Murder Most Strange

by Dell Shannon

  The back yard, perhaps forty by ninety feet, had been laid out as a garden of sorts, but not with flowers and shrubs; it consisted of neat rows with labeled stakes here and there. There was already a little stand of green corn, and Hackett recognized the lacy tops of carrots, that was about all. The body was sprawled out just in front of the rows of corn. They went closer and looked at it.

  It was the body of a man somewhere in his fifties, a thin stringy-necked man wearing ragged old trousers and a dirty white shirt. He had a bald spot on top of his head. And he had obviously sustained a savage beating, and died of it. His face was heavily bruised and battered, his nose mashed to one side, and there were darkening bruises on his bare arms, undoubtedly a lot more on the body.

  Hackett bent and felt him. "Cold. It didn't just happen. Four or five hours maybe."

  "Doesn't look as if there'll be anything for the lab, but you never know."

  "We do have to go by the rules." The man had apparently been weeding the garden; there was a long-handled hoe half under the body, nothing else around. But the encounter had, also obviously, happened right here; there were a lot of scuff marks in the loosened soil, several plants uprooted and wilting, some blood spatters, what looked like a knocked-out tooth.

  "It's funny," said Palliser, "that nobody found him before. Right out in the open." He looked at the house next door. On that side of the driveway there was a low cement-block wall marking the property line. They could see into a neat back yard with a strip of lawn, flower beds, a garage at the other side. In the other direction, there was another white picket fence, and the next back yard was not nearly so neat: a half-hearted attempt at a lawn, and children's toys scattered around, a bicycle.

  The whole neighborhood was as silent as the tomb. "Sunday," said Hackett. "People not home." They went back down the drive. Waring had Mrs. Coffman ensconced in the back of the squad. Hackett got in the front. At least he needn't be tactful with this one. "Who was he?" he asked bluntly.

  "His name's George Parmenter," she said promptly. "He owns the Independent Pharmacy up on Alvarado. Ran it for thirty years or more. His wife used to help him in the store, but she died about three-four years ago. I just live over on Laveta, go in the store all the time, and he knew I take on housework for people sometimes. Just since she died, and he was here alone, he had me come in to do the heavy work, every couple of months."

  "Miser, was he?"

  "Oh, my, say it twice, Sergeant."

  “Would you know if he had, well, any enemies? People he'd cheated maybe, or—"

  "Well, no, I wouldn't say that." She was disappointed about it. "When I say miser I mean he just squeezed every penny. I guess he was honest enough. I don't think he knew anybody well enough to have any enemies, Sergeant. Not that I knew him so good at that, but he never went anywhere but the store and home, and all his spare time he worked in his vegetable garden."

  "Well, thanks. We'll want you to come in and make a statement. Tomorrow will do." She was reluctant to leave, but finally got into the old Chevy parked ahead of the squad, and drove off. Hackett put in a call for a lab truck and got out to join Palliser in the street. "This is a funny little backwater, John. Twelve houses. Hardly more than a couple of hundred feet long. And a dead end. You'd think somebody along here would have seen or heard something. Let's go ask while the lab takes pictures."

  "It was probably this morning sometime. Obviously nobody heard anything or we'd have been called before. But for one thing," said Palliser, "I'd think the people along here would notice a strange car, one that didn't belong here. No harm in asking, anyway."

  Hackett took the house to the right of Parmenter's, the last house on the street this side. He had to push the doorbell twice before the door opened. He produced the badge and explained economically. She was a thirtyish, attractive woman, dark-haired, casual in jeans and blouse. Her eyes widened on him, and she put a hand to her mouth.

  "For heaven's sake!" she exclaimed. "Mr. Parmenter? Right next door— Oh, my goodness. That's awful."

  "Have you been home all day? Do you live alone, Mrs.—"

  "Hilbrand. No, of course not, yes, I have, but I haven't heard a thing. How awful. My husband took the children up to the zoo in Griffith Park, but I had one of my sinus headaches and didn't feel like going, I took a couple of codeine tablets— My heavens. I can't get over it—right next door—"

  "Did you know Mr. Parmenter well?"

  "Oh, no. He wasn't very friendly with neighbors, and besides he was away all day in his store, you know."

  Frustrated, Hackett joined Palliser two doors down. A couple of faces were peering out a front window there. Palliser said briefly, "Middle-aged couple named Klaber. Didn't notice a thing. She's been sewing all day in the den at the other side of the house, and he's been watching TV."

  Hackett massaged his jaw. "Damn it, you'd think, on a street like this— It's so damned quiet."

  "Isn't it?" said Palliser. "I think the strange car's the best bet. It's not a transient neighborhood, Art. The people along here would know each other's cars, casually notice a strange one—no reason to turn in here unless you were heading for one of these houses. There wouldn't be anything to worry them, just a strange car stopping at old Parmenter's place—if somebody was out working in the yard earlier today—-"

  They had time to kill while the lab men were busy. They split up again, across the street. On the narrow front porch of another square crackerbox, Hackett waited, and a fussy voice inside said, "I'm coming, I'm coming—yes?" The door was opened halfway, suspiciously. She was a stout elderly woman with frizzy white hair. He explained. She was alarmed, outraged, indignant. "Why, that's just terrible! To think of that poor man— No, I just knew him to speak to, but he'd lived here a long time, of course—such a respectable man, too— But this has always been such a quiet street, I don't recall we've ever had a burglary or even any vandalism along here, but these days . . ." Her name was Helen Lewis, and she was a widow who lived alone. “I haven't heard a thing all day, it's been a very quiet day. I was in the kitchen a good part of the morning, mixing up that casserole, and I always take a little nap after lunch—"

  Hackett joined Palliser. "Couple in the seventies there— Mr. and Mrs. Sadler. They were doing yard work in the back all morning. He's a little deaf."

  "Helpful," said Hackett.

  "Well, there's only seven more houses up to the cross street." The lab truck had arrived, and Waring gone back on tour.

  They proceeded on. Hackett talked to a youngish husband and wife named Anderson, who had been refinishing furniture in their garage and hadn't heard or seen anything unusual. To a stout spinster named Spooner who had been reading in her bedroom all day. To another middle-aged couple named Trask who had been watching old movies on TV. They were all horrified and alarmed at the news, asked questions and exclaimed, but none of them had any scrap of information to offer, and none of them had known Parmenter except by sight; he hadn't been very neighborly, they said.

  At the other end of the street he pushed the last doorbell. The door opened suddenly and he faced a large man with a cheerful Irish-looking bulldog face. Hackett recited the tale again. "For God's sake!" said the man. "Old Parmenter? I'll be damned!"

  "If you happened to notice a strange car around, anything unusual, Mr.—"

  "Branagan, Terence. I haven't noticed a damned thing, Sergeant," he said regretfully. "Fact is, I'm usually bushed on Sunday. I walk a damned long mail route, and come Sunday I just want to relax. My wife took the kids over to her mother's, and I've been half asleep in front of the tube, tell the truth. And all the time a thing like that going on." He went on to ask eager questions, and Hackett cut him off, walked across to join Palliser.

  "One young couple named Jepson," said Palliser, "who say the baby kept them awake all night and when they got her settled down they went back to bed again, about ten A.M. He's got enough muscles to beat anybody to death, he drives a cab for Yellow and looks like a prizefighter, but I do
n't suppose he's our boy. Another couple about thirty-five, the Kellers, who've been painting a back bedroom all day. And a deaf widower named Weekes."

  "Oh, for God's sake," said Hackett. A deathly hush lay over the little street; it was so quiet that they could hear a couple of mourning doves in the old elm tree in front of Parmenter's house the length of the street away. The morgue wagon was there now. "Well, the only answer is, he must have been knocked unconscious right away, didn't have a chance to fight back or make any noise."

  "Yes," said Palliser. "I suppose we'd better have a look through the house. There may be some lead to whoever hated him enough for that."

  There wasn't. Marx and Fisher were in the house now, being thorough, but it was the barest house Hackett had ever seen. There was a minimum of furniture, linen, dishes, a meagerly stocked refrigerator: not a book in the place, no desk, no visible correspondence. "He was a hermit," said Palliser.

  "There may be something at the store," said Hackett. "Some people must have known him, John."

  "Somebody knew him well enough to want him dead."

  It was nearly the end of shift. They had Parmenter's keys from his pants pocket, and told the lab men to lock up after themselves.

  * * *

  Late Sunday afternoon, as Mendoza was reading in a corner of the living room, he heard Alison come in with the twins and chase them upstairs to Mairi for their baths. They departed noisily comparing the virtues of the ponies, and Alison came wandering in with Cedric and sat down opposite him. Cedric flopped down at her feet, panting loudly. Her hair was a little disheveled and she was looking meditative.

  "They're getting to be quite good little riders," she said.

  "Fine," said Mendoza.

  "But," said Alison uneasily, "Ken says eventually we'll have to get a horse."

  "¡No me diga! ¿Para qué es esta? Why a horse? They won't be six until August."

  "Well, it's fine right now, but they're not going to be satisfied forever just riding around the ring, Luis. As they get more experienced they're going to want to take the ponies up in the hills, and of course Ken will have to go with them. He says just a quiet old nag of some sort, it needn't cost much. And he can add on room in the stable if he can get the lumber.

  "¡Por Dios!" said Mendoza.

  "He still hasn't located anybody to shear the sheep, he's been asking all the vets around. After all, nobody keeps sheep in L.A."

  "Nobody but us, fools that we are."

  "And, Luis, do you know that those ponies have finished another ten bales of hay? And the price it's gone to—"

  Mendoza regarded her with cynical amusement. "Don't say it, one thing leading to—"

  "Well, it seems to."

  "Hay," said Mendoza. "Sheep. A horse. My God, what next?"

  * * *

  The night watch didn't get a call until nine o'clock, and then the desk called up an attempted homicide. Conway and Piggott went out on it.

  It was a small apartment building on Marview Street, and Patrolman Bill Moss was waiting for them. "Where the hell are the paramedics? I called fifteen minutes ago—the girl's lost some blood."

  "What's it look like?" asked Conway.

  "Rape and stabbing. The roommate just came home and found her. Marcia Currier—the victim, I mean. The roommate's Evelyn Frost. She was at the beach with her boy friend all day. She says somebody must have broken in, but there's no sign of it—"

  "Oh, wait for it," said Conway. "Where?"

  "Apartment D upstairs.”

  They took the stairs fast. Apartment D was at the end of the upper hall; the door was open. In the middle of a small, brightly furnished living room there was a girl crumpled on the floor with a lot of blood around her, and another girl bending over her crying. She was a pretty, dark girl; the one on the floor was blond. She looked up wildly. "Where's the ambulance? Are you-"

  "Police. It'll be along. What do you know about this, is it Miss Frost?"

  "Yes, yes—nothing—I just found her—oh, Marcia darling—I can't imagine—we're both careful about keeping doors locked, and she'd never let a stranger in—he must have broken in—"

  "Has she said anything at all, has she been conscious since you found her?"

  "Yes, but it didn't mean anyth— She was t-trying to get up when I came in, she said my name— Where's the ambulance?"

  "Anything else?"

  She brushed back her hair, straightening up. "I don't think she was all the way conscious, didn't know what she was—Queer, she said something like Jekyll and Hyde—"

  "Oh, my sweet Christ!" said Conway disgustedly. "Dapper Dan. That's right, it's Sunday." And then the paramedics arrived, and took the girl out in a hurry, and the Frost girl went with them.

  Piggott looked at the bloodstains lugubriously. "Like the children of Israel," he said.

  "What the hell?"

  "Bricks without straw. He's hit, let's see, this is the ninth time, and the lab's never picked up a trace of him on any of them."

  "There's always a first time. I'll get a unit out." Conway started back downstairs to the squad.

  Piggott looked around sadly. The devil, these days, was getting out and around and accomplishing too much.

  * * *

  Monday was Palliser's day off. This would be a big day for Nick Galeano, who hadn't shown up yesterday at all; and it remained to be seen how many of the men at Robbery-Homicide, who'd worked with him for a good many years, could snatch the time to attend the wedding.

  Hackett had just finished telling Mendoza about Parmenter when the hospital called to tell them that Ken Price had died during the night. One more homicide to work. Hackett looked grim as he put the phone down and passed that on. Higgins, Grace, Glasser, Landers had hung around to hear about the new one. "Bal1istics said the slug was a thirty-eight, a Colt of some sort. Did that pharmacist make any mug shots, George?”

  "Nary a one, but you can't take it for granted he would. When people are scared and nervous they don't always see straight. He liked a couple of the pictures the computers turned up, said that was the type—big, brawny, and mean. One Leonard Osterberg, Ernest Docker, both counts of heists and violence. We haven't dropped on them yet, but Osterberg's former P.A. officer gave us a lead on him."

  "And now this damned rapist pulling another one. I wonder how the girl is."

  "I called when I saw Matt's report," said Mendoza. "She'll be all right. We can probably talk to her sometime today."

  "And we know what she's going to tell us," said Landers disgustedly.

  "That Coffman woman's coming in to make a statement," said Hackett. "We ought to have a look around Parmenter's store, see if any leads show there. I wonder if he hired any help. And we ought to get the autopsy report on Cooper today—"

  "Also anonymous," said Mendoza. "We seem to be getting them."

  "We never talked to her boy friend."

  "You have to wait for the Coffman woman. I'll do that," said Mendoza, "and the rest of you have places to go. Vamos and buena suerte.”

  * * *

  "Look, I'm damn sorry about it but I don't know one damn thing about it," said Jerry Wall.

  "So you won't mind answering a few questions," said Mendoza placidly. He had found Wall at the garage on Vermont where he worked, and Wall had reluctantly taken him into the closet-sized cluttered office of the owner.

  "Listen, I didn't even know about it till I went to pick up Marion on Friday night, this woman in the next apartment says she's dead! Look, it doesn't look so good, the fuzz come asking me questions—Mr. No1an's due back from the bank anytime—"

  "Anybody can be acquainted with a suicide," said Mendoza, getting out a cigarette.

  Wall looked at him uncertainly. He was rather obviously good-looking, a husky six-footer with overlong sandy-blond hair, a boyish face that ended in a narrow weak jaw. Mendoza put him around thirty-two or -three, but he looked younger: only the faint lines at eye corner and mouth gave him away. Like Landers, thought Mendoza amusedly, forever
being told he didn't look old enough for a detective; but that was a matter of shape and structure, and there was nothing weak about Tom's long jaw. "Did she kill herself?" asked Wall. "That woman didn't know much."

  "Why, were you expecting her to be murdered?" asked Mendoza, trickling smoke through his nostrils.

  "We1l, for God's sake, no! How should I know what happened?"

  "You were the steady boy friend, you'd know how she'd been feeling lately."

  "She never said anything— Only for a whi1e," he said sullenly. He hadn't sat down, leaned against the wall; his white T-shirt clung to his broad torso. "She had some other ones."

  "At the moment I'm interested in you. Where did you get together to make out?"

  "Listen, it wasn't nothing like that, Marion was a nice girl—I—we really hadn't been goin' together very long—"

  "Oh, now, come on," said Mendoza. "Give us the credit for some sense, Wall. I'm not going to swallow a tale that you took her out to a movie and bought her an ice-cream soda and kissed her good night at the door. Nobody's accusing you of anything, I just want the facts."

  "Oh, for Christ's sake!" said Wall roughly. "So all right, all right, there wasn't anything in it, see? Neither of us wanted to get hooked up again—at least I was lucky not to come in for the alimony, I could show the judge Marie was a lush and a tramp—but like you say, we wasn't kids, for God's sake. It didn't mean one damn thing, see? Like—like—" he cast around in his mind, and said ingenuously, "Like—one for the road. Just the good time."

  Mendoza eyed him thoughtfully, understanding that to perfection. The careless good time. No, it wouldn't have mattered much to either of them; and that, of course, was what was basically wrong with it. There had been a time when Luis Mendoza had subscribed to that simple philosophy too; only a fortuitous set of circumstances—and another rapist—had put more understanding in him.