by Dell Shannon
Ken Price, the clerk, had taken a bullet in the lung and by now would be in Intensive Care at Cedars-Sinai. It might turn into a homicide.
"And he had a southern accent," said Burroughs. "Some kind of southern accent. He said you-all."
THREE
The Landerses both had Saturday off, which was convenient, but sometimes it created hell on Sunday mornings. When the alarm went off, they both erupted out of bed half awake and rushed around in the usual frenzy. Phillippa Rosemary—whose parents had naturally not known when they christened her so fancily that she'd grow up to be a staid policewoman—said crossly, rummaging for clean stockings, "It starts to look more attractive all the time, staying home and starting a family. Nothing but a glorified office job, showing the mug shots to the citizens—at least you get out on the street." She had been down in Records and Information since graduating from the academy.
"That's what I've been telling you," said Landers. They left separately, and at that Landers was the first man into the office. Mendoza was always late on Sunday if he came in, which he usually did just to see what was going on, though it was supposedly his day off. Landers was looking at the report the night watch had left when everybody else came drifting in, Hackett and Higgins, Grace, Glasser, Palliser. He passed it over to Higgins, who said, "Hell. A hair-trigger heister—all we need."
Hackett called the hospital; the clerk, Ken Price, was still alive but in Intensive Care. The pharmacist, Clyde Burroughs, was coming in to look at mug shots.
"And that Hamilton girl was supposed to come in to look at pictures when she's out of the hospital," said Higgins.
"Dapper Dan," said Hackett. "None of the other girls made him, but we can always hope." He called the hospital again; Cindy Hamilton was due to be discharged tomorrow. "And another couple of new heists to work. Mutt and Jeff again, well, we're pretty sure they're not in our records, nobody's made them either, but there are pretty good descriptions on these other two. Some lead may show."
Burroughs came in a few minutes later, and most of them trooped down to R. and I. with him. Landers introduced him to Phil, who settled him down in a cubicle with a couple of big books of mug shots. The relevant information they had was fed into the computers, and presently Palliser and Grace were handed half a dozen records which might belong to the big fat Negro heister: all men with likely backgrounds. There were only a couple of recent addresses, but you had to start from where you were. They went out on the hunt for those, and five minutes later Glasser and Higgins received four possibles on the other one, the hair-trigger heister, just by the description. There wasn't any mention of a southern accent but the records didn't include hometowns; it gave them places to look.
Mendoza came in about eleven, looked at the night report. Nobody had brought in any suspects yet. "I want to talk to Cooper," he said, depositing Piggott's report tidily in the desk tray.
"I figured, which was the reason I stayed in," said Hackett.
"Damnation, Wanda's day off. I suppose we ought to take a female along for form's sake, talking to the child—"
"Her father'll be there, and I take it the grandmother."
"Yes." Mendoza swiveled around in the desk chair, put out his cigarette, and picked up the phone. After an interval he talked to the same calm-sounding woman he'd reached on Friday, and was assured that Cooper was home and available. It was an old California bungalow on a narrow residential street in South Pasadena. The woman who let them in was also comfortable-looking, a round gray-haired woman in the late fifties, with steady dark eyes behind metal-framed glasses; she looked, in her plain cotton dress and unfashionable old- lady shoes, like a good cook and housekeeper, which she probably was.
The combination living-dining room was furnished with a jumble of old comfortable pieces of furniture blending together into hominess. Daniel Cooper had been sitting in a big armchair opposite a modest TV on a stand, reading the Times; he got up hastily to greet them.
"I wondered when you'd want to talk to me," he said. "Do you know yet what—what caused her death?"
"We haven't had an autopsy report, Mr. Cooper, but it looks rather definite that it was an overdose of phenobarbital."
“Oh, no." He shook his head. "That's—unbelievable. You mean—she meant to? No." There wasn't any sign of Harriet. Mrs. Cooper sat down quietly on the couch, watching and listening.
"Just what do you mean by that, Mr. Cooper?" asked Mendoza.
Cooper said mechanically, "Sit down, won't you. I'm sorry, but—" He was as nondescript and ordinary as the house, about thirty-five, medium height, a little round-shouldered, starting to lose his sandy hair; he looked like a solid stable citizen, not very imaginative. He sat down in the armchair again and looked at them, in the pair of chairs opposite. He said, "Marion? I'll never believe she committed suicide. She wasn't the type. She liked living too much—she was scared of death and dying, anything connected. She was always, well, cheerful and happy—outgoing do they say?—maybe that was the trouble. I suppose I should think about making some funeral arrangements, but I don't know—"
Hackett told him he'd be informed when the body would be released. "She didn't have any family?"
"No. No. Her mother and father were killed in an accident when she was only sixteen, there was an aunt she lived with after that, but she's dead now too. I'd be the only one to—"
"What do you mean, that was the trouble?" asked Mendoza.
"Well, the way she was," said Cooper. "Always wanting to go out, socialize, dances or movies, anywhere. She was immature. She was only nineteen when we got married, I thought she'd grow out of it, but . . . She just couldn't take responsibility. She didn't like housework or cooking, she didn't—well, do much of it. She thought—when the baby was on the way—that'd be fun, but after Harriet was born she was always complaining how much work it made. But—well, the eight years we were married—it wasn't good, or very—very comfortable, you know—but she was—" He hunted for words, came out with, "So damned cheerful. Happy. Irresponsible. I'd—maybe criticize her a little, she'd snap back or cry and three minutes later forget it. She'd never in this world have killed herself." ·
"That's interesting," said Mendoza noncommittally. "Which of you wanted the divorce?"
"Marion." He blinked and looked down at his hands. "I sort of resisted the idea on account of Harriet, and then I thought I might get custody—you see, it wasn't the usual thing, a man alone, I could give her a nice solid home with Mother—Dad finished paying off the house before he died eight years ago—but, well, judges tend to be unrealistic, I guess."
"We understand she was getting both alimony and child support," said Hackett.
"Yeah, that's right. It was a little piece out of what I make, but there it was. And at least I had Harriet on weekends, she was agreeable to that."
"Did you ever suspect that she was—mmh, misbehaving with other men, drinking too much, using any kind of dope?”
He looked astonished. "Marion? For God's sake, no! Where'd you get that idea? She had the right to date other men if she wanted—but Marion isn't—wasn't—the kind to go in for—"
His mother spoke up quietly. "No, to be fair about it she was a perfectly good-hearted girl." But her eyes held hidden anger. "Just irresponsible and lazy. She wasn't a good mother to Harriet, but by the grace of God Harriet's a sensible child, and at least we've had her a couple of days a week, give her a better background in life. She's so much like Dan, just naturally neat and clean and orderly."
"I still can't understand—how she died."
"Did she have trouble sleeping lately, would you know? Been taking any medication?"
"I don't know. She never did—when we were together. She didn't even like to take aspirin, it upset her stomach," said Cooper. "I suppose," he added suddenly, "it could have been an accident of some sort—some mistake. She was damn careless about a lot of things, if she'd had something like that around she could have mixed it up with something else, not realized she was taking it."
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"That's possible," agreed Mendoza. "Mr. Cooper, do you mind if we ask Harriet a few questions? We'll try not to upset her."
Cooper shrugged. His mother got up, said, "She's in her room," and went out.
Cooper said miserably, "I can't believe she meant—Oh, my God, if she'd been in any trouble of any kind she'd have known I'd try to help her however I could—she could have come to me—she was Harriet's mother, after all."
"When did you see her last, Mr. Cooper?" asked Hackett.
"A week ago Friday night, when I went to pick up Harriet after work. It was about seven-thirty. She—she seemed just like her usual self."
Mrs. Cooper came back with Harriet. Harriet looked a good deal happier today, an attractive, neat child in a pretty blue Sunday dress, more color in her face. Mendoza took her gently through it again, and it came out just the same. She'd gone to bed on Thursday night before Mama came home, she hadn't awakened or heard any noise, and she always got up and fixed her own breakfast, it wasn't till she came home from school she noticed Mama was still in bed.
Hackett asked her, "Do you know if she used to have something to drink before she went to bed? Something to help her fall asleep?"
Her grave eyes were thoughtful on him. "I guess she did sometimes. I sort of remember she said about it to Jerry. How it sort of helped settle her down when she was charged up."
"Jerry," said Mendoza. "Jerry Wall? Did he come to see her often?"
"Just when they were going out someplace, like a movie or something?
"Do you like him?"
"Oh, he's okay," said Harriet indifferently.
Cooper came out to the front porch with them. He said, "I suppose—I get custody automatically now? I hope so. But I just don't understand at all how it happened."
Mendoza switched on the ignition and Hackett said, "Well, that was a little exercise in futility. Why didn't you ask him where he was on Thursday night?"
"Obvio, amigo. He'd say, right here at home. Possibly his mother goes to bed early, but if she knew he'd been out she wouldn't tell us."
"Well, he had a motive of sorts—now he can keep his whole paycheck—but, Luis, how in hell could he have done it? If he'd been at the apartment the kid would have known, have heard him—"
"Not necessarily," said Mendoza. "He could have been waiting for her to come home, and. gone upstairs with her—no need to ring the bell. And suggested a drink—made some excuse—she wouldn't have suspected anything—"
"So she stood and watched him spike hers with the phenobarbital?"
"Now, Art. There are ways it could have been done, if you stop and think. Just at random, he could have said he needed her Social Security number for some insurance form—I'll bet you he's got his insurance made out to Harriet—and she wasn't a very smart girl, she'd swallow any story he gave her. And he fixed the drinks while she went to get her handbag—"
"You had her just coming home, she'd have had it right there handy. He seems like a perfectly straight citizen, doesn't strike me as a killer."
"Maybe so," said Mendoza, sounding dissatisfied. "But I'll have to agree with the witnesses we've heard—an empty-headed, shallow little female like that never turned into a suicide."
* * *
About a quarter of one, when Higgins and Glasser had just got back from an early lunch, a rather surprising report had just come up from R. and I. The routine query Mendoza had sent in on the M.O., the man with the Doberman, had turned up one other instance, last January out in the Sheriff's Department beat in West Hollywood.
"Oh, hell," said Higgins. "There's probably nothing at all to get, but somebody'll have to talk to these people." They hadn't dropped on any of the four possibles they were hunting, but had a lead to one now through his former P.A. officer. Glasser went out on that alone, and Higgins, after calling to find out if they were home, drove out to West Hollywood to see Mr. and Mrs. Robert Albrecht.
They were ordinary solid citizens, just slightly more affluent than average; he was a C.P.A. They remembered the occasion vividly, and told Higgins about it at length. They'd been on their way home from a visit to Albrecht's sister in Hollywood, it was about eight-thirty one Saturday night, and they'd stopped at a drugstore to get cigarettes, a few other odds and ends. Just by chance they'd parked around on a side street, pretty dark, down from Santa Monica Boulevard; and when they came back to the car, this man was walking toward them. With the dog. "A great big thing, one of these Doberman pinschers," said Albrecht. "I don't mind most dogs but I'm always leery of them. I was just unlocking the car when he came up, and all of a sudden he stopped, and looked at us, and then he said, ‘Excuse me.' "
"What?" said Higgins.
"That's right, he said, ‘Excuse me, but this is a trained attack dog and I'll set him at you unless you hand over your money.' "
"And?"
"Well, Betty let out a scream and told me for goodness' sake not to argue—"
"I've always been scared of big dogs," she confessed. "And it was so sudden—"
"How much did you give him?"
"I didn't have much on me, lucky for us. About twelve dollars. And he just took off, walking kind of fast, and we got in the car. I couldn't give you much of an idea what he looked like—it was damned dark on the side street. He was about five eleven, just a shape, had a hat on—tell you the truth, Sergeant, I was watching the dog more than I was him."
"A horrible big brute it was," she said with a shiver. "It had a head just: like a snake. I was petrified."
Just as Higgins had foreseen, that presented no lead to the enterprising heister with the Doberman.
* * *
Mendoza had gone home, and Hackett was alone in the office at a little past two o'clock; Landers and Grace had brought in a possible suspect and were closeted in an interrogation room. When Lake buzzed him, it was a Sergeant Tolliver of the Bakersfield force. "Sorry to have taken a while to get back to you, but we've been a little busy. This Bussard."
"What?" said Hackett, and then made the connection. "Oh, yes." Those bodies yesterday—Glasser had been on it, but he wasn't around now. "What have you turned up?"
"Nothing. The address you had, nobody there knows him. But there are a couple of Bussards listed in the city directory. You like us to follow it up and ask them?"
"We'll return the favor some day. It just looks like a straight murder-suicide, but we'd like to get it cleared up, and not stick the taxpayers for a funeral unless it's necessary."
"Okay, we'll get to it as soon as we can and get back to you."
"Thanks so much," said Hackett. And that reminded him of something else; he asked Lake to get him SID and asked if the morgue had sent over those slugs. It had, and the ballistics man said they were .38s. Glasser had also, of course, sent over the gun, and it was a match; the slugs were out of the old S. and W. .38. "This other one," said the ballistics man, "looks like another thirty-eight, probably a Colt of some kind. We'll get to it."
"Which other— Oh." The hospital would have sent in the bullet from Price.
"You'll get a report."
Lake buzzed him again and said, "You've got a new corpse."
"Oh, hell and damnation," said Hackett. "Where?"
Palliser came in just as he was leaving, and tagged along. It was a little street you'd never suspect was there, tucked away off one side of a side street down from Echo Park Avenue. Its name was Hope Lane. It was a dead-end street, with only six houses on each side: little modest old houses, stucco and frame, on standard city lots. The black-and-white was in front of the house last but one on the right side. As Hackett pulled up behind it and they got out, the street was very quiet; nothing stirred anywhere. Nobody seemed to have noticed the presence of the squad, or to feel curious about it.
The patrolman was Ray Waring; he was waiting on the sidewalk beside the squad, talking to a woman. "It's in the back yard," he told Hackett and Palliser. "This is Mrs. Coffman, she found him and called in."
She was, they saw instantly,
ghoulishly and gleefully pleased at her role in the affair. She was about fifty, neither fat nor thin, round-faced, dowdily dressed in blouse and skirt and run-over flat oxfords. Her pale-blue eyes glittered at them pleasedly as Waring mentioned their names.
"Pleased to meet you, I'm sure. The house was unlocked so I just called from there. I never had such a shock in my life."
If that was so, she'd gotten over it fast. "You see, how it was, he owed me twenty dollars. I came in and cleaned for him when he couldn't stand it any longer—how that man hated to part with money. I'd been here on Wednesday afternoon doing the windows and such, and when he got home he said he hadn't been to the bank, he'd pay me later. I dropped into the store to remind him—"
"What store?" asked Palliser.
"He had a pharmacy on Alvarado. He was a pharmacist. And yesterday he said if I dropped by today he'd pay me. That man. The bank charges for checks, he didn't like to use them. Just putting it off—a real miser he was—but he always paid in the end. And when he didn't answer the bell, I naturally figured he was in the back yard, he was quite a gardener, always working out there, about his only interest—so I went down the drive and there he was. Dead," she said enjoyably. "A11 bashed around—somebody had it in for him good."
Hackett exchanged a glance with Waring. "All right, Mrs. Coffman, if you wouldn't mind waiting a few minutes we may want to ask you some questions."
“I don't mind at all."
They went down the narrow drive. The house was an old frame bungalow painted white with green trim, very neat. There was about twelve feet between its side and, across the drive, the next house, which was a stucco pseudo-Spanish crackerbox. There wasn't a sound but their footsteps down the cracked-cement drive. The lot was probably the usual fifty by a hundred and fifty. At the end of the drive was a single frame garage, door open, with an old Ford sedan in it. Between garage and the back of the house was a white picket fence with a gate in it. The gate was open.