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

by Bill Bernico

  “It’s actually quite soothing,” Clay says. “All that cooing and strutting—it’s enough to lull you into a nap.

  “Better get on it,” Elliott says. “They’re waiting.”

  Dean and Clay leave the office and separate once they get back to the parking lot. Gloria takes her place behind her desk and continues with her computer data entry task. Elliott stand looking out the window, down onto Hollywood Boulevard. A moment later he turns to Gloria and says, “What if the killer doesn’t care about any of the victims?” he says to Gloria.

  “Well, obviously he didn’t,” Gloria says, or he wouldn’t have blown their heads off.”

  “No,” Elliott explains. “I mean suppose he didn’t care about the victims themselves or whether they had any connection at all. What if the killer is just choosing his victims at random? That would be a new twist on an old problem. And while the police are busy trying to establish motive or similarities, he’s off selecting another random victim. Does that make any sense to you?”

  “Not too much,” Gloria says. “People generally have a reason why they kill other people, otherwise what’s the sense?”

  “No one says it has to make sense,” Elliott tells her. “We’re dealing with a sick mind here, so it could be anything.”

  “So if you proceed on that theory,” Gloria says, “Where do you start looking? Hmmm?”

  “And therein lies the rub,” Elliott says. “I didn’t say I had all the answers. Does anything jump out at you?”

  “You mean besides you?” she says. “Not right off. Give me a while and see what develops.”

  Elliott puts his feet up on his desk, leans his chair back, locks his fingers behind his head and stares at the ceiling. Without looking over at Gloria, he begins thinking out loud. “Think about it,” he says. “Those four victim have something in common, whether they know it or not. We just have to find it. Is there anyone that all four people would have run into during the course of their day?”

  Gloria thinks about it for a moment and then offers, “They all could have shopped at the same grocery store. They could have all had the same bag boy. They could have all filled up their cars at the same service station. They could have all gone to the same movie theater at the same time. You want me to go on?”

  “Keep going,” Elliott says. “You may be on to something here.”

  Gloria pauses briefly and then adds, “They all could have the same paper delivery boy, since they all lived within a dozen blocks of each other. All of them could have gone to the same church or the same library or the same second-hand shop. Help me here, I’m running out of could-haves.”

  “Back up a minute,” Elliott says. “What was that you said about a twelve block area?”

  “I said they all lived in the same twelve block area and may or may not have had the same newspaper delivery boy. You don’t really think some twelve-year-old is going around murdering his customers, do you?”

  “Obviously not,” Elliott says. “But you got me thinking about other home delivery people. What if the killer is a UPS driver.”

  “The UPS driver?” Gloria says. “Could have been the FedEx driver or any other package delivery company. Could have even been the steak-of-the-month club driver if you really want to stretch this.”

  “Skip that,” Elliott says. “Those kinds of drivers would be too specific to a certain house. It would have to be someone who delivers to every house every day.”

  Gloria sits upright and snaps her fingers. “The mailman,” she says.

  Elliott pulls his feet off his desk and stands up. “That’s got to be it,” he says. “No one else would be roaming the neighborhood on such a regular basis. No one else would have the opportunity to stop at every house every day. He’d be in a position to see who’s home and when. He’d know if someone had a family or lived alone.”

  “He’d know who was most vulnerable,” Gloria added. “Think about it. No one else fits all the criteria like the mailman. It has to be him. What are you doing?”

  “Calling Dean,” Elliott says. “He should know all this.”

  “Hold on, Elliott,” Gloria says. “How about if we take a look for ourselves first before we go crying wolf? Let’s cruise the neighborhood where these murders too place and stake out the mailman for a while. What can it hurt?”

  “You know there’s no money in this for us,” Elliott says. “No one hired us to do anything so we’d be on our own dime on this one.”

  “Do you have something better to do right now?” Gloria says. “We’re not on any cases at the moment and if anyone calls, we can let the machine take the message and we can get back to them shortly. Come on, let’s at least have ourselves a look.”

  “All right,” Elliott says. “Just a quick drive-by, though and then it’s back here.”

  The two of them hurried down to Gloria’s car and pulled out onto Hollywood Boulevard. Gloria turned south on Gower and east onto Sunset for two blocks. Gordon Street intersected and ran north and south. Gloria stopped at the corner and looked both ways.

  “Which way?” she says, turning to Elliott.

  “Go left,” he tells her. “Gordon ends in a T two blocks north. We can start from there and go south.

  When they get to the intersection of Gordon and Carlton Way, Gloria swings wide and turns around in the intersection, heading south. She slowly drives south toward Santa Monica Boulevard. Elliott watches out his window as they proceed.

  “There’s the house where the last murder took place,” he says, pointing out a white stucco two-story house near the corner. The crime scene tape was still stretched across the front door.

  Gloria drove on past Fountain and down to Santa Monica, turning east for a block and then back north onto Tamarind Avenue. She drove slow enough to be able to observe but not so slow as to attract undue attention to the car. Tamarind ended at Sunset and Gloria headed east again one block to Bronson Avenue, turning south again. Bronson ran south and ended at Santa Monica. North Van Ness Avenue was the eastern boundary for this particular mail route. Once they’d taken that north to Sunset again, all that was left to cover were the side streets—Fountain and Lexington.

  On Lexington near Van Ness, Elliott spotted a mailman walking west. He would walk up each private sidewalk, drop the letters into their boxes and proceed on to the next house. Gloria pulled to the curb and cut the engine. They watched as the mailman stepped up onto one porch and rang the bell. When the door opened, a man stood there facing the mailman. The mailman held out his clipboard and the homeowner appeared to sign something. The mailman reached into his pouch and handed the man a package and descended the stairs again. He walked on to the next house.

  “That’s it,” Gloria says. “That’s how he’s getting inside. He asks for a signature and when they let him in, he lets ‘em have two in the face.”

  “But that last guy just signed for his package right there on the porch,” Elliott says. “No slugs between the eyes, no mess in the hallway, no nothing.”

  “This may not be as random as it first appeared,” Gloria says. “Think about it. He rings the bell, sees whoever it is who comes to the door and has a quick look into the house. Maybe that last guy had a wife standing behind him that we couldn’t see. Maybe this would be too short of a time frame since this morning’s murder. Maybe the voice in his head told him to pass this guy up. I’m just guessing here.”

  “But they’re good guesses,” Elliott assures her. “I think you’re right about it being too soon after the last murder, though. That should give us time to check a few things out.”

  “What things?” Gloria says. “This morning’s murder didn’t happen this morning. Remember? Dean said that Andy Reynolds figured the old lady had been lying there for at least three days before anyone noticed the smell and the newspapers piling up on the porch.”

  “The medical examiner’s guess is just that; a guess until he does the autopsy,” Elliott says. “I don’t think he’s had time to do that yet. But
okay, let’s say it’s been three days since the last murder. The first three murders have all been in the papers. You’d think this neighborhood would be a little wary about letting anyone inside their homes.”

  Gloria shakes her head. “No,” she says, “People are like buffalo in a herd.”

  “This I’ve got to hear,” Elliott says. “Tell me how murdered neighbors are like a buffalo herd.”

  “Have you ever seen a buffalo hunt?” she asks. “The hunter sights in on a buffalo standing on the edge of the herd and drops him with a single shot. The other buffalo just stand there, oblivious to what just happened. The hunter gets the next closest buffalo to the edge and picks him off, too. The buffalo still don’t stampede. I don’t know if they think the other two are just taking a nap, but it’s not until he picks off a buffalo in the middle that the rest of them finally realize that something’s wrong and head for the hills. These neighbors are the buffalo on the edges of the herd.”

  “Another interesting analogy from the National Geographic Channel,” Elliott says. “Now can we call Dean and fill him in?”

  Gloria concedes and nods her head. “Let’s go,” she says, driving toward the twelfth precinct. Halfway there she turns to Elliott at a stop sign and says, “What if we stop at the Post Office first and find out who has that route? The more we know going in, the better equipped we’ll be later.”

  “There isn’t going to be any ‘later’ for us,” Elliott says. “We’re not on this case and we’re not the police, either. This is where Dean takes over.” He flips open his cell phone and hits the speed dial button for Dean’s office at the twelfth precinct. Hollister picks up on the second ring.

  “Hollister,” Dean says.

  “Dean, it’s Elliott. I think we may be onto something. You want to meet us or are you stuck in your office?”

  “I’ll meet you,” Dean says. “What are they going to do, fire me? I only have six or seven weeks left here. Where do you want to meet?”

  “How about the Gold Cup downtown?” Elliott says. “Say fifteen minutes?”

  Dean agrees and Elliott flips his phone shut. He turns to Gloria and says. “Dean said he’d meet us at the Gold Cup in fifteen minutes. We’re just two minutes from there. Would you like to spend five extra minutes at the Post Office?”

  “So you do want to know who has that route,” Gloria says. “I knew your curiosity would get the better of you.”

  “That’s not it,” Elliott says. “I just have one more question for one of the postal clerks, that’s all.”

  Elliott pulls up in front of the Post Office and walks inside with Gloria following close behind him. He spots an open window with no on in line and steps up to it.

  “Can I help you?” the clerk says as though he’s already said it a thousand times today.

  “Yes,” Elliott says. “I just have a quick question. If a customer on one of the routes dies, what happens to their mail?”

  Without having to refer to any manual, the clerk recites in a monotone voice, “Once we receive notification of a customer’s death, we stop delivering mail to that address and return it to the senders with a notice telling them that the recipient has died.”

  “What about mail that’s already in their box when they die?” Elliott says.

  “It is also retrieved, if it’s still in the box,” the clerk says. “And it is also returned to the senders. Will there be anything else I can help you with today?”

  Elliott shakes his head and says, “Thanks, but that should do it for now.” He turns away from the window and starts to walk back toward the front door.

  Gloria steps up to the clerk. “Can you tell me which mailman has the route from Van Ness to Gower and Sunset to Santa Monica?” she says.

  “One moment, please,” the clerk tells her, and reaches for a clipboard on the wall that holds the route sheets. “And just in case you’re interested, they’re called letter carriers these days, what with political correctness and all. He flips two pages over the top of the clipboard and runs a finger down the list. “The letter carrier on that route would be Chet Wallens.” He flips the two pages back into place and hangs the clipboard back on the nail.

  “Thank you very much,” Gloria says, turning and looking Elliott in the eye before walking past him and out the door.

  “We’re still turning it over to Dean,” Elliott tells her.

  “Fine,” she says. “But at least now he’ll know who to look for, won’t he?”

  Elliott and Gloria slide back into the car and make it to the Gold Cup with three minutes to spare. Dean’s not here yet so Elliott grabs a booth by the front window so he can watch for the lieutenant’s arrival. He order’s a Diet Pepsi for himself and two cups of coffee for Gloria and Dean. The waitress brings the three drinks just as Dean walks in the front door. Elliott waves him over and he slides into the booth, on Gloria’s side, facing Elliott.

  Dean pulls the hot coffee cup toward him. “Thanks for this,” he says, pouring cream into it and stirring with his spoon. “What do you have for me?”

  Elliott explains everything that he and Gloria discussed concerning the possibility of what kind of person could be committing these murders. He finishes his theorizing by mentioning the mailman on that route. He lets Dean absorb the information and sips from his soda glass.

  “And his name is Chet Wallens,” Gloria adds.

  “Well,” Dean says, “You two certainly have given this thing a lot of thought, haven’t you? It all seems to fit once you lay it all out like this. I don’t suppose you’ve also come up with any ideas about his motives, have you?”

  “We talked about that, too,” Elliott says. “And I am aware that most killers have some sort of motive, even if it’s flimsy, but we’re thinking this guy is just picking off random victims as targets of opportunity. Hell, I don’t know. Maybe he just wants to see if it can be done and if he can get away with it.”

  “You’re right,” Dean says.

  “I am?” Elliot says.

  “Yes,” Dean says. “It is flimsy at best. There has to be a better reason than just that he’s bored and looking for a hobby. Maybe all these people stiffed him last Christmas when he handed out the calendars. Maybe he stepped in dog shit in one of their yards. Maybe someone called him a mailman when he preferred letter carrier. Your guess is as good as mine.”

  “So what can you do with what we’ve given you?” Gloria says.

  “Without hard proof or any evidence, there’s not much I can do, legally,” Dean says. “But…” He looks at Elliott and Gloria.

  Elliott stops sipping his soda and sets the glass down. “Are you suggesting…?” he says to Dean.

  Dean raises both hands, palms facing Elliott. “Whoa, I’m not suggesting anything,” he tells Elliott. “It wouldn’t be right for me to suggest to any citizen that they tail a mailman and watch what he does for the next day or so and report back to me. I couldn’t advise anyone to try to look in his mail pouch to see if he has a .45 in it. No, I’m afraid without proof or evidence, my hands are tied. Do I make myself clear?”

  Elliott smiles. “Crystal,” he says, finishing his soda.

  Dean slides out of the booth and lays his money on the table. “Drinks are on me,” he says and walks out of the coffee shop.

  Gloria slides back to the middle of her side of the booth and looks at Elliott. “Did he just suggest what I think he suggested?” she says.

  “Why, Gloria Campbell,” Elliott says, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. Come on, let’s go see what we can find out about Mr. Wallens.”

  The two investigators drive back to their office. Gloria switches on her computer and accesses the circuit court site while Elliott checks the phone book for Wallens’ listing. “Grammercy Place, near Franklin,” he tells Gloria.

  Gloria enters Wallens’ name into the field on the screen and hits the return key. Two hits fill half of the screen. “Got him,” she says. “He’s listed once for small claims court for not paying for a h
ospital bill and once for divorce.”

  “Try the L.A. Times site,” Elliott says. “See if he’s been in the paper recently.”

  Gloria hits a few more keys and finds the newspaper archives. She enters Chester Wallens into their search engine and finds a story about Mr. Wallens being arrested for a domestic disturbance a little less than a year ago. It didn’t give the details about the reason for the disturbance, but just said that Wallens was hauled off to spend the night in the city jail while he cooled off. Gloria searched for the date listed on the circuit court site for Wallens’ divorce. She found three lines describing the divorce being granted to Sylvia Wallens from Chester Wallens. That was all the information it gave.

  Gloria relayed this information to Elliott from across the room.

  “Look up one more entry, if you will,” Elliott says. “As long as you’re on the computer, check on Sylvia Wallens and see if you can find an address for her. She’s not listed in the phone book. She might have a listing in the new book, but that one won’t be out for another two months.”

  Gloria went back to the circuit court site and entered Sylvia Wallens’ name into the search engine. It resulted in just one entry. It was the same entry as Chet Wallens, mentioning the divorce. “Just the divorce,” Gloria says.

  “Does it give an address for her?” Elliott says.

  Gloria looks back at the screen, sees the address and jots it down in her notepad. “Got it,” she tells Elliott. “You want to pay her a visit?”

  “I think we should,” Elliott says.

  They lock up the office and head back to their car. Elliott has Gloria read him the address from her notepad, gets his bearings and turns south on Vine Street. Two blocks south of Santa Monica he turns west on Romaine Street and checks the houses for their numbers. At the corner of Romaine and Wilcox he finds the house with the cyclone fence around the yard. Attached to the fence is a sign telling passers-by to beware of the dog. Whether or not she actually had a dog is anybody’s guess. Sometimes single women will buy just the sign, in hopes of keeping would-be intruders at bay. Some are even clever enough to buy a dog bowl and a few toys and leave them in the yard as convincers.