Ivan was laid on a blanket only a few feet from the wreck. His breathing was shallow and he was unresponsive. There was dried blood on his left arm, and his left temple but he was otherwise intact. There was no visible sign of broken bones. They couldn’t tell right away if the patient had any internal injuries. The attending officer covered his torso with a separate blanket to keep him warm.
Perhaps twenty minutes later an ambulance arrived at the scene. As the attendants were loading the unresponsive accident victim on a gurney, a fire ignited where gasoline had spilled on the highway. In only seconds the entire vehicle was engulfed in flames. For fear of an explosion everyone moved farther away from a disaster waiting to happen.
The car continued to burn as Ivan was gently placed in the ambulance and driven away. There was no way to obtain his identity as the paperwork for the rented car had obviously been incinerated. The officers couldn’t ascertain who he was by the license plates which were becoming scorched. It would be well after midnight and many calls to the various rental agencies before it was determined that the victim was Ivan Dunn of La Jolla.
An officer was sent to the residence listed in their files to notify any family he might have, even though, by this time, they realized the connection between him and the Jack Carey murder case.
Ivan was driven to the nearest hospital, which was Mercy. It was up the hill out of Mission Valley in the Hillcrest district of San Diego. He was admitted as a John Doe. It would be nearly daylight before his wife arrived. Ivan Dunn was in a coma. It was unknown if he would ever awaken.
Chapter Thirty-Four
A few days after the accident on California Highway 80 in the western part of Mission Valley, an obituary appeared in the most prominent San Diego newspaper. It read:
Ivan Dunn, late of La Jolla, passed away on February twelfth of this year from an automobile accident. Mr. Dunn was born in Chicago, Illinois on March third, nineteen ten. He was married to Anne Hillery but divorced in nineteen forty-one. He served in the Marines during World War Two, having been decorated with both the Silver Star and Purple Heart for action on Makin Island in the Pacific in nineteen forty-two. During a banzai attack and after his commanding officer was mortally wounded, Dunn took over command of his platoon, was wounded himself in the knee, but managed to personally kill more than a dozen of the charging enemy before being rendered unconscious. He spent the rest of the war behind a desk with Naval Intelligence. Later, as a private investigator, he was instrumental in solving a missing-persons case involving a teenager who disappeared the day of the stock market crash of nineteen twenty-nine. Recently retired, Dunn moved to La Jolla where he remarried.
He is survived by his wife, the former Rachel Embree. He had no children.
As he wished, the body will be cremated and his ashes scattered at sea. According to his will no service will be held.
There was no mention of the deceased’s current predicament; that he was still the prime suspect in the murder of Jack Carey, who was at the time a deputy with the San Diego Sheriff’s department.
It was eerily quiet at the mansion where Ivan Dunn had lived with his wife of less than a year. The couple had made few friends, none in the neighborhood. There hadn’t been time. The widow was visited by their next door neighbor, who had driven Ivan to the hospital when his wife had been shot. Gladys Pisney also crossed the street to convey her condolences.
On the second day after the accident, if it was that, a police detective showed up at their door. He introduced himself as Everett Paulsen. He was a pleasant sort, not all business like so many Rachel had seen in recent days, ever since Ivan had been charged with murder in the death of Jack Carey. He was not in uniform, but rather, he looked like a cowboy from days gone by. He even wore a white hat, which hid most of his graying hair.
She led him into their parlor, and after they were both seated, they made small talk, with him complimenting her on their home, saying it was not stuffy like so many large mansions he had seen. She thanked him graciously, wondering when he would get down to business. For this surely wasn’t a purely social visit.
After he accepted her offer of coffee, and she brought it, he made a rather cryptic statement; “We are sorry to put you through this Missus Dunn, but we thought it best not to tell you at first, so that you wouldn’t have to act, to be the grieving widow.”
Rachel was startled, not having any idea what this strange-looking man meant. She stood and walked over to where he sat, “Can you explain that last statement please? I’m confused. You cannot be as callous and unfeeling as you sound.” Her emotions had been put through a ringer and squeezed from her so that she was drained, and tired. Tears had come to her eyes as she confronted this representative of the law.
“I’m so sorry. I should have given more thought to my words. I can see why you reacted the way you did.” He hoped that would smooth things over with this obviously hurt woman. He chose his words carefully as he continued, “You should probably sit down ma’am, while I explain.”
Rachel retreated, once again taking her chair.
“It became clear to us at the Sheriff’s department a few days ago, that your husband might be innocent of the charges against him. Missus Pisney’s statement that an Asian was involved went a long way toward convincing us that we might have the wrong man.
Then we received a call from the Los Angeles office of the FBI. It was a Harvey
Shields I believe.”
Rachel felt it was her duty to correct this stranger with the weird dressing habits. “It’s Harry, Harry Shields.”
“Oh, right you are. I knew it started with an H. You see he had sent the typewriter removed from your house to the lab back east for fingerprint analysis. Of course the man who broke into your home wore gloves, but he had to remove them to type the message that incriminated your husband. One print was retrieved that didn’t belong to Ivan Dunn. It was identified as that of a former Sheriff’s deputy named Isaac Imhoff. There was no way we could justify him being in your home, unless it was to leave the note and typewriter.”
“Did you arrest him?” Rachel interrupted.
“No. We haven’t been able to find him.”
“So my husband is dead because you’ve been unable to do your job.”
“That’s just what I’ve been ineptly trying to explain to you. Ivan Dunn is not dead!”
Chapter Thirty-Five
Rachel leaned back in her chair and took a deep breath. She thought, just for a second, that this might be a dream. She blinked. The detective was still sitting across the room from her. “What did you say?” She still needed confirmation.
“I said that your husband isn’t dead. He’s still very much alive.”
She closed her eyes again, this time leaving them shut, realizing it wasn’t a dream. Her life had been a roller-coaster ride since she met the man who would become her husband. She’d been shot, twice, and kidnapped, sitting bound in a wooden rocking chair as she heard gunfire below, on the main floor of the huge house of her incarceration. There’d been no way to know if her lover had survived, or been cut down in the crossfire. Then he had come for her. He was intact, not riddled with bullets, as she had imagined just minutes before. They were married not long after. Then another nightmare happened and he was taken from her. After his release from jail, the specter of a life with0ut him while he languished in some dark prison cell was with her, burned into her conscious mind. Then came the attempt on his life, an attempt she thought was successful, until now.
Anger took over, and flashed across her brown eyes menacingly. “How could you do this to another human being?” Then without drawing another breath, she shouted, “Where is he? You’ve got to take me to him! How badly is he hurt?”
“He was critical at first, unconscious, with a broken arm. He’d lost a lot of blood and his vital signs were weak. At first we weren’t sure he would wake up. It was touch and go, but he came through it. He woke up this morning, asking for food, which was a good sign. He was
then moved out of critical care into the general hospital population. He’s listed as a John Doe. We want to keep it that way until Imhoff is captured. I’m afraid I can’t take you to him yet Missus Dunn. Think about it. Your husband has survived one attempt on his life. The killer is obviously desperate at this point. He would certainly try again. No, it’s better that we let him think he succeeded. You could be in danger too, if he learns the truth.”
Rachel calmed down slightly. “When can I see him then?” she said, with emphasis on the “can”.
“Imhoff’s car is certainly damaged. It’s just a matter of time before its spotted, and we can close in. And there’s another consideration too. He obviously is interested in the widow Carey. Otherwise why would he have been there to shoot the private detective Castiglione?” His eyebrows came closer together as he pondered another thought that just came to him. “It could be she’s the motive for both killings. Maybe he harbors romantic feelings for her. There’s something there, I’m sure of it. In any case we’re staking out her home, waiting for him to make another move. He won’t know we’re there this time. We’re placing units in a house across the street from the Carey home, and in a garage off the alleyway. There’s no way Imhoff can reach Missus Carey.” He paused to take a breath before continuing, “In answer to your question, it’s too dangerous for you to go to the hospital at this point. Let us catch this bastard and put him away, then you can both get on with your lives. I understand you haven’t been married long?” The detective made it a question.
A simple “No” was all she said, as she was suddenly very tired.
Chapter Thirty-Six
When his phone rang, Jeremiah Sommersby was deep in thought. He had suspected for a while he was in trouble. The man known simply as Jay had been only twenty feet from where the private dick Castiglione had fallen. He’d been there to protect Linda Carey from danger.
When the shot was fired he dove to the turf, pulling his service revolver at the same time. He saw nothing, but heard as the victim leaned against his car before falling to the pavement and becoming still.
The man called Jay was not a stranger to violence. Though he’d missed the Korean War, he wasn’t that lucky in the previous one. The war that made him a man had been over for nearly ten years, yet he was reluctant to change out of the uniform of his country, with its ribbons that proclaimed him a hero to all who noticed. It was only when he was accepted into the Sheriff’s department that he traded his khaki’s for the olive color of a deputy uniform. Luckily that had given him the deferment he needed to avoid Korea.
It seemed like he’d always had a uniform of some sort, whether it be from football, basketball, or baseball, all of which he’d worn in high school. Because of his athletic prowess he was a big man on campus. As such he was accorded the prizes available; girls, popularity, and buddies. He thought it would last forever. He didn’t bother to study much, didn’t prepare for college.
As it turned out, his early career was planned for him by Uncle Sam, as the eighteen-year-old was drafted not long after the summer of his eighteenth year was over. By October of nineteen forty-eight he was back in uniform, this time with the Sheriff’s department of San Diego County. He didn’t have any encumbrances, like a wife and children. He’d played the field. And why not? Girls had thrown themselves at this blonde six-foot Adonis with the crafted body to match. There was no need to settle down.
When he returned from World War Two all his friends were gone, either moved away, or hard at work chasing the American dream. The beach where he’d romped without a care was now full of unfamiliar faces, many wearing the tight blue Navy-issue bathing suits, and sporting untanned, and therefore unsightly, bodies.
Jay had an exemplary record with the Sheriff’s department. He earned citations for his good work. There was no hint of the trouble to come late in nineteen fifty-one.
When Jack Carey told him about the moonlighting job with the oil company, he jumped at it. He was at loose-ends anyway, and he had his eye on a sports-car he really couldn’t afford on his salary.
Everything was going well at first. It was easy work. He kind of drifted into the black-market oil deal, one that had been suggested by another moonlighting cop, Red Imhoff. The possibility of even more extra money was appealing to the youngest of the three. He’d be able to afford the car of his dreams even sooner. To him that translated into being more attractive to the opposite sex.
Everything went south when that Mexican caught his two cohorts siphoning oil illegally. He hadn’t been there but he was pulled into the conspiracy to conceal the murder. It was stupid. He should have reported it. He thought at first Carey would blow the whistle, but that didn’t happen. By then, he decided, it was too late. He’d be deemed guilty by not reporting it earlier. He’d also seen the intense look of hatred on Imhoff’s face when Carey threatened to report the murder. Jay thought the redhead was going to pull his revolver and shoot them both right then. His hand even went to his own holster.
When Carey was gunned down in front of his home, Jay thought he knew right away who had fired the shot. But then the evidence was so overwhelming in favor of the man named Ivan Dunn having done the deed, that for a while, he discounted his early assumption. When it finally became clear to him that his ex-partner in crime was the guilty one, still he failed to act. It was the same with when Castiglione was killed. Just as sure as Hell was hot, he knew that he would be next. He didn’t know the connection with Ivan Dunn, and he was curious about that.
Confessing to the authorities, and incriminating himself was still not an option in his mind, so there really was only one thing to do. It was kill or be killed. Until the phone rang he had no idea where Imhoff was hiding out, but he had not even bothered to look. Things were different now.
“Hi buddy” was the greeting of the still familiar voice of Red Imhoff. “Long time no see.”
“Yeah, it’s strange that you would call now. I was just thinking about you, wondering what you were doing.”
“Well, I’m back in town. I read in the L.A. papers about Carey. I couldn’t believe it. I came down to see if I could help find the scumbag who killed him.”
Sommersby almost laughed into the mouthpiece. “Oh yeah? I heard they had the guy in jail.” He decided to play along.
“The paper said they let him out, on some technicality. Anyway, why don’t we get together over a beer or something?”
“Sure. Where do you want to meet?”
“There’s a motel down south of town near the border. It’s the same one where we met before. That’s where I’m staying. We can go to the bar just down the street. You could come to my room and we’ll walk down from there.”
Jay remembered the place vividly. “That sounds good. What room are you in?”
“Three thirty-four.”
“It’ll take me a while. I need to shower and shave, and the drive will probably take an hour from here in El Cajon. Will that be okay?”
“Sure. Take your time. I’ll see you.” And his all of a sudden buddy hung up the phone.
He had no intention of waiting to shower and shave. Jay Sommersby knew he’d be walking into a trap, so he planned to arrive earlier than his adversary expected. It might give him the edge he needed.
Jay left his uniform and service pistol in his apartment as he left shortly after dark. He did, however, carry the shotgun he’d bought for hunting. It was fully loaded.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
When Ivan awoke he was understandably disoriented. He didn’t remember what had happened to him. The last thing he could recall was driving away from the widow Carey’s home. He didn’t remember what had happened inside the dwelling right away.
When he came out of it, he’d been dreaming. He was back in Florida with his dad.
His father had been a fisherman, and he’d tried to teach his son the business. They’d had loud arguments because of it. Ivan wanted no part of the life on a boat. He wanted to be a lifeguard. Of course the older man
could see the fallacy of that life choice, but to the fourteen year old boy it was reasonable.
Being Greek, they said what they thought to each other, and it often became loud as they disagreed. Ivan was very outspoken with his father, but with others it was a different story.
There was no doubt his father loved him. He’d had to raise his son from infancy without the help of the boy’s mother.
Eric Dunnopolous was in love with Elizabeth Atchison and she with him. Ivan was a result of that love. Unfortunately “Liz” as Eric called her was already married to Phillip Atchison the second. They’d been separated at the time Eric met her. She had come to the Atlantic Coast of Florida to get away.
The young fisherman had been dashing, compared to her banker husband. He was muscular, and felt right at ease showing his body to the impressionable woman from Richmond. They had a passionate affair, which lasted for nearly two months. It ended only when her husband pleaded with her in a letter to return to him, promising he would find the time to devote more attention to her.
Elizabeth was in love with Eric, but she felt obligated to return to the man who had given her a ring.
Complicating matters was the fact she was pregnant. The love she shared with Eric had produced a fetus destined to become Ivan Dunnopolous.
Eric agreed to raise the child, and after Elizabeth returned from Europe where she had delivered the eight pound baby boy, she left him with his father, and returned, sadly, but obligated, to Phillip Atchison the second. It would be many years before mother and son were reunited. Throughout that time, Ivan had no idea his mother was still alive. He had been told she died.
Eric Dunnopolous tried to be all things to his young son; mother, father, brother, and sister. Unfortunately much of the time he was gone out to sea, earning his living. Ivan was left with a nanny for days at a time until he was twelve. He was by himself when his father left for the open waters of the Gulf Stream.
Shadow of a Killer: the Dark Side of Paradise Page 13