until he was back in eyesight.
She went for it. Opened the folder. Inside – stark clinical photos of the dead girl, naked, vulnerable, sewed up, a big autopsy Y scar down her front. Eyes open, empty eye sockets looking straight up, sending her a message – I’m your salvation.
She grabbed the picture. Stuffed it into her bag. Hurried away from George’s desk. Looked back – she had left the folder open. She spun back, sprinted over, closed the folder, slid it under the box of doughnuts, maybe he’d forget about looking in it for a couple of minutes if it was out of sight.
Turned back. Big George Schuttman had come around the corner. Had he seen?
She started forward, hoping she looked cool and collected. Sweat pricked up, slid down her spine.
Passing him. He held up a hand to stop her.
Oh Jesus.
“You leaving?”
Play it normal. He’s seen you snarky, joking. “One of us has got to work.”
“As long as it ain’t me. Anyway, uh... So, have you had dinner yet?”
Ida looked up. “What? Are you asking me out?”
“I’ve had a day. You made me laugh... Never mind. Bad idea.”
“No, it’s just- Look, I’m still on my keister from seeing that girl like that. She’s a life-changer, you know? You just took me by surprise is all.”
“It’s fine, forget I asked.”
Before she could say anything else he wheeled around and was yelling at another reporter who was picking through his box of doughnuts.
Ida ran a finger down her scar, caught herself doing it. It had been a good long while since someone, even a gorilla, had asked her out.
She shook it off. That was girl shit. And she had journalistic gold weighing down her bag. She needed to get back to the Clarion a.s.a.p.
***
She heard the talking before she got into Clifford’s office – the editor and the boy of the hour, Bob Tree. Talking about a visit to Doctor Bader – maybe it had been Bob standing beside the good doctor as she split the scene at the mental hospital.
Old news. Didn’t matter.
She walked in without knocking. Closed the door. Held up a manila envelope in her hand as a way to shut Clifford’s mouth before he could start yelling at her.
“An official M.E. photo of the victim plus three fat as-yet unchecked tips direct from police H.Q.”
Clifford’s mouth dropped open, closed. Opened again. “Are you shitting me?”
“I am not.”
“For real?”
“Yep.”
“Ida?”
“Yeah?”
“Marry me.”
“You’re already married.”
Clifford came around his desk, eager as a puppy. “Junie’s always saying how I’m too much man for just one woman.”
Bob stepped forward. “No. This is... No. The cops aren’t releasing anything.”
Ida didn’t bother looking at him. “You mean they’re not releasing anything to you.”
“How-”
“By being a reporter, that’s how. You should try it sometime.”
Clifford pointed at the envelope. “Let me see.”
Ida held up a finger – wait.
“I knew it.”
“It’s my story. Your famous wonder-kid here has yet to bring diddlysquat to the table that I know of.”
“You’re blackmailing your editor?”
“Yep. It’s a yes or no proposition. It’s mine or I take it to one of the other rags.”
“I don’t want to marry you anymore.” Clifford leaned back against his desk, crossed his arms. “Fine. Sorry Bobby-”
“Don’t worry about it. I got some stuff I want to check out on my own anyway.”
“Okay then Bly, you’re back in. It better be good or-”
Ida slid out the morgue photo, handed it across. Bob stood next to Clifford. They saw the bruising, the cuts, the accumulation of suffering.
“Jesus.” Clifford ran a hand over his head. “Jesus God Almighty, who’d do something like that?”
Bob went for the door. “Anyway, I’m going to-”
“Yeah.” Clifford waved good-bye without taking his eyes off the photo. “She was just a girl. You do this right for her, huh?”
Ida looked her boss dead in the eye. “Who better than me?”
CHAPTER 21
The following individuals are present in this interview transcript:
Doctor Stefan Nabozny MA, PsyD
Clinical Psychologist
Robert Tree
Patient
Date: July 2, 1947
Time of interview commencement: 17:45 p.m. (unscheduled)
Interview Duration: 37 minutes
Location: Veterans Administration, Dr. Nabozny’s offices
Mode of Transcription: Audio tape (permission granted by patient, see file for signature) to Typed
Transcription Date: July 8, 1947
Doctor Stefan Nabozny: You look terrible.
Robert Tree: Aren’t you supposed to be supportive?
SN: I’m supposed to be truthful. Take a seat. So?
RT: I don’t know what to say here.
SN: Alright. Take stock of your physical state. How are your wounds?
RT: I feel them. It’s ridiculous. This is ridiculous.
SN: Why?
RT: Because I’m healed.
SN: Nobody calls for an emergency session with a headshrinker when they’re healed. How is work going?
RT: I’m awful at it. I used to be good at it. I used to be the guy.
SN: You expected to slip right back into your old ways.
RT: Yeah, The weirdness of the war was over. Back to good old Bob. I’m the weirdness now. I’ve got the war in me. (laughs) Jesus, I sound like a bargain-basement poet. Is there a cure for what I am now?
SN: Is this all interior? Your weirdness. Or has it externalized? (silence – 30 seconds) Bob? Have you done something?
***
George pinned an update to the murder board. No to an I.D. on the vic. No to credible witnesses. Over one hundred tip calls so far had been interviewed in person by uniformed officers and detectives, no useful info collected.
Pointe had asked him to command from H.Q. To stay out of the field. That the case needed a strong hand at the helm. He was pretty sure that
he was being kept out of the public eye after his blow-up with the shoe fetish creep had been leaked to the papers and the radio.
He returned to his desk, slumped down into his seat, its springs squeaking. The bloody shoes were in a box on the desk, waiting for him to officially log them into evidence.
He pulled the top of the box up, Looked at the shoes without touching them. They looked ridiculously small – the shoes of a child, not a grown woman. The brown stain of blood and the smears from Pinker’s fingerprint dust made them obscene.
He didn’t know anything about women’s shoes, but he thought they looked pretty nice. The kind of shoes a young woman would think of as dress-up, not everyday office-type gear or wherever their vic had worked. Something a woman would save up for.
He jumped up. Grabbed the box. Marched through the halls. Into the section of the P.D. that handled public outreach. Hoping she was here...
Brown hair pulled back into a bun, under a stylized woman’s officer hat. Or stylish hat? George didn’t know the right word. The skirt was new, he couldn’t recall if he had seen the female officers wearing them before. He had never really paid women officers much attention, they hadn’t seemed like real police to him, just eye-candy to keep women complainers happy that the P.D. recognized that women could possibly have some use in the force other than answering phones.
He searched his memory for her name. “Hartman? Is that right?”
She turned, looked up at him. “Got it in one.”
“I’m-”
“Schuttman. I know. Believe me, everybody knows.”
“I need your help. You got half a second?”
“Sure.” Her eyes lit up. “Is this for the case?”
“Yeah.” George opened the box, showed her the shoes.
She looked at them, wide-eyed. “Jesus- Sorry sir.”
“That’s alright.”
“Is that... are they... Were they hers?”
George nodded. “Same blood. Her fingerprints on them. Right size.”
“Holy.” She snapped to, stopped gazing. Became professional. “What can I help you with sir?”
“I don’t know anything about lady’s shoes. Can you tell if these are expensive? Upscale?”
“They look pretty classy, but they could be knockoffs. Can I...” She gestured at the shoes.