Jerry’s other job was late at night as a filling station attendant. He worked the graveyard shift on weekends. He came in at ten o’clock and worked through until six the next morning. It was a slow shift and it gave Jerry the time he needed to study and do his weekend homework. Jerry figured that by the end of the summer, he’d have enough saved to help him through his first year of college.
Jerry knew a little about auto mechanics, as well. Some nights when it was really slow, Jerry would let other kids bring their cars into the garage and put them on the hoist so they could do the work that they normally couldn’t do otherwise. He was no full-fledged mechanic and didn’t offer that kind of work for the station owner, but he did know enough to help other kids do their own brake jobs or lube jobs or just to help them change their oil.
It was the last week of August and Jerry had already given his two-week notice two weeks earlier to his employer, Ron Quinn. Ron stopped in at ten just as Jerry was coming on that night. He thanked Jerry for helping out that summer and wished him luck with the coming college semester. It was the last time Ron would see Jerry alive.
The next morning when Ron opened the station at six o’clock, he found the cash register drawer open and empty. The drawers under the counter had been ransacked as well. Ron rushed into the garage and found Jerry lying in a pool of dark red blood. He was unconscious and his breathing was shallow. He’d been shot once in the back of the head, gangland style.
Jerry was rushed to the hospital and lay there for several days in a nearly vegetative state. We were never able to question him and he never regained consciousness. Four days later we got a call at the department that Jerry had died.
It was up to me to tell Ron Quinn. I dreaded the drive back to the filling station that afternoon but I knew it had to be done. It took me fifteen minutes to make it back to Ron’s station. Ron was inside, behind the counter when my car ran over the hose in the driveway. Ron looked up and saw me coming. I guess he could tell from the look on my face that I was not bringing good news. His face fell apart as I approached.
“I’m sorry to be the one to have to tell you this, Mr. Quinn,” I said, “but Jerry passed away about an hour ago.”
Ron’s lower lip quivered as he turned away from me. I could hear the low sobs from his throat and a lump formed in my own. I swallowed hard and tried to continue.
“We’re doing everything we can to track his killer,” I said. “And if there’s anything you can tell us that may shed some light on this case, it would help a lot.”
My questions were cut short by the voice on the radio in my car. I excused myself and hurried back to the patrol car. Ron returned to the chair behind his desk as I finished on the car radio. I rushed back into the station and looked at Ron.
“I’m not sure how or why or anything else,” I said, “but Jerry is still alive. I just got the call from the station. Seems there was some sort of mix-up at the hospital. I have to go, Mr. Quinn, but I’ll let you know how this all develops. Don’t give up hope yet. Jerry’s still in there fighting.”
“Thank you, Matt,” Ron said. “And please let me know how he’s doing.”
“I will,” I said.
I drove back to the hospital and found the doctor in charge of Jerry’s case. He was very apologetic and explained that he had determined him to be dead and that there were no signs of life, so they put him on a gurney and took him down to the morgue. A morgue attendant happened to come in later and heard a gasping noise and went over and examined him and found he was still alive.
Jerry lingered for another two days before he died. Once again I had the unpleasant duty to tell Ron Quinn that Jerry had passed away. This time there was no reprieve from the hospital.
Our investigation into the case revealed that there was one suspect, Todd Morgan, who looked like a strong possibility as the murderer. He was a fellow who used to come in and hang around the station. Jerry allowed him to use the garage to put his car on the hoist and work on it. Jerry had even helped Todd with some exhaust work on Todd’s car.
Todd was brought in as the main suspect and interrogated extensively, and at one point, he almost broke down and confessed. He said, “I can’t remember whether I was there or not.”
I stood across the interrogation table from Todd, leaning on the table with my hands. “We know you were there, Todd,” I said. “Your old muffler was still lying on a pile in the corner along with some rusty pipes and clamps. The muffler has your prints all over it. Now do you remember being there?”
Todd squinted his eyes and shook his head, trying to recall the incident. Suddenly, as if a light had gone on inside his head, he remembered. “Oh yeah,” he said, “but that was more than a week before all this happened. I ain’t been in there since.”
The interrogation lasted just forty-five minutes before we determined that we didn’t have enough evidence to hold him on. We reluctantly released him but kept a close watch on his movements for the next few weeks.
More than a month had passed since Jerry Patterson had died and we still were no closer to solving his murder. We had no choice but to drop the surveillance on Todd Morgan and he must have known it, because shortly afterwards we was back to his larcenous ways.
We can only theorize what happened next but this is the way it appears to have happened. We got the call from Ron Quinn on a Saturday morning. I got to his station around six-thirty and found Ron waiting outside, in front of the office. I rolled my window down as Ron approached.
“Dispatch tells me you have something for me regarding Todd Morgan,” I said. “They said you wouldn’t give them any further information but that you’d fill me in when I got here.”
Ron crooked a finger at me. “Follow me, Matt.”
I followed Ron toward the office. He filled me in as we walked.
“You know Judge Holcomb?” Ron said. “The circuit court judge for this district?”
I nodded. “Yes, I know him very well,” I said. “I’ve testified in his court on several occasions.”
“You know what the judge drives?” Ron said.
The puzzled look on my face served as my answer.
“He drives a Cadillac Sedan,” Ron said. “That’s a heavy car, you know. Well, he had it in my shop yesterday for a lube job. When I got it up on the hoist, I noticed some perforation in his exhaust and called him to ask if he wanted me to take care of that as long as I had it up in the air. He told me to go ahead and fix it and I reminded him that the car would have to stay here overnight while I picked up the replacement pipes.”
“What has all this got to do with Todd Morgan?” I said.
“I’m getting to that,” Ron said. “Anyway, the Caddy was still up on the hoist when I closed up last night and the keys were in the ignition.”
“And…” I said.
“And,” Ron said, “when I opened up this morning, I caught Todd Morgan in my garage, probably trying to steal the car.”
“What do you mean, probably?” I said.
Ron smiled. “Well, I couldn’t really ask him, see?” He led me into the garage and pointed to the Cadillac, which was now at floor level.
Protruding out from under the car I could see one dirty black and white sneaker. Ron led me around to the other side of the hoist and pointed down at the floor.
“Anybody you know?” Ron said.
I looked down at the face of Todd Morgan sticking out from under the car. His forehead sported a dark bruise. “Morgan?” I said.
Ron nodded. “Looks like he was getting ready to take off with Judge Holcomb’s car. I’d say he released the hydraulic lever and then tripped, falling under the car and hitting his head on the hoist arm. When the Caddy came down, it was too late to get out from under the hoist. And that’s the way I found him when I opened up this morning.”
“That’s too bad,” I said. “We hadn’t given up on his case and we were getting closer to bringing him in for the murder of Jerry Patterson. Looks like he saved the taxpayers a few bucks
.”
“Not much of a consolation for losing a good kid like Jerry,” Ron said, “but you have to admit, there’s a certain amount of satisfaction in the justice administered here, even if it was late in coming.”
After the medical examiner’s office finished with the scene and took Todd Morgan to the morgue, I drove back to the station feeling both relief and regret. Regret that Jerry had been killed but relief that his killer eventually paid for his crime.
Three weeks after we closed the case, word on the street was that Todd Morgan didn’t die the way Ron said he did. The way I heard it, Todd broke in to the station and found Ron still there. There was a struggle and Ron belted Todd in the head with a tire iron and Todd fell beneath the hoist. Supposedly Ron took that opportunity to set the wheels of justice into motion and simply lowered the car on top of Todd.
When you’re a cop you can’t believe every story you hear on the streets. Besides, I didn’t want to believe it.
Monday, June 18, 1945 – Hollywood, CA
Two weeks earlier, Stella and I had celebrated two years of marriage. It was better than I could ever have imagined it could be. I actually looked forward to getting home after work and we both enjoyed spending time with each other. I’d heard stories from some of the cops I’d worked with over the years about how the magic had drained out of their marriages after two years. I couldn’t relate. Our marriage just seemed to get better with every passing day. Of course, we had small arguments over silly things, but never an argument that led to extended silence or resentment. Stella was not only my wife, but my best friend as well.
We were enjoying the first day of my vacation, sitting on the porch of our home just watching the traffic go by and talking about our plans for the future. The subject of supper came up and Stella sat upright in her chair.
“That reminds me,” she said. “We’re out of milk. I’ll just run down to the corner market and pick up a half-gallon. I can be back in fifteen minutes and I can get dinner started.”
I started to get up but she gestured with her hand. “No,” she said. “Don’t get up. You just relax and enjoy your vacation. I can manage.”
“Hurry back,” I said. “It gets lonely out here on the porch by myself.”
Stella bent over and kissed me. “That’s so sweet,” she said and turned to leave.
She’s been gone more than an hour and I was getting nervous. The market was just down the street and she should have been back thirty minutes ago. I was just about to grab my jacket and go looking for her when my phone rang. It was my friend, Officer Jerry Burns.
“Matt,” Jerry said. “Has anyone been by to see you yet?”
“What?” I said. “What are you talking about? Who’s supposed to see me? What’s this all about?”
“Matt,” Jerry said. “It’s Stella.”
“Has something happened to her?” I said. “What’s going on, Jerry?”
“Matt,” Jerry said. “I’m calling from the patrol car. I’m just a minute from your house. Wait right there, I’ll pick you up.”
“Jerry, Jerry,” I said, but the phone was dead.
A minute later a black and white patrol car pulled up in front of my apartment building and Jerry got out and hurried over to meet me.
“Matt,” Jerry said. “You’d better come with me.”
I stopped dead in my tracks. “Jerry,” I nearly screamed. “What is it? Has something happened to Stella?”
“At the market,” Jerry said. “There was a holdup forty-five minutes ago. Some kid hopped up on dope came in waving a gun and demanding money from the owner. When the owner didn’t move fast enough for him, the gunman shot him and the customer who was standing at the counter. It was Stella.”
“No,” I said. “It can’t be. We were just talking on the porch earlier. Is she…?”
“They’ve taken her to the hospital,” Jerry said. “She’s still alive, but you need to get there right away, Matt. I’m here to drive you to the hospital. Come on.”
I slid in next to Jerry and he hit the lights and siren all the way to the hospital. We made it in seven minutes. I ran inside, up to the reception desk and screamed at the nurse behind the counter.
“Stella Cooper,” I said. “Where is she?”
The nurse checked her clipboard and then picked up the desk phone and dialed three numbers. I heard her say, “Doctor, Mr. Cooper is here to see his wife. Yes, right away.”
She turned to me and said, “The doctor will be out here very soon to talk to you. Please be patient.”
“Can’t you just tell me how she is?” I said.
“It would be better if you spoke to the doctor,” the nurse said and then turned to look down the hall. “Here he comes now, Mr. Cooper.”
A man in blood-spattered scrubs approached me. He pulled off the scrubs hat he was wearing and looked at me. “Mr. Cooper?” he said.
“How’s my wife, doctor?” I said. “Is she going to be all right?”
The doctor found it hard for his eyes to meet mine. “We did everything we could for her, but I’m afraid her injuries were too severe. I’m sorry, Mr. Cooper. She passed away five minutes ago.” He walked back down the hall and disappeared through a pair of swing doors.
I turned toward Jerry with a blank expression on my face. “Gone,” was all I could muster.
“Come on, Matt,” Jerry said. “Sit down over here.”
He started to help me toward one of the chairs but I snapped out of my stupor and broke away from him. I started running down the hall where the doctor had gone and just began yelling, “Stella, Stella,” as I looked in each door along the hallway.
That same doctor reappeared and stopped me before I passed through the double swing doors. I looked at him.
“I want to see her,” I said. “Where is she?”
“Mr. Cooper,” the doctor said. “She’s been taken down to the morgue. I can take you down there if you want.”
“Please,” I said. “I want to see her once more.”
Tuesday, July 3, 1945 – Hollywood, CA
It was the dead of summer and tempers were flaring in my precinct. Domestic disturbance calls had tripled in the past week and it seemed like everyone was eager to fight. That’s fine if you’re a prizefighter but as a cop it certainly didn’t make my job any easier. I’d been patrolling these streets for eleven months now and I was working with my forth partner. His name was Phil and he was a nine-year veteran. I learned a lot from Phil.
We were patrolling the south side when our radio squawked.
“Car nine,” the dispatcher said. “See the woman, Lexington Avenue and Lillian Way. Domestic disturbance. Code two.”
“Car nine, copy that,” Phil said, cradling the mic back in its holder. He wrote the address down on the sheet attached to his clipboard.
“Lillian Way,” Phil said. “You remember where that is?”
“You don’t have to quiz me, Phil. I know Hollywood, remember?”
“Okay, suppose you tell me the best way to get there from here,” Phil said. And suppose that someone’s life may depend on you knowing the fastest and shortest route.”
I looked out my window to get my bearings and then offered, “First you’ll wanna take a right at the next corner. Take that street all the way to the end. It ends in a T and you’ll wanna go left for two blocks and then right one block. The house will be on your side of the street.”
“Not bad,” Phil said. “Just be prepared for trouble. That’s a familiar address. We’ve been there many times before. That’s Ricky Vogel’s address. Don’t take any chances with this guy.”
“Bad news, is he?” I said.
“The worst,” Phil said. “He smacks his wife around, she calls it in and we end up taking him to jail, but not without a fight. My partner, the one I had before you, turned his back for just a second and Ricky was all over him, so you be on your toes, you hear?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
We pulled up to the curb at Lexington and Li
llian Way and spotted a man sitting on the porch waiting for us to arrive. It was Ricky Vogel, all right. He was dressed in grease-spotted jeans, a strapped tee shirt, a wife beater shirt, as we used to call it, and black engineer boots. All that was missing to make his ensemble complete was the black leather jacket and a motorcycle cap with the white visor.
It looked as though he knew that his wife had called the police and he was almost eager to meet us. I knew this could only mean trouble. Phil and I walked up the sidewalk toward Ricky. When we got within fifteen feet, he leapt off the porch right in front of us. He was waving a large kitchen knife in our faces.
“Come on,” he taunted. “You want some of this?” He waved the knife some more, still advancing on us.
I drew my service revolver and pointed it at Ricky. Ricky showed no signs of concern and just kept coming. I took a few steps back. “Halt,” I called out but with no results.
Phil pulled his nightstick out and tried hitting Vogel in the forearm, hoping to knock the knife out of his hand. Ricky just kept dodging my swing, all the while still focusing on getting at me.
I backed up even further and finally turned and ran between the house, toward the back yard, where I turned again to face Ricky. Ricky showed no sign of relenting, but just kept coming at me, slashing at me with wide swipes of the knife. I took another step back and tripped on a garden hose. I went down hard on my back.
Ricky loomed over me with the knife and something inside told me that I was all out of options. I shot upwards from a lying position, striking Ricky Vogel in the heart. Ricky fell right on top of me, dead as they come. His wound bled all over my new uniform. I squirmed out from under Ricky and stood, quickly backing away. I looked down at the dead man and then over at Phil. Phil must have known this was going to be a hard one for me. He’d been there himself and his first shooting had taken a toll on him.
The Complete Cooper Collection (All 97 Stories) Page 139