Oh, my God! Arbagast thought. Oh, my God in Heaven!
He drove three blocks and turned to the right, pulling in at the curb on a poorly lighted street. He shut off the engine, the headlights.
Turning on the seat, he reached into the back and pulled Colineaux to a sitting position. His trembling hands tore the tape from Colineaux's mouth.
"What happened back there?" Colineaux gasped, his voice mirroring the fear on his face. "What happened?"
Arbagast was unable to answer. He leaned down and unwound the tape from Colineaux's legs, from his hands. He forced words to come then. "Get out," he said. "Get out now."
Colineaux sat there, immobile. He did not understand. He could not believe.
"Get out," Arbagast said again, and wrenched open the rear door. Colineaux moved. His body came alive, and he scuttled across the seat, hands clawing, pushing himself outside. He hesitated there for a second, looking back at Arbagast, and then he began to run. Arbagast watched him running off, spindle-legged, down the darkened street. After a long moment, he started the car again and drove away in the opposite direction.
Slowly, carefully, keeping well within the legal speed limit, his eyes fixed on the retreating concrete no longer singing beneath his headlights, he drove back to his small furnished room.
He was drunk in bed when the police came.
THE PATTERN
At 11:23 P.M. on Saturday, the twenty-sixth of April, a small man wearing rimless glasses and a dark gray business suit walked into the detective squad room in San Francisco's Hall of Justice and confessed to the murders of three Bay Area housewives whose bodies had been found that afternoon and evening.
Inspector Glenn Rauxton, who first spoke to the small man, thought he might be a crank. Every major homicide in any large city draws its share of oddballs and mental cases, individuals who confess to crimes in order to attain public recognition in otherwise unsubstantial lives; or because of some secret desire for punishment; or for any number of reasons that can be found in the casebooks of police psychiatrists. But it wasn't up to Rauxton to make a decision either way. He left the small man in the company of his partner, Dan Tobias, and went in to talk to his immediate superior, Lieutenant Jack Sheffield.
"We've got a guy outside who says he's the killer of those three women today, Jack," Rauxton said. "Maybe a crank, maybe not."
Sheffield turned away from the portable typewriter at the side of his desk; he had been making out a report for the chief's office. "He come in of his own volition?"
Rauxton nodded. "Not three minutes ago."
"What's his name?"
"He says it's Andrew Franzen."
"And his story?"
"So far, just that he killed them," Rauxton said. "I didn't press him. He seems pretty calm about the whole thing."
"Well, run his name through the weirdo file, and then put him in one of the interrogation cubicles," Sheffield said. "I'll look through the reports again before we question him."
"You want me to get a stenographer?"
"It would probably be a good idea."
"Right," Rauxton said, and went out.
Sheffield rubbed his face wearily. He was a lean, sinewy man in his late forties, with thick graying hair and a falconic nose. He had dark brown eyes that had seen most everything there was to see, and been appalled by a good deal of it; they were tired, sad eyes. He wore a plain blue suit, and his shirt was open at the throat. The tie he had worn to work when his tour started at 4:00 P.M., which had been given to him by his wife and consisted of interlocking, psychedelic-colored concentric circles, was out of sight in the bottom drawer of his desk.
He picked up the folder with the preliminary information on the three slayings and opened it. Most of it was sketchy telephone communications from the involved police forces in the Bay Area, a precursory report from the local lab, a copy of the police telex that he had sent out statewide as a matter of course following the discovery of the first body, and that had later alerted the other authorities in whose areas the two subsequent corpses had been found. There was also an Inspector's Report on that first and only death in San Francisco, filled out and signed by Rauxton. The last piece of information had come in less than a half hour earlier, and he knew the facts of the case by memory, but Sheffield was a meticulous cop and he liked to have all the details fixed in his mind.
The first body was of a woman named Janet Flanders, who had been discovered by a neighbor at 4:15 that afternoon in her small duplex on 39th Avenue, near Golden Gate Park. She had been killed by several blows about the head with an as yet unidentified blunt instrument.
The second body, of one Viola Gordon, had also been found by a neighbor—shortly before 5:00 P.M. —in her neat, white frame cottage in South San Francisco. Cause of death: several blows about the head with an unidentified blunt instrument.
The third body, Elaine Dunhill, had been discovered at 6:37 P.M. by a casual acquaintance who had stopped by to return a borrowed book. Mrs. Dunhill lived in a modest cabin-style home clinging to the wooded hillside above Sausalito Harbor, just north of San Francisco. She, too, had died as a result of several blows about the head with an unidentified blunt instrument.
There were no witnesses, or apparent clues, in any of the killings. They would have, on the surface, appeared to be unrelated if it had not been for the fact that each of the three women had died on the same day, and in the same manner. But there were other cohesive factors as well—factors that, taken in conjunction with the surface similarities, undeniably linked the murders.
Item: each of the three women had been between the ages of thirty and thirty-five, on the plump side, and blonde.
Item: each of them had been orphaned non-natives of California, having come to the San Francisco Bay Area from different parts of the Midwest within the past six years.
Item: each of them had been married to traveling salesmen who were home only short periods each month, and who were all—according to the information garnered by investigating officers from neighbors and friends—currently somewhere on the road.
Patterns, Sheffield thought as he studied the folder's contents. Most cases had one, and this case was no exception. All you had to do was fit the scattered pieces of its particular pattern together, and you would have your answer. Yet the pieces here did not seem to join logically, unless you concluded that the killer of the women was a psychopath who murdered blonde, thirtyish, orphaned wives of traveling salesmen for some perverted reason of his own.
That was the way the news media would see it, Sheffield knew, because that kind of slant always sold copies, and attracted viewers and listeners. They would try to make the case into another Zodiac thing. The radio newscast he had heard at the cafeteria across Bryant Street, when he had gone out for supper around nine, had presaged the discovery of still more bodies of Bay Area housewives and had advised all women whose husbands were away to remain behind locked doors. The announcer had repeatedly referred to the deaths as "the bludgeon slayings."
Sheffield had kept a strictly open mind. It was, for all practical purposes, his case—the first body had been found in San Francisco, during his tour, and that gave him jurisdiction in handling the investigation. The cops in the two other involved cities would be in constant touch with him, as they already had been. He would have been foolish to have made any premature speculations not based solely on fact, and Sheffield was anything but foolish. Anyway, psychopath or not, the case still promised a hell of a lot of not very pleasant work.
Now, however, there was Andrew Franzen.
Crank? Or multiple murderer? Was this going to be one of those blessed events—a simple case? Or was Franzen only the beginning of a long series of very large headaches?
Well, Sheffield thought, we'll find out soon enough. He closed the folder and got to his feet and crossed to the door of his office.
In the squad room, Rauxton was just finishing a computer check. He came over to Sheffield and said, "Nothing on Franzen in the we
irdo file, Jack?"
Sheffield inclined his head and looked off toward the row of glass-walled interrogation cubicles at the rear of the squad room. In the second one, he could see Dan Tobias propped on a corner of the bare metal desk inside; the man who had confessed, Andrew Franzen, was sitting with his back to the squad room, stiffly erect in his chair. Also waiting inside, stoically seated in the near corner, was one of the police stenographers.
Sheffield said, "Okay, Glenn, let's hear what he has to say."
He and Rauxton went over to the interrogation cubicle and stepped inside. Tobias stood, shook his head almost imperceptibly to let Sheffield and Rauxton know that Franzen hadn't said anything to him. Tobias was tall and muscular, with a slow smile and big hands and—like Rauxton—a strong dedication to the life's work he had chosen.
He moved to the right corner of the metal desk, and Rauxton to the left corner, assuming set positions like football halfbacks running a bread-and-butter play. Sheffield, the quarterback, walked behind the desk, cocked one hip against the edge, and leaned forward slightly, so that he was looking down at the small man sitting with his hands flat on his thighs.
Franzen had a round, inoffensive pink face with tiny-shelled ears and a Cupid's-bow mouth. His hair was brown and wavy, immaculately cut and shaped, and it saved him from being nondescript; it gave him a certain boyish character, even though Sheffield placed his age at around forty. His eyes were brown and liquid, like those of a Spaniel, behind his rimless glasses.
Sheffield got a ballpoint pen out of his coat pocket and tapped it lightly against his front teeth; he liked to have something in his hands when he was conducting an interrogation. He broke the silence, finally, by saying, "My name is Sheffield. I'm the lieutenant in charge here. Now before you say anything, it's my duty to advise you of your rights."
He did so, quickly and tersely, concluding with, "You understand all of your rights as I've outlined them, Mr. Franzen?"
The small man sighed softly and nodded.
"Are you willing, then, to answer questions without the presence of counsel?"
"Yes, yes."
Sheffield continued to tap the ballpoint pen against his front teeth. "All right," he said at length. "Let's have your full name."
"Andrew Leonard Franzen."
"Where do you live?"
"Here in San Francisco."
"At what address?"
"Nine-oh-six Greenwich."
"Is that a private residence?"
"No, it's an apartment building."
"Are you employed?"
"Yes."
"Where?"
"I'm an independent consultant."
"What sort of consultant?"
"I design languages between computers."
Rauxton said, "You want to explain that?"
"It's very simple, really," Franzen said tonelessly.
"If two business firms have different types of computers, and would like to set up a communication between them so that the information stored in the memory banks of each computer can be utilized by the other, they call me. I design the linking electronic connections between the two computers, so that each can understand the other; in effect, so that they can converse."
"That sounds like a very specialized job," Sheffield said.
"Yes."
"What kind of salary do you make?"
"Around eighty thousand a year."
Two thin, horizontal lines appeared in Sheffield's forehead. Franzen had the kind of vocation that bespoke intelligence and upper-class respectability; why would a man like that want to confess to the brutal murders of three simple-living housewives? Or an even more puzzling question: If his confession was genuine, what was his reason for the killings?
Sheffield said, "Why did you come here tonight, Mr. Franzen?"
"To confess." Franzen looked at Rauxton. "I told this man that when I walked in a few minutes ago."
"To confess to what?"
"The murders."
"What murders, specifically?"
Franzen sighed. "The three women in the Bay Area today."
"Just the three?"
"Yes."
"No others whose bodies maybe have not been discovered as yet?"
"No, no."
"Suppose you tell me why you decided to turn yourself in?"
"Why? Because I'm guilty. Because I killed them."
"And that's the only reason?"
Franzen was silent for a moment. Then slowly, he said, "No, I suppose not. I went walking in Aquatic Park when I came back to San Francisco this afternoon, just walking and thinking. The more I thought, the more I knew that it was hopeless. It was only a matter of time before you found out I was the one, a matter of a day or two. I guess I could have run, but I wouldn't know how to begin to do that. I've always done things on impulse, things I would never do if I stopped to think about them. That's how I killed them, on some insane impulse; if I had thought about it I never would have done it. It was so useless. .
Sheffield exchanged glances with the two inspectors. Then he said, "You want to tell us how you did it, Mr. Franzen?"
"'What?"
"How did you kill them?" Sheffield asked. "What kind of weapon did you use?"
"A tenderizing mallet. One of those big wooden things with serrated ends that women keep in the kitchen to tenderize a piece of steak."
It was silent in the cubicle now. Sheffield looked at Rauxton, and then at Tobias; they were all thinking the same thing: the police had released no details to the news media as to the kind of weapon involved in the slayings, other than the general information that it was a blunt instrument. But the initial lab report on the first victim—and the preliminary observations on the other two—stated the wounds of each had been made by a roughly square-shaped instrument, which had sharp "teeth" capable of making a series of deep indentations as it bit into the flesh. A mallet such as Franzen had just described fitted those characteristics exactly.
Sheffield asked, "What did you do with the mallet, Mr. Franzen?"
"I threw it away."
"Where?"
"In Sausalito, into some bushes along the road."
"Do you remember the location?"
"I think so."
"Then you can lead us there later on?"
"I suppose so, yes."
"Was Elaine Dunhill the last woman you killed?"
"Yes."
"What room did you kill her in?"
"The bedroom?"
"Where in the bedroom?"
"Beside her vanity."
"Who was your first victim?" Rauxton asked.
"Janet Flanders."
"You killed her in the bathroom, is that right?"
"No, no, in the kitchen . . ."
"What was she wearing?"
"A flowered housecoat."
"Why did you strip her body?"
"I didn't. Why would I—"
"Mrs. Gordon was the middle victim, right?" Tobias asked.
"Yes."
"Where did you kill her?"
"The kitchen."
"She was sewing, wasn't she?"
"No, she was canning," Franzen said. "She was canning plum preserves. She had mason jars and boxes of plums and three big pressure cookers all over the table and stove . . ."
There was wetness in Franzen's eyes now. He stopped talking and took his rimless glasses off and wiped at the tears with the back of his left hand. He seemed to be swaying slightly on the chair.
Sheffield, watching him, felt a curious mixture of relief and sadness. The relief was due to the fact that there was no doubt in his mind—nor in the minds of Rauxton and Tobias; he could read their eyes—that Andrew Franzen was the slayer of the three women. They had thrown detail and "trip-up" questions at him, one right after another, and he had had all the right answers; he knew particulars that had also not been given to the news media, that no crank could possibly have known, that only the murderer could have been aware of. The case had turned out to be one of the sim
ple ones, after all, and it was all but wrapped up now; there would be no more "bludgeon slayings," no public hue and cry, no attacks on police inefficiency in the press, no pressure from the commissioners or the mayor. The sadness was the result of twenty-six years of police work, of living with death and crime every day, of looking at a man who seemed to be the essence of normalcy and yet who was a cold-blooded multiple murderer.
Why? Sheffield thought. That was the big question. Why did he do it?
He said, "You want to tell us the reason, Mr. Franzen? Why you killed them?"
The small man moistened his lips. "I was very happy, you see. My life had some meaning, some challenge . . .I was fulfilled—but they were going to destroy everything." He stared at his hands. "One of them had found out the truth—I don't know how—and tracked down the other two. I had come to Janet this morning, and she told me that they were going to expose me, and I just lost my head and picked up the mallet and killed her. Then I went to the others and killed them. I couldn't stop myself; it was as if I were moving in a nightmare."
"What are you trying to say?" Sheffield asked. "What was your relationship with those three women?"
The tears in Andrew Franzen's eyes shone like tiny diamonds in the light from the overhead fluorescents.
"They were my wives," he said.
I DON'T UNDERSTAND IT
Well, I'd been on the road for two days, riding on the produce trucks from El Centro to Bakersfield, when a refrigerator van picked me up and took me straight through to the Salinas Valley. They let me out right where I was headed, too, in front of this dirt road about three miles the other side of San Sinandro.
I stood there on the side of the road, hanging onto the tan duffel with my stuff in it, and it was plenty hot all right, just past noon, and the sun all yellow and hazed over. I looked at the big wood sign that was stuck up there, and it said: JENSEN PRODUCE-PICKERS WANTED, and had a black arrow pointing off down the dirt road. That was the name of the place, sure enough.
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