When we came into the police station, the cop manning the desk-one I had never seen before-asked me if I wanted to make a telephone call. Meaning did I want to get in touch with my lawyer. I said no. I had no reason to want to do that-not yet, anyway. So they stuffed me into one of the holding cells and left me to do my waiting alone.
The doctor had given me some pain pills at the hospital; I had already taken two, but I swallowed another one dry and then lay down on the cot. Some of the ache in my head abated after awhile, but the drugs made me drowsy. I was hanging onto the edge of sleep when the desk cop showed up again and roused me and let me out.
I got taken then to a door marked CHIEF OF POLICE. On the other side of it was a small, functional office containing nondescript furniture and two men, both of them standing: Collins, and an angular guy of about fifty with a long, narrow face and spatulate hands. The angular one’s name was Lydecker, it developed. He was Oroville’s chief of police.
Lydecker told me to sit down. He and Collins remained standing. “Looks like you were right about Jim Dallmeyer,” he said. But he didn’t sound too pleased about it.
“No sign of him at the museum?”
“No sign of him anywhere,” Collins said. “His van was gone when we got there. Front door of the cottage was standing wide open. Dresser drawers pulled out, closet in the bedroom half-empty-looks like he packed and beat it in a hurry.”
“Then you believe me now?”
“We believe you. We searched the place and found a couple of incriminating things-a wallet belonging to Charles Bradford, for one. We’ve got an APB out on Dallmeyer right now.”
“But we’d have him in custody already,” Lydecker said to me, “if you’d played it by the book. Christ, man, why didn’t you come to us right away instead of trying to take him by yourself?”
“What can I say? I screwed up; I admit it. But I didn’t go out there with the idea of tackling him myself, trying to play hero. I thought it would take too long to convince you to investigate, and I figured maybe he hadn’t cremated Bradford’s body yet. Proof was all I was after. I found it, too-that pendant…”
Lydecker was shaking his head. “You screwed up, all right,” he said, “and I don’t like it. On the other hand, you did turn up a homicide in my town, and a multiple killer to boot… Hell, I don’t know what to do about you.”
I didn’t say anything. Things were a little dicey now; if he wanted to make trouble for me, I stood to lose my license all over again. In fact, with the publicity this was bound to get, maybe I stood to lose it no
matter what Lydecker decided to do. I could just see the headlines: PRIVATE EYE IN HOT WATER AGAIN. FIRST DAY BACK IN BUSINESS-ANOTHER HOMICIDE.
My head had begun to throb as intensely as before. My thoughts were running a little fuzzy at the edges, too. I hoped they weren’t going to keep me here very long. If this session lasted much more than another fifteen minutes I was liable to fall asleep in the chair. Or fall out of the damned chair altogether.
It didn’t last much longer, thank God. They had some questions for me, mainly about the details of my activities in Oroville, for clarification purposes. I did some babbling in answer to the last one Lydecker asked-I was pretty woozy by then and my mouth flapped like a ventriloquist’s dummy’s-and that convinced them to call a halt to the proceedings.
Evidently they had decided beforehand to put me up for the night at a local motel, rather than stick me back in the holding cell. Collins said something about the motel and took me outside to his car and drove me a short distance to a place that had a blue neon sign and some buildings arranged in a half-circle. Then we were in a room, and he said somebody would be back for me in the morning. Then I was alone, sitting on the edge of the bed. Then there was nothing-an absolute void, dreamless, that wasn’t like sleep at all.
Chapter 14
The young, flat-faced sergeant, Huddleston, was the one who came for me in the morning. He woke me by banging on the door, and I staggered out of bed and let him in. I must have looked pretty bad; the first thing he said was, “Man, you had it rough last night, didn’t you?”
I mumbled something only half coherent, because I was still trying to fight off the loginess of sleep, and shambled into the bathroom and splashed my face with cold water. It made my teeth chatter, and that in turn made my head hurt. But it was a muted kind of aching, not unlike that of a hangover. The inside of my mouth tasted like I had swallowed something that had crawled out from under a woodpile, something nobody should ever try to eat.
Huddleston was standing in the bathroom doorway. “How do you feel?” he asked.
“I may live,” I said. “I’m not sure yet.”
“I had a concussion once. I know what it’s like.”
“Yeah.”
“Yours isn’t too bad, though. Hospital called to say the X ray they took turned out negative-no serious damage.”
“Good. Did anybody find Raymond yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Damn.”
“Don’t worry, he won’t get away this time.”
“I hope not. Okay if I take a shower?”
“Go ahead.”
All I had on was my underwear; somehow I had managed to take off the rest of my clothes last night. I stripped down, turned on the shower, and got under it for about five minutes-hot, cold, hot, cold. That woke me up. I would have liked to brush my teeth, to get rid of that foul taste in my mouth; I settled instead for rinsing them with cold water from the sink tap. I caught a glimpse of myself in the medicine cabinet mirror when I was done. What I looked like was one of those sub-human types who dunked women in vats of boiling oil in the sex-and-sadism pulp magazines of the thirties.
“You’re too goddamn old to take this kind of abuse,” I said to my reflection. “You were better off forcibly retired, you know that? You never did know what was good for you.”
When I went out into the other room Huddleston was sitting in the only chair, smoking a cigarette. He watched me pick up my shirt, find the little vial of pain capsules the doctor had given me last night, and eat two of them. Then he said, “There’s an FBI agent from Sacramento waiting down at the station. He wants to talk to you.”
“FBI, huh?”
“It’s their baby, too, on account of Raymond leaving California with the stolen money and securities fifteen years ago. Dallmeyer is Lester Raymond, all right; his fingerprints were all over his cottage and they matched up in the FBI computer.”
I had my shirt on and I was getting into my pants. “How did they know he left the state?”
“He cashed some of those negotiable securities in Las Vegas and a couple of other places back in ’67 and ’68,” Huddleston said. “But he was slick about it-he left the FBI with a cold trail each time. Turns out he lived in Omaha and Denver before he came to Oroville ten years ago.”
“Oh?”
“Sergeant Collins found evidence at the cottage that proves it. Chief Lydecker notified the Bureau last night.”
“What’s the word on Charles Bradford?”
“Not much doubt that Raymond killed him and cremated the body, just like you said. County lab people came down from Chico and ran tests on the ashes in the locomotive’s firebox; they found bone and dental fragments.”
I thought of Arleen Bradford and Hannah Peterson. “Did anybody notify Bradford’s next of kin?”
“I’m not sure,” he said. “Chief probably did, though. One of the reporters for the local paper got hold of the story this morning; there’ll be a bunch more from the wire services and Christ knows where else in town before long. Our department wouldn’t look too good if Bradford’s daughters got the news from tonight’s papers instead of from us.”
Reporters, I thought. Ah Christ, here we go again.
“Did you want to do it?” Huddleston asked. “Tell the daughter who hired you?”
“Hell, no.”
“I don’t blame you. It’s a lousy job. I had to tell a woman once that her tw
o teenage kids were killed in an accident. I went out and got drunk afterward; it didn’t help much.”
“It never does,” I said. “What about the rest of it? Am I being blamed for letting Raymond get away? Officially, I mean.”
Huddleston shrugged, jabbed out his cigarette in a glass ashtray on the table beside him. “You made a mistake,” he said. “So what else is new? People make mistakes every day. Important thing is, you exposed a murder-and a murderer.”
“Do Lydecker and the FBI feel the same way?”
“I wouldn’t worry too much about it if I were you.”
I nodded, feeling better now, and finished dressing, and we left the motel. On the way downtown Huddleston asked, “You hungry?”
“Yeah. I haven’t eaten in close to twenty-four hours. But mostly what I could use is some coffee.”
“Plenty of coffee at the station,” he said. “There’s a drive-through McDonald’s up ahead; I don’t mind swinging by there to get you some food if you want.”
“Thanks.”
At the fast-food place I bought a couple of Egg McMuffins to go. When we got to the green cinder-block building that housed the police station I saw that my car was parked in one of the slots facing the river; Huddleston told me Lydecker had had it picked up and brought in last night. We went inside. The reporters hadn’t shown up yet, which was a relief. The only person hanging around in there was a uniformed cop manning the duty desk.
Huddleston got me some coffee and then took me to Lydecker’s office. Lydecker wasn’t in it; neither was the guy from the FBI. So I got to sit there alone for ten minutes, eating my breakfast, before the grind started. That was a relief, too. I always did cope with things better on a full stomach.
The door opened finally and a tall, lean guy came inside like he owned the place. That made him FBI; they always take over like that, as if working for the government automatically gives them some sort of special gift of importance. This one’s name was Dillard and he was like every FBI agent I’d ever met: of indeterminate age, clean-cut, low-key, polite, and persistent as hell. Efrem Zimbalist, Jr., in the flesh. Living proof that once in a while Hollywood manages to get its stereotypes exactly right.
Dillard asked me two or three hundred questions, some of them twice; I answered each one in the same low-key, polite way he asked them. We got along all right as a result. I even managed to get him to tell me what it was Sergeant Collins had found at Raymond’s cottage last night. Evidently Raymond had been something of a pack rat when it came to his personal papers; there had been a box full of old bills and receipts dating all the way back to 1967. The papers proved that he’d first taken up residence in Omaha, where he’d bought a garage and rented a house and lived for thirteen months. Then, for undetermined reasons, he’d sold the garage and moved to Denver and opened a hobby shop, one that had specialized in model railroading items. He’d sold that place, again for undetermined reasons, late in 1971, after which he’d come back to California and put together the railroad museum here.
As for Raymond’s present whereabouts, they were still unknown. His van had been found abandoned about an hour ago in Red Bluff, some fifty miles northwest of Oroville; from there he could have hitched a ride, or hopped a bus or a freight, or stolen a car, and headed just about anywhere. The FBI and the state police were busy checking every possibility.
Dillard asked, “You have no idea where Mr. Raymond might have gone, is that correct?” Mr. Raymond. The Bureau’s representatives were polite to and about everybody these days, including people who committed multiple acts of homicide.
The question was one of those he’d asked me before, and I gave him the same answer: “No. Yesterday was the first time I laid eyes on the man-the first I even knew he existed.”
“He said nothing at all to you during your, ah, skirmish last night?”
“Not that I can remember.”
“And the last you saw of him was when he jumped from the boxcar?”
That was a bright question. Raymond had given me a concussion and I’d been unconscious when the freight pulled into the yards. When the hell was I supposed to have seen him again? But I said, “That’s right. I don’t even know where it was that he jumped. It couldn’t have been too far from the museum, though. He had enough time to get back there on foot, clean out his cottage, and leave town before the police arrived.”
Dillard made some notes in a leather-bound book, closed the book, and got out of Lydecker’s chair. He said, “I think that will be all for now. We appreciate your cooperation.”
“Sure. Are you going to want me to hang around here for a while? Or can I go back to San Francisco today?”
“Is there any particular reason you want to return to San Francisco?”
Another bright question. These FBI guys were pips, all right; if you opened one of them up, what you’d find were wires and gears and little wheels that went round and round in perfect geometric circles. Old J. Edgar had been a technological genius: he’d invented a bunch of functional robots long before the scientists came out with their first experimental model.
I said, “No particular reason, no. It’s where I live and where I work, and I’d like to sleep in my own bed tonight. You have my home address and telephone number; that’s where I’ll be three hours after I leave here.”
“Yes, of course,” Dillard said. “Well, we’ll let you know.” And he went out and left me alone again.
I sat there and looked out the window at the parking lot. I still felt tired and my head still hurt. Mild concussion. Christ. But I was lucky I was sitting here and not lying in a hospital bed with my brains half scrambled like a carton of old eggs. For that matter I was lucky I wasn’t dead.
Lydecker came in after a while with a statement for me to sign. I asked him if I could go home pretty soon, and he said he thought I could. Then he took me out of his office and put me in another room, a small interrogation cubicle with nothing in it except a table and four chairs. I did some more waiting. At the end of twenty minutes Huddleston showed up with another cup of coffee and the news that the first battery of reporters had arrived outside.
“Terrific,” I said. “Do I have to talk to them?”
“That’s up to you.”
“Then no way. I’ve had enough questions for one day.”
“How’s your head?”
“It hurts.”
“Want me to get the doc to take another look?”
“No. It’s not that bad. Listen, when can I leave? Or am I going to become a permanent fixture around here?”
“You sound a little pissed off,” he said.
“Not me. What would I have to be pissed off about?”
“Dillard, for one thing. Those FBI guys are a pain in the ass.”
“You said it, I didn’t.”
He gave me a lopsided grin. He seemed to like me, which was more than I could say for either Dillard or Lydecker; that was some small comfort, at least. I needed all the allies I could get.
“Don’t worry,” he said, “I think they’re going to release you pretty quick.”
“I’ve been hearing that ever since I got here.”
“Just hang in a while longer.” He went to the door. “Bradford’s daughters have both been notified, by the way,” he said before he went out. “The chief took care of it while I was out fetching you.”
It was another half hour before Huddleston came back; Lydecker was with him. I was in a foul humor by then, but I didn’t let them see it. And Lydecker took the edge off it by saying, “All right, we’re through with you. You can go now.”
“Thanks.”
He told me I would be wise to drive straight back to San Francisco, to keep myself available in case I was needed again-the usual speech. I said that was what I intended to do. Huddleston went out front with me and helped me run the gantlet of half a dozen babbling reporters; I tried to ignore them and their questions, but one of them plucked at my bad arm, bringing a cut of pain, and I shook him off and snap
ped at the pack of them that I had no comment to make. My nerves were in worse shape than I’d thought.
We got outside and over to my car. Huddleston gave me his hand and said, “Good luck,” and I said, “I may need it,” and got into the car and drove out of there as fast as I could without breaking any laws.
If I could go to my grave without coming back to Oroville again, there was still a chance I’d die a happy man.
It was almost eight o’clock when I drove across the Bay Bridge into San Francisco. The trip had taken me four hours-I had stopped three times, once for gas, once for something to eat, and once for coffee-and I felt lousy. My head throbbed, my thoughts were muzzy, my left arm and hand were sore again. A five-year-old kid with a cap pistol could have tried to mug me and I would not have been able to fend him off.
When I got to my flat I took a beer out of the refrigerator and then went into the bedroom and switched on my answering machine. There were several messages, one of which was from Arleen Bradford and another of which was from Hannah Peterson. Miss A. Bradford said I should call her as soon as I could; she sounded pretty distraught. Her sister said, “This is Hannah Peterson. Please call me right away, it’s very important. I need to talk to you about what happened to my father.” She sounded distraught, too, even more so than Arleen. Charles Bradford must have meant more to her than I’d given her credit for.
I drank most of the beer as I listened to the playback tape. That was a mistake; I didn’t remember until I drained the last of the can that you’re not supposed to drink alcohol when you’ve got a concussion. That one beer had the effect of three or four stiff drinks of hard liquor; I began to feel woozy, light-headed. Arleen Bradford and Hannah Peterson could wait until tomorrow. I was in no shape now to deal with grief or anger or whatever else the two of them wanted to throw at me.
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