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

by Bill Bernico

  “First of all,” Elliott said, “We’ve got to get back to the office and fill Dad in on this. He’ll want to help and I can’t say that I’d blame him.”

  I was sitting on the leather couch when Elliott and Gloria walked in, all smiles. “You two look like a couple of cats with canaries hanging out of your mouths,” I said. “What’s up?”

  Gloria plopped down on the couch next to me. Elliott pulled the client’s chair close to the couch, facing me. “Wait ‘til you hear, Dad” Elliott said. “You know that Bud guy that Dean was talking about earlier? Well, it turns out…”

  “It turns out,” Gloria said, taking over the conversation, “That old Mr. Evans didn’t die peacefully in his sleep. He was murdered. Someone stuck an ice pick in the base of his skull.”

  “What?” I said. “How would you even know that?”

  Elliott slid his chair even closer and lowered his voice somewhat. “Right after you and Dean left for the coffee shop, Evans’ daughter stopped in here looking to hire me, us, to look into her father’s death. She suspected something wasn’t right so Gloria and I went to see Andy Reynolds and asked him to give Bud another quick look before we reported back to her.”

  “So just what did Andy find?” I said.

  “He found a small hole at the base of Bud’s skull,” Gloria said. “A professional hit all the way, if you ask me. Lieutenant Hollister is taking over the main murder case, but he told us we could dig around for background.”

  “And I knew you’d want to be a part of this,” Elliott said.

  “You’re damn right I want in,” I said. “Where did you plan to start this investigation? And who’s paying our tab?”

  “Well, technically,” Elliott said, “Grace Evans is paying us to look into her father’s death. I don’t know how long she’ll want us to keep at it once she has some of the facts, but for now, we’re on her dime.”

  “It’s got to be good for a couple of days on the clock anyway,” I said. “So let’s give Bud’s daughter her money’s worth. Elliott, since you’ve already established a rapport of sorts with the woman, how about if you go back and get as much information as you can about her father and his most recent activities? Gloria, how’d you like to go back and get more details from the M.E.?”

  “And what are you going to do?” Elliott said.

  “I’m going to the twelfth precinct and talk to Dean,” I said. “Maybe he’ll let me dig through some old records. Bud probably made more than a few enemies during his time as a cop. Maybe those records will reveal something none of us has thought of. Let’s get going. We’ll meet back here at, let’s say, four o’clock. If anything comes up, we’ll all have our phones on.”

  The three of us hurried to the elevator and rode it down to the lobby, splitting up from there. Gloria and I each drove to the precinct in separate cars. She went to the Medical examiner’s office and I went to see Dean. Elliott was on his way to see Grace Evans.

  I rapped on Dean’s door and got no answer. His secretary, Abbie, told me that Dean had gone to the captain’s office. “I’m working with him on this Bud Evans thing,” I said. “I’d like to see the arrest records that Evans had accumulated while he was a cop here. Do you suppose that would be all right?”

  “I don’t know, Clay,” Abbie said. “The lieutenant is out. Can’t it wait until he comes back?”

  “Normally it could,” I said, “But there’s a bit of urgency with this case and I think the quicker we all work to find a solution, the better it’ll look for Dean.”

  Abbie thought about it for a moment and then slid her desk drawer open. She withdrew a gold key and handed it to me. “What years did you want to see?” she said.

  “All the years from 1946 to through 1986,” I said.

  Abbie held her hand out and curled her fingers inward. “Let me have the key,” she said. “The records in this records room don’t go back that far. Here,” she said, handing me a different key.

  “What’s this for?” I said.

  “Room 120 down at the end of this hall,” Abbie said. “It’s where we keep the older stuff on micro phish rolls, like they have at the library. The rolls are in the filing cabinets, filed chronologically starting in the leftmost cabinet, top drawer. Knock yourself out. Clay. I’ll send someone in to check on you in a couple of days.”

  I laughed. “Thanks. It shouldn’t take me more than a couple of hours,” I said, walking down the hall toward room 120.

  I unlocked the room, turned on the light and spotted the micro phish machine on a table at the end of the room. The wooden chair that came with it looked like it was chosen to make sure the user didn’t stay too long at the machine. I checked the leftmost cabinet, top drawer and looked at the label. This one said 1900-1910. The next drawer down was labeled 1911-1920. I skipped a couple of drawers and went to the one labeled 1941-1950 and slid it open. I had to shuffle through a few boxes until I came to one labeled 1945. I pulled it and two other boxes, labeled 1946 and 1947, and brought all three boxes to the table and sat at the machine.

  I threaded the first spool onto the machine and flipped the light switch on. I knew that Bud Evans had joined the force in October of that year so I hit the fast forward button and stopped when the film began to display information for September, since it took the spools a little while to slow down. I hand cranked it to October 1, 1945 and began reading arrest reports. I hand cranked past the first few reports until I came to one that had Carroll Evans’ name in the upper left hand corner as the arresting officer.

  Evans’ first arrest had been that of a drunk driver on October 10, 1945. The driver was a fifty-three-year-old woman. I moved on and found another arrest three days later. Bud had arrested two men, both in their forties, for fighting outside a downtown bar. No good. If they had anything to do with Bud’s death, they’d have had to do it from the grave.

  The rest of 1945 yielded nothing important as far as arrests went. I rewound the spool, put it back in its box and inserted the 1946 spool. Fifteen minutes later I was still no farther ahead with any clues as to why someone would want to kill Bud. I switch spools and on the third reel I found an arrest dated March 12, 1947 that had Evans’ name on it. It also had the name Clifford Lewis below Bud’s. Clifford Lewis, I thought. That name rang a bell. Then I remembered the story Dean had told us in the office about being partnered with Dan Hollister’s partner, whose name was Cliff Lewis. I read the report and it said pretty much the same things that Dean had told us. Sergeant Clifford Lewis had been killed in the line of duty, apprehending a suspected murderer. Patrolman Carroll Evans was credited with bringing in the suspect after he’d had to shoot him in defense of his partner.

  I moved ahead to the next page of the report. According to this, the killer of Sergeant Lewis was one Lester Cobb, 23, from Los Angeles. I kept reading the report and learned that Cobb was found guilty of the murder of the woman in the bathtub as well as the murder of Sergeant Lewis. The judge in this case gave Cobb the maximum sentence, life without the possibility of parole. That judgment was dated July 17, 1947—some sixty-five years ago. That would make Cobb nearly ninety himself. I decided to follow up on Cobb’s sentence.

  I put the micro phish boxes back where I’d found them, locked the room and returned the key to Abbie. I thanked her and asked if Dean was back yet.

  She hiked a thumb over her shoulder. “He’s in his office,” she said. “Go on in.”

  “Thanks, Abbie,” I said and opened Dean’s door.

  Dean looked up when I entered. “Are you three making any progress?” he said.

  “I don’t know about Elliott and Gloria,” I said. “We split up and took different areas to check.”

  “And what have you found out?” Dean said.

  “It may be nothing,” I said, scratching my head, “But I was wondering if I could see a particular record for one of Bud’s arrests from 1947. I need to know if a guy he sent to prison back then is still in or if he’s even still alive.”

  “Whi
ch one?” Dean said.

  “Funny thing,” I said. “It’s the guy from that story you were telling us about in the office this morning. That young kid who stabbed the woman in the bathtub and then killed Dan’s old partner, Cliff Lewis. The suspect’s name is Cobb, Lester Cobb.”

  “What makes you think he’s involved?” Dean said.

  “I don’t at this point,” I told Dean. “I’m just trying to piece the puzzle together and decided to check Bud’s arrest records, starting in 1945. I just figured if Bud lived this long, maybe one or more of his arrestees did, too. I mean, it’s worth a look, isn’t it?”

  Dean shrugged. “Shouldn’t take long,” he said. “I’ll bet that Bud outlived ninety-five percent of the people he put away. But okay, let’s take a look at Cobb’s record. Come on.” Dean got up and led me to another room of records down the hall. He pulled open a drawer labeled I-J and fingered his way through the file folders until he came to Cobb, Lester. He pulled the record from the drawer and spread its contents out on the table. We each took several of the forms and checked them for useful information.

  “Here we go,” Dean said, plucking one form out from under the others and holding it up. “Cobb, Lester, born April 1, 1921, sent to prison July 20, 1947 for the knifing murder of one Ruth Greene, 29 and Sergeant Clifford Lewis, 37. Served sixteen years at Alcatraz, until March of 1963 when they closed the prison. He was transferred to San Quentin, where he spent the next fifty years.”

  “When did he die?” I said. “Does it say that anywhere in the report?”

  Dean scanned the document. “He didn’t,” Dean said. “He’s still alive at eighty-nine after nearly sixty-six years behind bars.”

  “Any chance either of us could go and talk to him?” I said.

  “I suppose,” Dean said. “If you can find him.”

  “How hard can that be?” I said. “It’s a prison, for crying out loud. Where’s he gonna go?”

  “Wherever he likes,” Dean said. “He was paroled two months ago.”

  “Paroled?” I said. “What happened to life without parole? That was his sentence, wasn’t it?”

  Dean leafed through the folder again and pulled out a newspaper clipping. “According to this,” Dean said, “Some civic group read a story that a reporter did on prison life and found out that Cobb was still behind bars after more than sixty years. Starting a little more than two years ago, they began to put pressure on the powers that be. Well, it’s an election year and some idiot down the line caved in and got Cobb paroled. He’s been a free man for almost two months now.”

  “Is it possible that someone could carry a grudge all this time?” I said. “And if so, how would an old-timer like that get close enough to Evans to kill him and walk away unnoticed?”

  “Didn’t his daughter say that Bud was in good health and even had his own apartment?” Dean said.

  “Yes, she did,” I recalled. “Cobb could have dropped in on Bud and after more than six decades, even Bud wouldn’t have recognized the man he’d sent to prison all those years ago.”

  Dean took another look at Cobb’s folder, noting his last known address. He closed the folder and slipped it back into its place in the drawer and closed it. “Let’s go,” he said, writing Cobb’s address in his notebook.

  “Where are we going?” I said.

  “Back to Bud’s apartment,” Dean said. “If Cobb was in there, it’s a sure bet that he left traces of his visit behind. And if that’s the case, we’ll find it. Then we’ll pay a visit to Lester Cobb.”

  Elliott drove to Grace Evans’ house in the Silver Lake district. She was waiting for him when he walked up onto her porch.

  “Your call sounded urgent,” Grace said. “Have you found anything out about Dad’s death?”

  “I was trying for hopeful,” Elliott said. “But urgent works for me as well.”

  “What?” Grace said.

  “Nothing,” Elliott said. “It’s just that Dad and Gloria and I are all working on this case. We figured we could cover more ground that way?”

  “Dad and Gloria?” Grace said.

  “My partners,” Elliott told her. “Gloria joined Cooper Investigations a while ago to help out while Dad was recovering from his heart attack. He’s doing fine and he’s back now, so the three of us are all working on your case together.”

  “So, what is the reason for your visit?” Grace said, gesturing toward her sofa with a sweeping hand.

  Elliott sat down and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Dad’s checking with his lieutenant friend at the twelfth precinct and Gloria’s following up with the coroner,” he said.

  “The coroner?” Grace said. “He’s the one who told me that Dad had died of natural causes. Has something changed?”

  “Oh, that’s right,” Elliott said. “I haven’t seen you since I talked to him, have I? I convinced Andy Reynolds to take a closer look at your dad’s body and your suspicions were correct. He didn’t pass away naturally. He had help.”

  “Murder?” Grace said.

  “It looks like it,” Elliott said.

  Grace gasped and held four fingers up to her open mouth. Her eyes began to well up and her voice wavered. “How did he die?” she said, reluctantly.

  “Are you sure you want those kinds of details?” Elliott said, reaching out to hold her hand.

  Grace nodded softly.

  “Someone stabbed him,” Elliott said, leaving the ice pick out of the story.

  Tears ran down Grace’s face now. “But why would anyone want to kill him?” she said. “Everyone liked Dad. He was a harmless old man.”

  “That’s what we’re looking into,” Elliott told her. “We’ll catch whoever did this, I promise. My grandfather worked with your father back when they first joined the force in the forties. My father and I won’t give up on this until the killer is brought to justice.”

  “It’s all so senseless,” Grace said.

  “I agree,” Elliott said. “Do you feel up to a couple of questions, Miss Evans?”

  Grace dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief and nodded. “Yes,” she said. “If you think it’ll help.”

  “Every little bit helps,” Elliott said. “The more we know, the easier it might be to find the man who did this to your father.”

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

  Elliott pulled out his notepad and pen and said, “Had your dad ever mentioned anyone, anyone at all, who he might have been concerned about?”

  “Anyone?” Grace said. “Like who?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Elliott said. “Maybe someone from his past that he might have either worked with or come in contact with during the course of his job.”

  “His job?” Grace said. “Dad retired more than twenty-five years ago. Some of his co-workers kept in touch for a while after Dad retired, but that didn’t last long. Most of the guys he worked with are dead now anyway. Dad outlived them all.”

  “What about people he might have arrested?” Elliott said. “Do you remember if he ever mentioned anyone that he sent to prison or arrested that might have held a grudge?”

  “There again,” Grace said, “Dad was a lot older than any of the people he arrested.”

  “Maybe toward the end of his career,” Elliott said. “But when he first started, he was in his early twenties, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Grace said. “And those people would have all died by now, wouldn’t you think?”

  “Well someone had a bone to pick with your dad,” Elliott said. “Statistically, people just don’t kill other people in their nineties for no reason. It’s very rare.”

  Grace thought for a moment and then offered, “If there was anyone holding a grudge, Dad never mentioned it to me. He was like that. He kept to himself a lot, especially after his retirement.”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Evans,” Elliott said. “You haven’t really given me anything to go on. I hope my partners had better luck with their interviews. It would probably be best if I me
t with them so we could all pool our information and see if anything overlaps. Thank you. I’ll be in touch.”

  Elliott got up from the couch and shook Grace’s hand. She showed him to the door and he left without further conversation.

  Gloria had gone back to see Andy Reynolds in the medical examiner’s office. When she got there Andy was in the middle of a full-blown autopsy on Bud Evans. After the external examination that had revealed the ice pick puncture to the back of Bud Evans’ head, Dean had ordered a full autopsy. As Gloria approached the table, Andy was removing Bud’s heart and placing it on a scale, making notes of the results. He turned, a bit startled to find Gloria standing next to him.

  “Hi, Andy,” Gloria said. “Did you find anything else?”

  “I haven’t finished with him yet,” Andy said. “I’ll know more within the hour. So far, the skull puncture wound is all that I’ve uncovered, except…” Andy stepped over to the head of the table and pointed to the area just to the right of Bud’s mouth. “It may be nothing, but this area was a little redder than the rest of his face. It could be nothing, but I’m not leaving anything to chance.”

  “Any preliminary opinions?” Gloria said.

  “Regarding what?” Andy said.

  “That red mark,” Gloria said.

  “If, and that’s a big if, someone clamped a hand over Bud’s mouth just prior to sticking the ice pick in, it could leave a mark like that, but I won’t know for sure until I get him under the ultra-violet light when I’ve finished the rest of this. Can you check back with me by…” Andy looked up at the wall clock. “Give me until three-fifteen. I you don’t hear from me by then, call me.”

  “Thanks, Andy,” Gloria said, and walked out of the room. She walked to Hollister’s office and caught Elliott coming from the other direction. They met in front of Dean’s office.

  “You find anything?” Elliott said.

  Gloria shook her head. “No,” she said. “How about you?”

  “Grace wasn’t much help,” Elliott said. “We’d better hope Dad had better luck than we did.”