Cooper By The Gross (All 144 Cooper Stories In One Volume)

by Bill Bernico

  “I’m afraid when it comes to this stuff, that I’d have to classify myself as apolitical. I don’t really follow politics. Who is it that’s running against Mayor Conrad?”

  “It’s an assistant to the county commissioner, Andrew Kohl. Ever heard of him?”

  My neck hairs snapped to attention. “Andrew Kohl?”

  “Yes. He’s the one with the ‘Clean Sweep’ campaign who swears he’s going to do something about corruption in government.”

  I pulled the car over to the curb and Anita gave me a strange look.

  “This isn’t anywhere near the mayor’s office, Matt. Why’d you stop here?”

  I turned to her and took a deep breath. “Anita, I’m going to trust you with something that I normally wouldn’t share. You know, client confidentiality and all, but this is important and you may not want to wait until after the election to look into it.”

  “What is it, Matt?” She said.

  “Well, you know the principle I told you about who’d trying to cover this thing up?”

  “Yeah.”

  “His name is Andrew Kohl, Sr. and the hit-and-run driver appears to be his son, Andrew, Jr.”

  Anita gasped. “Really?”

  “I’m afraid so, and if he gets to cover this up, my client’s fiancé’ will have died for nothing and I just couldn’t face the woman if that happened.”

  “Tell you what, Matt,” Anita said. “Drive me over to the mayor’s office, I’ll do my interview and then if you like I’ll go with you to secure those depositions. Shouldn’t take me but thirty or forty minutes. Will you wait for me?”

  I nodded. “I’d like that. It’d be good to have some company for a change.” I pulled away from the curb and drove on to the mayor’s office. I left Anita at the curb and told her I’d stay right where I was until she returned. Thirty-six minutes later she emerged from the mayor’s office and slid in next to me. We headed back to Western Avenue to see the bartender.

  I pulled up in front of Jake’s Bar and came around to open Anita’s door.

  “Ooh, such service,” she said. “This the place?”

  “One of ‘em,” I said. “Come on.”

  We entered the darkened bar and waited just inside the door for our eyes to adjust before we walked over to the bar. Jake was still behind the bar, tapping a beer for a customer. He set the beer down, collected his money and then came over to where we stood.

  “Jake,” I said, gesturing toward Anita, “This is Anita Clark. We like to ask you a few more questions about the black Lincoln you saw last Friday and about the man behind the wheel. It won’t take long, I promise.”

  “What Lincoln is that?” Jake said, surprised.

  “You remember. You told me you were on duty when the black Lincoln jumped the curb and hit that guy right outside your place.”

  Jake shook his head. “You must have me mixed up with some other guy. I didn’t see nothin’ or nobody.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “Say, what is this? I talked to you about the accident and you even said you saw part of the license number. You said there was a C and a 2 in it.”

  Jake shook his head. “Wasn’t me,” and walked away.

  Anita pulled me aside. “I think maybe someone got here ahead of you and greased a palm or two. You’re not going to get anything out of him. Come on, let’s try your other two witnesses.”

  I reluctantly left the bar with Anita and walked her across the street to Del’s Flowers. Del was waiting on a lady with a large bouquet of long-stemmed roses in a box. As soon as the woman left, Anita and I walked up to the counter.

  “Hello again,” I said to Del. “Remember me? I just wanted to ask you another question about the accident.”

  “And what accident would that be?” Del said.

  “You know, the one across the street with the black Lincoln that hit the kid on the sidewalk. You eve told me that you got a look at the driver’s face and that he had red hair and a mustache.”

  Del gave me a puzzled look. “Are you sure it was me you talked to?”

  “Yes, I’m sure,” I said impatiently. “Are you trying to tell me you don’t remember our conversation? I was standing right where I am now. I asked about your cream-colored Lincoln and then we talked about the accident across the street.”

  “Sir,” Del said, “I’m afraid you’re mistaken.”

  Anita could see my frustration and stepped up. “Did someone get to you? Did someone threaten you if you talked?”

  Del looked at Anita as if she’d just spit on him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, so if you will excuse me I have work to do.” And with that he walked away, leaving us standing there dumbfounded.

  I started after him but Anita grabbed me by the arm and pulled me toward the door. “Come on, Matt, it’s no use.”

  Once outside I turned to Anita. “Something’s awfully screwy here. Those two gave me details that I couldn’t have just plucked out of thin air. That information led me to the driver. How else would I have found him?”

  “And where was this third witness you said you spoke to?”

  I drove Anita a few blocks south and parked in front of the Western Avenue Bakery. “If someone’s getting to my witnesses, how would he know who I talked to and who I didn’t?”

  “If it is a cover-up,” Anita offered, “Whoever it is could have just canvassed this entire street, asking if anyone had been in inquiring about the accident. If that’s the case, you may just be out of luck. Let’s see what this guy has to say.”

  “Gal,” I said.

  “Huh?”

  “This gal. Let’s see what this gal has to say. It was a woman I talked to here.”

  Anita and I opened the front door to a tinkling bell and soon after the woman I’d spoken to before came out from the back room. Nothing in her eyes said she recognized me.

  “Can I help you?” she said.

  “Yes,” I began. “I was in here before and we spoke about the accident that happened up the street last Friday. Do you remember me?”

  “You do look familiar,” she said, “But then I see so many faces in a day that after a while everyone starts to look alike, know what I mean?”

  I put both hands in my coat pockets only because I couldn’t decide what to do with them. My right hand hit something and I pulled it out. It was the woman’s business card. I read the name on the front.

  “You’re Angie Sorrell, right?”

  “Yes, that’s me?”

  “And I was in here and we talked about the accident up the street and you said you got a look at the driver’s face and that he had red hair. Remember?”

  Angie face took on a puzzled look. After a moment she shook her head. “No, I’m afraid I don’t recall such a conversation.”

  I held the card out in front of her. “And you gave me your card,” I said. “You gave me details that I couldn’t have made up. You saw the driver and described him to me.”

  She looked down at the card. “Mister, I give out hundreds of cards every week. Why would I remember that one?”

  “Let’s go, Matt,” Anita said. “It’s no use.”

  Angie Sorrell just looked blankly at the two people before they left.

  “I think you may be right,” I said. “Somebody got to them, all of them.”

  “You talk to anyone else?” Anita said.

  “Yes,” I said. “A guy in a body shop and the guy in charge of the county fleet.”

  “Well?”

  We got back in the car and I drove back to Buford Lincoln on Santa Monica. I parked in the lot but didn’t see anyone around. It didn’t matter. I knew how to find the body shop. When I got to the other end of the lot I saw a sign on the body shop door that said that the body shop would be closed until late next week. I tried the knob but it was locked.

  I turned to Anita. “Boy, this is really starting to spook me. How can they possibly cover my entire trail?”

  “Well,” Anita said, “There’s still the county fleet guy. Le
t’s go see him.”

  “If it’ll do any good,” I said.

  We drove back downtown to the underground garage with the county fleet of Chevys still lined up against the back wall. I could see Clyde Cummings through the office window.

  I elbowed Anita. “That’s him.” I pulled her back out of view of the window. “If this things runs this deep, he’s gonna clam up, too. Wanna see what you can get out of him?” I told Anita what Clyde and I had talked about.

  “Sure, I guess it couldn’t hurt.”

  I stayed out of sight, but stood outside the office door so I could hear the conversation. Anita closed the door behind her and stepped up to Clyde’s desk.

  “Hello,” Anita said. “Are you Clyde Cummings?”

  He agreed that he was.

  Anita continued. “My name’s Anita Clark from the L.A. Times and with the election coming up soon we’re doing a story on county expenses and I was wondering if you could tell me a little about the size of the county fleet of cars.”

  “What did you want to know?” Clyde said.

  Anita pulled a notepad and pencil from her purse and flipped it open to the last page. “Well, for instance, how many cars do you have in the fleet?”

  Clyde pulled a clipboard off a nail on the wall, flipped the last sheet over and said, “As of today we have a hundred seven vehicles.”

  “I saw the row of Chevy’s when I came in here. Is that the only make you use?”

  “No,” Clyde offered. “We have some pickup trucks and some a few Oldsmobiles and three Buicks.”

  “Any Lincolns?” Anita asked casually.

  That question seemed to spark something in Clyde. “Lincolns? I don’t think so but let me check.” He checked a list on another clipboard, looked up at Anita and then back at the list, flipping it closed again. “No, just the General Motors cars. Anything else you wanna know about the fleet?”

  I opened the door and stepped inside to confront Clyde. “What about the smashed up Lincoln that mysteriously showed up here after disappearing just as mysteriously?”

  Clyde stood. “And who are you?”

  “Come off it,” I said. “You know damned well who I am. We’ve already had this conversation. Afterwards you paged the lot boy and remarked how different he looked with a haircut. Remember? Well, that kid’s name was Andrew Kohl, Jr., the son of some assistant commissioner upstairs.”

  “We don’t have any lot boy named Andrew,” Clyde insisted. “You must be mistaken.”

  “Look,” I said, “I followed Young Kohl upstairs and had a conversation with his father and now suddenly everyone’s got amnesia. He get to you, too?”

  “Get out of my office,” Clyde shouted. “You have no right to come around here making accusations.”

  “You think you’re playing this smart,” I said, “But you’ll just go down with him when he goes. And he will go, believe me.”

  “I’ll call security if you don’t leave.” Clyde said. “Go on, get out.”

  Anita and I left, got back in my car and headed back to the L.A. Times building. I let Anita off in front and leaned over before she left. “I’m not through with this yet,” I said. “I’ll let you know what happens. Meanwhile, if you have any markers you can call in, we could sure use them.”

  “Let me see what I can do and I’ll call you.”

  “Thanks, Anita,” I said, and pulled away.

  I drove back toward my office, wondering what I could do next. If Kohl’s goal was to buy or threaten the witnesses, I wondered why he hadn’t tried to bribe me off the case. It was just too much to think about. I’d take another stab at it in the morning. I just needed to stop off at my office for a few things before I drove home.

  I pulled up in front of my building and got out of my car. I hadn’t even gotten to the doorway when two men approached me. I turned and recognized Andrew Kohl and his son. Junior stood a little behind dad while Senior did all the talking.

  “Mr. Cooper,” Kohl, Sr. began. “I’m afraid I was a bit hasty with you in my office. Is there someplace we can talk this out like adults?”

  “Talk what out,” I said. “According to you, your kid is an angel who can do no wrong. Isn’t that the message you were trying to get across to me in your office?”

  “Please,” Kohl said, “Not here on the street. Can we go to your office?”

  Sharon Bembenek must have been patiently waiting nearby for my return because out of nowhere, she came running toward Junior, screaming and waving her hands in the air. She seemed like a woman possessed and her face showed a fury like I’d never seen before. “You killed Scott,” she yelled, still running toward Junior.

  Junior’s face quickly turned to one of terror and out of instinct he turned and ran. Sharon almost caught up with him when he pivoted and turned toward the street. He was looking behind him when he stepped out into the street, still running as fast as he could.

  Andrew Kohl, Sr. turned and yelled after his son. “Andy, look out.”

  But it was too little too late as the Ford Coupe’s front end connected with Junior’s body and sent him sailing through the air. His body came to rest forty feet or so down the street. His head hit the pavement and split open like a ripe melon. It was a sickening sound and it made his father scream out.

  Sharon stopped short of the curb and just stood staring at Andrew Kohl, Jr. lying on the pavement as dead as her Scott. She began to cry and soon had broken down altogether, sitting on the curb with her head in her hands.

  Kohl knelt next to his son’s crumpled body and wept uncontrollably, intermittently looking up at me and then down at his dead son. He just shook his head and rocked back and forth in that kneeling position. I actually felt sorry for him at that moment.

  The driver of the Ford got out of his car, dazed and with a blank look on his face. He looked at me and said, “I couldn’t stop. He came out of nowhere. I just couldn’t stop.”

  I told him that I’d seen everything and not to worry, that it wasn’t his fault. His hands were still shaking as he leaned against the dented hood of his car.

  A few minutes later I could hear police sirens coming closer and soon the area was awash with revolving red lights. It was ironic that it had ended like this. Chances are Andrew Kohl could have gotten his son off with involuntary manslaughter with no time served if they’d just played it differently. A powerful position like his was not without its advantages but there was no fixing his son now no matter who he knew or who he was.

  After the ambulance had left with Junior’s body and the police had all their questions answered, I took the elevator back up to my office and dialed Anita Clark at the Times. She agreed to have dinner with me. I didn’t feel like being alone on this night of all nights.

  21 - The Home Sweet Homeless Murders

  Sergeant Dan Hollister, one of L.A.’s finest, bent over to check for a pulse in the man’s neck. There was none, which didn’t surprise Hollister. He turned to Officer Fulton, who was making notes in his notebook about what he’d found while on his nightly patrol of the Hollywood streets that’s he’d been walking for the past six months.

  Hollister waited until Fulton had finished writing and then asked, “This the way you found him?”

  Fulton nodded. “Yes, sir. Just like that and right where he is now. I came back here after I heard a noise. Turned out to be a cat jumping on top of one of those garbage cans.” He pointed to an overturned can, its lid upside down, two feet away.

  Jack Walsh, the medical examiner, turned to Hollister. “How many does that make so far, Dan?”

  “Four this week alone,” Dan said. “Seven for the month. Must be some kind of record. Usually nobody bothers these guys.”

  “You know,” Walsh said, “I’ve often wondered if anyone keeps stats on just how many homeless there are living on the streets at any given time.”

  Dan shrugged. “Hard to say. They come and go all the time. It’d be impossible to keep an accurate count. My guess is somewhere around two to t
hree hundred in Hollywood alone. Probably double that downtown.”

  Walsh did a quick mental calculation and said, “Boy, at this rate they’ll have the town cleaned up sometime around July of ‘51. And that’s just Hollywood. Could take until ‘55 to cover all of L.A.”

  “All the more reason to find this maniac,” Dan said. “I know these people don’t enrich any of our lives or contribute anything to society, but they are still human beings and last time I checked murder was still illegal no matter who the victim is.”

  Another sound came from further in the alley and Dan jumped. He looked to see a gun in his hand.

  “Getting’ a little jumpy, aren’t you?” Walsh said.

  “Shhh,” Dan said, creeping closer to the sound. Fifty feet from where this last victim laid, Dan saw another shoe protruding from beneath a pile of cardboard. He nudged it with his foot and it moved. He backed up, pointing his gun at the cardboard pile.

  “Come out of there with your hands up,” Dan said. The shoe moved again and Dan could hear mumbling from somewhere under the pile of refuse. He pulled several pieces of cardboard from the piles with his left hand, all the while keeping his gun hand trained on the spot. He pulled one more piece off the pile and a dirty, unshaven face leered back at him from the darkness.

  “Come on,” Dan said, “Get up.” He kicked the shoe again. “I’m not going to tell you again.”

  The man staggered to his feet, brushed off bits of garbage from his coat and blinked his eyes several times, trying to focus. Hollister kept his gun trained on the man while patting the outsides of his pockets for a weapon. When he found none, Dan returned his gun to the holster beneath his arm and grabbed the man by his arm, guiding him over to where Walsh is still standing.

  “Did you see this?” Dan said, pointing at the body.

  The man nodded slightly and mumbled something Dan couldn’t hear.

  “How’s that?” Dan said. “Were you here when this man was killed?”

  The man was still trying to focus and then his lips started smacking. Dan grabbed his arm again and shook him. “Listen to me. Did you who killed this man?”

  “Uh huh,” the man said.