5
Columbo was waiting beside the gull-wing Mercedes when Khoury came out of the bait shop. “You get around, don’t you. Lieutenant? What’s the story?” he asked.
“Mr. Delmonico has gone back out on the pier to fish some more,” said Columbo. “He asked me to give you his sympathy about Mrs. Khoury.” Yussef Khoury squinted in the sunshine, looking at the pier. He was still wearing his rubber suit. Carrying his flippers, he was barefoot. His tanks and valves were in his car. “The funeral is Sunday,” he said. “Well… I mean Arlene’s. Steve’s is this afternoon. I’m not going. I don’t think it would be appropriate, all things considered. The time I lost here means I’m missing Sergio’s. Arlene’s sister is flying in all the way from Beirut. Her mother’s still living, but she can’t come. I’m paying the air fare, but it’s a matter of the old woman’s health, not the money.”
Columbo nodded. “Getting in a little therapeutic relaxation here this morning?” he asked.
“That was what I had in mind.”
Columbo looked out at the Pacific. “Maybe I oughta try it,” he said. “First thing, I’d have to learn to swim. Is it hard to learn?”
Khoury shook his head. “No. Not at all. We have a club. You learn in a pool.”
“What about dangerous?” Columbo asked. “I mean, here you got caught on a fisherman’s hook, but what if somethin’ bad happened, like one of your hoses came loose?”
“Usually we swim on the buddy system,” said Khoury. “That is, you go with another swimmer, and the two of you watch out for each other.”
“Well… That’s interestin’. That’s very interestin’. I’ll have to really think about it. It must be beautiful down there.”
“It is, Lieutenant, it is.”
“I won’t take any more of your time, sir. I’m glad I could help straighten out this little deal here this morning.”
“I’m grateful.”
“It’s okay,” said Columbo. “So I’ll… see you later.”
“Fine. And if there is anything at all I can do to help, let me know.”
Columbo turned and took three steps toward his Peugeot, then stopped and turned back toward Khoury. “Oh,” he said. “There is one more little thing. You usually swim with other members of your club, you say?”
“Right, Lieutenant. You’d be perfectly safe.”
“Good. But you—Wednesday afternoon and today you were swimming alone.”
“I’m an experienced diver, Lieutenant Columbo,” said Khoury. “I can handle myself.”
“Oh, sure. I get ya. It’s okay for you. Suppose I took lessons and got so I could do it. Could I swim with you?”
Khoury smiled. “Of course. I’d be happy to swim on the buddy system with you.”
“Here?” Columbo asked. “Is San Luis Rio a particularly interestin’ place to dive?”
“No, not very,” said Khoury. “I came here because I wanted to be alone.”
“Okay. I’ll have to think about it. I sure wouldn’t want to get hooked and mistaken for a fish. What’s the name of your club? I’d want to have some lessons before I bothered you, askin’ you to swim with me.”
“The Topanga Diving Club,” said Khoury. “Tell them I sent you.”
6
Columbo grabbed a slice of pizza and a bottle of root beer for lunch, then went to see Melissa Mead. She was in the same cell block where Columbo had interviewed Puss Dogood on Wednesday.
‘“Possession,”’ she taunted Columbo in a soft voice and with a big innocent smile. “You’re not holding me on possession. You think Puss killed Mrs. Khoury and those others, and you’re getting ready to charge me with it, too. Well, make it stick, Lieutenant. I’ve got witnesses that’ll put me miles from there that night.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Columbo. “I bet you do. Did you give Sergeant Jackson the names of those witnesses?”
“I’ll give them to my lawyer.”
“You got one? A lawyer?”
“I called my father, back in Connecticut. I’ll have one pretty quick.”
Melissa Mead—Boobs—deserved her nickname. She was a dishwater blonde, broad of face, broad of shoulders, broad of hips. Her rap sheet said she was thirty-four years old, which meant she was too young ever to have met Charles Manson. She was a graduate of Greenwich Country Day School and of Radcliffe. Confinement behind the heavy bars of a holding cell, dressed in an orange jump suit, had made no apparent impact on her aplomb, which was that of a young woman accustomed to deference for her name. She had spent just enough time in jail that the mere fact of being locked up held no terror for her; and, in her judgment, she was a Greenwich Mead, entitled to a certain deference, in jail or out.
“None of my business exactly why a girl of your background came to California and got to be a hooker, among other things—” Columbo began.
“Right,” she interrupted, still smiling as though the conversation were entirely social and in no sense confrontational. “None of your business.”
“On the other hand,” he continued, “it is my business that you worked in the Khoury house and were also a good friend of Puss Dogood. That’s some of my business, Miss Mead. You say you can prove you were miles away when Mrs. Khoury and the others were killed. Maybe you can, but your lawyer will advise you that’s not gonna help you much if we find out you told Puss the layout of the house. That’d make you—”
“An accessory,” she said softly, nodding. “Somethin’ like that.”
“You figure Puss couldn’t have found her way around the house unless I told her the layout.”
“Somethin’ like that,” said Columbo. “Maybe you did it, huh? You’d do anything for Charlie, wouldn’t you?”
“Let me explain something to you, Lieutenant. Saint Paul never saw Jesus, except maybe once in a vision, and he never heard him preach, wasn’t there for the Sermon on the Mount, but that didn’t prevent him from becoming the second most important man in Christianity. There are the things you see, and there are the things you know. Like, I never met Charlie Manson, but I know who he is. Maybe you have met him, but you don’t know.”
“How long have you known Puss Dogood?” Columbo asked.
Boobs shrugged. “Maybe ten years. Maybe twelve. Squatty and I came to California looking for truth. Most of the people who knew some had chickened out by the time we got here. Charlie was in the slammer. So were most of the good people. But we found Kid, and she introduced us to Puss. That was good luck. Puss has told Charlie about us. He’ll be looking for us when he comes out, and we’ll be ready for him.”
“Of course, you never told any of the people about the layout of the Khoury mansion.”
Boobs shook her head. Holding one bar in her left hand, she began to pirouette and to sing in a childlike falsetto voice—“Tra-la la la-la-la, tra-la la la-la-la. Tra-la-la-la-la-la-la-la-la.” It was Carmen’s song to Don Jose. “Presde la porte de Seville, chez mon ami Lilias Pastia… Are you going to keep me in prison for a long time, my brave policeman?”
“Only as long as it takes to straighten this case out,” said Columbo.
“I can straighten it out for you right now,” she said in innocence too simple to be mocking. “You see, Puss wouldn’t hurt anybody. Puss is a good person. Like me. Like me, that incidentally didn’t steal from the Khoury house. A good person. That’s all you need to know. Go talk to Charlie. He’ll tell you, and Charlie is incapable of speaking anything but the truth.”
7
Captain Sczciegel authorized travel, and in the middle of the afternoon Columbo flew to Sacramento and went out to Folsom. It was going to make a long day. By the time he got back it would be late in the evening.
Folsom Prison and especially its “adjustment center,” designated 4-A, is the toughest lockup in California. It confines typically about thirty men, regarded as the state’s most dangerous prisoners.
Charles Manson did not look like an exceptionally dangerous prisoner. He was a small man, anything but prepossessing. H
is hair and beard were long and unkempt. His eyes, once widely described as “hypnotic,” showed nothing now, not even resignation or defeat—just nothing. His prison uniform, heavy blue denims, hung on whatever his body was, like canvas on tent poles.
Even so, his custodians thought he was dangerous, and he shuffled into the interview room in leg irons and handcuffs fastened to a belly chain.
“Remember me, Charlie?” Columbo asked.
“Lieutenant Crisco,” said Manson, grinning. “I don’t forget anybody. I remember everybody. Every thing… It’s gonna make a difference to you someday whether I remember you as a friend or enemy. The day comes, you know. It comes. For sure.”
“Someday,” said Columbo. “You know they’re layin’ one on you in L.A. Again.”
Manson turned to the two officers standing behind him and jerked on his handcuffs and belly chain. “You gonna unhook me, or are you hot?” he asked angrily.
One of the officers shook his head. “No, Charlie. Talk to your visitor.”
Manson snapped his head around. “What they layin’ on me in L.A.?” he asked.
“You heard of the Khoury murders?” Columbo asked.
Manson shrugged. “What would I know from murders in Los Angeles? We got stabbings inside here. That I know about. Who’s Curry?”
“Puss Dogood is in Sybil Brand, charged with possession but really held on suspicion in the Khoury killings.”
“Puss Dogood… ?”
“You had her pregnant one time.”
Manson sneered. “Lieutenant Crisco, I don’t have fingers and toes enough to count the girls I’ve got pregnant.”
“You must have kids,” said Columbo.
“Does any of them send me a box of cookies?” asked Manson.
“Puss Dogood,” said Columbo. “The Kid. Bum Rapp. Squatty. Boobs. Your Family, Charlie. You care?”
“Look,” said Manson. “Lots of people have always wanted to associate their name with mine. Some people call me Jesus Christ, and some call me God, so naturally they’d want to call themselves apostles. Jesus had trouble like that. Apostles that ain’t apostles. Y’ know, there’s a great line from Jesus Christ Superstar. My git-fiddle is back in the cell, besides which they won’t unhook me, but if I had it and if they would, I’d sing you a great song. Best I can do, it goes:
* * *
Always wanted to be an apostle.
Always knew I’d make it if I tried.
Now I’m gonna retire and write a gospel,
So people will remember when we’ve die-ied.
* * *
Manson grinned. “Always lots of people want to call themselves disciples. But they can’t do it. ’Cause I got no disciples. They go out and do shit, and they wanta lay it on me. I won’t let ’em. I been in this joint almost twenty-five years, locked up, chained up, and put down. But when twenty-five years is up, they’ve gotta let me go. You know why? I’ve got a perfect record, is why. Perfect.” He laughed. “They fucked themselves. How can a man chained up and locked up make anything else but a perfect record? I got a perfect record, and they gotta let me go. Twenty-five years, they gotta let me go.”
“What do you want me to tell Puss Dogood?” Manson’s face twisted into an insane leer. “Tell her to go fuck herself. Tell her not to talk about me. Not to use my name! If I call her, she can come. Don’t come unless Charlie calls!”
Columbo stared at Manson for a moment. Then he said, “I’m glad they didn’t unhook you, Charlie. I hope they never do.”
Part Three
"Well, you see there wouldn’t be any gunpowder residue in there. That pistol has never been fired. I mean, that pistol has been well taken care of. I keep it wrapped in an old scarf
and—"
"You mean you don’t carry this weapon, sir? Regulations require— "
"Don’t wanna risk shooting myself in the foot.”
Fifteen
1
Columbo signed in at headquarters. He would not have been on duty Saturday and Sunday, but he knew the pressures on the Department would not allow him to take days off while the Khoury murders remained unsolved.
On his way out to the garage he met Captain Sczciegel, who was going to the garage.
“The Khoury funeral is tomorrow,” said the captain. “It would be great if we could announce we’ve closed the case. Any chance of that, Columbo?”
“We can do it,” said Columbo.
“Hey! That’s great! What do we say?”
“We say that Cathy Murphy, also known as Puss Dogood, has agreed to plead guilty to all three murders. I talked to her out at Sybil Brand, and that’s what she’s thinkin’. I think we’ve gotta let the Public Defender talk to her first, but if he doesn’t talk her out of it, she’ll plead. Anyway, that’s what she told me a while ago.”
Captain Sczciegel stopped in the middle of the hallway. “And you’re tellin’ me you don’t like it,” he said. “I can hear it in your voice, Columbo. You don’t like it.”
Columbo shook his head. “Well… That’s right, Captain. I don’t like it.”
“Well, why in hell would the woman plead guilty to three murders if—”
“Because she’s nuts,” said Columbo curtly.
“What about the arrest of this woman called Boobs? Doesn’t that nail it? The only thing we didn’t know was how Puss and Kid and Bum knew their way around the premises so well. Now we know how they knew it. And we know the motive. It was to steal a $48,000 necklace.”
“No way,” said Columbo. “Sorry, Captain, but Boobs—Melissa Mead—was fired in June, and Mr. Khoury bought the $48,350 choker in July.”
“Okay. Puss worked for Khoury. Maybe she knew he’d bought the—What did you call it? Choker?”
“Gold, diamonds, and emeralds,” said Columbo. “A strange thing about it: no one I’ve talked to so far ever saw her wearing it. It was the kind of thing you’d wear at a fancy-dress ball. Suppose Puss did know she had it. Wouldn’t you think she’d figure a thing that valuable would be kept in a safe? Or something? According to Mr. Khoury, it was lying out on the bureau top. I don’t think whoever stole it came there to steal it. I think whoever stole it came there for another reason, saw it and snatched it.”
“It’s not much good to anybody,” said Captain Sczciegel. “A thing like that’s one of a kind. You couldn’t fence it. Of course the insurance company—”
“Will pay half its value at least, to get it back and not have to pay Mr. Khoury the other half,” said Columbo.
“Was Khoury short of money?” asked the captain.
“Not short anything like $48,350,” said Columbo. “Short two or three million, which is what he needs to buy into another movie, which is what he wants to do. That kinda money—$48,350— wouldn’t help him.”
Sczciegel turned down the comers of his mouth. “Some people live by different standards from you and me, Columbo.”
Columbo nodded. “Ain’t it the truth.”
“Are you serious in telling me that Puss Dogood will plead guilty to three murders?”
“That’s what she said about an hour ago.”
“But you still don’t buy it?”
Columbo shook his head.
“Tell you what, Columbo,” said the captain. “I want you to do something. To start with, take Sunday off. I’m not gonna announce the case is closed, even if Puss does try to confess. So nothing’s gonna happen between now and Monday.”
“Appreciate the suggestion, Captain,” said Columbo. “I could use some rest.”
“Not altogether charitable,” said Captain Sczciegel. “Columbo, I want you to take your service revolver out to the range this afternoon and practice until you can hit something, then qualify. Do you know you’ve got the longest-running record in the whole police force for not qualifying with your service revolver? That gets noticed. I get heat about it. Do me a favor and qualify.”
“Uh… Well, I do have a problem, Captain.”
“What? What, besides the fact
you swear you can’t hit anything?”
“Well… The problem is, I’m not sure I can find the thing. Last time I saw it, it—”
“Columbo! I’m gonna pretend I didn’t hear you say you’ve lost your service revolver.”
“Oh, it’s not lost,” said Columbo. “More like… mislaid. Misplaced. I prob’ly can find it. It’s in the house someplace. I think I know where it is.” Captain Sczciegel swelled indignantly. ‘‘You find it, Lieutenant! Find it and qualify! Don’t report for duty until you do!”
“Yes, sir.”
2
Columbo picked up his revolver and drove to the police pistol range. He walked up to the firing line. A dozen men were firing pistols at paper targets fifty feet away.
“I gotta be quick about this,” he said. “I got an appointment with a young lady.”
“Won’t she wait for you?” asked Sergeant Dan Brittigan, the range officer.
“Yeah, she will, come to think of it. She’s not goin’ anywhere. She’s in Sybil Brand.”
Sergeant Dan Brittigan was a big, ruddy-faced man who carried himself with the obsessively stiff bearing of the marine drill sergeant he had once been. Wounded in the line of duty as a police officer, he was serving out the remaining years till his retirement as range officer at the police pistol range.
“Have you brought your pistol this time?”
Columbo stood on the hillside with the ocean behind him, his raincoat billowing in the wind, his cigar smoke whipped away to his right, eyeing the ranks of paper targets with pronounced skepticism. “Yeah,” he said. “I found it.” He reached into a raincoat pocket and pulled out the .38 revolver. “I, uh… I suppose you got some ammunition.”
Sergeant Brittigan reached for the pistol, took it, and frowned over it. “Did you clean this, sir?” he asked.
“Right. There was dust in the barrel, so I wrapped a paper towel around a fondue fork and ran it through.”
Columbo: The Helter Skelter Murders Page 13