The Complete Cooper Collection (All 97 Stories)

by Bernico, Bill

  Dean returned a couple of minutes later with three slips. He showed them to Clay and me. “Just three citations last night. This one’s a panel truck. The second one was issued to a guy in a sports car. Neither of those would be a likely candidate.”

  “And the third one?” I said.

  “We might have something here,” Dean said. “This one was issued to a Ford sedan with New York plates. The name on it is Cornelius Powers from somewhere in Brooklyn.”

  “How do you handle out of state citations?” Clay said. “I mean, the patrolman could give this guy a ticket and then may never see him again.”

  “Usually,” Dean said. “We take them down to the station and have them post the amount of the fine plus court costs and send them on their way.”

  “And if they don’t have it, or don’t want to pay it?” Clay said.

  “Then they sit in a holding cell until they can arrange for someone to pay it for them,” Dean said.

  “I suppose it would be hoping for too much to expect that this guy is sitting in your holding cell,” I said.

  “Let’s find out,” Dean said. “Come on.”

  We followed Dean downstairs to a holding cell in the basement. When we got there it was empty.

  “Where’s the guy who was in this cell last night?” Dean said.

  The jailer looked on his clipboard and ran his finger down the pages. “We released him this morning,” he said. “I guess he decided paying the fine was better than sitting in jail.”

  “How long ago did he get out?” Clay said.

  “Not more than twenty minutes,” the jailer said. “He’s probably still filling out the release form upstairs.”

  “Let’s go,” Dean said, running for the stairs. Clay and I followed close behind. Clay took the stairs two at a time and when he looked back, he noticed me waiting at the elevator door.

  Dean rushed up to the desk sergeant. “Did Cornelius Powers come through here yet?” he said.

  “Just missed him,” the sergeant said. “Looked like he was heading for the garage.”

  As Clay and Dean ran toward the garage they passed the elevator just as I was getting off. I followed them as fast as I could. As we got to the door that opened into the garage, we heard the sound of a loud muffler rumbling past us and out the overhead door. In another second it was down the street and gone. Dean rushed to the cage where an officer at the counter was writing on a pad. Dean banged on the cage.

  “Call upstairs and get an APB out on that car that just left here,” he said. “Give them the license number and the driver’s name and a description of the car. And give me the keys to a car, any car, right now.”

  The officer laid a set of keys on the counter and pointed toward a row of cars. “Second one from the end. The Black Olds.”

  Dean and Clay climbed into the front seat and I climbed in back. Dean paused for traffic at the overhead door then hurried in the direction that the noisy Ford sedan had taken. We were at least a minute or two behind him, wherever he was, and we had no idea which way he’d gone after he’d left the garage. He could be waiting around the corner or he could be a mile away by now. It was anyone’s guess.

  Dean got on the radio and called in another APB on the suspect. In a matter of minutes there’d be dozens of patrol cars looking for the Ford sedan. We kept going north with me watching the side streets to the west and Clay watching to the east. We had sheer numbers on our side, what with all the patrol cars looking for him, but he had the advantage of knowing where he was going and we did not.

  We listened as we watched. The car radio broadcast the APB every other minute. The dispatcher said, “Attention all cars, be on the lookout for a 1974 Ford LTD sedan, dark blue with a white vinyl roof. License number New York two-eight-two-John-Robert-Adam. The driver may be armed and dangerous. He is wanted for questioning in connection with several homicides. Use extreme caution when approaching this individual.”

  “Dispatch, this is one-Robert-twelve,” another patrol car said over the radio. “I have the 1974 Ford LTD sedan in sight. Over.”

  “One-Robert-twelve,” the dispatcher said. “What is your twenty? Over.”

  “Dispatch, this is one-Robert-twelve. I’m heading east on Sunset just passing LaBrea. Over.”

  “One-Robert-twelve, keep the suspect car in sight. Backup is on the way. Over.”

  The dispatcher sent another alert to all cars. “Any car in the vicinity of Sunset and LaBrea, meet one-Robert-twelve on tac-two.”

  “One-Robert-twelve, this is one-Adam-six. We’re a block away coming toward you on Sunset. We’ll try to block his path.”

  “We’re pretty close ourselves,” Clay said. “That’s just six blocks north of here.”

  “I’m on it,” Dean said, handing Clay the magnetic red light that was lying on the seat between us. “Put this on the roof out your window.”

  Clay lowered his window and secured the already rotating red light onto the roof. Dean hit the siren as we raced toward Sunset Boulevard. When we got there, the dark blue Ford LTD sedan was surrounded by three black and white patrol cars. The officers were all out of their cars, crouching behind their open doors with their service revolvers pointing at the Ford. Even from where we watched, I could hear the orders that the patrolmen were barking out to the Ford’s driver.

  “Step out of your car with your hands in the air,” the officer with the bullhorn yelled. “Do it now.”

  There was no movement from the Ford sedan so the officer repeated his orders, but got the same noncompliant response as before. Several other cruisers had blocked off traffic from all the side streets within a one-block perimeter of the standoff. Other officers were busy keeping pedestrians off the streets. Dean slid out of his car and hurried to join the officer with the bullhorn, crouching beside him.

  “Nothing yet, sergeant,” the officer told Dean.

  Another few minutes crawled by with no response from the driver and then suddenly the driver’s side window came down and a hand holding a revolver poked out and threw the gun to the pavement. The driver’s door slowly opened and a tall, stocky man stepped out onto the street, his hands over his head.

  Dean took the bullhorn and barked, “Face down on the ground. Do it now.”

  The man dropped to his knees and then laid face down, both of his fists clenched. He spread his legs and arms wide as he lay there. Several officers from the car opposite us rushed over to where the man was sprawled out. When they got within three feet of the suspect a violent explosion rocked the quiet neighborhood and the two approaching officers were blown backwards onto their backs. Even from where I sat I could tell that medical aid wouldn’t do either of them any good.

  The man on the street was blown into a hundred pieces and the blue Ford went up like a fireworks display gone wrong. There must have been a whole stash of explosives in the trunk and coupled with a full tank of gas, the explosion completely demolished the LTD sedan. Pieces of the car flew into the air and landed just feet from where Clay had stopped. Smaller pieces rained down on the intersection, blanketing the crosswalks and sidewalks within eighty feet of ground zero.

  Dean and the officer who’d had the bullhorn had been quick enough to dive back inside the patrol car, avoiding the shrapnel from the exploded car. Some of the other officers were bleeding from wounds to their heads and shoulders, but no one else was killed.

  Several ambulances converged on the sight and drove some of the officers and even a couple of civilians to area hospitals. When the smoke had cleared and the bomb squad had finished searching for any more devices, Clay and I were able to get close enough talk to Dean, who was busy directing the remaining officers on the scene.

  Almost two and a half hours later, after every ambulance had left Dean turned to Clay and said, “Kinda makes you wonder about life, doesn’t it? I mean how fragile your existence is and how easily it can be taken from you without any notice.”

  “I know,” Clay said. “When I saw those two poor officers blow
n up it made me think about my own priorities. And then seeing your dad.” Dean’s words were stuttering now and he stopped and turned away.

  I stepped up to Dean and said, “Are you finished here? Can we go back to the station now for Clay’s car?”

  Dean scanned his surroundings and saw that everything was pretty much under control except for the clean-up and traffic control. Dean motioned one of the patrolmen over with his hand and told him to take over handling the traffic cops and the cleaning crew. The crime lab men had already finished their part and had transported whatever evidence they’d collected back to the lab.

  Dean looked at Clay and me and said, “Come on, let’s get back to the station.”

  Clay and I slid into the car he’d been given at the police garage and the three of us drove back in silence. The whole thing had just been too much, even for someone like me, who’d thought they’d seen it all. Back at the precinct, Dean pulled into the parking lot and let Clay and me off near Clay’s car.

  Before he closed the passenger side door, Clay leaned over and said to Dean, “We’ll talk later, okay?”

  “Sure, Clay,” Dean said and drove the borrowed car back to the garage and checked it in with the officer in the cage.

  “I was thinking about taking a little time off next month,” Clay said. “How about if you and me go fishing up at the lodge, like we used to when I was younger?”

  “I’d like that, Clay,” I said, smiling. “I’d like that a lot.”

  Clay dropped me at my apartment and drove back to his house in Glendale. Veronica was waiting for him in a chair on the porch when he pulled into the driveway. Clay sat next to her and held her hand and said nothing for the first thirty seconds. Then he turned to Veronica and softly said, “Will you marry me?”

  Veronica had been caught off guard and her face fell. “What?” she said, not totally believing what she was hearing.

  “I said,” Clay repeated, “will you…”

  “I heard you,” Veronica said. “I just wanted to make sure of what I heard. Are you serious, Clay?”

  “Dead serious,” Clay said. “And ‘dead’ is the appropriate word in this case.”

  He briefly described the night’s activities at the intersection and how two cops had paid with their lives just for having the jobs that they had.

  “That’s awful,” Veronica said. “But is that the only thing that made you reevaluate us?”

  “No,” Clay said.

  “There’s more?” she said.

  Clay described his and Matt’s visit to Dan Hollister and what he looked like. “Life can change on a dime,” Clay said. “And I don’t want to have to regret anything that I did or didn’t do. Did you know Dean and Helen were getting married?”

  “Yes,” Veronica said. “Helen mentioned something about it last week. It’s in June, if I remember correctly.”

  Clay shook his head. “Dean told me they moved it up to February sixteenth so that his dad could attend. They don’t expect him to make it until April.”

  “Poor Dean,” Veronica said. “He must be devastated. He and his dad were so close. Are so close.”

  “I know this is a bit of a bombshell, asking you to marry me just like that,” Clay said. “And before we go any further, I’d like your answer.”

  “Yes,” Veronica said without hesitation. “A hundred times yes.” She got up out of the wicker chair and threw her arms around Clay’s neck and then kissed him hard and long before she sat down again, unable to wipe the smile from her face.

  “All right,” Clay said. “Can you handle one more bombshell?”

  “Try me,” Veronica said, turning in her chair toward Clay.

  “How would you feel about a double wedding with Dean and Helen?” Clay said. “It would mean the world to them and it would be something we’d remember for the rest of our lives as well.”

  “For the rest of our fragile lives,” Veronica said.

  “Well?” Dean said.

  “Gees, that’s not even three weeks away,” Veronica said. “Have you asked Dean or Helen what they think of this idea?”

  “No,” Clay said. “I just now thought of it. Can you call Helen or stop over and talk to her? I think under the circumstances she might like the extra support you and I could offer on a day like that.”

  “I’ll call her right now,” Veronica said. “I’m sure she’s home.”

  “Oh, and one more thing,” Clay said. “This whole thing was kinda last minute so I don’t have a ring on me to give you. Suppose you and I go ring shopping tomorrow and you can pick out the one you like best?”

  “I’d like that a lot, Clay,” Veronica said and walked into the house to call Helen. She emerged a minute later and said, “She’s home now. I’d like to drive over there and talk to her. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Not at all,” Clay said. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

  Veronica grabbed her sweater and her purse and hurried to the car in the driveway. She gave Clay a big smile right before she backed out into the street and drove off.

  Clay walked into the house and picked up the phone and called his dad. “Dad,” he said. “I have some news.”

  Three days later Margaret Sanders’ family arranged for her funeral and I thought it would be proper if I attended. Clay had never even met the woman so I went by myself. I found the welcome line and stood at the end, waiting to meet whomever was hosting this gathering. When I got to the head of the line I found a middle aged couple, both of them probably in their forties, shaking hands with the people who passed by.

  I shook the man’s hand and he said, “Hi, I’m Robert. And this is my sister, Emily.”

  “Matt Cooper,” I said. “Did you know Margaret well?”

  They looked at each other then back at me. “She was our mother,” the man said. “How did you know her?”

  “Actually,” I said, “I’d only met her once briefly but she left a lasting impression on me. I was just getting to know here when this tragedy occurred.”

  “Really?” Emily Walker said. “Where did you meet her?”

  “Well,” I said. “We were both attending a social gathering put on by the local lonely hearts club here in town. She and I talked for quite a while. She seemed like a very nice lady.”

  “She was,” Emily said.

  People behind me were starting to surge forward in the line. I moved on to make room for them. I walked up to the front of the funeral home where they had the casket on display. It was closed with just a bust picture of Peggy in a frame sitting on top of the casket.

  I laid one hand on the wooden box and said under my breath. “Goodbye Peggy. Sorry we couldn’t have talked longer.” I left the funeral home and drove back to my apartment. I didn’t feel it would have been appropriate to attend the burial.

  Less than three weeks later, on February sixteenth I walked into the small church just south of Glendale. The building was small, holding seating enough for maybe sixty people if and when they had a packed house. I took a seat in front, next to Laverne, who sat in the pew. Dan sat on the aisle in a wheelchair. He was dressed to the teeth in a tuxedo. Laverne wore a lavender dress with an orchid pinned to her shoulder.

  Dean and Clay stood up near the altar, each of them also dressed in a tuxedo, looking like a couple of trained penguins. They each had another man their own age standing alongside them. I assumed these were the best men. Beside them each stood just one woman in a light pink formal dress. These had to be the maids of honor. I looked around the room. With accommodations for sixty people, this place could still bring in another forty more people before they’d be at capacity. I guess this ceremony came with too little notice for most people to be able to make it.

  The whole ceremony took less than twenty minutes, including the vows, the music and the witnessing of the documents later in the pastor’s office. It was almost like the express line at the grocery store—twelve items or less, or in this case, twelve minutes or less.

  When
the three couples, the two married couples and the witnesses, emerged from the office holding their wedding licenses, the small crowd in the church clapped and lined the door leading out to the street. As the two newlywed couples exited, the people on either side of them threw the rice they’d brought for just this moment. Altogether, there wasn’t enough rice thrown to make a decent side dish for supper. The two couples got into a waiting limousine and were driven away. I knew where they were going and got there almost before they arrived.

  The reception was held in the back room of a Denny’s Restaurant on Colorado Boulevard in Glendale. The crowd of fewer than twenty people filed in and found seats at the tables with their names on small folded cards. Without further fanfare, and with everyone seated, the meals were brought in and placed on each of the tables. Before anyone took a single bite, I clinked the side of my glass with my fork and stood where I was.

  “If I may,” I said. “I’d like to propose a toast to my son, Clay Cooper and his new wife Veronica.” Everyone raised their glasses and drank. “I’d also like to propose a toast to Mrs. and Mrs. Dean Hollister.” Glasses were raised again and everyone drank. Before I sat down I said,” And one last toast, if you will all indulge me for a moment. To my best friend Dan Hollister, the father of the other groom. Here’s to you, my friend.” Everyone drank and I raised my glass directly to Dan, drank, gave him a wink and sat back down.

  The rest of the evening was surely one to remember. A lone musician provided music that night with an accordion. He was all we could come up with on such short notice. Near the end of the night, after several drinks and dances, Laverne Hollister lost her footing and fell down a short flight of stairs, breaking her right leg. When I saw her the following day she was wearing a full-length cast on that leg and she walked really funny with those crutches.

  The cast was still on her leg the morning that Dan died on Tuesday, March 21, 1980. Dean and Laverne were at his bedside when he passed away peacefully. Just a few seconds after Dan had taken his last breath, Laverne looked out the bedroom window and poked Dean in the elbow.