Front Page Fatale: The First Ida Bly Thriller

by Daniel Fox

  SN: Miss Bly is back with the paper now?

  RT: With the inside and only scoop on what it’s like to be attacked by a killer? The killer? She is the golden girl at the Clarion now. Choosing her own assignments. Anyway, Darlene, a girl with about zero street smarts wanders alone into the Row, thinking the blockade raid had cleaned it right out, and the last thing she remembers before waking up in that... that dungeon, is getting whacked in the back of the head with something. Anyway, if she hadn’t seen me stealing Bly’s tip she wouldn’t have ended up in Lagercrantz’s hands.

  SN: How is she?

  RT: Heading home. Arkansas? Nebraska? I can’t remember, one of those places. She’s scared of L.A. now.

  SN: How bad did it get for her? Did the charming Mister Lagercrantz rape her?

  RT: He tried. But the way she told it he was terrified of her.. of...

  SN: Of?

  RT: Her... female region. He thought she had fangs down there or something.

  (Laughter from both.)

  RT: Anyway, I was scared as hell at the moment but I seem totally fine about it now.

  SN: So you do fine with confrontations now? You’re able to deal with them without experiencing panic?

  RT: That’s the thing. After the Lagercrantz thing I finally broke Cliffy down and got him to assign me to the celebrity beat. It’s all cushy puff pieces, no confrontations. It’s done. Dealt with. Moving on.

  SN: That’s avoiding the situation, not dealing with it.

  RT: I don’t care. I feel better. I don’t have to deal with it if I don’t feel it, right?

  SN: You are dealing with it. In just about the worst way possible. You’re suppressing the root causes when you should be exposing them so they can be dealt with in a healthier fashion.

  RT: I feel fine.

  SN: Robert, you’re going to explode.

  Snipped from the front page of The Los Angeles Clarion: August 14, 1947

  Trial of Skid Row Killer to Be Announced Within the Next Month

  By IDA BLY

  Feature Writer

  LOS ANGELES – The District Attorney’s office has announced that Brian Lagercrantz, the primary suspect in the torture-slaying of the unidentified young woman this past June, will be going to trial before winter rolls around. While they are not yet prepared to release an official date, they have stated that they feel they have an ironclad case against the past resident of the Camarillo State Mental Hospital. That case includes a signed confession from the suspect himself.

  Two questions have gripped the public’s attention. First, will Lagercrantz’s counsel utilize an insanity defence? Second, how did he manage to escape from Camarillo in the first place, considering he had exhibited manic violent behaviour both before and during his stay at the mental health institution?

  CHAPTER 32

  “Copy!”

  Ida pulled her latest contribution to humanity from her typewriter, waved it in the air for one of the copy kids to come and grab it for Clifford to read. Two fat columns detailing how the state’s Justice Department had done bupkis about prosecuting over ninety cases of blatant over-payments and cases of fraud in war contract settlements. She didn’t bother re-reading it, she knew it was good. Clifford could pick out any typos, that’s what he was there for.

  Her belly was roaring at her, it was past one in the afternoon, she needed fuel for the fire. She grabbed her jacket from the back of her chair and went down to street level in search of sustenance. As she was passing through the lobby she heard her name being called out. She was getting used to this – ever since she had been released from the hospital people had recognized her, called her name, given her a thumbs up, asked for her autograph. She turned with a smile on her face.

  “Do you remember me?”

  “’Course I do honey, I never forget a beautiful face. Theresa, am I right?”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  “Walk with me doll, I’m hungry enough to eat a horse.”

  Ida headed out the door, stopping to shorten her stride as the older woman hurried to catch up. The old lady didn’t look any better than the last time Ida had seen her. If anything, she looked worse. More lines around the eyes and mouth maybe. More stooped maybe. More mileage, definitely, even though it had only been a couple of months.

  “So what’s the good word down on the Row? Do the people miss me?”

  “You got the wrong man.”

  Ida stopped. “Sorry?”

  “That man in your big story, the one with the funny last name-”

  “Lagercrantz. Brian Lagercrantz.”

  “Yes, that’s him. He isn’t the one.”

  “Right.”

  Ida carried on, not shortening her stride quite so much anymore.

  “I gave you a drawing of...” Theresa put on some speed to catch up. She looked around, leaned in, put a hand to the side of her mouth. “Of him.”

  “I remember.”

  “And I also told you he was tall. Very tall. But that man the police caught-”

  “Well really I caught him, the police just picked up the pieces.”

  “Your story said he was six feet tall. Him, he’s much taller than that. He looms.”

  “You want a reward?”

  “What?”

  Ida stopped again. “I could probably swing you a little something for you from the tip reward pool. They still have it going, hoping someone will call in and I.D. the dead girl. We’ll say you helped lead me to Lager-”

  “I don’t want your money. I want your belief.”

  Ida sighed. “He’s our guy, doll. If you’d seen his home, his hole, his lair, whatever you want to call it, you’d have no doubt. It was like the inside of a pervert madman’s head. Not to mention the fact that he had a girl trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey. And, oh yeah, that he went full werewolf on me. It was him. Come on, we’ll hit this cafeteria I know, place is done up like a forest on the inside, it’ll make you laugh.”

  Ida moved on but Theresa stayed in place. Ida stopped again. “Look hon, I know the Row is a rough place. But what do you think the chances are that it would be rough enough to contain not one but two women-hating monsters? And if Brian Lagercrantz isn’t our guy, then what is he?”

  “A disciple maybe. Boys always try on their father’s clothes. The extraordinary always have their admirers.”

  “That’s true. You should see how many men have written in, asking me to marry them. Couple of women too, truth be told.”

  Theresa flapped her hands, turned, and walked off.

  “It was a joke!” Ida rolled her eyes, then hustled after her. “What do you want from me here? Lagercrantz is headed for the chair. It’s a done deal. The Row might not be the cheeriest place on Earth but it’s a fair sight safer now.”

  “Do you want a thank-you?”

  “After what I went through, I wouldn’t turn my nose up at one now that you mention it.”

  Theresa stopped and looked up at her. “I’ll be sure to give you one when another poor girl turns up dead. Maybe the next time you’ll at least be able to give her a real name.”

  Ida watched the old woman walk off, disappear around a corner. Ida let her go. There were just some people that didn’t want help no matter how badly they needed it.

  ***

  George drove the short trip north and east, parked and badged his way into Lincoln Heights Jail, surrendered his firearm at the front desk.

  He was met by the warden himself who wanted to shake hands with the famous detective from the newspapers. Inmates called out to him by name as he passed, all respect, wanting to know if he was banging Lana Turner yet.

  They made a small detour. The warden showed him the room Brian Lagercrantz was being kept in all by his lonesome – the bed was a cot with manacles attached to the wooden frame.

  They ended up in a conference room. The legal teams from both sides of the table – the D.A. side and Lagercrantz’s side – stood to shake his hand and give him a pat on the back.
>
  Lagercrantz stayed in his seat, chained, staring at nothing, mouth open, a string of drool from his bottom lip. Lagercrantz’s lead counsel said the infirmary kept the prisoner on goofy pills one hundred percent of the time or else his ravings stirred up the rest of the inmates. Plus Lagercrantz had the unfortunate habit of banging his head repeatedly against unforgiving surfaces when he had the energy.

  George took a chair off to the side. He didn’t want Lagercrantz’s stare directed at him for the entirety of the meeting. Plus, he probably wouldn’t have anything much to say – it felt like they’d already had a hundred of these get-togethers and none of them really required his presence. It was lawyer-talk time about bargaining over future penalties; there wasn’t much talk about the trial itself since even the defence had to admit it was a pretty solid booking against their boy.

  As far as George was concerned this all ended at the electric chair. He was obligated to come, but the only thing that kept his interest at all in these meetings was the chance that Lagercrantz might spark up for half a second and spit out the girl’s name or maybe where he met her.

  The lawyers droned. George shook his head to keep himself from nodding off. Lagercrantz drooled.

  George noticed some stapled papers on the edge of the desk. He leaned over and whispered to the nearest of the D.A.’s guys, he couldn’t remember his name, “What’s that?”

  The guy leaned over, whispered back. “He updated his confession.”

  “What? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  “I thought they did. Sorry. Here, take my copy.” The D.A. assistant or whatever he was slid the stapled papers over to George.

  “Anything good in here?”

  The guy shook his head. “He remembered some more details about the body and the scene. Nothing about her name or anything like that though.”

  George took the papers, leaned back. It was a typed version of the original confession that had been written out by Lagercrantz on a legal pad in a surprisingly fancy cursive style of handwriting. George had read it a hundred times since then, hoping for a tiny detail that would finally let him say hello to the dead girl in a proper fashion.

  There was nothing new in the opening paragraphs, they were all the same, jumping right into how the girl was murdered. Despite the familiarity, it was still jarring, like jumping into a movie that had already started.

  Then he flipped the page. The first paragraph of the second page made his blood run cold.

  ***

  Theresa wrapped her scarf around her neck and went out into the evening air. Air could kill you if it wasn’t right, a lady had to be careful.

  The reporter had ignored her warning. It didn’t matter. Theresa knew her duty, to sniff out the tall man. To expose him to the light. It’s all she had been doing since they arrested that Lagercrantz man. The wrong man.

  Night after night she went out, asking the people of Skid Row, her people, if they had seen a very tall man. Some had, some hadn’t, nobody believed her when she told them he was the real killer.

  She started to sweat in the California night. The scarf didn’t help with her temperature control, but it kept her safe, and that’s what mattered.

  Before the houses was the park. It wasn’t a real park, just an abandoned lot covered with scratchy scrub grass and the glint of broken bottle glass. Some wit had fashioned a park bench out of a couple of cracked boards laid across old fruit boxes. Theresa for one appreciated that bench. She often took a spell to get her breath back before she carried on hunting for bottles to turn in for money. It also did mighty fine for tired monster-hunters.

  There was a man on the bench. She didn’t know him. He looked a bit too spiffy for the area. He was in a proper button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up his arms. He was feeding pigeons bits of bread or something out of a bag.

  He heard her coming, turned his head, smiled at her and gave her a nod.

  Theresa, who had paused on seeing him, started forward. He was kind of a handsome sort of fella. Classy kind of face. Not worn down like all the other faces in the area. Maybe he had a spare dime or two he might like to give up.

  As she sidled closer she noticed two things.

  First, the man was wearing gloves. Thick leather work gloves. In this heat. That wasn’t normal.

  She dug her fingers into the scarf around her neck.

  Second, the man had incredibly long legs. Almost too long for a real man.

  Tears blurred her vision.

  God Almighty, it was him.

  He spoke. “Are you Theresa?”

  Theresa shook her head, wiped at her nose.

  “You match the description your neighbours gave me.”

  Theresa started to back up.

  “It has come to my attention that you have been telling people about me. And that you have been looking for me.” He stood. Tall. So tall. “Well, here I am.”

  Theresa shrieked and ran. He followed.

  He was healthy. Fed. His strides were almost twice as long as hers.

  Still, he did not catch up to her until she was in her building, opening the door to her apartment. He covered her mouth, dragged her inside, and began to ask questions.

  CHAPTER 33

  Ida was at home, collecting her Skid Row stuff. Her life had become scattered for a while there – lost her job, had someone throw a rather impolite and threatening brick at her head, she’d been hated by the police and the Mayor’s office. So went her life, so went her information and notes – some stuff still at the paper, the rest of it plastering the walls of her apartment, covering the tables, the sofa, a mess of Skid Row woes.

  From the smell of shit to the smell of roses:

  - Clifford had visited her in the hospital in person, guaranteeing her she would be the lead feature writer if she just came back to the Clarion. What he had really meant was if she brought her exclusive story back to the Clarion, he was just about choking on the thought of her return, but no Ida no big story, so she was back baby.

  - Book publishers and literary agents were ringing her phone to pieces, all wanting her to expand on what had been printed in the Clarion. Could she expand on her hunt for the killer? Had she left any details out? Had she always wanted to be a reporter? Was there a lucky man in her life? Would she explain her now-famous facial scar?

  - There was a talk of a movie being made. Scuttlebutt had it that Lauren Bacall and Katharine Hepburn were apparently ready to pull knives on each other for the chance to play movie-version Ida.

  She was It. The Golden Girl of the journalism world. Clifford was apparently even talking up the idea of submitting her accounting of the night to the Pulitzer committee. Ida didn’t figure it being the Pulitzer’s cup of tea, but the thought made her glow a little anyway.

  Any way this played out, she needed to get all of her material lined up, easy to reference, ready to go. She was sorting, gathering all of her information into file boxes.

  She rolled up an annotated L.A. map and found the brown paper bag underneath. She flipped it over, revealing the childlike drawing of a disturbed old lady. The Skid Row boogeyman stared back up at her. Incredibly tall and lean and ferocious and somehow elegant in his dementia. Well, the old lady had nailed the lean and ferocious parts alright. The incredibly tall part had been a miss, Brian Lagercrantz topped out at six feet – tall, but not staggeringly so. And elegance was a concept that had to be completely foreign to his scrambled mind.

  Would people want to know how Theresa ended up? They might. They might want to know that Ida Bly cared about her sources. That’s the kind of thing a man in the pictures would do, wouldn’t he? Check up on the dregs?

  She could probably leave it.

  Theresa was a minor character in Ida’s story. At best.

  But now the question was there – how was the old lady doing? Ida knew it was stuck in her head now. It wouldn’t let go until the question had an answer.

  She grabbed her jacket.

  ***

  Bob was in th
e newsroom, working on his calendar. It was easy, filling itself up. Everybody wanted the celebrity war hero who saved a girl from the Skid Row killer at their premieres and charity gigs. Writing the events up was a breeze – who was there, who danced or chatted with whom, where the gig was, what charity it was for... kid stuff.

  Another phone call. “Robert Tree.”

  “Hello Mister Tree. This is Magdalena Clemp. Do you remember me?”

  “I do. Yes. How are you Mrs Clemp?”

  “I am the same. I read about you in the newspaper, how you saved the young woman.”

  “It was a team effort.”

  “Your woman writer was hurt, yes?”

  “She was. She was back at work within the week though. She’s ornery.”

  “Ornery?”

  “Stubborn.”

  “Oh yes, I know ‘stubborn’.”

  A moment of awkward quiet. Bob cleared his throat. “I suppose you’re wondering if I managed to get anywhere with your husband’s situation.”

  “I know you’ve been very busy. And now you write about all those pretty girls so maybe this is trouble for-”

  “No, no, no trouble at all. I won’t lie to you Mrs Clemp, I’ve been very distracted by the girl’s murder and now... what I’m doing now. I don’t have anything to tell you.”

  “I see. Okay. I didn’t think so, but I thought it best to call you and ask, you know?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I am sorry to be a bother.”

  “Mrs Clemp, I assure you you’re not a bother at all.”