by Bill Bernico
The reception was held in the back room of a Denny’s Restaurant on Colorado Boulevard in Glendale. The crowd of fewer than twenty people filed in and found seats at the tables with their names on small folded cards. Without further fanfare, and with everyone seated, the meals were brought in and placed on each of the tables. Before anyone took a single bite, I clinked the side of my glass with my fork and stood where I was.
“If I may,” I said. “I’d like to propose a toast to my son, Clay Cooper and his new wife Veronica.” Everyone raised their glasses and drank. “I’d also like to propose a toast to Mrs. and Mrs. Dean Hollister.” Glasses were raised again and everyone drank. Before I sat down I said,” And one last toast, if you will all indulge me for a moment. To my best friend Dan Hollister, the father of the other groom. Here’s to you, my friend.” Everyone drank and I raised my glass directly to Dan, drank, gave him a wink and sat back down.
The rest of the evening was surely one to remember. A lone musician provided music that night with an accordion. He was all we could come up with on such short notice. Near the end of the night, after several drinks and dances, Laverne Hollister lost her footing and fell down a short flight of stairs, breaking her right leg. When I saw her the following day she was wearing a full-length cast on that leg and she walked really funny with those crutches.
The cast was still on her leg the morning that Dan died on Tuesday, March 21, 1980. Dean and Laverne were at his bedside when he passed away peacefully. Just a few seconds after Dan had taken his last breath, Laverne looked out the bedroom window and poked Dean in the elbow.
“Look at that,” she said, pointing to a Monarch butterfly that was drifting past the window, its wings fluttering in the breeze. “He’s free now.”
The funeral was held on the following Friday. Ironically it rained that morning after not having rained for nearly four months previous. The attendees for Dan’s funeral outnumbered the people at the double wedding ten times over. Dan got a full police funeral with a procession of motorcycle cops leading the hearse and a dozen patrol cars following close behind.
During the prayer reading, I stood back behind the rest of the crowd. I didn’t want anyone to see me crying like a baby under my umbrella. They lowered Dan’s casket into the ground and then Dean and Laverne stepped up to the mound of dirt and each of them grabbed a handful, tossing it into the grave. The usually stalwart Dean broke down, as did his mother. Clay came over to where I was standing by myself and wrapped an arm around my shoulder.
“How are you doing, dad?” he said.
“He was a good man,” I said. “I’ll miss him.”
Veronica joined us and the three of us walked back to Clay’s car and drove back to Dean and Veronica’s house. The three of us sat on the porch just rocking and enjoying the peaceful quiet of the day.
“We have some good news that might help offset this bad day you’re having,” Veronica said.
I looked up at her, not sure I could smile at any news right now.
“We’re going to have a baby,” Veronica said. “You’re going to be a grandpa, Matt.”
Clay smiled proudly. “That’s right dad. Maybe the Cooper name will continue for another generation in the investigation business, that is if it’s a boy.”
I briefly forgot my sorrows for that moment and smiled gently at Veronica and then at Clay. “That’s wonderful news,” I said. “When are you due?”
“As far as we know,” Clay said, “The last week of December, just before Christmas.”
“What a present that’ll be,” I said, and settled back into the rocker, lost in good thoughts.
On a Tuesday morning the following December, Clay drove Veronica to the doctor for another checkup to see how things were progressing. She still had two weeks to go before the baby was due. When they returned home, I was waiting for them on the porch. I couldn’t wait until lunchtime to hear what they’d found out. Clay helped Veronica out of the car and walked her into the house. Clay’s face was long and drawn out and his eyes had a far away, vacant look in them.
“Is anything wrong with the baby?” I said frantically.
“I’m fine,” Veronica said. “The baby’s doing fine, too.”
“Then what is it?” I said.
“Haven’t you been listening to the news today?” Clay said.
“No, I haven’t,” I said. “Why?”
“John Lennon was shot last night in New York City,” Clay said. “He’s dead. He’s really dead. I can’t believe it.”
“Wasn’t he one of those Beatles?” I said, not exactly sure whom Clay was talking about.
“Yes he was,” Clay said. “And beside you, he’s the one person who really made a difference in my life. He influenced me more than you can imagine.”
Veronica sat on the sofa, putting her feet up on the footstool. “John was my favorite, too,” she said. “Most of my friends thought Paul was the cutest, but I liked John for his wit and his intelligence and most of all his songs.”
“I’m sorry to hear about him,” I said, just to have something to say. We sat in silence for the next few minutes before Clay remembered to turn on the television set. Every station and every channel was broadcasting the latest news on Lennon’s death. After a few minutes Clay turned the set off again, unable to cope with the harsh reality of it all.
Not knowing what I could say to lessen Clay’s grief, I excused myself.
“I’d better get home,” I said and let myself out the door. Inside I could hear Clay and Veronica softly crying.
Two weeks later on Monday, December 22, 1980 Veronica gave birth to a son, Elliott Clayton Cooper. He weighed in at seven pounds, seven ounces and had a full head of hair. He was the spittin’ image of his daddy, and in turn, the spittin’ image of me.
It looked like Cooper Investigations would go on for one more generation, at least.
39 - The Clay Cooper Cop Killer Caper
The call came in at exactly eleven-eighteen.
“9-1-1,” the operator said. “What is your emergency?”
“Please,” the frantic voice said. “We need the police at the corner of Selma and Gower right away. They’re beating up on Henry. Hurry, please.”
The phone went dead and the operator quickly dialed the twelfth precinct to request a patrol car be sent to that location. The police dispatcher pressed the talk button on her desktop microphone and said, “Any unit in the vicinity of Selma and Gower, see the man about a fight. Handle code three.”
“Dispatch, this is one-David-seven,” Officer Cliff Hanson said. “We’re nearby. We’ll handle this call.”
“One-David-seven, roger,” the dispatcher said.
Cliff turned to his rookie partner, Dennis Barton and said, “Gonna be one of those nights, eh?”
“I guess so,” Barton said, flipping on the red lights and hitting the siren.
The patrol car pulled to a stop on Gower just south of Selma and Hanson turned on the searchlight that was mounted just outside the driver’s window. He aimed it at different parts of the intersection and didn’t see anyone, fighting or not. Officer Hanson turned off the searchlight and grabbed the microphone.
“Dispatch,” he said, “this is one-David-seven. We’re at the corner of Selma and Gower and we don’t see any activity at the intersection. We’re going to have a look around before we leave.”
“Roger, one-David-seven,” dispatch said.
Hanson and Barton slid out of the patrol car, slipped their batons into their belt holder, propped their visored caps on their heads and grabbed their flashlights. Barton aimed his flash down Selma Street and Hanson shined his up Gower. The neighborhood was quiet and deserted.
Hanson turned to Barton and said, “Probably another crank call. Let’s go.”
Barton hadn’t even had time to respond to Hanson’s remark before the first shot rang out. Hanson instinctively ducked and turned to tell his partner to do the same when he saw patrolman Dennis Barton lying in the street with a hole i
n his chest and blood running out into the street. He hurried over to where his partner lay, his gun drawn now and his flashlight out. Barton was dead; there was no doubt about that. Hanson had seen enough dead people to know he didn’t have to check for a pulse. Hanson knew he had to make it back to the patrol car and radio for help.
He’d taken just two steps when the second shot bore into his thigh and he went down hard on the pavement. He tried dragging himself toward the car, reaching out as he crawled. He’d gotten within three feet of the patrol car when a third shot caught him in the left shoulder. He reached into the car with his right hand, grabbed the microphone and pressed the button.
“This is one-David-seven,” Hanson said frantically. “Officer needs help. Shots fired. My partner’s dead.”
Before he could say any more than those few words, the fourth shot caught officer Cliff Hanson squarely in the back, silencing him forever.
On the rooftop across the street, Jerry, the man with the rifle smiled, satisfied with his night’s work. He also knew that he’d have approximately three minutes before the intersection would be crawling with more cops than he could handle. He casually walked to the roof door, opened it and disappeared down the steps and into the night.
The first patrol car to respond to one-David-seven’s call pulled up to the curb at eleven thirty-one and was followed less than a minute later by three more black and white units. The officers crouched behind their opened doors, guns pointing toward the intersection. They could see the downed officers from where they crouched but weren’t sure if it was safe to go to their aid just yet.
“Dispatch, this is one-Edward-four requesting a chopper and searchlight above Selma and Gower,” Sergeant Dean Hollister said. “We have two officers down and can’t get to them.”
“One-Edward-four, copy that,” dispatch answered.
A few minutes later the police helicopter that hovered over the intersection lighted up the immediate area. Dean and another officer rushed over to check on the downed patrolmen. They met back at their car afterwards.
“Hanson’s dead, sir,” patrolman Earl Bass said.”
“So is Barton,” Dean said.
The radio in Dean’s car squawked. “One-Edward-four this is Tango-five in the sky. The area is cleared. We’ll stay right here until you have the officers evacuated.”
“Tango-five, roger,” Dean said. He directed the rest of the officers to retrieve the fallen patrolmen and help get them into the waiting ambulances.
At eleven-nineteen another 9-1-1 call came in about a traffic accident involving a pedestrian on Sycamore and DeLongpre Avenues more than a mile west of the original 9-1-1 call. Dispatch gave the call to one-Adam-six. Two minutes later the black and white patrol car arrived at the scene of what was supposed to be a pedestrian injury. Officer Ron Swanson and his rookie partner, Todd Gasper, got out of their patrol car, their flashlights scanning the immediate area. Gasper didn’t even have a chance to tell Swanson that he didn’t see anyone when the first shot caught him in the neck and he went down in a pool of his own blood. Swanson drew his service revolver and spun toward Gasper only to take a bullet to his head. Apparently the shooter had adjusted for drop after the first shot. Both officers were dead on the spot.
The shooter, Shirley, broke down her rifle, slipped it back into the foam-padded suitcase and casually walked away from the area. Her date with destiny fulfilled, she now had a date with the first shooter, Jerry. They’d worked as a team several times before with results similar to tonight’s. Their body count now stood at four for tonight and a grand total of more than twenty in the past six weeks throughout the Southern California area.
The call to the twelfth precinct came three minutes later when a neighbor heard the two shots, looked out her window and saw the two policemen lying in the street. Three more black and whites were dispatched to this latest scene, their red lights flashing and sirens screaming.
Once again Tango-five hovered over the area, its searchlight scanning the rooftops and alleyways without any luck. The two officers were driven away in yet another ambulance while the remaining officers scoured the neighborhood, pounding on doors and asking lots of questions.
Dean parked behind the precinct and hurried to the front desk where Sergeant Adams was on duty.
“Sergeant,” Dean said. “That 9-1-1 call you got earlier tonight, I want to hear the tape of that one.”
“Which one, sir?” Adams said. “There were three that came in within a two minutes of each other.”
“Three?” Dean said, surprised.
“Yes sir, three,” Adams said.
“Let me hear the first one,” Dean said.
“Right away, sir,” Adams said. “Follow me.”
Adams led Dean to a back room with several reel-to-reel tape recorders, each one set up to a specific phone. Dean looked at Adams and said, “Play back the call from Selma and Gower.”
Adams found the correct machine and rewound it until the time counter got to eleven-eighteen and then he hit the Play button as Dean listened.
“9-1-1,” the operator said. “What is your emergency?”
“Please,” the frantic voice said. “We need the police at the corner of Selma and Gower right away. They’re beating up on Henry. Hurry, please.”
“That’s all there was?” Dean asked.
“The caller hung up right after that,” Adams explained.
“Do we know where the call originated?” Dean said.
“Selma and Gower,” Adams said.
“I don’t mean the general area,” Dean said. “I need the address where the call was made from.”
“Selma and Gower,” Adams repeated. “Officers on the scene found the alligator clips still hanging from a phone pole at that intersection. Whoever made that call knew enough about phone systems to tap in from a pole.”
“Well,” Dean said, “That’s something, anyway. It helps narrow the search to former or present phone company employees. Let me hear the second call that came in.”
Adams cued the tape recorder and hit the Play button.
“9-1-1,” the operator said. “What is your emergency?”
“Yes,” the female voice said calmly. “I was walking on Sycamore near DeLongpre Avenue and this car came around the corner and the man who was in the crosswalk got run down. He’s lying there now and the car hit a phone pole right after that. Better hurry.”
“And the third call?” Dean said.
“Here you are,” Adams said, playing the third 9-1-1- call that had come in within the space of five minutes.
“9-1-1,” the operator said. “What is your emergency?”
“Hurry,” a woman’s voice screamed. “Two policemen have been shot. They’re bleeding in the street. Hurry.”
“Ma’am,” the operator said. “Can you give me your name location?”
The woman gave the operator her name and address and described exactly where the two officers were lying.
“Thank you, sergeant,” Dean said. “Keep those handy. We’re going to need copies.”
“Yes, sir,” Adams said.
Three days later at a few minutes past twelve noon, a call came in to the twelfth precinct from the 9-1-1 operator. She told the dispatcher of a domestic disturbance call she’d just received. A unit was dispatched to 5209 Fountain Avenue, just east of Western Avenue. Neighbors had called in about a loud fight the couple was having in the house next door to them. Two veterans of the Hollywood police force, Harvey Wilton and Alfred Jessup answered the call.
With their batons dangling from their belts, the two officers stood on either side of the front door and listened. They could hear a couple arguing on the other side of the door. Wilton tapped on the door with his baton. The loud fighting continued. He tapped again, harder this time and the arguing stopped and heavy footfalls came toward the door.
The door opened and the two officers found themselves standing toe to toe with a large man, perhaps six-foot-four, two hundred fifty pounds.
The man had a shaved head and the four-day stubble of a beard. One gold loop earring hung from his left ear and when he spoke, they could also see two shiny gold teeth in the front where his incisors should have been.
“What do you want?” the big man said gruffly.
“We’re answering a complaint of a fight at this address,” Jessup said. “Can we come inside?”
The big man stood aside and when he did, a small woman stood there pointing a handgun in Jessup’s face. Without warning, she fired, hitting Jessup in the space between his upper lip and his nostrils. Jessup never said another word and fell dead where he stood. Sergeant Wilton drew his service revolver, but it was too little, too late. The woman pulled the trigger three times, hitting Wilton with the first two shots and missing with the third. The top of Wilton’s head exploded, sending his visored cap flying off toward the ceiling. The death grip he’d had on his revolver produced a couple of spasms in his finger that caused him to squeeze the trigger and fire off two rounds as he died there in the living room.
“Damn cops,” the woman said. “Why can’t they just leave us alone? Huh, Jerry?”
The big man’s mouth dropped open and he stared at the two dead officers lying at his feet. “What the hell have you done, Shirley?” he screamed. “We gotta get outta here. In a few minutes there’s gonna be more cops out front than you’ve ever seen in your life and they ain’t gonna be happy. Come on.”
The couple scurried around the house, gathering what they considered to be the bare essentials, threw them into a suitcase and ran out of the house. Jerry slid behind the wheel of a twelve-year-old battered Monte Carlo while Shirley threw the suitcase into the back seat and then slid in next to Jerry. He cranked up the old car and squealed away from the curb and hurried off down the street.