Dean agreed and then sighed. “I have to go and see the captain,” he said. “Thanks for your help, Elliott. I owe you one.”
“You buy me dinner and a movie and we’ll call it even,” I said.
Dean smiled. “Just don’t expect a good night kiss at the door,” he said and walked down the hall to Captain Rogers’ office.
52 - Revenge Never Expires
I remember the day that my son, Elliott came to me and told me that he wanted to be a private eye like his grandfather and most of all, like me. He took me by surprise, somewhat, but then again he was the third generation in a family of private eyes. My dad, Matt Cooper, had joined the Chicago police force in the mid-thirties. He only spent a few years there and then in the early forties he’d moved out to Southern California and joined the Los Angeles Police Department. After three years he left there to start his own private investigations business.
I joined him in 1971, shortly before I’d finished college. All I’d ever talked about was becoming a lawyer and when college graduation was less than a year away, I’d dropped this bombshell and caught dad off guard. He wasn’t sure if he should try to persuade me to stick with law, or just remind me about all the downsides of being a private detective. Dad did know, however, that I was headstrong and that I’d do whatever I wanted, no matter what he said. Dad objected at first, but changed his opinion after we’d worked together that first year.
Elliott had approached me a dozen years ago, saying that he’d like to continue our family tradition and join me in the business. I couldn’t very well object since that was the same way I got into this business with my dad.
I’d turned sixty-two earlier this year and thoughts of retirement floated in and out of my consciousness. I didn’t really have many hobbies and often wondered just how long it would take me to get bored once I pulled the plug. I knew one thing for sure—I wasn’t going to make any hasty decisions that I’d regret later.
Elliott was already in the office when I got there this morning. He was a bit of a perfectionist, more so than me, and always came in a few minutes early to map out his day. I’m the type that liked to come in at exactly eight o’clock and get right down to whatever needed doing. We worked well off each other.
We weren’t open for business ten minutes when our office door opened and Lieutenant Dean Hollister walked in without knocking, as was his habit. Dean was a year younger than me and we’d grown up together. Dean’s father, Dan had been a policeman most of his life and was my father’s superior during his years with the Los Angeles Police. Over the years they’d formed a friendship that endured more than three decades, until Dan’s death in 1980.
Elliott and I both had our feet up on the desk, each of us reading a different section of that morning’s paper.
“No, don’t get up,” Dean said, sliding a spare chair over to my desk and plopping himself down in it. “It’s only me, not a paying client or anything.”
I ignored him and continued reading for a few more seconds before folding the paper and laying it on my desk. “Slumming today, Dean?” I said.
Dean shook his head. “Nope, just thought I’d drop around and shoot the shit for a few minutes. Where’s Gloria today?”
Elliott looked at his watch. “She’ll be in at ten this morning,” he said. “She’s downtown picking up a fan.”
“Why don’t you two cheapskates just break down and at least get a window air conditioner,” Dean said. “I know you’d never spring for central air.”
“A fan was good enough for Dad,” I said.
“Yeah, well your dad was tight with a buck too,” Dean said.
“Anything particular on your mind today?” I said.
“Let me ask you something, Clay,” Dean said. “Had your dad ever mentioned a cop named Bud Evans?”
“Bud Evans,” I said, trying to recall. “Doesn’t ring any bells, should it?”
“What about Carroll Evans? Dean said.
“Was that his wife?” I said.
“No,” Dean explained. “Carroll was Bud’s real first name.”
“I guess I can see why he went with Bud,” I said. “Now that you mention it, I do remember dad saying something about a rookie that was constantly getting razzed about his name. He wasn’t very old, either, was he?”
“Twenty-four,” Dean said. “He’d joined the department back in ‘45, right after the war, and he even worked with my dad off and on for that first year. The only reason I remember the guy was because of his name. It’s kind of hard to forget a guy named Carroll.”
“A Boy Named Sue,” I said.
“Huh?” Elliott said, finally joining in the conversation.
“A Boy Named Sue,” I said. “It was an old Johnny Cash song from the early seventies. It was about a boy whose father named him Sue in order to make him tough because he knew he was going to desert the family.”
“Boy they just don’t write sentimental songs like that anymore, do they?” Elliott said.
I held my index finger up to Elliott and then turned my attention back to Dean. “So, what about this Carroll, Bud Evans?” I said.
“He’s dead,” Dean said.
“Well, I would think so,” I said. “Hell, if he was twenty-four back in ‘45, he’d have to be in his nineties.”
“Just,” Dean said.
“Just what?” I said.
“He was just ninety,” Dean explained. “He turned ninety not three weeks ago.”
“And now he’s dead,” Elliott said. “Cut down in his prime with his best years still ahead of him. Is there a point to all this?”
I gave Elliott the look that said he was being rude and he leaned back in his chair and made an exaggerated motion of closing his mouth.
“So they sent you out to solicit donations for flowers for this ex-cop?” I said, reaching for my wallet. “Well, put me down for five bucks.”
Dean waved me off. “Nothing like that,” he said. “I was just going around to people who might have known him. What I’m collecting, actually, are anecdotes that some of us at the station can use during his service. No one at the station is anywhere near this guy’s age. Hell, most of the people who knew Bud died years ago, so we all agreed to say a little something on his behalf.”
“Anecdote,” I said. “Let me think. Well, the one and only time that dad ever worked with him was just before dad left the force to start this business. Dad told me that he and Bud were patrolling near Pasadena one night when they answered a call about a disturbance at a local bar.”
Dean pulled out his notepad and began writing. “Go on,” he said.
“Well,” I said, “Dad and Bud drove to the bar and the place was packed with people. The bartender pointed out some drunken troublemaker who was just itching for a fight. Dad and Bud each grabbed him by an arm and dragged him out of the tavern. All the people in the tavern ran to the front window to look out and watch.”
“Not so fast,” Dean said. “I don’t know shorthand.”
“Anyway,” I said, “They got him to the squad car and threw him in the back seat. Dad got in one side and closed the door and Bud walked around the other side, got in and closed his door. It took them a second or two to realize that all three of them were sitting in the back seat.”
“That’s funny,” Elliott said.
“The guy looked at Dad and Bud and asked who was driving,” I said. “And Dad said it wouldn’t have been so embarrassing, except that all the people in the tavern were watching out the window. They all got a big laugh out of it. Dad thought Bud was going to drive and Bud thought Dad was going to drive and all three of them ended up in the back seat.”
“Good one, Clay,” Dean said. “I can use that one. Got any others?”
“Let me think,” I said. “This one’s not really funny, but you still may be able to use it. Bud had partnered with your dad’s regular partner one night. This was after Matt already had this business running for a few months. That would make it sometime in early 1947.”
Dean wrote a few words and paused.
“Dad told me that Bud and your dad had been investigating a murder case involving a woman in a bathtub,” I said. “Some twenty-three-year-old guy had apparently killed a woman with a hunting knife.”
Dean stopped writing.
“Can’t use it?” I said, pointing at Dean’s notebook.
“Sure,” Dean said. “I’m going to use it, but I don’t have to write it down. Dad told me that story more than once and it’s one that stays with you once you hear it.”
“Pretty eerie,” I said. “Let’s see if I can think of another one.”
“Hold on,” Elliott said, sitting up straight. “You start to tell a juicy story about a knifing and stop because you’ve both heard it already? “Well, I haven’t heard it. Come on, give.”
Dean shook his head. “You really don’t want to hear this one,” he said, “unless you’re into nightmares.”
“I’m sure I can handle it,” Elliott said. “What happened?”
“All right,” I said. “But don’t say you weren’t warned.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Elliott said, smugly.
“Well,” Dean said. “Dad was stuck answering the phone at the station one night because of an injury to his foot. That night Dad got a call at the front desk. On the other end of the phone was a hysterical woman. She was screaming that someone was breaking into her house through the back door. Over the phone Dad could hear the banging and breaking of the woman’s door. A squad was dispatched immediately but Dad heard the phone drop and he lost contact with the woman. Bud and Cliff Lewis, dad’s regular partner, were at the home within minutes. Cliff went up to the front door and Bud went around to the back to find the back door standing open, broken and splintered. Bud and Cliff walked in to the house on the first floor and began their search. They could hear what they thought was water running upstairs. It was a trickling sound like a faucet left on. They could hear the drip drip drip and the sound of water running down the drain.”
I looked at Elliott. He was licking his lips and squirming in his seat.
“With their guns drawn they ascended the stairs, searching the second floor room by room,” Dean said. “They finished their search in the upstairs bathroom, where they found the body of the woman who’d called the police station. She was lying in the bathtub. She had been stabbed several times and had fallen back into the tub. What Bud and Cliff thought was the sound of running water was actually the blood running out of the woman’s body and down the bathtub drain.”
Elliott winced. “I knew it was going to be something like that,” he said.
Dean continued with his story. “Later that day Dad took another call. He received an anonymous tip that there was a man living across the street from the murdered woman who the caller said was acting strangely. The tipster thought that this man, Lester Cobb, might have been involved in the murder of the woman across the street.”
Bud and Cliff drove to the house and split up. Cliff went to the house while Bud checked the garage and found Cobb hiding in it. Bud yelled for Cobb to come out with his hands in the air, but Cobb charged past Bud and back into the house. When Cliff confronted Cobb in the back hallway, Cobb pulled his hunting knife and stabbed Cliff three times before Bud caught up with him and shot Cobb in the back as he was raising the knife again. Cobb had dropped the knife, but Bud had been a few seconds too late. Cliff died right there in Cobb’s house.”
“But your dad wasn’t there for that one, was he?” Elliott said, looking straight at Dean.
“No,” Dean said. “Dad wasn’t in the house and he was always thankful that he didn’t have to see the woman’s body lying in the tub, with her life’s fluids draining out of her. It haunted him enough just to know that he was the last person to ever hear her voice. And he always wondered how things would have turned out for Cliff if he’d been there instead of Bud.”
“So Bud killed this Cobb character?” Elliott said.
“If only,” Dean said. “No, Bud’s shot was off by less than an inch and Cobb lived to stand trial. He got life without parole, Cliff got a policeman’s funeral and Bud went on to serve for another thirty-nine years before he retired back in ‘86.”
“What do you suppose he’s been doing for the past twenty-six years?” Elliott said, doing some quick mental math. “He’d have been sixty-seven. What do old guys in their sixties do for excitement?”
Dean and I looked at each other and turned to Elliott as though our heads were connected. “I beg your pardon,” I said.
“Old guys?” Dean said. “I’ll give you old guys, kid.”
“Well, I wasn’t talking about you two,” Elliott said. “I meant two other old codgers in their sixties?”
“Just wait,” I said. “One day you’ll be there yourself.”
“And then you’ll be ninety,” Elliott said. “I think by then I’ll be able to take you both on at the same time without any problems.”
Dean and I exchanged looks again and shook our heads. “Kids,” I said. “No respect at all.”
“Now I know what Rodney Dangerfield feels like,” Dean said.
“Felt like,” Elliott corrected.
“Huh?” Dean said.
“Dangerfield’s been dead eight years,” Elliott explained. “He was an old codger, too.”
“I’d better get out of here before these brittle old bones of mine shatter,” Dean said.
“How’d you like to have a cup of coffee with another old codger?” I said. “We can drive over to the rest home and drink it. That should make us feel young again.”
Dean threw his head to one side. “Come on, Clay,” he said. “Wheelchair races in the hallway. Last one to the elevator is a corpse.”
“Funny,” Elliott said. “You two just go on and have your coffee. I’ll hold down the fort.”
“Think you can?” Dean said.
Before the door closed behind us, Elliott couldn’t resist one more shot. “Don’t forget a fresh diaper before you come back, Dad.”
I turned back toward the office but Dean pulled me away. “Forget it, Clay. He doesn’t have a clue.”
Elliott settled back behind his desk and picked up the paper again. He flipped a few pages and found the place where he’d left off. Twenty minutes later he’d finished the back page of editorials and had thrown the paper in the trashcan when the office door opened again.
“You guys back already?” Elliott said, not even bothering to look up.
“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice said.
Elliott looked up now and saw an older woman, perhaps in her late fifties or early sixties. She wore a long cloth coat with a belt cinched at her waist. She also wore sensible shoes and looked tired.
Elliott stood and stepped around his desk to greet her. “I’m sorry,” Elliott said. “I thought you were someone else. Please, won’t you sit down?”
The woman sat in the chair opposite Elliott. He extended his hand and she took it, shaking it weakly.
“I’m Elliott Cooper,” Elliott said.
“Grace Evans,” she said.
Elliott paused their handshake briefly and said, “Evans?”
“Yes,” she answered.
“That’s the second time I’ve heard that name today,” he said before taking a seat behind his desk again. “Those other people I mistook you for when you came in, well, the three of us were just discussing another guy named Evans. What are the odds?”
“Was his name Carroll Evans, this other guy you were discussing?” Grace said.
“Why, yes it was,” Elliott said. “How did you know that?”
“Because he just died recently,” Grace said.
“I know,” Elliott said. “One of the other guys that was just here is a cop. He’s the one that was telling me and my dad about Mr. Evans.”
“That would be Lieutenant Hollister, I take it,” Grace said.
“What are you, clairvoyant or something?” Elliott said.
“Not at all, y
oung man,” Grace said. “It’s just that I’d been to see him earlier today and I’m afraid he didn’t take me seriously.”
“About what?” Elliott said.
“About my father’s death,” Grace said. “Carroll Evans was my father.”
Elliott’s face took on a somber look and he said, “I’m sorry to hear about your father, but he was ninety, after all. If I remember correctly, the average life expectancy of males these days is somewhere around seventy-six. Sounds like your dad got quite a few extra years out of life.”
“And I wouldn’t have bothered Mr. Hollister or you if dad had simply died of natural causes,” Grace said.
Elliott looked puzzled. “What makes you think that he didn’t?” he said.
“Dad was in relatively good health and has been for some time now,” Grace explained. “He still lived in his own apartment. He didn’t have to be in one of those awful nursing homes. He could walk without help from anyone or anything. No, Mr. Cooper, I’m afraid there’s more to dad’s death than anyone is bothering to check on.”
“I can’t speak for Lieutenant Hollister,” Elliott said, “but I don’t think police can go on hunches or intuition these days. They want proof or evidence or something that would make them dig deeper. Do you know anything for sure about how your father died, or are you just unwilling to accept that it might have simply been his time?”
Grace sat up straighter in her chair now. “Do you know that they didn’t even perform an autopsy on dad?”
“No,” Elliott said. “I wasn’t aware of that. How did you know that they hadn’t?”
“I asked Mr. Hollister,” she said. “He said that the medical examiner doesn’t usually do one on people of that age, especially when they go in their sleep.”
“Did he go in his sleep?” Elliott said.
“It might look like it to someone in a hurry or to someone who couldn’t be bothered,” Grace said. “I’d feel a lot better about all this if I could just know for sure.”
The Complete Cooper Collection (All 97 Stories) Page 165