“What makes you think he’s involved?” Dean said.
“I don’t at this point,” I told Dean. “I’m just trying to piece the puzzle together and decided to check Bud’s arrest records, starting in 1945. I just figured if Bud lived this long, maybe one or more of his arrestees did, too. I mean, it’s worth a look, isn’t it?”
Dean shrugged. “Shouldn’t take long,” he said. “I’ll bet that Bud outlived ninety-five percent of the people he put away. But okay, let’s take a look at Cobb’s record. Come on.” Dean got up and led me to another room of records down the hall. He pulled open a drawer labeled I-J and fingered his way through the file folders until he came to Cobb, Lester. He pulled the record from the drawer and spread its contents out on the table. We each took several of the forms and checked them for useful information.
“Here we go,” Dean said, plucking one form out from under the others and holding it up. “Cobb, Lester, born April 1, 1921, sent to prison July 20, 1947 for the knifing murder of one Ruth Greene, 29 and Sergeant Clifford Lewis, 37. Served sixteen years at Alcatraz, until March of 1963 when they closed the prison. He was transferred to San Quentin, where he spent the next fifty years.”
“When did he die?” I said. “Does it say that anywhere in the report?”
Dean scanned the document. “He didn’t,” Dean said. “He’s still alive at eighty-nine after nearly sixty-six years behind bars.”
“Any chance either of us could go and talk to him?” I said.
“I suppose,” Dean said. “If you can find him.”
“How hard can that be?” I said. “It’s a prison, for crying out loud. Where’s he gonna go?”
“Wherever he likes,” Dean said. “He was paroled two months ago.”
“Paroled?” I said. “What happened to life without parole? That was his sentence, wasn’t it?”
Dean leafed through the folder again and pulled out a newspaper clipping. “According to this,” Dean said, “Some civic group read a story that a reporter did on prison life and found out that Cobb was still behind bars after more than sixty years. Starting a little more than two years ago, they began to put pressure on the powers that be. Well, it’s an election year and some idiot down the line caved in and got Cobb paroled. He’s been a free man for almost two months now.”
“Is it possible that someone could carry a grudge all this time?” I said. “And if so, how would an old-timer like that get close enough to Evans to kill him and walk away unnoticed?”
“Didn’t his daughter say that Bud was in good health and even had his own apartment?” Dean said.
“Yes, she did,” I recalled. “Cobb could have dropped in on Bud and after more than six decades, even Bud wouldn’t have recognized the man he’d sent to prison all those years ago.”
Dean took another look at Cobb’s folder, noting his last known address. He closed the folder and slipped it back into its place in the drawer and closed it. “Let’s go,” he said, writing Cobb’s address in his notebook.
“Where are we going?” I said.
“Back to Bud’s apartment,” Dean said. “If Cobb was in there, it’s a sure bet that he left traces of his visit behind. And if that’s the case, we’ll find it. Then we’ll pay a visit to Lester Cobb.”
Elliott drove to Grace Evans’ house in the Silver Lake district. She was waiting for him when he walked up onto her porch.
“Your call sounded urgent,” Grace said. “Have you found anything out about Dad’s death?”
“I was trying for hopeful,” Elliott said. “But urgent works for me as well.”
“What?” Grace said.
“Nothing,” Elliott said. “It’s just that Dad and Gloria and I are all working on this case. We figured we could cover more ground that way?”
“Dad and Gloria?” Grace said.
“My partners,” Elliott told her. “Gloria joined Cooper Investigations a while ago to help out while Dad was recovering from his heart attack. He’s doing fine and he’s back now, so the three of us are all working on your case together.”
“So, what is the reason for your visit?” Grace said, gesturing toward her sofa with a sweeping hand.
Elliott sat down and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “Dad’s checking with his lieutenant friend at the twelfth precinct and Gloria’s following up with the coroner,” he said.
“The coroner?” Grace said. “He’s the one who told me that Dad had died of natural causes. Has something changed?”
“Oh, that’s right,” Elliott said. “I haven’t seen you since I talked to him, have I? I convinced Andy Reynolds to take a closer look at your dad’s body and your suspicions were correct. He didn’t pass away naturally. He had help.”
“Murder?” Grace said.
“It looks like it,” Elliott said.
Grace gasped and held four fingers up to her open mouth. Her eyes began to well up and her voice wavered. “How did he die?” she said, reluctantly.
“Are you sure you want those kinds of details?” Elliott said, reaching out to hold her hand.
Grace nodded softly.
“Someone stabbed him,” Elliott said, leaving the ice pick out of the story.
Tears ran down Grace’s face now. “But why would anyone want to kill him?” she said. “Everyone liked Dad. He was a harmless old man.”
“That’s what we’re looking into,” Elliott told her. “We’ll catch whoever did this, I promise. My grandfather worked with your father back when they first joined the force in the forties. My father and I won’t give up on this until the killer is brought to justice.”
“It’s all so senseless,” Grace said.
“I agree,” Elliott said. “Do you feel up to a couple of questions, Miss Evans?”
Grace dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief and nodded. “Yes,” she said. “If you think it’ll help.”
“Every little bit helps,” Elliott said. “The more we know, the easier it might be to find the man who did this to your father.”
“What did you want to know?” Grace said.
Elliott pulled out his notepad and pen and said, “Had your dad ever mentioned anyone, anyone at all, who he might have been concerned about?”
“Anyone?” Grace said. “Like who?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Elliott said. “Maybe someone from his past that he might have either worked with or come in contact with during the course of his job.”
“His job?” Grace said. “Dad retired more than twenty-five years ago. Some of his co-workers kept in touch for a while after Dad retired, but that didn’t last long. Most of the guys he worked with are dead now anyway. Dad outlived them all.”
“What about people he might have arrested?” Elliott said. “Do you remember if he ever mentioned anyone that he sent to prison or arrested that might have held a grudge?”
“There again,” Grace said, “Dad was a lot older than any of the people he arrested.”
“Maybe toward the end of his career,” Elliott said. “But when he first started, he was in his early twenties, wasn’t he?”
“Yes,” Grace said. “And those people would have all died by now, wouldn’t you think?”
“Well someone had a bone to pick with your dad,” Elliott said. “Statistically, people just don’t kill other people in their nineties for no reason. It’s very rare.”
Grace thought for a moment and then offered, “If there was anyone holding a grudge, Dad never mentioned it to me. He was like that. He kept to himself a lot, especially after his retirement.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Evans,” Elliott said. “You haven’t really given me anything to go on. I hope my partners had better luck with their interviews. It would probably be best if I met with them so we could all pool our information and see if anything overlaps. Thank you. I’ll be in touch.”
Elliott got up from the couch and shook Grace’s hand. She showed him to the door and he left without further conversation.
Gloria had gone back to see
Andy Reynolds in the medical examiner’s office. When she got there Andy was in the middle of a full-blown autopsy on Bud Evans. After the external examination that had revealed the ice pick puncture to the back of Bud Evans’ head, Dean had ordered a full autopsy. As Gloria approached the table, Andy was removing Bud’s heart and placing it on a scale, making notes of the results. He turned, a bit startled to find Gloria standing next to him.
“Hi, Andy,” Gloria said. “Did you find anything else?”
“I haven’t finished with him yet,” Andy said. “I’ll know more within the hour. So far, the skull puncture wound is all that I’ve uncovered, except…” Andy stepped over to the head of the table and pointed to the area just to the right of Bud’s mouth. “It may be nothing, but this area was a little redder than the rest of his face. It could be nothing, but I’m not leaving anything to chance.”
“Any preliminary opinions?” Gloria said.
“Regarding what?” Andy said.
“That red mark,” Gloria said.
“If, and that’s a big if, someone clamped a hand over Bud’s mouth just prior to sticking the ice pick in, it could leave a mark like that, but I won’t know for sure until I get him under the ultra-violet light when I’ve finished the rest of this. Can you check back with me by…” Andy looked up at the wall clock. “Give me until three-fifteen. I you don’t hear from me by then, call me.”
“Thanks, Andy,” Gloria said, and walked out of the room. She walked to Hollister’s office and caught Elliott coming from the other direction. They met in front of Dean’s office.
“You find anything?” Elliott said.
Gloria shook her head. “No,” she said. “How about you?”
“Grace wasn’t much help,” Elliott said. “We’d better hope Dad had better luck than we did.”
Elliott knocked on Dean’s door and peek in. The office was empty. Just then Abbie came around the corner holding a coffee cup with both hands. She looked startled to see Elliott and Gloria standing there.
“What are you two doing here?” she said.
“We’re looking for Lieutenant Hollister,” Gloria said. “Is he in the building?”
“Nope,” Abbie said, turning to Elliott now. “He and your dad pulled an Elvis?”
“Huh?” Elliott said.
“They left the building,” Abbie said, smiling.
“Do you know where we can find them?” Elliott said.
“They said something about checking Bud’s apartment again,” Abbie said. “You might still be able to catch them there. Do you know where it is?”
Gloria and Elliott both shook their heads.
Abbie wrote the address on a sheet from her telephone message pad and handed it to Elliott. “They just left here a few minutes ago. You should be able to catch up with them.”
“Thanks, Abbie,” Elliott said, stuffing the piece of paper in his shirt pocket. He turned to Gloria. “You want to meet me there or ride with me?”
“I’ll follow you there,” Gloria said. “In case we end up back at the office, I’ll have my car.”
“Let’s go,” Elliott said.
We pulled up in front of the apartment building near the corner of Las Palmas and Franklin. Dad’s Oldsmobile was parked behind Dean’s cruiser. Gloria followed me up the walk and into the lobby. We checked the names on the mailboxes and spotted Evans’ name on box 212. We rode the elevator up to the second floor and found 212 mid-way down the hall. The apartment door was standing open when we entered and found Dad looking through drawers and in closets. We must have startled them when we walked in.
I spun around, my hand automatically reaching inside my jacket.
“Hold on there,” Elliott said. “Don’t shoot your only son.”
“Or me,” Gloria said.
I relaxed and released my grip on the .38 under my arm. “That’s a good way to get yourself shot,” I told Elliott. Next time make some noise when you enter a room.”
“What are you so jumpy about?” Elliott said.
Dean came out of the bedroom to see who Dad was talking to. He looked at Gloria and then at me. “What did you two turn up?” he said.
“Bud’s daughter was no help,” Elliott said.
“And Andy Reynolds is just finishing up on Bud’s autopsy,” Gloria added. “I have to call him by three. He may have more for us by then.”
“What did you two turn up here?” Elliott said.
“Nothing yet,” I said. “We just got here ourselves. You want to take the bathroom and Gloria, you can check the kitchen. I’ll keep looking in here. Dean’s going over the bedroom.”
Elliott looked around the room. “Where was Bud found?” he said.
I pointed to a spot near the living room chair. “Right there,” I said. “The super came in and found him lying on his back. His right hand was on his left biceps. I suspect the body was staged to make it look like Bud was having a heart attack and was grabbing his left arm. Not very likely, knowing what we know.”
Gloria’s cell phone rang and she flinched. On the third ring she said, “Gloria Campbell. Yes. Uh huh. Thanks, Andy.” She turned toward Dean and said. “Earlier I stopped in to see Andy and he had some concern about a red spot near Bud’s mouth. He looked again at the area under ultra-violet light and it’s definitely a hand print. Looks like someone clamped one hand over Bud’s mouth before they shoved that ice pick into his brain.”
“All right,” Dean said. “So the killer shows up here, gets a hand over Bud’s mouth and jabs the ice pick in and then arranges the body on the floor. Why?”
“Why do people usually kill?” I said. “Jealousy, revenge, hate, fear, robbery. Pick one.”
“Who could be jealous of a ninety-year-old man?” Gloria said, sifting through the kitchen drawers. “And he didn’t have any possessions worth robbing.”
“Fear is out,” Elliott said. “Who’d be afraid of a man that old? I doubt if it was hate.”
“That leaves revenge,” I said. “And that leads us back to what I dug up earlier—Cobb.”
“Bingo,” Gloria said, pointing to a long, pointed utensil in kitchen island drawer. She pulled a sheet of paper towel off the roll hanging under a cabinet and grabbed the utensil, holding it up in front of her eyes.
“What is it?” Elliott said.
“It’s a meat thermometer,” Gloria said. “This end has a small thermometer dial and the other end, this long, pointy end, goes into the meat.”
Dean walked up and took a closer look at the utensil. Gloria twisted it around in her hand. Except for the dial on the end, the rest of this thing could have passed for an ice pick. Gloria laid the paper down on the counter and reached into her pocket, producing a fold-away magnifying glass. She bent over and examined the piece and then stood upright again.
“Looks like there might be some blood on the shaft, up near the dial,” she said.
“Makes sense,” I said. “It was a meat thermometer, after all.”
Gloria shook her head. “I doubt any rump roast left that blood,” she said. “It looks fairly recent. And take a look at the glass on the dial. It’s broken and a small piece is missing.”
Elliott looked at the dial and then said, “Are you thinking that this might be the murder weapon?”
“It’s possible,” Gloria said.
Dean held up one finger. “Hold on a second,” he said. “That would mean that whoever killed Bud would have had to rely on the fact that Bud even owned a meat thermometer. Isn’t that leaving a lot to chance?”
“What about this?” I said. “The killer brought the meat thermometer with him, killed Bud with it, wiped it clean, supposedly, and then put it in the drawer.”
“But why leave the murder weapon behind?” Dean said.
“Okay,” I said. “Suppose the killer is stopped on his way out of the building. If it’s found on him, he’s done, so why not just hide it in plain sight where it looks like it belongs?”
“In the kitchen drawer,” Dean said. “Wo
rks for me.”
“And that means that the killer’s hand would have a cut on the palm from the broken glass on the dial,” Gloria said.
“If this was the murder weapon,” Elliott said.
“There’s one way to find out,” I said. “Suppose we all pay Mr. Cobb a visit.”
“Are we done here?” Dean said.
Everyone nodded, looking at each other for confirmation.
“Then let’s take a drive over to Kenmore Avenue,” Dean said. “It’s halfway up the block between Hollywood and Franklin.”
Our four car caravan pulled to a stop on Kenmore and the four of us converged on Cobb’s house. Elliott and Gloria covered the back door while Dean and I approached the front. If this hadn’t been such a serious matter, it might have seemed silly, what with four people coming to take down an eighty-nine-year-old man.
Dean rang the bell and listened as the sound of shuffling feet came closer to the door. It opened and an old man looked back at us from behind wire-rimmed bi-focals. He was wearing a plaid bathrobe with a rope tie holding it closed in the front.
“Yes?” he said in a frail voice.
Dan held up his shield. “Lester Cobb?” he said. “Police. I’d like to talk to you. May we come in?”
Cobb said nothing, but stepped aside to let us pass. Dean stayed in the living room and I walked through to the kitchen and opened the back door for Elliott and Gloria. The three of us returned to the living room.
“Mr. Cobb,” Dean said. “I understand you got out of San Quentin on parole less than two months ago. Is that right?”
“You got the records,” Cobb said. “Why are you asking me?”
“Just answer the questions, sir,” Dean said.
Cobb shoved both of his hands into the pockets on his bathrobe, gave Dean a disgusted look and muttered, “Yeah, what of it?”
“What have you been doing for the past two months?” Dean said.
“Are you asking if I found a job yet?” Cobb said, laughing. “Is that it? Are you here to arrest me for vagrancy?”
“Can it, Cobb,” Dean said. “We’re not here to pass the time of day with you. Now what have you been doing since you got out?”
“Well,” Cobb said, “Let’s see. The first day out I fed the squirrels in the park. The next day I fed the pigeons. Then I…”
The Complete Cooper Collection (All 97 Stories) Page 167