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

by Bill Bernico

  Kevin set the folder down and picked up the third one. This one had a date on the tab from three weeks ago. Obviously Bonnie had stacked these folders in chronological order. The complainant, a twenty-seven-year-old housewife from Pasadena called to tell police that she’d just purchased a new bathrobe for her husband and had it in a large bag. She said she had left the clothing store in Hollywood when a man dashed past her and snatched the bag from her hand. That was all he took and she told police that she was surprised that he hadn’t taken her purse instead. She also told police that she had struggled with the man, scratching his hand with her nails, ripping the shopping bag in the process. The bag had ripped open but all the thief got for his troubles was part of the bag. The bathrobe, with a few drops of his blood on it, fell to the sidewalk. He was gone by the time police arrived.

  Now maybe he had something, Kevin thought. The bathrobe was still sitting in a bin in the evidence room. He could have that analyzed along with the two outfits found at the murder scenes and see if anything matched. He pressed the intercom key again. “Bonnie, would you come in here, please.” There was no answer and then he remembered that she and the two officers were probably still sifting through filing cabinets.

  Kevin walked down the hall toward the crime lab. There was already a team in place analyzing the coverall and the floral dress for residue of whoever wore them. He found Jack Archer peering down into a microscope on one of the tables. Jack looked up when Kevin approached.

  “Got anything for me, Jack?” Kevin said.

  “Look for yourself,” Jack said, stepping aside.

  Kevin pressed his eyes to the eyepieces and looked at the contents of a slide. He stood up again and turned back to Jack. “What am I looking at?”

  Jack gestured toward a second microscope that had been set up next to the first one. Kevin looked into that one as well. It took him only a second to realize that the contents of both slides matched. He stood up and looked at Jack. “What is it?”

  “That one on the left,” Jack said, “Is a sweat sample from the floral print dress and the one on the right is from the coverall we found at the murder scene on Monday.”

  “And?”

  “And all I can tell you for sure at this point is that they don’t match the sample you got from Elliott Cooper,” Jack said. “There was a slight trace of him on just the collar, but that was probably from him picking up the coverall and laying it in his car. There’s no trace of him on the inside of the outfit. He never wore it.”

  “Thanks, Jack,” Kevin said. “I’m sure he’ll be glad to hear that. Keep at it and let me know what else you come up with, would you?”

  “Sure thing, Lieutenant,” Jack said before turning his attentions back to the evidence.

  Kevin walked back to his office and immediately got on the phone to the Cooper Investigations office. Matt answered the phone. “Matt, it’s Kevin. Is Elliott in?”

  “He will be in a minute or so, can you hold on?”

  “Just have him call me at my office when he comes in, would you?”

  “Can you tell me?” Matt said.

  “I’d rather wait and tell Elliott,” Kevin said. “Just have him call as soon as he gets in.”

  “Will do.” Matt hung up the phone just as Elliott was walking into the office. “You just missed Kevin’s call. He wants you to call him right away.”

  Elliott hung up his jacket and sat behind his desk. When Lieutenant Cole answered, Elliott said, “Let me guess. You want me to bring the rope with the hangman’s noose attached. You’ll pardon me if I don’t rush right over.”

  “Elliott, let’s be serious for a minute,” Kevin said. “I just came from the crime lab and it looks like you’re in the clear. The sweat they analyzed from inside the two outfits doesn’t match your sample. You’re off the hook.”

  A wide smile played on Elliott’s face as he tried to speak. “That’s great, Kevin. Maybe now I can get back my bail money and pay off my second mortgage.”

  “There is that,” Kevin said. “But I thought you’d be most pleased about not being a suspect.”

  “I was never worried about that part,” Elliott said. “I knew I didn’t do it. Do you have a match for the sweat in those two outfits yet?”

  “Not until we get something to compare them to,” Kevin explained. “We’re going through a few older cases trying to find a connection. I’ll keep you in the loop if and when we do. Take care, my friend.”

  “Thanks for the call, Kevin,” Elliott said and hung up. He turned to Matt, still smiling.

  Matt held up one palm. “You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “They ruled you out as a suspect, right?”

  “That’s right,” Elliott said. “Kevin said they’re tracking some older cases looking for any connection and he’ll let me know. Can you hold this place down by yourself for an hour or two? I have to go get my bail money back and take it to the bank. I haven’t had a mortgage for so long and it feels weird to owe money on our house.”

  “Sure, Dad, go ahead. I’ll see you when you get back.”

  Elliott returned an hour and a half later. He plopped down on the leather sofa under the window and sighed. “Done,” he said. “We’re free again.”

  “We?” Matt said.

  “Oh gees,” Elliott said. “I forgot to call and tell your mother about all this.”

  “There’s the phone,” Matt said.

  It was two days later when Lieutenant Cole got the call about the next victim of the serial killer the paper had dubbed, “The Costume Killer.” A neighbor had called the police when she heard screaming coming from the house next door. She had turned on her porch light and in a moment of clarity, had pressed the alarm button on her car, causing it to constantly beep its horn and flash its lights. That was all the distraction it took to send The Costume Killer running from the house, still wearing the gray pinstriped mechanics coverall that he’d stolen from a downtown department store.

  Two black and white patrol cars arrived on the scene within three minutes. The two officers emerged from their cruiser, their guns drawn, and carefully approached the house with the beeping car. A woman opened her front door when she saw the police and pointed to her neighbor, Mary Granger’s house. She silenced her car alarm and retreated into her house again.

  The two officers, one named Brickman and the other named Clancy found Mary Granger’s front door hanging wide open. With their flashlights in one hand and their service revolvers in the other, they cautiously made their way into the house, checking each room. When they got to the kitchen near the rear of the house, Officer Brickman found Mary Granger lying on the linoleum floor. He knelt next to her, pressing two fingers into her neck. She was still alive.

  “Art, call for backup and an ambulance,” Officer Brickman yelled.

  Paul Brickman leaned over, trying to listen for any breathing. He leaned further over and pressed his ear to Mary’s chest. There was still a faint heartbeat and he thought he heard her mumbling something in a weak whisper.

  “Captain Gold,” the woman said and turned her head to one side, obviously tired from the effort of trying to speak.

  Brickman looked down at her. “Are you saying ‘Captain Gold’,” he asked. “What does that mean?”

  Mary’s eyes fluttered open for an instant and she became alarmed when she saw Brickman’s face that close to hers. She tried in vain to struggle, but the cop held her down, not wanting her to move in case there was internal damage. “Captain Gold,” Mary said once more before losing consciousness.

  The ambulance and the backup unit arrived simultaneously. Two attendants in white hurried into the house, pulling a gurney with them. They took over for Officer Brickman, who stood now and joined his partner in the living room, along with the two backup officers.

  Brickman looked over at his partner and said, “She tried to tell me something a minute ago. She said, ‘Captain Gold’. Does that mean anything to any of you?”

  The other three cops exchanged gl
ances and all shook their heads. “No idea,” Officer Clancy said. “You think maybe she knew her attacker and that was his nickname?”

  Brickman shook his head. “Beats me, but for now it’s all we have to go on.”

  One of the backup cops, a patrolman named Fisher gestured with his chin toward the kitchen. “You think this was the Costume Killer’s handiwork?”

  “If it was,” Brickman said, “she’s one lucky woman. She would be the only person alive who has seen the killer’s face. We’d better make sure someone is with her at all times. We can’t take the chance that he could return and try to silence her for good.”

  “Where’s the costume?” Clancy said.

  “Huh?”

  “The costume. This guy always leaves the costume at the scene, usually with the victim’s blood all over it.”

  “The neighbor scared him off,” Brickman said. “He’s probably out there, still wearing that costume, whatever it is. We’d better get an APB out while he’s still close by. Then we’d better get back to the precinct and check the moniker file for anyone with that nickname.”

  Art Clancy agreed with his partner and turned to the other two cops. “Can you stay with the scene until the Lieutenant gets here?” The other two cops said they would and watched as Brickman and Clancy drove back to the Hollywood precinct.

  About the same time Brickman and Clancy were checking the moniker files, Lieutenant Kevin Cole was pulling up to the latest crime scene at Mary Granger’s house. The ambulance attendants had Mary secured on the gurney and were wheeling her toward the front door when Kevin walked in and looked down at the gurney. “Another victim?” he said.

  The attendant shook his head. “Not yet. This one’s still alive.”

  Kevin’s eyes got wide and he looked down at Mary’s face. Her eyes opened slightly again and she tried to move her lips. Kevin bent down closer to the woman’s mouth. “What are you trying to say?”

  In her weak voice she repeated, “Captain Gold.”

  “Lieutenant,” the ambulance driver said. “We really have to get her to the hospital. Did you want to ride along with us?”

  Cole nodded and turned to one of the other cops, handing him his keys. “Make sure my car gets to the hospital. I’m riding with the victim.”

  “Yes, sir,” the cop said, taking the keys.

  “And secure this scene,” Cole said. “The crime lab is on their way here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mary Granger was loaded into the back of the ambulance and Kevin Cole climbed in with her, kneeling by her side and holding her hand. The ambulance’s siren tore a hole in the night as it raced to the hospital. The attendant in the back kept a close watch on Mary’s vital signs. Shortly after the ambulance pulled up to the emergency entrance, another police car pulled up behind them. It was one of the backup cops with Kevin’s cruiser. He handed the lieutenant his keys and stayed outside, waiting for his partner to arrive.

  Back at the precinct, Paul Brickman and Art Clancy were busy going through the moniker files, looking for anyone with the nickname, Captain Gold. They had found several monikers beginning with Captain and a few ending with Gold, but none with both words. They returned the last of the folders to the filing cabinet and turned to look at each other.

  “Now what?” Clancy said.

  Brickman shook his head. “I don’t know. I think we’d better get a few more people involved—people with more resources than we have available to us here. We’ll talk to the lieutenant when he’s available. Meanwhile, I think we’d better scour the neighborhood around that last crime scene. The APB is out and the patrol cars will be cruising the streets, but maybe we can check a few of the neighborhood bars and start asking around about this Captain Gold character.”

  Paul Brickman started in the general vicinity of Mary Granger’s house and stopped at the closest bar, which was several blocks away. The two officers got out and entered the tavern, stopping just inside the door to let their eyes adjust to the dim lighting. They stepped up to the bar and summoned the bartender over. He set down the beer glass he’d been wiping and looked at Brickman.

  “Can I help you, officers?”

  “Anyone come in here in the last half hour?” Brickman said.

  The bartender shook his head. “Been pretty slow tonight. Look around. There’s only half a dozen people in here and they’ve been here for an hour at least. Who you lookin’ for?”

  “A guy who would have been by himself,” Brickman said. “Could have been running, might have been out of breath or sweating. Anyone here fit that description?”

  “Like I said,” the bartender repeated, “These people have all been here for an hour at least. No one new has come in since.”

  Brickman handed the bartender one of his cards. “Call if someone like that comes in. The switchboard can patch you through to me.”

  The bartender agreed that he would and laid the officer’s card somewhere under the bar. Brickman and Clancy headed back for the door again and bumped into a man on his way in.

  The man looked up, excused himself and then smiled before stepping around the two cops. He was a white man, maybe thirty, wearing a sweatshirt, jeans and sneakers. He didn’t seem out of breath as if he’d been running, and he wasn’t sweating. Brickman thought nothing more of him and retreated to his patrol car.

  When they got back in the car, Clancy turned to Brickman. “What is it with those kind of guys?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did you see his grille?” Clancy said.

  “His what?” Brickman said.

  “His teeth. They call that a grille, you know, like on the front of a fancy car. I’ll just bet you that his original teeth were still good and yet those guys still feel it necessary to replace them with all that gold. When they smile at you, you almost have to wear sunglasses for the shine.”

  “They pull out perfectly good teeth and have gold teeth implanted in their place?” Brickman was dumbfounded. He’d never heard of anything so ridiculous.

  “Well,” Clancy said. “Maybe they don’t have the original teeth pulled. Maybe they have them ground down and then have them capped in gold. What a waste of money, if you ask me.”

  “Hold on, Art. What did you just say?”

  “I said it was a waste of money and perfectly good teeth.”

  “No, before that,” Brickman said and then a wide smile crept onto his face. “I think we might have found him.”

  “Found who?” Clancy said.

  “The costume killer—Captain Gold.”

  “Him?” Clancy said, hiking a thumb over his shoulder toward the tavern.

  “Mary Granger wasn’t telling me anyone’s nickname,” Brickman explained. “She was telling me that her attacker had his teeth capped in gold.”

  “Can it be that easy?” Clancy said.

  “We’re going to find out,” Brickman said, exiting the patrol car and drawing his service revolver. Clancy followed him back into the bar and quickly spotted the guy with the mouth full of gold teeth sitting on a stool at the far end of the bar.

  He looked up and saw the two cops approaching with guns drawn and hopped off the barstool and dashed down a hallway toward the back door. He was outside and running back toward the street with the two cops hot on his heels. They got within fifty feet of the fleeing suspect when he turned and raised a handgun of his own, firing once.

  The officers returned fire, hitting the suspect once in the left thigh and once in the right shoulder. The gun he’d been holding flew out of his hand and skittered across the pavement. He fell to the ground, clutching the thigh wound, which was bleeding profusely. Brickman hurried over to where the suspect’s gun had come to rest and picked it up, sticking it in his waistband. Clancy cautiously approached the downed suspect, his gun still trained on him.

  “You hit an artery,” the man on the ground said. “Get a doctor or I’ll bleed to death.”

  “That would be a shame, wouldn’t it?” Clancy said.


  Brickman grabbed his shoulder microphone and called for backup and an ambulance to be dispatched to their location. He looked at his partner. “Stay with him. I’m going to check around the outside of the bar. I’ve got a hunch.”

  Officer Brickman pulled the flashlight off his belt and lit up his way as he walked back toward the bar. He’d made a complete circle around the tavern and was about to return to his partner when his flash caught something behind three barrels in the alley. It was gray material from a mechanics coverall that was bunched up and had been carelessly thrown behind whatever was handy—the barrels. Brickman picked up the coveralls by the shoulders and held them up. There were faint traces of blood across the front of it.

  Officer Brickman carried the coverall back to where his partner kept watch on the suspect. He held it up in front of the suspect. “Lose something back there?”

  The suspect looked away. “That ain’t mine. I never saw it before.”

  “We’ll see what the crime lab has to say about that,” Brickman told him. He pulled out his service revolver and held it on the suspect. “I’ve got him covered,” he told his partner. “See if he’s got some I.D. on him.”

  Officer Clancy holstered his weapon and reached into the suspect’s back pocket, withdrawing a brown bifold wallet. Inside he found a driver’s license that had been issued to one Irving Vernon Leeg, age 32 from Glendale. Clancy looked at Leeg. “Irving Leeg, is that your name?”

  The suspect said nothing, but just leered at Clancy.

  Then something occurred to Clancy and he broke out into a broad smile. “You don’t by any chance use only your first two initials with your last name, do you, Irving?”

  Brickman gave Clancy a puzzled look. “What are you talking about, Art?”

  Clancy showed Brickman the man’s license. “Irving Vernon Leeg,” he said. “I.V. Leeg.”