by Dell Shannon
“Dios, let's hope not, Art. If she cries like that on the stand, looking about three years old and begging Daddy to fix her doll, he won't get convicted of anything." He began to laugh again. "It's just what Alison says—another case of one thing leading to another!"
* * *
Bill Moss was riding a squad along Pico Boulevard about ten—thirty that night, when an old tan Buick ahead of him ran a light. There wasn't much traffic out and no harm was done, but examples had to be set and careless drivers warned. Moss speeded up a little and touched the siren, and half a block up the Buick pulled into an empty spot at the curb. Moss pulled up behind it.
He got out, automatically putting on his cap and feeling for the book of tickets in his pocket. And then, as he started up to the driver's side of the Buick, a cold finger went up his spine and he remembered the briefing at roll call the other day. All of them had been remembering that briefing wheneven they pulled a car over lately. And the Buick was wearing out-of-state plates. Leroy Rogers' mug shot had been reproduced and passed around. He was around here somewhere, and he was trigger-happy.
The plates on the Buick were Texas. It could be just a tourist, and you didn't want to give them a bad image of California cops; he couldn't go up there with his gun out, for somebody running a red light.
Between two footsteps he thought of it all: the chances: and any possible compromise. He'd gotten shot up a while ago, and he didn't like hospitals; he probably wouldn't like a niche in the mausoleum any better.
He walked up to the driver's window and before he got there he sang out in a genial voice, "Sorry to pull you over, sir!"
He got there. He looked down at Leroy Rogers behind the wheel, big and blond and armed and dangerous, and he grinned at him as friendly as a yellow pup and he said, "I'm not about to give you a ticket, sir, but I just noticed your tail 1ight's out, and I thought you ought to know."
"Oh," said Rogers. "Is it'?"
"Yes, sir." Moss leaned easily on the car door. "It looks to me as if somebody's banged into you, your tail pipe's knocked sideways too, could be dangerous. Some of these public lots, with females trying to park—you know."
Rogers grinned back, displaying a line set of white teeth. "Don't we know. Well, thanks."
"You'd better step out and take a look," said Moss. "That tail pipe's about ready to let go."
"For God's sake," said Rogers, "all I need, a repair bill."
The southern accent was pronounced. He opened the door and got out. Moss looked for the Colt, didn't see any bulges. Rogers walked toward the rear of the car, and Moss said, "Okay, Rogers, hold it! Spread 'em! Hands on the car." He poked the Police Positive into Rogers' back and brought out the cuffs.
Rogers was still telling him about his ancestry and habits, showing a colorful vocabulary, when Wray and Dunning came roaring up five minutes later. They found the Colt under the front seat of the Buick. Tomorrow, the front office would find out that the Buick had been stolen in Houston three weeks back.
NINE
On Thursday morning, with Hackett off, everybody was highly amused at the solution of the Upchurch case, and gratified at getting Leroy Rogers out of circulation. Everybody was also a little surprised at Higgins' reaction to Goodis and his pals: he cussed about that for five minutes until Grace said, "Just a gang of the usual stupid punks, George."
"Yes, I know," said Higgins, "but damn it, there was something about that got to me, Jase—that poor old woman. Anyway, we've got them, and what a hell of a job to clean up."
He got on the phone to Atlanta about Rogers; Atlanta would have priority, and probably send somebody to escort him back there.
Palliser, Landers, Glasser and Grace went out to discover where all the Patterson furniture had ended up. For once, nothing new had happened overnight.
Mendoza told Lake to phone the local press; he'd give them an interview at ten o'clock about Upchurch.
Marx called from SID just before the press arrived. "The morgue sent over the slug from your new corpse. We picked up some ejected cartridge cases in that parking lot, so it came as no surprise. It's a thirty-two automatic, probably an old Colt. You ever pick it up, we can tie it in."
"Gracias," said Mendoza. That was just up in the air, no leads at all, no kind of description.
When the press showed up, he gave them the bare facts on Upchurch, and they were very happy with the story. "Hot damn," said the Times man mildly, "another great leader shows feet of clay. It'll make a nice second subhead, Lieutenant, of course it'd rank real headlines if he'd already been elected."
"And everybody forget about it the next day," said the Herald sadly. "I suppose there's not a hope of getting at Powell for an interview, but the girl . . ." They went away to write their stories, and Mendoza reflected that they were going to be wild about Rosalie; he laid a private bet with himself that large pictures of Rosalie were going to appear in the papers, whether they paid much attention to Powell before the arraignment.
Lake came in and said there was a Mr. Chalfont asking to see him.
"Oh? Well, bring him in."
There entered a short stout dark man in an ill-fitting bright brown suit. He said, his eyes sliding away from Mendoza's, that he was Gregory Parmenter's lawyer. "I have been out of town, and I've just learned of his very regrettable death—not being able to contact him, I went to the pharmacy, and a Mr. Rauschman"—his prim mouth twitched disagreeably—"at the establishment next door informed me—"
"Oh, yes," said Mendoza. "What can we do for you, Mr. Chalfont?"
"The keys to the house. I believe the police must have them. And to the pharmacy. I am putting the will in probate, of course, and must have access."
Mendoza had forgotten the keys; the feds had handed them back, and he rummaged in the top drawer of the desk, found them and handed them over. "There was a will?" He was, for no reason, surprised. "May I ask you how it reads?"
"I expect you would be interested," said Chalfont grudgingly. "Everything is left to his only relative, a niece living in Colfax. Of course the first thing I must do is arrange a funeral. That will be extremely simple—Mr. Parmenter was an atheist, and would deplore any elaborate service."
And that was not at all surprising, considering what they knew about Parmenter. Mendoza sat back, after Chalfont had sidled out, and thought about Parmenter. He had said to Hackett, he supposed the only answer on Parmenter was one of the brotherhood, but how likely was that, really? He wondered if Chalfont was another member of the brotherhood, and decided that he probably was. What kind of quarrel could there have been between Parmenter and one of the brothers? Possibly Parmenter had ambitions toward taking over the local leadership—but when you thought about it, as Grady had said, men like that were unimportant men, failures in life, and not (like the real terrorists) men of action. They got their kicks out of producing the hate literature; could you see one like that actually taking the personal violent action?
Well, it was an academic question—Mendoza yawned and stretched—and he supposed he'd better do some work, help out on the Patterson thing; there was a lot of paperwork still to do.
By midafternoon, they had all the furniture spotted and being transported into the police garage, the only space for it temporarily. The family could come and identify it tomorrow, and then they could have it back; it couldn't be left to clutter up the place. This case was costing time and money. And, Grace pointed out, the city would have to pay the transport charges to get it back to the family, not their fault, they couldn't be stuck with the delivery charge.
Higgins and Landers had no sooner landed back at the office after lunch than they had to rush out again, to a body in a hotel room over on Temple. When Higgins came back to write the report, he said, "Another damned anonymous thing. That place isn't so much a hotel as a cheap rooming house, the clerk on the desk is more like a manager and rent collector. The roomers—ninety-five percent male—next door to being derelicts, picking up the part-time jobs—a scattering of oldsters o
n Social Security—some of them on the way down and out.”
"I know the type. So?"
"So, this Thomas Fuller. He's been there about a month. Man around fifty, nondescript. Comes and goes, nobody knows if he has a job or what it is. He came in last night, says the clerk, about eight o'clock, with another man. He can't describe the other man. They were arguing about something, he thought, can't say about what. An hour and a half ago a tenant who lives down the hall came home, noticed Fuller's door open and him sprawled on the floor. He's been shot—somebody used the bed pillow to muffle the noise. I left the lab there and Tom trying to get some answers out of the other people at home."
"Bricks without straw," said Mendoza absently.
"You can say so. The room on one side of his is empty, but I want to talk to the fellow in the one on the other side, what's his name, Gillespie, but he isn't home. The clerk says sometimes he doesn't come back for a couple of days, doesn't know where he goes, but he's paid up so he probably will be back. See if he heard anything, or saw the man who came in with Fuller. My God, what a place." Higgins sorted out carbon, rolled the triplicate forms into his typewriter.
Palliser and Glasser came back to write the inevitable follow-up reports on the disposition of evidence in the Patterson case. Wanda was down at the D.A.'s office giving moral support to Rosalie Packard. The office was clinking along quietly at normal speed, about three o'clock, when a man came rushing in and said loudly to Lake, "Sergeant Palliser—I've got to see Sergeant Palliser! By God, they both thought I was crazy, but I found it! Is Sergeant Palliser here?"
Palliser went out to the corridor, and Carl Trotwood gave him a vast beaming grin. "I know you thought I was crazy, Sergeant—eager beaver amateur imagining things, hah? But I knew I'd seen it—a photograph of that killer—and I got to wracking my brains, where the hell could it have been? Only one logical answer, I says to myself, and I've been looking—because I subscribe to all of 'em, all the true detective magazines, and I save 'em, I've got a big collection. I've been back through the last six months of issues, whenever I got time, ever since that happened. And just now, I'm on my coffee break at work, I pick up this one, and there he is, by God!" He thrust a magazine with a garish cover at Palliser; he had a slip of paper marking the page, and opened it and folded it back and jabbed his finger at it. "That's him, Sergeant—I'd swear it on a stack of Bibles—that's the guy who stabbed that fellow."
Palliser took one look and prodded Trotwood into Mendoza's office. They spread the magazine on Mendoza's desk and skimmed through the story hastily. The magazine was a four-month-old copy of Master Detective, and one of its features appearing every so often was "Do You Remember This Unsolved Case?" "That," said Trotwood triumphantly again, "is him." The full-page photograph on the left-hand side had been blown up from a much smaller candid shot, but it was clear enough: a nice-looking boy about nineteen or twenty, with an engaging grin, fair hair, a pointed chin, wide-set eyes.
Mendoza skimmed through the story, Palliser reading over his shoulder. Six years ago, two young college kids on a date, Don Holland and Jean Tuesche: students at Pasadena City College. They'd been parked in a lovers' lane above Altadena when a man drove up, put a gun on them, locked Holland in the trunk, drove off elsewhere, eventually raped and killed the girl and nearly killed Holland. They were found the next day up by Devil's Gate Dam. But Holland, evidently keeping his head and thinking coolly, had memorized the plate number of the killer's car. He had scrawled it on his shirt cuff while he was locked in the trunk, before the killer beat him up so badly he had to have brain surgery. The Pasadena police had run a make on it, and it belonged to a man named Floyd Seacarn.
They found the car abandoned in a lot on Third Street in L.A., and they traced Seacarn to a nearby hotel, where he'd been registered for four days. Holland had given them a description: a medium-sized man about fifty-five, brown hair, glasses. Seacarn had a record in San Francisco and Fresno of rape, attempted rape, assault with violence; he'd just been released from Susanville where he'd been serving a five-to-ten for assault with intent. But that was where it ended; they'd never picked him up; he had vanished into the blue.
"¡Como no!" said Mendoza softly. "¿Cuanto apuestas—how much do you bet?"
"Six years," said Palliser. “Where is he now?"
"Around. Obviously."
"He's got to have turned into a nut," said Trotwood excitedly, reminding them that he was there. He'd have simply loved to stay and watch them work it, but they showed him gently out, with fervent thanks. Carl Trotwood had broken the case for them, and they were grateful, but they would have to take it from there, the professionals.
"Six years," said Mendoza. The story said that Holland had been living with an aunt and uncle, Mr. and Mrs. William Holland, in Altadena. Palliser got out the phone book and looked; they were still listed.
"Delicate approach shot," said Mendoza, who had never played golf in his life. Lake got him the number and a rather shaky elderly voice answered. "Mr. Holland? Lieutenant Mendoza of the Los Angeles police. I'm sorry to remind you of that old murder case, sir, where your nephew was involved . . . Yes . . . Well, there may be some fresh evidence, and we'd like to talk to your nephew. Is he still living with you? . . . Oh, I see. Yes, please . . . Thank you very much, sir."
He put the phone down. He said tersely to Palliser, "They weren't sure he'd recover fully, the doctors were afraid of irreparable brain damage, but he apparently got over it just fine. He dropped out of college and he's currently working on the maintenance crew at the Wilshire Country Club. Has an apartment in Hollywood."
"Let's go find him," said Palliser, equally terse. The Wilshire Country Club was a sprawling piece of greenery surprisingly more or less in the middle of Hollywood, below Melrose, between June and Rossmore Streets. They took Palliser's car, in case they'd be bringing him back.
It was a nice spring day and there were a number of golfers out on the pretty green lawns. There was a clubhouse, empty, and a building for maintenance equipment. There, a big farmerish-looking man was working on one of the riding lawn-mowers. Mendoza asked if Holland was working today.
The man straightened up and looked at them, and put down the wrench in his hand, substituted a pair of pliers. "Him," he said. "He got fired a month ago. Half the time never showed up, and acted queer as Dick's hatband when he did."
"What's the address?" asked Palliser back in the car.
"Leland Way."
That was the middle of old Hollywood, all much run down and showing its age. When they found it, it was one of the garish jerry-built little garden apartments, but minus a pool. Don Holland's apartment was at the back on the ground floor. Palliser shoved the bell, and they waited; nothing happened and he shoved it again. Mendoza reached past him and tried the door; it opened and they went in.
The little living room was in the wildest disorder, clothes, book and magazines scattered all over on every surface and the floor, and the room was crowded with furniture, a big stereo cabinet, a TV, oversized couch, two armchairs; but the first thing they saw was the knife. It was an ordinary big bread knife with a long serrated blade, and it hadn't been washed since the last time it had killed; it was covered with ugly dark-brown stains. It was lying on top of a dirty white shirt on the TV.
Don Holland was sitting in an armchair in front of the TV, but the TV wasn't on. He looked much, much older than the picture in Master Detective, which had been taken at his high school graduation; but he was only twenty-five now.
"Hello, Don," said Palliser quietly.
Holland looked up slowly. "Well, hello," he said, and a vaguely pleased smile came over his face.
"We'd like to talk to you," said Palliser. There was an unfolded newspaper on the floor, and he tore off the top page—which bore a large picture of Upchurch—and slid the knife onto it. "About this. We're police, Don."
"Oh," said Holland. Then he said rapidly, "The police tried, they were all good men, all good men, you know."
"Don," said Mendoza. "What did you want this knife for? What have you been using it for?"
"It's nice to have someone to talk to," said Holland, blinking. "When did you come? I don't remember. I haven't really had anyone to talk to for a long time. And it would help to talk, because I've been feeling—kind of confused."
"You go right ahead and talk, we'd like to listen, Don," said Palliser.
He smiled at them a little uncertainly. "You see, I never forgot Jeanie, of course. But for a while there, all that—was sort of at the back of my mind. But it's since her birthday—her birthday was March the seventh, and I took some flowers to her grave in Forest Lawn—yellow roses because they were her favorite—I couldn't stop thinking about him. He never paid for what he did to Jeanie."
"Seacarn," said Mendoza very softly.
"That's his name. I knew he was down there somewhere—around where they found his car. He was still there. And I had to kill him, for what he did to Jeanie. I've been out—nearly every day—hunting for him. Because I knew he had to be there. Somewhere down there. And I knew what he looked like, I'd recognize him."
"And did you?" asked Palliser conversationally.
Slowly he nodded. "Yes, I did. I found him—and I knew him right away—but you see, he's very clever. He can change his face so he looks different. At first, I knew it was him, and then he changed—he got away again—but I kept looking. And I found him again. I had to find him—to keep on finding him—to make him pay for Jeanie. But it's been—awfully confusing, you know. I'm glad to have someone to explain it to."
"We know some people you'll like talking to even better than us," said Palliser. "They understand confusing things like that, and maybe they'll help you understand it better. If you don't mind going somewhere to meet them."
"Oh, I don't mind at all, I don't seem to have really talked to anybody in a long while," said Holland dreamily.
The phone was in the kitchen. Mendoza went to use it, and fifteen minutes later the ambulance arrived. They followed it out to Cedars-Sinai. The psychiatrist they talked to, a bouncy little man named Steiner, was interested. "There could have been brain damage not immediately detectable," he said.