The Phantom Automobiles
A Gordon Gardner Investigation
By
Scott Dennis Parker
Quadrant Fiction Studio
Houston
2015
The Phantom Automobiles
A Gordon Gardner Investigation
By Scott Dennis Parker
Copyright © 2015 by Scott Dennis Parker
A Quadrant Fiction Studio Book
(QFS-002)
Cover Design by Scott Dennis Parker and Ike Eichenlaub
www.quadrantfictionstudio.com
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the Publisher or Author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
To Vanessa who is always there
to keep me grounded
TABLE OF CONTENTS
TABLE OF CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Introduction to “The Criminal Sleep”
Chapter I
Chapter II
Chapter III
Chapter IV
Chapter V
Chapter VI
Chapter VII
Chapter VIII
Chapter IX
Chapter X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Acknowledgements
Other Books by Scott Dennis Parker
Coming Soon: Lillian Saxton #
Triple Action Western
Anthologies
About the Author
CHAPTER ONE
“I’ve got two dead bodies.” Elijah Levitz, the editor of the Houston Post-Dispatch, flipped two pieces of paper between the fingers of each hand. “I’m gonna let one of my two junior ace reporters pick first.”
Gordon Gardner inwardly bristled at the word ‘junior’ but knew he'd one day be the senior ace reporter. He stood in the main newsroom with the other reporters and hoped he got first pick. Having successfully flirted with the editor's secretary long enough to get the gists of both stories, Gordon knew which one of the stories would have the privilege of bearing his personal “Gordon Gardner” stamp.
But which one would he get?
When Levitz had called the meeting, the news hounds gathered liked sheep to a shepherd around Levitz. The portly man constantly had his necktie loosened. His open collar dirty around the inside ring, and a cigarette hung from dry lips. The unlit stick bobbed up and down as he spoke and handed out assignments. Each assignment was on a slip of paper torn from a stack held together by an iron rod and a cast-iron nut. Levitz claimed it was a piece of the Hindenburg. Few believed him although no reporter, copy boy, or secretary ever said so to his face.
When Levitz called out a story and assigned a reporter, that man would plow through the throng and snatch a piece of paper Levitz handed out.
Barbara Essary, the editor’s secretary, sat at a nearby desk and jotted notes. Sometimes they swapped stories. As a rule, Levitz didn’t mind except in those times when he reminded his reporters that he was the editor and he assigned the stories as he saw fit.
This was one of those times.
“I think we all know which ones I'm talking about,” Levitz continued. “There’s the crazy guy who jumped in front of a moving car and lost, and the mugging death of William Silber, local artist. The latter's more of a fancy obit, the former's just a basic crime-blotter filler piece.”
Gordon looked down and reread the slip of paper listing the job already assigned: a puff piece on the local nightclub owner, Bruno Clavell. Bruno had recently built his first club in Houston after a successful string of similar nightclubs in Dallas, Ft. Worth, San Antonio, and Austin. It didn’t amount to much, but Gordon would certainly get to dust off his tux.
In the stuffy room, not every reporter wore a jacket. Gordon had ditched his long ago to the back of his chair next to his brand-new desk near the window. Next to Gordon stood, Jack Hanson, an older man with a wife and three kids, needed more deodorant. His body odor wafted around him like a fog. Gordon eased away from Hanson under a false presence, all the while wondering how the older reporter had three kids.
“I’m gonna get that top story,” Johnny Flynn said to Gordon. Shorter than Gordon by at least four inches, Johnny nonetheless had an effortless aplomb. His charm and good looks opened a lot of doors and he nearly always had his tie cinched tight. “And I’ll get the next promotion by, you know, actually writing something that’s true.”
Johnny still hadn’t accepted the fact that Gordon had received a promotion for fabricating a news story. To him, you wrote and then you accepted the accolades. What made matters even worse for Gordon was that he couldn't say anything about the nature of the story. For all Johnny knew, Gordon’s story was about a bank robbery foiled by the police. The real story involved Nazis in Houston. As a result, he had to suffer Johnny’s tirades and one-upmanship.
Gordon hated it. But he loved his desk next to the window so when Johnny got a little too full of himself, Gordon would just saunter over to his desk and stretch out while Johnny had to content himself with a small hovel in the middle of the newsroom.
“Don’t talk about stuff you don’t know a damn thing about,” Gordon whispered. He nodded to their boss.
“Y’all done?” Levitz asked. His cocked eyebrow spoke volumes.
Both junior reporters nodded.
Levitz sniggered. “There’ll be no switching. You get what you get and you won't throw a fit.”
What was this, kindergarten?
“Harry,” Levitz said, “got a dime?”
Harry Vinson plunged his hand into his pocket and produced the coin.
“Now, since Johnny here wrote the last big piece for us, I’m gonna let him call it. What’s it gonna be, Johnny?”
“Heads.”
Harry flipped the coin. “Tails.”
The grin on Gordon’s face could’ve lit up the marquee at the Metropolitan movie house. “I’ll take…”
“Not so fast, Gordie.” Levitz used the nickname Gordon typically despised, a fact the editor knew and exploited. “You only get the right to choose the slip of paper. Left hand or right hand.”
Again, Gordon thought, Is this kindergarten? He wanted the story of the dead artist. Marie Gardner, his mother, taught art at Sam Houston High School and was part of the committee that helped found and open Houston’s Museum of Fine Arts. Gordon knew he could make William Silber’s obit shine.
Being right-handed, Gordon’s natural tendency was to pick right. But he had been unde
r Levitz’s black cloud for a few weeks. Sure, Gordon had successfully bartered his silence for the new desk and promotion, something Levitz had agreed to under pressure. But the editor didn’t like having his hand forced and had rewarded Gordon with lesser stories. The last high-profile story Gordon got still only landed on page two. To date, the only page-one story Gordon had was the fake story he had written.
“Left,” Gordon said.
“Good choice. You get the crazy man.”
Gordon’s pained sigh brought chuckles from the guys around him.
“Johnny, you get Silber,” Levitz said. “All right, boys, let’s make some ink.”
As the throng dispersed, Gordon moved against the stream toward Levitz. “Wait, boss. I’m better for the artist profile. I know more than Johnny does.”
Johnny, who remained in place as the reporters and photographers moved past him, just watched.
“Don’t care.” Levitz turned to Barbara and motioned her to follow him. He threw the two pieces of paper in the trash can and sequestered himself in his office.
She gave Gordon a sympathetic look. “Sorry, sweetie.” She straightened her skirt and joined Levitz, closing his door.
Gordon shook his head and caught a glimpse of Johnny. Now his rival wore the marquee-bright grin. He turned and sauntered away.
Frowning, Gordon fished out the two pieces of paper Levitz had thrown away. He looked at each of them.
Both pieces of paper were blank.
CHAPTER TWO
The Houston Police Department was a stuffy place filled with the stink of cigarette smoke, stale body odor, and the aftershave that tried to hide it but failed. The large room with pairs of desks butted up against each other resembled a newsroom.
Gordon smiled and shook hands with many of the detectives and cops. Early on when covering the crime beat, Gordon had started putting the names of the officers in his stories. He discovered these guys loved seeing their names in print. More than a few would actually cut out the stories and pin them to bulletin boards. For a few of the younger officers, having their names mentioned by Gordon Gardner was a rite of passage.
Of course, Gordon had an ulterior motive for all this glad-handing: it made the lips of these officers a little more pliable for off-the-record comments and background. And when those younger officers got promotions, Gordon had his in.
“Hiya, Burt.” Gordon came up behind a big man sitting at a desk and patted his shoulder. “How's life treating you?” He slid into the seat next to the desk.
Gordon didn't see his playful tap slosh coffee onto the fuzzy mustache of Detective Burt Wheeler. A burly man whose girth was more than intimidating, Burt put his cup back on the table and wiped his mouth with a handkerchief. Then he mopped the sweat from his brow. “I don't like wearing coffee, Gordie. Watch it next time.”
Palms up, Gordon said, “Message received.” He tipped his hat back on his head. “Whatcha know?”
Burt indicated the stack of files on his desk. “That I haven't seen the top of my desk for a week.”
“I heard you caught the crazy guy who jumped in front of a car. So, the scoop?”
Burt started ruffling through the stacks of paper on his desk. “Do me a favor? Leave my name off this'un, huh? Too weird.”
“Spill.” Gardner pulled out a notebook and got his pencil ready.
“You probably won't need that.” Burt leaned back in his chair and lit a cigarette. “Story's too short. Ain't even sure how you gonna fill up your inches.”
Gordon smirked. “I'll embellish.”
Taking a deep pull on the cigarette, Burt told the story. “The stiff’s name is Victor Tompkins, thirty-one. He's a door-to-door salesman selling encyclopedias. Like anybody but a library would want those.”
“Tut tut, my good man,” Gordon said, imitating a British accent. “A learned man is one who makes good decisions.”
“Then our victim didn't read what he was selling. Witnesses say he was talking loudly about phantom automobiles, how there was a car out to get him. He supposedly was acting really crazy, talking about proving the vehicle was a ghost. That's when he stepped out into the street and got slammed to the ground.” Burt clapped his hands in imitation of the body being hit by a speeding car.
“Death was fast? Did the victim say anything?”
“Nope. Well maybe ‘Guess I was wrong.’”
“The eyewitnesses, you got a list?”
“Yeah, but it's small. Hairdresser lady was outside taking a smoke break, gas station attendants were only half looking in the right direction, and some folks walking down the street who decided to stay and talk with the responding officers. Nothing much, really.”
Burt found the file and opened it, letting Gordon copy down the names of the witnesses. “Thanks for all the tips, Burt.”
“Don’t mention it. And don’t mention it was me that caught this one, okay?”
“Why the hot potato?”
Burt scowled and looked around the room.
Gordon followed and took in only what you’d expect to see in a police station: a room full of detectives and cops, some on phones talking, others in small clusters chatting, still others with their heads down buried in paperwork.
“Okay,” Burt said, conspiratorially, “this is definitely off the record.”
Gordon complied by putting his pencil and pad into his inside jacket pocket. “Shoot.”
“Tompkins, the victim,” Burt began, still looking around the room. “See he came in a few times yakking about seeing things.”
Gordon fought the urge to pull his pad and pencil back out. “Things? What kinds of things?”
“All sorts. Said there were spirits only he could see, flying around his neighborhood. He even saw them in his house. Said there were a few here in the station when he came in to make a complaint.”
Gordon leaned in. “What kinds of complaint?”
“The usual stuff from paranoid wackos like him. Said he thought there were people following him, said he saw a UFO flying outside of town on one of his trips, you know, stuff like that.”
Gordon shrugged. “Anything legit?”
“Nah. We get little old ladies calling about hooey like that all the time. We just don’t have the manpower to follow up on every claim. When Tompkins came in doing the same, we just chalked it up to paranoia. Maybe all that time alone, driving and talking with strangers, reading his books made his mind wander. Or maybe he read too many of them pulp magazines.”
Inwardly, Gordon smiled. He knew exactly the kinds of pulp magazines Burt was talking about. On the side, and using a pen name, Gordon was an avid writer of pulp tales, having submitted over three dozen to various magazines over the years. He’d had only marginal success but he still kept at it. In fact, listening to Burt’s retelling of the strange circumstances surrounding Victor Tompkins, Gordon’s literary imagination was already starting to churn.
Gordon gave Burt a misdirect. “How many times did he come in?”
Burt shrugged. “Not sure. While we’re supposed to keep all records, sometimes they find their way to the trash can. Three, four times, maybe.”
“And the last time?”
“About two weeks ago. And here’s the catch: guess what he was complaining about?”
“The high price of tea in China?”
“Nice, but no. He was scared because he swore there was a car following him.”
CHAPTER THREE
Elmer Magee looked exactly like the kind of person you'd find working as a county coroner. He was short, skinny, with round glasses covering eyes that appeared too close together, as if all his intense gazing at the body parts of dead people had somehow moved his eyes closer to his nose. His shirt sleeves were wrinkled and his tie was loosened. The apron he wore over his clothes was splashed with various liquids.
He wiped his hands on a clean towel and looked at Gordon. The reporter had the sudden urge to wave his hand in front of Elmer's face to verify he could see.
�
�Elmer, how's my favorite coroner?” From his pocket, Gordon produced a pack of clove cigarettes. He tossed the pack to Elmer who caught it.
“Bodies piled high and three days behind schedule,” came the reply. His voiced matched his look: squeaky, like he was still going through puberty. “Do you realize the DA actually thinks I can expedite an autopsy? I mean a scalpel can only cut as fast as the hand of the coroner. We're understaffed, overworked, and I barely see the sun anymore except on weekends.”
“I'll put in a good word to the sun on your behalf when I leave, make sure it doesn't rain on your next day off.”
“You are many things, Gordon, but a master of the weather you're not. Who are you here to visit? I've got some new ones: an apparent suicide, a dead artist, a construction worker who lost a battle with a power drill. Oh, and the car guy.”
“Car guy?”
“The jumper who got smashed by a car.”
“That’s mine.” Gordon was tempted to ask about the artist, perhaps even get Elmer to reveal some details as far as he knew them. But, no, his Methodist minister father wouldn't have approved. Gordon was going to keep his edge on Johnny Flynn, but he was going to do it fair and square. “Detective Wheeler tells me he was raving about phantom cars and such, then jumped in front of one.”
“I don't worry about all that. I just deal with facts. And the fact is Mr. Tompkins was hit by a speeding car. And suffered multiple contusions and broken bones. Both lungs were punctured and he bled out internally. Preliminary diagnosis is that he drowned in his own fluids.”
“Is that all?” Gordon asked sardonically. He scribbled in his note pad.
“You wanna see him?”
“Not particularly. You crack open the skull?”
“Not any more so than was already done by the ground. Why?”
“Cops say the victim filed a report about seeing things and such. Didn't know if he had a tumor or something that would explain it.”
Elmer shook his head. “From what I could tell, his brain was normal. Didn't crack him open all the way. No reason. And, without any authorization from the family, I won't. They're already asking when they can have the body.”
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