The Complete Cooper Collection (All 97 Stories)

by Bernico, Bill

  A quick hand darted inside my coat and retreated holding my wallet. The cop stood up and flipped it open, revealing my badge and ID. He looked it over and threw it back down into my lap before getting another grip on my lapels and boosting me to a standing position.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  I was still a bit dizzy and took a few seconds to steady myself and straighten my lapels.

  He repeated himself only louder.

  “I’m working on a case with Sergeant Dan Hollister of the L.A.P.D.,” I said, jerking my head in the direction of the body on the floor. “He was a victim.”

  “I can see that,” the cop snapped back.

  “What I mean is that he was a victim while he was still alive and I came here to talk to him and warn him.” I produced my victim list. “His name was Peter McMasters,” I said, pointing to his circled name. “Several other people on that list had already been killed and McMasters was next, according to the pattern we’d established.”

  As the cop studied my list, the front door opened again and Dan Hollister entered, followed by officer Burns and the local police detective team.

  “Dan,” I said, “how’d you know where to find me?”

  “Your little buddy down at City Hall. I figured you’d head straight here,” Dan answered. He looked at the cop who held my list and then looked toward the detective. One of the detectives motioned to the cop, who returned my .45 while the other one gave me back my list.

  “I’d like to stay and play with you boys, but I gotta go now,” I said with a bit of glee. I smiled sarcastically at them and walked over to where Dan was standing. “Dan, I caught a glimpse of the truck the killer was driving. It was a white telephone company truck, probably stolen. I didn’t get a look at the guy driving. He hit me from behind.”

  “We know,” Dan said. “The truck was found a few blocks from here. The lab boys are going over it now. Let’s get outta here, Matt.”

  I was glad to oblige and quickly left the murder scene in the hands of the local authorities. Dan and I stepped outside and paused at my car. “Sure you can drive, Matt?” Dan asked.

  “I’ll be all right. I’ve been hit harder than this. I’ll meet you back at the precinct,” I said.

  “No, Matt. We’ve got to drive to Glendale right now. The name on that list after Peter McMasters is a guy named Dale Peterson. I’ve already sent a unit over there. They’re just to guard the place. They haven’t been instructed to fill the intended victim in on the details yet. We’ll meet ‘em there. Coming?”

  “Lead the way,” I said, getting into my car.

  We pulled up in front of the Peterson house and parked behind the squad car that was already on the scene. A uniformed officer stood watch at the front door and another had positioned himself inside. Dan and I walked past the guard and into the house where another cop, officer Trundle, sat talking with a redheaded woman.

  They stood as we entered and I walked over to the woman and asked, “is your husband home?”

  Officer Trundle started to interrupt me but I disregarded him. I turned my back to him and tried to speak to the woman in confidence. “I realize this must be an anxious moment for you but we need to speak to Dale immediately.”

  I looked back at Officer Trundle who was smirking now. I turned back to the woman who didn’t see the humor and did not crack the faintest of smiles. “I’m Dale,” she said.

  A little embarrassed, I grabbed the woman’s hands and said, “Excuse me, I . . . “

  “That’s all right,” she said. “What did you need to see me about?” Her voice was a little more than anxious by now.

  I motioned to Officer Trundle and he left the room. Dan Hollister took his place and the three of us sat on the sofa. “Mrs. Peterson,” Dan began.

  “It’s Miss,” she replied. “Miss Peterson. I took back my maiden name after the divorce.”

  “Miss Peterson,” Dan repeated, “eleven members of your graduating class have all been killed. We think it’s been the work of the same guy, possibly a classmate of yours, Michael Reinhart. Anything you might be able to tell us about him would be extremely helpful to us and it would make it easier to protect you, as well.”

  Dan showed her the list with the names of the eleven victims. When her finger slid down the page to Ellen Edelmeier Mueller, she dropped the paper, covered her mouth and muffled a cry. “Not Ellen,” she sobbed.

  I put my arm around Dale’s quivering shoulder and tried to comfort her. Dan picked up the list and folded it, returning it to his coat pocket. He put both his hands on Dale’s shoulders and looked her squarely in the eye. “Miss Peterson, it’s very important that you tell us all you can. This guy’s dangerous.”

  Dale stopped crying long enough to retrieve a tissue and wipe her nose. “Ellen and I were best friends. I just saw her last month and we were planning to get together tomorrow.”

  “What can you tell us about Michael Reinhart?” I asked.

  Dale stood and began pacing back and forth in front of the sofa. “I didn’t really know Michael all that well, to tell you the truth. He didn’t hang around with my group. He was kind of a loner, actually. Seems he was always the one the guys picked on.” Dale returned to her sitting position on the sofa next to me. “I guess the person who knew him best was Rita. Rita Hargrove. You can’t ask her now, though, she’s...”

  “We know,” Dan said, “we found out earlier that she had been killed in a car accident right out of school.”

  “Accident?” Dale asked, puzzled. “Is that what you were told? That was no accident. I don’t care if the police report listed it as an accident, we all knew that it was Michael.”

  “Michael Reinhart?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” she said. “He and Rita were an item until she decided she’d had enough of Michael. Michael didn’t see it that way. Everybody knew she was going to break up with him even before he did. He found out the day she died. And he knew that everybody else had already heard about it before he did.”

  Dale wiped her nose again with her tissue. “He couldn’t stand rejection and just let her die in that car.”

  Dan pulled his notebook out of his coat pocket and flipped to the page where he had the notes on Rita’s death. “According to what we found out, on April 3, 1927, Rita died behind the wheel of head injuries at the scene. The car was found at the bottom of the ravine just below Lookout Point.”

  “Just like I said,” Dale continued. “They called it an accident, but we all knew that Michael was the driver that night. He managed to come away without a scratch and since he was driving Rita’s car after they’d yanked his license, he put her behind that wheel and just walked away from it. She died hours later and nobody even found her or the car until the next morning.”

  I turned in my seat toward Dale. “How do you know all this? Didn’t anyone question Reinhart about it?”

  “Sure. The cops talked to him but he played stupid and since he walked away without a mark on him, they had to take his story at face value. We knew he did it but no one could prove it. After that, no one would have anything to do with Michael Reinhart.” Dale stood again and walked around nervously.

  “What about the other victims?” Dan asked. “Did you know any of them?” He handed her the list and she looked it over again.

  “No. Not really. I mean I knew them to see them in the hall or in class, but we weren’t close or anything.”

  Dan and I stood and walked toward the door. Dan turned around and said, “we’ll leave an officer outside overnight and in the morning, we’ll arrange to have you transported to someplace safe until we catch Reinhart.”

  “Thank you, Sergeant.” Dale showed us out and Dan drove back to the precinct. I had a hunch to follow.

  I’d like to say it was my instincts that led me to the bar on La Brea and Sunset but that wouldn’t be completely truthful. Actually, my informant told me I might find Michael Reinhart there. Too bad I didn’t have better informants.

&nb
sp; The place looked like the rat trap that it was. Some call it atmosphere. I call it a dump. The floor looked like it hadn’t seen a broom since Pearl Harbor and the air hung thick with the stench of cigar smoke and ripe bodies. The glow of a lighted beer sign on the back wall illuminated several bodies seated around a table. The light behind the bar silhouetted half a dozen other heads. Aside from that the place was a blur.

  I stood next to a stool at the end of the bar, reluctant to sit, and motioned the bartender over. He was a little guy, maybe five foot six or seven and tipping the scales at a meaty one hundred fifteen pounds soaking wet. He was wiping the inside of a beer mug with a dirty towel as he leaned in closer to get my order.

  “Seen Michael Reinhart?” I asked.

  The bartender ignored my question as though I hadn’t said a thing yet and was still waiting for my order. I leaned in a little closer and repeated myself. “Reinhart. Where is he?”

  He turned away, about to return to his station at the other end of the bar when I reached over and grabbed the neck strings of his apron and pulled. He dropped the towel and the mug and landed with an arched back on the inside edge of the bar. His hands grasped at the neckline of the apron that seemed to be cutting his air supply short. His feet flailed violently in the air as he tried to break free.

  I loosened my grip on the apron and let him drop behind the bar and I jumped over next to him. My fists wrapped around his shirt and I lifted until our faces met again. “Flop House,” he said, coughing and wheezing between words. “Second floor, in the back. Sixth and Court Street.”

  “If you’re lying,” I said, shoving a clenched fist in his face. I didn’t have to finish my sentence. From the look on his face, he didn’t dare.

  I released my grip and the little man settled back to the floor with a thud. I hopped back over the bar and was out the door before most of the sleepy patrons even knew what had happened.

  The neon sign flashed on and off over the front door. The R, one O and the M in ROOMS were burned out. What was left flickered and crackled as I entered. The top of the desk clerk’s head was visible from the front door. He was either asleep or passed out at the desk. Turning the registration book around to face me, I noticed that room 207 was occupied by one M. Randall. It had to be the same guy.

  I side stepped to the stairway and ascended to the second floor. Room 207 was down at the end of the hall facing the alley, just like the bartender said. I stepped aside, grabbed the door handle and gently twisted. It was locked. I twisted it back the other way when the door was shattered but three slugs in rapid succession. I hit the floor and pulled my .45 all in one motion. The shooting had stopped and I stood again, bracing myself. My foot connected with the door frame and the entrance was laid open before me.

  I quickly swung around with my gun leading the way. The room was empty but the grimy curtains swayed in the night breeze. I carefully stepped to one side of the window and peered out into the night. The sound of trash cans hitting the cement echoed down the alley and Michael Reinhart, or M. Randall, or whoever shot at me was gone.

  The only light source in the room came from a single bulb dangling from a wire in the middle of the room. I grabbed the string and pulled. This room was a bookend to the bar I’d just left—dirty, stale and cheap. There was a single bed with a swayback mattress, one dresser with a faded mirror and a small sink with rust stains running down the porcelain under each faucet.

  Stuffed into the crevasse between the mirror and its frame were several newspaper clippings each detailing someone’s violent death. There were seven along the rim of the mirror and two more lying on the dresser itself.

  I picked up several clippings and read. One described the Jerry Abrams murder, there was one for Lee Draper, one for Ellen Mueller. I didn’t have to read the rest to know what I’d find. I put the clippings back in their original positions and turned out the light.

  A loud bang on the registration desk woke the clerk with a jerk. He quickly sat upright, rubbing his eyes and looking around for the source of the sound. When his eyes met mine, he stood and approached the counter. Without waiting for him to speak, I went around to his side and grabbed the phone.

  “Hey, you can’t—,” he started to say but stopped when he eyed the .45 protruding from my shoulder holster. He stepped back and listened while I called Hollister and told him what I’d found. I slammed the phone back down into its cradle and waited. I was getting close now and Reinhart knew it.

  The last name circled in the yearbook index was Vivian Walters. I figured she may have gotten married and changed her name so I started at square one with her and visited City Hall again. Eva Bishop seemed surprised to see me again so soon but I explained how I was trying to trace Vivian Walters and that I needed to know if there was a marriage certificate on file for her.

  I waited for twenty minutes and Eva reappeared behind the counter holding a manila folder. I got up from the bench I’d been occupying and walked over to lean on the counter. Records showed that Vivian Walters married someone named Jonathan Holcomb on November 16, 1928, just a year out of high school.

  Without needing to be asked, Eva produced the area phone books and we both hurriedly thumbed through the pages looking for Holcomb. After ten minutes and six phone books I started to worry. No Jonathan or J. Holcomb was listed in any of them. I thanked Eva for her efforts and headed back out to my car.

  I stopped at the curb to get the latest edition of the L.A. Tribune. There on the front page was a picture of Peter McMasters followed by an article similar to the ones I’d found on the mirror in that flop house. Nothing in that article told me anything that I didn’t already know. I folded the paper up and tucked it under my arm.

  As I reached for the door handle of my Olds it came to me. I looked at the back page of that paper and there it was the phone number of the circulation department. I spotted a phone booth half way down the block and fumbled through my pockets for a nickel as I walked.

  Entering the booth, I closed the door behind me and deposited my nickel. The voice on the other end said, “Circulation, how may I help you?”

  I said, “What the hell’s going on down there? This is the second day I didn’t get my paper. Did your delivery boy die or something?”

  The polite voice responded with, “if you’ll give me your name and address I can send another paper right over.”

  Trying to continue my bluff I said, “this is Jonathan Holcomb. Would you check to see that my address is listed correctly on your customer list? I have a feeling the guy across the street from me is getting my paper.”

  The voice hesitated for a moment then replied, “we still have you listed at the 4529 Kingsley Way address.”

  “That’s correct,” I said. “Skip the replacement paper, just credit my bill, will ya?”

  The lady on the other end assured me that they would and I hung up. Everybody gets the paper but not everybody wants to be listed in the phone book. The Holcombs wanted to protect their privacy but hadn’t counted on Matt Cooper. Smiling at the miniature coup I’d pulled off, I quickly drove to Kingsley Way in the foothills overlooking Hollywood.

  The man who answered the door looked to be in his late thirties with thinning hair and a stocky build. “Yes, what is it?” he asked upon seeing me on his doorstep.

  “Mr. Holcomb?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  “My name is Matt Cooper,” I said, holding my badge out to him. I produced one of my business cards and handed it to him. “Are you the same Jonathan Holcomb who married Vivian Walters in 1928?”

  “Say, what is this, some sort of gimmick? Why do you want to know?” he snapped back.

  “Mr. Holcomb, Sergeant Dan Hollister of the L.A.P.D. and I are working on an important case that involves your wife. Could I come inside and explain?” I asked, trying to look sincere.

  The man inside the doorway looked me over from head to toe then turned and looked behind him.

  “Who is it, dear?” A female voice asked fro
m behind him.

  “Guy says he wants to talk to you about some case the police are working on,” he answered. He gave me another quick look before agreeing to let me in. He invited me to sit in a large overstuffed chair in the living room. He and his wife occupied the sofa next to me and said, “Mr. Cooper, this is my wife, Vivian.”

  I removed my hat and nodded acknowledgment. “Mrs. Holcomb, I don’t know if you’re aware of this, but…”

  “You were in my class, weren’t you, Mr. Cooper? It’s Matthew, isn’t it?”

  “That’s right, Mrs. Holcomb. I’m sorry I don’t remember you as well as you remember me. It’s been a long time,” I said apologetically.

  “It’s about the murders, isn’t it?” she asked. “I’ve been reading about them and I’m scared, Mr. Cooper.”

  “Scared?” I asked.

  “Yes. I knew three of the victims and I don’t want to be next,” she replied, almost in tears.

  “Why would you think you’d be next, Mrs. Holcomb?”

  “Because I’m one of the only ones left who knows.”

  “Knows what?” I asked.

  She stifled a sob and tried to regain her composure. “About Michael Reinhart. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”

  “I think you’d better fill me in a little, Mrs. Holcomb. You wanna start at the beginning?” I asked.

  “Well,” she began, “in our senior year our class voted on whether to have a twenty-year class reunion and how we’d handle the details. Last year I started to get calls from some of the other class members asking if we were still going to have it. Since I was elected back in ‘27 to organize the reunion, people naturally turned to me to find out what was happening.”

  “I needed help with the planning and called Dale Peterson. Dale was our class president and agreed to help me plan the reunion. We met three months ago to decide how to go about getting everybody together.”