by Bill Bernico
I rose early that morning in late November. Amy was still fast asleep and my new son, Clay still hadn’t stirred. I looked at the wall clock in the kitchen. It was just past six a.m. and my day of investigations was just about to get under way. I’d been hired by an insurance company to get proof that one of their client’s employees had filed a fraudulent disability claim. I left my suit hanging in the closet and opted for a more casual ensemble to better blend in with my surrounding while keeping an eye on Henry Carpenter.
Carpenter had claimed that he’d fallen on a slippery floor in the factory where he riveted aluminum light fixture parts together. A preliminary investigation by the company’s foreman, Hank Fleming, had been included in the report that they’d turned over to me. They suspected Carpenter had spilled a little oil on the floor and then when he was sure there were enough witnesses in the area, took a well-choreographed fall and stayed down until the ambulance attendants hauled him away on a stretcher. Since that day five weeks ago, Henry Carpenter had been unable to lift anything heavier than two pounds. At least that’s what his disability claim stated.
I had scoured the records looking for anything I could use to help with my investigation into the man who was apparently trying to make a living off his ability to fake an injury. So far all I had was a name and address and whatever else had been in his employee file. If I wanted to expose this guy for fraud, I’d have to be just as clever as he was, if not more so.
I’d finished my breakfast and had left my dishes in the sink. I was about to leave when I saw Amy standing in the doorway to the bedroom. Her hair was messed up and she was yawning and scratching her neck. I smiled at her and she tiptoed over to me, giving me a kiss and then wrapping her arms around me.
“Good morning,” she whispered, not wanting to wake Clay just yet.
“Clay still sleeping?” I said, gesturing with my chin toward the crib in our room.
Amy nodded and held one finger up to her lips, guiding me away from the bedroom. She walked back to the kitchen with me and poured us both a cup of coffee. We sat across from each other and tried to talk in a soft voice, but apparently it wasn’t soft enough because just then Clay woke up and started in with his high-pitched wailing.
“Looks like he wants his breakfast, too,” Amy said, rising from the table and returning to the bedroom. When she came back to the kitchen, she was holding our son in her arms. She sat at the table again. I opened the cupboard door and pulled a sauce pan from the shelf, filling if halfway with water from the sink. I set it on the stove and turned on the burner. Amy had prepared several bottles ahead of time and had set them in the refrigerator for later use. I pulled one of the bottles from the refrigerator and set it in the water in the saucepan. A few minutes later I pulled the bottle out of the water and sprinkled a few drops of the formula on my wrist. It was just the right temperature. I handed the bottle to Amy and she gently eased it into Clay’s mouth. He found the nipple and latched onto it, sucking like it some was something he’d been born to do.
Amy and I had brought Clay home from the hospital just four months ago and he seemed so tiny at the time at just over seven pounds. His weight had more than doubled by now and holding him for prolonged periods usually meant having a place to sit with him. I looked down at my wife and son and my heart soared. I’d never been happier in my life.
I bent down and kissed Clay on his head and then turned to Amy and kissed her as well before heading for the door.
“I’ll see you tonight,” I said, closing the door behind me.
My office was a mere ten-minute drive from our home, which had been Amy’s house before we married. I’d sold my house to move into Amy’s after we were married. I parked in the lot behind my office building and entered through the back door. I took the elevator up to the third floor and walked to the end of the hall where my office occupied six hundred square feet.
I opened my office door, picked up the mail that had been dropped through the slot and dropped the envelopes on my desk. I hung my hat and coat on the coat rack, leaving my shoulder holster and .38 hanging under my arm. I started right in with the morning mail.
The first envelope was junk mail. I could tell that without even opening it. It went directly into my trashcan. The next two envelopes were bills from the utility and phone companies. It was the fourth envelope that held my interest. It was from the Thomas Banning Company who’d hired me to gather evidence on their employee who’d filed a claim for disability insurance.
Inside I found a check for my retainer and a copy of the standard contract I’d signed with them last week. I slipped the contract into my desk drawer and folded the check, stuffing it into my shirt pocket. I’d deposit that later this morning on my way downtown.
I looked at the notes I’d gotten on Friday from Howard Huggins, the personnel manager with the Banning Company. I knew exactly where I needed to start my surveillance of Henry Carpenter. I went to my closet and pulled a small case off the shelf and laid it on my desk. In the corner of the closet I picked up a briefcase and laid that on my desk as well. I closed the closet door and returned to my desk. The briefcase held my Nikon thirty-five millimeter camera on one side and a small eight-millimeter movie camera on the other. Both were loaded with film and ready to go. The smaller case held my binoculars with the neck strap.
I carried both cases out to my car and started off toward Pasadena where Carpenter lived. When I got within a block of his house, I parked at the curb and slumped down in my seat, resting as much as I could. When Carpenter came out later, I’d have to be ready to move. I’d sat here like this for several days last week and had come up empty. Carpenter hadn’t done anything that would incriminate himself. Hopefully that would all change today.
I sat there in my car for more than an hour before I finally noticed someone coming out of Carpenter’s front door. I checked the photo that came with Carpenter’s employee file and compared it to the man on the front porch. It was Carpenter, all right. He walked toward his driveway, where his Chevrolet Coupe was parked. He didn’t seem to walk any different than someone who wasn’t disabled. He backed his Chevy out of the driveway and headed off down the street. I followed at a safe distance for several miles. Carpenter pulled up to the curb in front of an equipment rental store and got out.
I stayed a block back, watching through the binoculars, waiting for him to come out of the store again. When he emerged, he was wheeling a two-wheeled cart in front of him. I noticed he was pushing a jackhammer and an air tank. I laid the binoculars down on the seat next to me and pulled the camera from my briefcase. Carpenter opened his trunk and laid the handle of the cart on the rim of his open trunk. I rested the long lens of my camera on my windowsill and snapped several shots of Carpenter lifting the wheel end of the cart up and into his trunk, closing the lid behind him.
I laid the camera on the seat and pulled away, still a safe distance behind Carpenter’s car. He drove straight home again and reversed his actions, lifting the wheel end of the cart down to the driveway and then standing the cart upright. I took several more pictures of him unloading the jackhammer, hooking up the air hose to the portable tank and backing his car out of the driveway again. That was it for the thirty-five millimeter camera for now. I pulled the eight-millimeter movie camera out, twisted a telephoto lens onto the end of it and aimed it out my car window.
I used a whole roll of film, getting Carpenter in action using the jackhammer to break up the concrete in his driveway. He’d switch off between hammering the concrete and picking up the big chunks and dropping them into a wheelbarrow. When he had three or four good-sized pieces in the wheelbarrow, he’d grab the handles and push the broken cement pieces to his back yard and dump them out, only to return to the driveway and start the procedure all over again. If he had a bad back, you couldn’t tell it by me.
When I’d finished with the roll of movie film, I took a few more still shots of Carpenter hammering, picking up and wheeling cement from his driveway. When I felt I had enough evidenc
e to bury Carpenter, I put the cameras and the binoculars back into their cases and drove back to my office. I had a feeling that by this time next week, the disability checks to Henry Carpenter would cease.
I unloaded the film from both cameras, put them in their containers, labeled them with the date and time and finished filling out my report to the Banning Company. We had agreed on a flat fee for my services, so it didn’t make any difference that I’d been able to get the evidence I needed in just a few days. I called Howard Huggins and told him I’d be there early in the morning with the evidence. He said that would be fine and hung up.
I took the two containers of film directly to a film processing establishment on Santa Monica Boulevard. A drug store would have taken several days, but this place said I could pick up the prints before five o’clock the same night. They were ready as promised and I took the packages home with me for safe keeping.
The next morning I called the Banning Company and told Howard Huggins’ secretary that I could be there within the hour with the evidence he needed to prosecute Henry Carpenter for fraud. I took the two packets I’d gotten from the film processing place along with my report out to my car and drove to the Banning Company to see Huggins.
I found Howard Huggins’ office on the fifth floor. His secretary asked me to wait while she announced me. A minute later she escorted me into the inner office and up to Huggins’ desk. Huggins stood and extended his hand. I shook it and sat where he’d directed me.
“So, Mr. Cooper,” Huggins said, “what did you find out about our Mr. Carpenter?”
“I can tell you with certainty that there is nothing wrong with his back, Mr. Huggins,” I said. “These prints and this film should be all you need to prosecute Mr. Carpenter for fraud. I handed over the two packets.
Huggins quickly looked at the prints and then pressed the button on his intercom. “Miss Lawrence, would you have one of the maintenance men wheel in my projector right away?”
“Yes, Mr. Huggins,” the secretary said.
Several minutes later Huggins’ office door opened and a man dressed in gray slacks and a matching shirt with ‘Woody’ stitched above the pocket came in wheeling a utility cart with an eight-millimeter film projector on it. He set it near the wall and plugged it in. Huggins handed him the reel of film and Woody threaded the projector with it.
“Get the lights, would you, Woody?” Huggins said. “And close the door on your way out.”
Woody hit the light switch and let himself out of the office. Huggins aimed the projector at a blank wall and turned it on. We both watched as Henry Carpenter unloaded the jackhammer and set about ripping up his driveway, hauling away large chunks of cement with a wheelbarrow in between. When the film ended, Huggins turned off the projector while I turned the lights back on again. I looked at Huggins, who had a wide grin on his face.
“Mr. Cooper,” he said, “You may not get an Oscar for your work, but you will certainly have the Banning Company’s gratitude for a job well done.” He slid his desk drawer open and handed me an envelope.
“Thank you, Mr. Huggins,” I said, opening the envelope and looking at a company check that had been made out for a hundred dollars more than we had agreed on. I nodded at Huggins and smiled. “And thanks for this,” I said, nodding at the envelope in my hand. “That’s very generous of you.”
“You’ve more than earned it, Mr. Cooper,” Huggins said. “And you’ve probably saved the company thousands in payments to this fraud. I’ll keep your card on file and if we ever need investigation services again, we’ll be sure to call on you.”
“I appreciate that,” I said. “Good day, sir.”
“It certainly is,” Huggins said as I left his office.
I stopped at the bank on my way back to the office. I put the check in my checking account, keeping out twenty dollars for spending money. I parked on the street since there was an empty space almost directly in front of my building. I’d walked only a few steps when something made me look across the street.
On the south side of Hollywood Boulevard a crowd had gathered around a large man, whose head stuck up about the rest of the people by a foot or more. He looked down at the people who had surrounded him and he seemed to be handing something to some of the people. My curiosity got the better of me and I walked back to the corner and waited for the light to turn green and then crossed to the other side. As I got closer I could see that he was handing out advertisement fliers for Jacob’s Big and Tall Shop, a clothing store that catered to larger men. Since I was average size and had no need of a discount coupon, I walked away, back to the intersection. I was about to go into my building when I heard a loud crack and quickly spun around.
The crowd across the street had scattered in every which direction and lying on the sidewalk was the big man who’d been handing out advertisement fliers. I looked both ways down the boulevard and dashed between traffic to make it to the other side. The large man’s head was all but gone, a bloody stump of a neck bleeding out onto the sidewalk. I drew my .38 and spun around, looking for anyone with a gun. I didn’t see anyone anywhere. Still crouching, I hurried into Jacob’s clothing shop and found a clerk behind the counter.
“Where’s your phone,” I said.
“What happened out there?” The woman asked.
“Your phone?” I repeated.
The woman started to walk toward the front door but I pulled her down on the floor. “Stay put,” I barked. “It’s not safe out there.”
I dialed Lieutenant Dan Hollister’s direct number and waited. His secretary, Hannah, picked up on the second ring.
“Lieutenant Hollister’s office,” she said.
“Hannah,” I almost screamed, “I need to talk to Dan right now. Hurry.”
I got Dan immediately and told him about the headless man lying on the sidewalk in front of Jacob’s. Our conversation lasted exactly ten seconds before he told me he was on his way and hung up. I waited, still crouching inside the store. Less than six minutes later several black and white radio cars pulled up in front of the store. Officers got out of the cars and scattered in four directions, their guns drawn. Dan hurried into the shop and found me at the counter.
“What happened here, Matt?” Dan said.
“I don’t know,” I said. “I was about to go into my building when I heard a cracking sound. When I looked across the street the crowd that was milling around earlier all ran for cover and I saw the big guy out there missing his head. Then I called you.”
“Where do think the shot came from?” Dan said.
I shrugged. “Best guess would be from someplace high up across the street.”
“Let’s go,” Dan said.
“Where?” I said.
“Out there,” Dan said. “He’s probably still in the area.”
“Exactly,” I said, “and I’d like to keep my head for a while longer, if it’s all the same to you.”
Dan looked out the front window of Jacob’s and saw an officer looking upward and waving to someone. Then he turned toward the store and motioned to Dan. Dan opened the front door and peered out. The officer on the street called to him.
“He’s gone, sir,” the officer said.
Dan and I walked outside and looked up to where the officer had been waving. Another officer waved from the roof of my building, motioning for us to come up. Dan and I brought two officers with us and rode the elevator to the top floor of my building and then took the stairs to the roof. The rooftop officer motioned us over to the edge of the roof, which was surrounded by a two-foot high cement wall, capped off with terrazzo tiles.
“Over here, sir,” the officer called to Dan.
When we got to where the officer was standing he pointed to a spot on the surface of the roof. Lying there was a spent rifle cartridge. Dan withdrew a pencil from his pocket and inserted it into the open end of the shell casing. He held it up close to his face, trying to read the numbers on the rim.
“Looks like a 30-06,” Dan said. “Pro
bably hollow point, from the way it took off most of that man’s head.” He gestured down toward the street.
I scanned the rest of the area, looking for anything else that might provide any additional information about the man who’d just shot someone on the street for no apparent reason. Some of the pea gravel had been disturbed here, but it was probably just where the gunman’s foot had slipped. There was no way to tell anything further from just that. Dan looked at the tile capping on the roof surround and then called to the officer who’d remained by the rooftop door.
“Call the lab and have then send a crew up here with a fingerprint kit,” Dan barked.
“Right away, sir,” the officer called back before disappearing down the stairs.
“Kind of strange, isn’t it, Matt?” Dan said. “You’d expect to find a note or list of demands, anything, but there’s nothing here.”
“Maybe it’s not someone who wants anything more than revenge for whatever reason,” I said. “And if that’s the case, there will be more killing before this is over.”
“Yeah,” Dan said. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
Dan left an officer to protect the scene until the lab crew could get here. He and I went back down to the street and found the man’s headless body had been covered with a blanket from the back of one of the radio cars. The police photographer already got the shots that he needed of the body, the immediate area surrounding the body and some shots of the roofline of my building. As per Dan’s instructions, he also took some candid shots of the onlookers, figuring that the shooter might just be among them. A few minutes later the medical examiner, Jack Walsh, arrived with his men to take the body away.
Walsh pulled the blanket back for his initial look at the victim and then dropped it again. “Oh man,” Walsh said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “That one’s as bad as any I’ve ever seen.” He looked at Dan and said, “Where’s the head?”
Dan gestured toward the sidewalk, the walls of the buildings and the side of a nearby lamppost. “There, there and there,” Dan said, “and probably a few other places that we haven’t looked at yet.”