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

by Bill Bernico

  Wait here,” Eric said. “I’ll be right back.” He slid beneath the wheel of his cruiser and called the station to let them know where he could be reached for the next half hour if necessary and then came back over to where I was standing. “Come on, Clay. Let’s go sit on the stoop and wait for the cabbie.”

  Eric and I say on the cement stoop, which was shaded by the front of the apartment building. I wrapped my arms around my knees and sighed. “What kind of world is this,” I said, “where some sick, twisted animal has to kill six people to get the attention he’s obviously missing?”

  “Takes all kinds,” Eric said. “I remember hearing stories from some of the older guys at the station.” Eric looked at me and caught himself. “I didn’t mean…”

  “That’s all right,” I said. “I know I’m old. You don’t have to tiptoe around it. So what were these relics telling you?” I winked at Eric and he smiled.

  “These veterans,” Eric said, by way of correction, “once told me about a killer who had terrorized the city for more than two month before they caught him. This guy killed a dozen people just because he didn’t like the way they looked. His victims included people with a lot of tattoos and facial piercings, sloppy dressers, rude people, stupid people and even interracial couples. He confessed all this the day they brought him in and he even said he wasn’t sorry for ridding the city of ‘those scum’, as he called them.”

  “Those scum?” I said. “What did he consider himself to be?”

  “He actually thought he was doing the city a favor,” Eric said. “And for a while there, we were seeing fewer tattooed and pierced people walking the streets. People were either dressing better or just staying off the streets if they fit the killer’s prerequisites. And believe it or not, people were generally more courteous to each other up until they caught the guy.”

  “Well then it wasn’t all for nothing,” I said.

  “I can think of a dozen people who’d argue the point if they hadn’t been killed,” Eric said.

  We made small talk and traded stories for twenty-five minutes when a yellow cab pulled up to the curb. The driver pulled a clipboard off the seat next to him and made a note on his sheet, sliding his pencil back behind his ear when he’d finished. Eric and I got to our feet and walked to the curb to talk with the driver. Eric produced his I.D. and shield and asked the cabbie to step out of the car.

  “Something wrong?” the cabbie said.

  “Not with you,” Eric explained. I just want to ask you about a fare you had recently. It was an old man who lives in this building. He was wearing dark glasses and he was coming from the medical building after a doctor’s appointment. You dropped him here around noon. Do you remember the guy?”

  “I sure do,” the cabbie said. “He couldn’t see worth a damn and when I told him how much he owed me for the ride, he gave me too much money. I guess he couldn’t see what denomination of bills he was pulling out of his wallet.”

  Eric tilted his head back and looked down his nose at the driver.

  The driver held up one hand. “But I gave it back to him and helped him dig out the right amount from his wallet,” the driver said. “He was so grateful that he gave me a ten dollar tip. Kinda hard to forget a tip like that, so yeah, I remember the old guy.”

  “That’s great,” Eric said. “Sounds like you’re a stand-up guy. But what I was really interested in knowing was whether or not you noticed anything unusual that day when you dropped the guy off. Did you see anyone who looked like they didn’t belong? Anyone look like they were in a hurry to leave? Anything.”

  “Let me think a minute,” the cabbie said. “I walked with the old guy up the sidewalk there and opened the front door for him. I wanted to make sure he got in all right, since he wasn’t seeing too well. Once he was inside, I walked back to my cab, which was sitting right where it is now.”

  “Did you happen to look across the street at that garage door?” I said, pointing to the overhead door that hung open.

  “Let’s see,” the cabbie said. “I checked off the address of this place on my clipboard, set it down on the seat next to me and…wait; I do remember seeing that door open. I remember thinking how odd it was, since no one was coming in or going out at the time.”

  “What time was that exactly?” Eric said.

  “Hmmm,” the cabbie said. “I’m not sure.” He paused momentarily and then added, “Hold on, that sheet is still on my clipboard. Let me check.” He reached into his cab and retrieved his clipboard and flipped a few pages up and over the top. “Here it is. I dropped the old guy off and checked myself off as being available at exactly eleven forty-three. Does that help?”

  Eric nodded. “It does,” he said. “It narrows our window down a bit. Is there anything else you can remember about that fare? Did you see anyone else at that time?”

  “Just Mr. Cramer,” the cabbie said.

  “Cramer?” I said.

  “The manager,” Eric said. “I just came from his office, remember?”

  “Oh yeah,” I said and then turned to the cabbie. “What about Mr. Cramer?”

  “He asked if I saw anyone else,” the cabbie said, gesturing toward Eric. “Mr. Cramer’s the only other person I saw during that time.”

  “What was he doing?” Eric said.

  The cabbie shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “Just jogging.”

  “Jogging?” I said. “Who jogs in this heat, especially at noon? It had to be in the nineties. How was he dressed? Can you remember?”

  “Let me think,” the cabbie said. “He had on dark slacks and a plaid, sleeveless shirt.”

  “What about his shoes?” Eric said. “Did you notice his shoes?”

  “Just regular shoes,” the cabbie said. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “I mean,” Eric said, “was he wearing jogging shoes or tennis shoes or just regular street shoes?”

  “Just regular shoes,” the cabbie said. “Dark brown or black. Now that you mention it, I don’t ever remember seeing anyone jogging in their street shoes. Why do you suppose he wasn’t wearing sneakers?”

  “That’s what we intend to find out,” Eric said. “Thanks for your time.”

  “So you really don’t need a cab today?” the cabbie said. “I have to pay for my own gas, you know. I must have burned up three or four dollars worth just coming here.”

  Eric fished his wallet out and gave the cabbie ten dollars. “Keep the change,” he told the cabbie, and walked back toward the apartment building. The cabbie drove away in search of his next fare.

  I walked with Eric back toward the apartment building and noticed a curtain fall back into place on the ground floor in the front.

  “I saw it,” Eric said. “That’s Cramer’s office. Let’s go have another talk with Mr. Cramer, shall we?”

  Eric stood in front of Cramer’s office door and knocked. A second later a bullet tore through the wood and missed Eric’s head by less than an inch. We each jumped to the sides of the door, our guns drawn.

  “Give it up, Cramer,” Eric yelled through the closed door. “You’re not going anywhere.”

  A second shot ripped a hole in the door about mid-way up from the floor. Eric leaned back and put all he had into the kick that shattered the flimsy door frame. The door flew open and we both swung around from the side, our guns pointed ahead of us. We both fired at the same time, breaking a window on the opposite wall. The window stood open and the curtains waved in the breeze but Cramer was gone. Eric checked the rest of the apartment while I hurried outside and around to the other end of the building.

  Cramer got into a beat-up Chevy and squealed away from the curb. I yelled in through the broken window. “Eric,” I said. “Let’s go. He took off on us.”

  Eric hurried outside and the two of us slid into his cruiser and started after the Chevy. Cramer had a three block head start, but his twenty-year-old sedan was no match for Eric’s cruiser with its big-block police interceptor engine. He caught up to Cramer af
ter a few more blocks. Cramer took the corner on two wheels and sped south. Eric stayed with him.

  Eric plucked the mic from his dash and called in for backups to intercept Cramer. The dispatcher acknowledged Eric’s request and radioed for any units in the area to assist with the pursuit. They needn’t have bothered. Before any other units could respond, Cramer lost control of his Chevy at the next corner. He took the corner too fast and the car rolled over twice, coming to rest on its roof. Eric slid to a stop directly behind Cramer’s overturned car and jumped out, his gun trained on the disabled sedan. I took up a position on the other side of the car, aiming my gun and the shattered windshield.

  Eric and I edged our way up to the car and crouched to get a look inside. The car was empty. We both stood up and immediately scanned the area. Cramer had been ejected out of the Chevy, through the windshield. His body had been tossed like a rag doll and had landed on the sidewalk fifty feet from the car. Cramer’s left leg was twisted up behind him in a way no yoga guru ever thought of. The side of Cramer’s face looked like he’d been attacked with an electric sander. Both of his hands had the flesh torn off the palms and a pool of blood was beginning to form under his body. I kept my .38 trained on Cramer.

  Eric holstered his .38 and knelt next to the broken man. “Lay still, Cramer,” Eric said. “An ambulance is on the way.”

  Cramer tried to move but his body just wouldn’t cooperate. All he managed to do was grunt.

  “You killed those six people,” Eric said. “Why? Just so you could form some stupid smiley face on a map?”

  Cramer’s eyes fluttered and he licked his lips. He tried to smile, but winced with the effort. “You noticed that,” he said. “It was just a coincidence after the first two. Then I saw that moronic smiley face billboard and it came to me. I just wanted to go out being remembered.”

  “What are you talking about?” Eric said. “What do you mean, ‘go out’?”

  “You didn’t kill me with this car chase,” Cramer said. “I was dying anyway from pancreatic cancer. I’d have been gone in a month no matter what.”

  “So why kill those first two people?” Eric said. “You remember, the two whose locations formed the smiley face’s eyes. Why’d you kill them?”

  “You’re so smart,” Cramer said. “You figure it out.” Blood bubbled up and out of his mouth and ears and a second later he sputtered blood down his chin and fell silent.

  Eric looked at me and shook his head. I holstered my .38 and joined Eric alongside Cramer’s body. Eric stood, returned to the cruiser and updated his request for backup, cancelling the second unit and requesting an ambulance, but added that there was no hurry. No sense putting two ambulance attendants’ life at risk speeding to the scene of a dead man.

  Eric tossed the mic back onto the front seat and turned to me. “Now all I have to do is find out why he killed his first two victims,” he said. “The last four were just some sick need to finish his pattern on the map.”

  “Any connection that you know of between those first two and Cramer?” I said.

  “Now that we know where to look,” Eric said, “it shouldn’t take us long to make the connections. I guess I can handle it from here, Clay. Thanks a lot for your help, but I’d better cut you loose before the budget committee starts breathing down my neck.”

  “I understand,” I said. “But you be sure and let me know what you find out about those first two victims. I won’t be able to put this one behind me until I know.”

  “I will,” Eric said, turning toward the sound of a siren. It was the ambulance and two additional squad cars. Eric designated assignments and secured the scene before turning it over to Sergeant Rydell, who had arrived in the second black and white unit.

  “Come on, Clay,” Eric said. “I’ll drive you back to your office. You can come in tomorrow to make your official statement.”

  Eric drove me back to Hollywood Boulevard and dropped me at the front door to my building. He waved briefly before he pulled away. I took the elevator to the third floor and walked to the end of the hall. When I came into the office, Elliott was sitting with his feet up on his desk, reading the afternoon paper. Gloria was entering facts into our case database.

  I looked at Gloria. “I can see who the brains of this outfit is,” I said.

  Elliott lowered is paper and looked over the top at me. “Enjoy your ride in the squad car?” he said. “Did Eric let you work the lights and siren?”

  I looked at Gloria and rolled my eyes. She laughed and shook her head before closing her screen and turning off her computer. “So what did you do all day?” she said.

  I gave them both the condensed version of the day’s events and told them that I thought I’d take the rest of the day off and look in on Dean.

  Elliott had to admit that my day’s activities had certainly been more exciting than his. “Good job, Dad,” he said. “I’ll bet Dean’s eager to hear how it came out. You be sure and say hi for both of us when you see him.

  “I’ll do that,” I said. “Then I’m going home. Call the next time you need some more help here.”

  I had an hour before visiting time at the hospital was over and I couldn’t think of any better way to spend it than with my best friend, Dean. He was looking much better than when I’d seen Helen spoon feeding him just the other day. When I walked into the room he was sitting all the way up, his bed cranked up as high as it would go. He was watching some mindless court show on the wall-mounted television set.

  “I’ve known you nearly sixty years and you never said anything about being a court TV fan,” I said, taking a seat next to his bed.

  “There’s probably more than one thing you don’t know about me,” Dean said. “I can’t share everything with you. Gotta have some mystery between us.”

  “I suppose,” I said. “But you know, all the things I know about you I found out either second hand or by accident. I don’t recall us ever sitting down and just having any in-depth conversations.”

  “Who are you?” Dean said. “Did some women’s encounter group send you over here to uncover my deep, dark secrets?”

  “Don’t be a smart ass,” I said. “We came pretty close to losing you a few days ago. Do you think we can be serious just this once?”

  Dean switched off the television set and laid the remote on the end table. “Okay,” he said, “what do you want to know?”

  “I didn’t have any specific questions in mind,” I said. “I just thought maybe you tell me something about yourself that I don’t already know. Go ahead, surprise me.”

  “You want secrets, eh?” Dean said. “Let’s see. I like travel, food & drink, TV & movies, redheads and music.”

  “Redheads?” I said. “You? But Helen’s a brunette.”

  Dean held his index finger up to his lips. “Keep that one to yourself,” he said.

  “Keep going,” I said. “Tell me more.”

  Well,” Dean said, “I always prefer dark food & drink to light.”

  “Huh?” I said.

  “For example,” Dean said, “I prefer cola to 7-Up, beef to chicken, dark chocolate to milk chocolate, grape nuts to corn flakes, dark rum to light.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I get it now.”

  Dean thought for a moment and then continued. “I love Mexican food,” he said, “but I totally don’t care what dish I order because it’s the exact same ingredients just presented differently. You know, tacos equals tostadas equals burritos equals enchiladas. Same with Italian food. Lasagna equals cannelloni equals manicotti. It’s all pasta in a different shape, that’s all.”

  “You’ve given this a lot of thought, haven’t you?” I said.

  “You wanted to know,” Dean said. “I like weird flavors of stuff. When everyone’s getting vanilla or chocolate or strawberry ice cream, I’m getting mocha-kiwi-bubblegum. I have almost no resistance to sweets. They’re my Achilles heel, so to speak. I prefer pie to cake, with exception of cheese cake. I swear, if I found out I only had twenty-fo
ur hours to live, I’d get a large, five-pound cheese cake and finish it all in one sitting. I’d probably wash it all down with a thick chocolate malt.”

  “So far,” I said, “we’re still separated at birth. I like all those things, except for the Mexican food. I’m not an experimenter when it comes to eating. I stick with the basics. I’d almost rather chop off my own foot than put even a teaspoon of mayonnaise in my mouth.”

  “What a boring world this would be if everybody was the same or liked the same stuff,” Dean said. I don’t know about you, but I like to stay up way late and sleep way late. To hell with mornings and those who enjoy them. I’m like a salamander who doesn’t stir until the sun is high in the sky.”

  “But you were a cop for all those years,” I said. “I’m sure you had to be up at the ass crack of dawn plenty of times.”

  “Yeah,” Dean said. “And I was one ornery mother until I got my coffee. Anyone who knew me, knew enough to stay out of my way first thing in the morning. And another thing, as long as you’re asking, I intensely dislike politics, religion, modern music, and sports. I won’t watch a ball game nor engage in a conversation about one, either.”

  I smiled broadly as Dean described things about himself that also applied to me. “This is getting spooky,” I said. “If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you were describing me.” I slid my chair closer to the bed. “Tell me more.”

  “Okay,” Dean said. I dislike small talk, because I’m not very good at it. I want to get to the meat of a conversation, not talk about the weather. I love travelling but hate travel. That is, I enjoy being places, but hate getting to them. I really dislike political correctness. If you get to call me honky, I get to call you darkie, no complaining. Fair’s fair. Either we’re both rude or we’re both polite, but not one of each.”

  I had to laugh. These were all things I’d thought but had never vocalized. If Dean hadn’t been fourteen months younger than me, I’d have sworn that one of us had been kidnapped from our mother.

  “I’m totally okay being by myself, at home or away,” Dean said. “I’m always alone but never lonely. My mom used to say, ‘Dean enjoys his own company more than anyone elses’, and she was right.”