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

by Bill Bernico

  “Hello,” I said this time. “Mrs. Whittaker, are you home?” Again no one answered but I did hear a faint buzzing sound coming from some unseen room. I looked at Bud. He nodded and we both stepped inside. When I looked down at my hand I noticed I was holding my .38 out in front of me. I followed the buzzing sounds to a back bedroom and pushed the door open with my knuckles so as not to leave any unnecessary fingerprints. The smell was overpowering and I recoiled with my hand over my nose.

  Bud had been a little more used to this kind of situation from his twenty years on the police department. He stepped into the bedroom, his own revolver an extension of his hand. “In here, Elliott,” he said.

  I stepped into the bedroom and saw that Bud had found a woman’s bloated body lying on the floor near the closet door. “Think that’s the ex Mrs. Whittaker?” I said.

  Bud motioned for me to leave the bedroom. He followed close behind and closed the door again with his shirt tail. “We’d better not disturb anything else here,” he said. “I’m going to call this in. Why don’t you take a look around the rest of the house?”

  Bud found a kitchen towel and used it to pick up the phone receiver and dial the precinct. I found the kitchen and started looking through the cupboards. Everything seemed to be in its proper place with nothing out of order. The living room looked just as neat and tidy, as if it had just been cleaned. There was a second bedroom across the hall from the one with the dead body in it. I opened the door and looked in. This room didn’t match the kitchen or living room at all. It looked like someone had held a wrestling match in it. Dresser drawers were out and lying on the floor, their contents scattered about on the floor. Framed pictures had been ripped off the walls, their broken frames and shattered glass scattered everywhere. The mattress had been flung off the box spring and the closet held plenty of women’s clothes—all lying in a pile on the floor.

  Bud joined me in the bedroom. “Eric’s on his way,” Bud said. “What the hell happened in here?”

  “Hell if I know,” I said. “This is how I found it. Someone was looking for something. I wonder if they found it.”

  “They must have,” Bud said. “And this would have to have been the first room they looked in.”

  “How can you tell?” I said.

  “Because they stopped making a mess when they found what they were looking for,” Bud explained. “The kitchen and living room weren’t touched. That tells me that they found what they were looking for in this bedroom and left shortly afterwards.”

  I looked at Bud. “How long did Eric say it would take him to get here?” I said.

  “Ten minutes on the outside,” Bud said. “Why?”

  “I thought I’d bring Daisy in here and see if she picks up anything unusual,” I told him.

  “Like what?” Bud wanted to know.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But with that mess in the second bedroom, the killer is sure to have left some kind of scent behind. Hang on, I’ll be right back.” I hurried out to the van and grabbed Daisy’s leash, leading her back into the apartment. I walked her to the bedroom with the mess and used the same command that Adam had used on her for years. “Daisy, find,” I said and released the leash.

  Daisy made her way around the room, sniffing the floor for a scent. She kept zigzagging across the room until she came to the closet. There she stopped and barked once. “What is it, girl?” I said, kneeling next to her. She stopped just short of an overturned metal box lying on top of the pile of clothes. I pulled Daisy out of the closet and led her back to the van before returning to the apartment.

  “What was that all about?” Bud said.

  I gestured toward the metal box. “She caught some kind of scent from the box,” I said. “And look there. There are a few folded papers under the box. My guess is that whoever did this found something interesting in the box and just dropped the rest of it right there. Must have been pretty important to do all this.”

  “Bud,” a voice from the living room called. “You in here?” It was Eric’s voice.

  Bud and I returned to the living room to find Lieutenant Anderson and another uniform standing just inside the front door. “She’s in the bedroom on the left,” Bud told Eric.

  Eric took a quick look at the body and returned to the living room again, holding his breath. “Gees,” he said. “I wonder why the neighbors haven’t reported that smell by now. She’s been dead at least two days and in this heat, oh man.”

  “It looks like she was the only tenant in this wing,” the other officer said. “Her closest neighbor was on the other side of the courtyard.”

  Eric looked at the officer. “Go out to the patrol car and call this in to the coroner,” he said. “Tell him to bring some menthol for his nose.”

  “Yes, sir,” the officer said and left the room.

  “What are you two doing here, anyway?” Eric said.

  “Just following up on that printout you gave us,” I told him. “If that woman in the bedroom is the tenant here, that would make her Whittaker’s ex-wife. I’d say that’s more than just a coincidence that both he and his ex would die within a day of each other. And take a look at the second bedroom, Eric. Someone was after something in there and it looks like they found what they wanted in a metal strong box. As you can see, they didn’t bother with the kitchen or living room.”

  Bud laid his hand on Eric’s shoulder. “Would you say we’ve earned our fifty bucks, Eric?”

  “Don’t be a wise guy,” Eric said.

  “Well, then, if you’ll excuse us,” Bud said to Eric, “We’d better get back to work on this case that your captain didn’t deem important enough to have his own men look into.”

  “It just got bumped up the list,” Eric said. “I’ll be putting a couple of my own detectives on this one, but thanks for your help, both of you.”

  “Just like that?” I said. “We do the grunt work and you step in to take it from us?”

  “Elliott,” Eric said. “Do you remember which of us is the police and which is the private eye, the emphasis being on private?”

  I looked at Bud. “Come on, Bud,” I said. “Looks like we’re no longer needed around here.” I turned to Eric. “That fifty bucks you were paying us was the minimum, wasn’t it? I mean we didn’t put in a full day on this thing.”

  “You’ll get your fifty, Cooper,” Eric said. “Now if you don’t mind, I’ll talk to you later.”

  I led Bud out of the apartment and hurried back to the van. Bud looked at me. “What’s your hurry?” he said.

  “I want to get down to the hall of records before Eric put his guys on it,” I said. “I have a hunch.” I drove downtown and asked Bud to wait in the van with Daisy. “I’ll just be a minute and I don’t want to have to put any money in the meter. Just keep an eye out for the meter maid.”

  Once inside I found the public access counter and asked for a copy of the will for Elmer Whittaker. I paid the gal five bucks for the copy and hurried back out to the van with it. Bud was talking to Daisy when I slid back behind the wheel.

  “Well,” Bud said, “What did you find?”

  “Look at this,” I said, unfolding the Photostat of the will and handing it to Bud. I pointed to a section near the bottom of the paper. “According to this Elmer’s wife, Gladys would get everything upon his death.”

  “So what,” Bud said. “From the looks of that guy, he didn’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of.”

  “And look further down,” I said. “In the event she precedes him in death, his holdings would go to someone named Joseph Whittaker, a brother.”

  “What if Joe dies before Elmer?” Bud said. “Do you see any provision for that?”

  “Then it looks like everything goes to Elmer’s former business partner, a guy named Stewart Worthington,” I said.

  “But Elmer didn’t have a business,” Bud pointed out. “He’d been in prison for a year and a half and pretty much living on the street since then. What could he have that an
yone would want? And by the way, this will would have to be pretty old to make provisions for Whittaker’s then wife and business partner. What’s the date on this thing?”

  I looked on the top of the form. It was dated six years earlier. I turned to Bud. “My guess is that he even forgot he had this will after all this time.”

  “Well,” Bud said, “His wife didn’t forget, if this is what is missing from her strong box. I’m willing to bet this was at least part of what the killer took.”

  “Then there has to have been more that the killer took than just a copy of an old will,” I said. “How are we going to find out what else is missing?”

  “I think it’s time we paid a visit to Mr. Worthington,” Bud said.

  “What about the brother, Joe?” I said. “As far as we know he’s still alive and he’s next in line on the list of beneficiaries.”

  “You know where to find him?” Bud said.

  “Well,” I said, “Suppose we just start with the phone book? We could get lucky.” I reached into the pocked attached to the back of my seat and withdrew a local phone book. I flipped it open to the W section and ran my finger down the column. There were seventeen Whittakers listed, but only one Robert. He had an address in the fifty-five hundred block of Franklin Avenue. I handed the book, still open to that page, to Bud. “When we get closer, read me the address again.”

  I drove north to Franklin and turned east on Franklin. It took just a few minutes to get there. I turned to Bud. “Let me have that address, would you?” I said.

  Bud checked the phone book again and said, “Fifty-five forty-three Franklin. Just up ahead there.”

  I turned to Bud. “Before you slip that phone book back into pocket, check the date,” I said. “How current is that issue?”

  Bud looked at the cover. “Last year’s,” he said and slipped the book back behind my seat. “Why?”

  “A lot can happen in a year,” I said. “If this Whittaker is an older brother, he could already be dead. If it’s not even his brother, but some other Whittaker, this could take us a little longer.”

  “There is it,” Bud said as I pulled to the curb. “The one with the brown lawn.”

  We got out, leaving Daisy to guard the van. I walked up to the front porch and rang the doorbell. I didn’t hear any sounds coming from inside and pressed the button again. The same nothing happened. I turned to Bud. “You want to try one door to the east and I’ll try the next door to the west. See if anyone knows this guy.”

  I stepped off the porch and strode up the walk next door. There was no doorbell so I knocked. I heard footsteps inside coming toward me. The door opened and a woman perhaps in her fifties answered the door.

  “Yes?” she said, looking at me suspiciously.

  “Excuse me,” I said, “I’m trying to reach Mr. Whittaker next door but no one answers.”

  “That’d be a good trick if he did,” the woman said. “He’s been dead almost two years. His house has sat empty all this time.”

  “Really?” I said.

  “I guess no one wants to live in a house where a guy hung himself,” she said. “Must be some kind of stigma or something. Oh, people have looked at it, but as soon as they find out about the former owner hanging himself in there, they back off.”

  “When did this happen?” I said.

  The woman thought for a moment. “It’ll be two years ago next month,” she said after a short mental calculation. “Yeah, two years come September twentieth, I believe.”

  “Do you know if he had any relatives in the area?” I said.

  “Beats me,” the woman said. “He pretty much kept to himself over there. I tried being friendly, you know, saying hi when I saw him on the porch and all. But he’d just nod and go back inside. Come to think of it, he never said a word to me in all the time he lived there.”

  “How long did he live there?” I said.

  “Let’s see,” she said. “He was already there when I moved in six years ago, so at least that long, maybe longer.”

  “Thanks you for your time,” I said and turned to go.

  “Have you already talked to his daughter?” the woman added.

  I turned back to her. “Daughter?” I said. “I didn’t know he had one. How would you know about her?”

  “I met her a few months before Mr. Whittaker killed himself,” she said. “I saw her on the porch and just said hi, you know. He wasn’t home at the time so I was able to say more than just hello. She seemed like a nice person, but I haven’t seen her since.”

  “Did you catch her name?” I said.

  “Darleen or Doreen or something like that.” she said.

  “Does she have the same last name as her father?” I said.

  “No, I don’t think so,” she said. “I think she mentioned that she was married for a while, so I don’t know if she kept that name after the divorce. Sorry, I can’t be more specific.”

  “You’ve been very helpful,” I said. Just as I was about to turn away again, Bud came up the walk. “Thanks again,” I said to the woman and joined Bud halfway down the sidewalk. “Anything?” I said.

  “Nothing,” Bud said. “Whittaker kept to himself and the man I spoke to didn’t like him anyway. How about you?”

  “Did the man you spoke to know that Whittaker was dead?” I said.

  “If he did,” Bud said, “He didn’t say anything to me about it. How did you find out?”

  “The woman here told me,” I said. “Killed himself almost two years ago. Hung himself in the living room. House has been empty since then.”

  “Let me guess,” Bud said, “You got a woman.”

  “Huh?” I said.

  “I talked to a man,” Bud said. “Men keep it to a bare minimum. Whereas you talked to a woman and women always give you more than you ask for whether you want it or not. Am I right?”

  “Well, thank goodness for blabby women,” I said, “Or we wouldn’t find out half the things that we do?”

  “I suppose,” Bud said. “So what’s our next step?”

  “We could try to find the daughter,” I said, “But I didn’t see any mention of her in the will, so we might be just wasting time with her. I’d say we should look up the old business partner, what was his name?”

  “Stewart Worthington,” Bud offered. “I guess we could look him up in the phone book, too.”

  “It couldn’t be that easy, could it?” I said.

  Bud grabbed the phone book from behind my seat and flipped it open to the W section again. There was only one Worthington listed and it was for a Stewart on Santa Monica Boulevard. “That’s gotta be him,” he said. “Let’s roll.”

  Worthington, as it turned out, lived on the top floor of a high-rise apartment building. We got past the doorman by flashing our badges quickly enough so that he couldn’t tell we were private detectives and not with the police department. As we rode the elevator to the top floor I turned to Bud and said, “Are you getting the same spooky feeling that I am?”

  “Depends,” Bud said, “What kind of spooky feeling are you getting?”

  “Think about it,” I said, “Whittaker lists three people in his will and two of them are dead. Where does that point you?”

  “To the third guy?” Bud said. “But it’s so obvious, that he’d be the first one the police would question so why draw attention to yourself that way?”

  “Well, then,” I said, “If not Worthington, then he hired someone else to kill the others so he can be the only beneficiary. How does that sound?”

  Bud shook his head. “Even that would easy enough to trace. I’ve been on enough cases to know how the police think. They’d be all over this guy like a duck on a June bug.”

  “Then why are we going to talk to Worthington?” I said.

  “Just to get a feeling for him and his state of mind,” Bud said.

  The elevator door opened and Bud and I stepped into the hallway. Worthington’s apartment was at the end of the hall. As we were walking toward the apa
rtment, Worthington’s door opened and someone slowly backed out of the apartment, hunched over. As we got closer, we could see that the hunched over figure was dragging a body out into the hallway. The man stopped dragging when he looked over and saw us coming toward him. He hurried back into the apartment and tried to close the door, but the victim’s feet were still over the threshold and the door wouldn’t close.

  Bud and I drew our revolvers and threw our weight into the partially closed door. The man trying to hold it shut, flew back into the room and fell on his ass. Bud and I both pointed out weapons at him and he automatically raised his hands while still sitting on the floor.

  “All right,” Bud said to the man, “Who’s your friend there in the doorway?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Just some guy trying to break in here.”

  “You can do better than that,” I said.

  The man’s eyes narrowed and he seemed to be thinking. I didn’t give him a chance to make up another story. “Let’s start with your name,” I said.

  Again, the man seemed to weigh his options about giving us his real name or making something up. “Never mind,” Bud said, bending over and plucking the man’s wallet from inside his coat. Bud flipped the wallet open to the driver’s license window and read aloud. “So you’re Stewart Worthington,” Bud said. “Now that we’ve got that part out of the way, suppose you tell us who he is.” He gestured with his .38 toward the man in the doorway.

  “Could you at least drag him back inside and close the door?” Worthington said. “It wouldn’t do to have some nosy neighbor see him lying there.”

  I turned to Bud. “Keep him covered,” I said. “I’ll drag Stewart’s friend inside.” I holstered my .38, grabbed the victim by his ankles and pulled him past the entrance, closing the door behind me. I let out a deep breath, straightened up and turned toward Worthington. “Okay, Stewart, now who is your heavy, dead-weight friend there?”

  “He not dead,” Worthington said. “He’s just passed out. I think he overdosed and I just wanted to get him out of here before he puked all over my carpet.”

  “Overdosed?” Bud said. “On what and how would you know that in the first place?”