The Complete Cooper Collection (All 97 Stories)

by Bernico, Bill

  “This last victim’s name,” Clay said. “Joseph Moran.”

  “What about it?” Eric said.

  “Joe Moran,” Clay said. “Terrible Joe Moran.”

  “Huh?” Eric said. “What was so terrible about this victim?”

  “Not the victim,” Clay explained. “The movie. Terrible Joe Moran was the title of Cagney’s last movie ever. Have you ever seen it?”

  Eric shook his head. “When did it come out?”

  “It was never in the theaters,” Clay said. “It was a television movie that was shown, oh, I’d say around 1985 or 1986, I think. No wait, it couldn’t have been 1986. Cagney died that year. Must have been earlier.”

  “Okay,” Eric said. “So Cagney did a TV movie back in the early eighties. No chance I’d have seen it. I was probably only six or seven back then. Anyway, what’s so special about this movie?”

  “Not so much the movie,” Clay said, “but the fact that victim number seven’s name was Joe Moran, same as the character Cagney played in that movie.”

  “Coincidence?” Eric said.

  “All by itself, yes,” Clay said, “but something seemed familiar about these other names when I first saw them but I couldn’t put my finger on it. But have a look for yourself.” Clay pointed to the first victim’s sheet. “Thomas Powers,” he said. “Tom Powers was the name of Cagney’s character in Public Enemy, an early gangster picture he did around 1930 or so.”

  Eric picked up sheet number one and looked at the name. “What are you, some kind of movie trivia buff or something?” he said.

  “Not only a movie trivia buff,” Clay said, “but Cagney was my all-time favorite actor. I’ll bet I’ve seen everything he ever did.”

  Eric picked up sheet number two. “What about this one, Matthew Nolan?” he said.

  “Matt Nolan,” Clay said. “That was the name of a Cagney character in a movie called Taxi, also from the thirties. And look here, at victim number three.” He handed Eric the third sheet. “James Kincaid. Remember I paused on that one, remarking how unusual that name was? Well, Jim Kincaid was another Cagney character from The Oklahoma Kid, and that in itself was unusual for Cagney because he almost never did western pictures.”

  “We’d better bring all this to Dean’s office,” Eric said.

  “In a minute,” Clay said. “But let’s go in there armed with the facts. Take a look at victim number four, Edward Bartlett. Eddie Bartlett was Cagney’s character in The Roaring Twenties.” He handed sheet number four to Eric and continued with his analysis. “Victim number six shared the same name as a character Cagney played in a movie called, The Bride Came C.O.D. In that movie, Cagney played a guy named Steve Collins.”

  “What about victim number five?” Eric said.

  “I’ll get back to that one in a minute,” Clay said. “Tonight’s victim, victim number seven was Joe Moran.”

  “That’s terrible,” Eric said.

  “Just the Cagney character,” Clay said. “Not the victim.”

  “What are you talking about?” Eric said.

  “I thought you were talking about the movie, Terrible Joe Moran,” Clay said. “And you said, oh never mind. Let’s get this stuff back to Dean’s office and fill him in.”

  “Wait a minute,” Eric said. “You forgot about victim number five, the one you passed over.”

  “Oh, right,” Clay said. “Number five was just a plain, old name with no connection at all to any Cagney movie. Don’t you see? That means that number five, Conrad Watson, wasn’t the Rooftop Sniper’s victim at all. Someone else killed him and tried to make it look like it was just another killing in this serial killer’s rampage. But the copycat killer couldn’t have known about the Cagney connection and that’s what will trip him up. Now we can go see Dean.”

  Once we laid it all out for Dean, it was evident that Watson’s file didn’t belong in with the other six. Dean wrote a note on the file folder and left it out on his desk.

  “You can tell Olivia Watson that the L.A.P.D. will be taking a closer look into her husband’s death,” Dean said, “now that we know what we know about the other six victims.”

  “She’ll be relieved to hear that,” Clay said. “Now all we’ve got to do is find Watson’s real killer.”

  Clay thought he’d follow up on Louis Ahern and stopped by the Ahern home on his way back to the office. A middle-aged woman answered the door on the second ring.

  “Yes?” she said. “May I help you?”

  “This is the Ahern residence, isn’t it?” Clay said.

  “Yes it is,” the woman said. “I’m Mrs. Ahern. What do you want?”

  I held my I.D. and shield up so that Mrs. Ahern could get a good look at it. “My name is Clay Cooper,” Clay said. “I’m working with the Los Angeles Police on a matter that your husband may know something about. Is he at home?”

  “Louis?” she said. “He’s out at the moment, but I expect him home shortly. Would you care to wait for him inside?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble,” Clay said.

  “No trouble at all,” Mrs. Ahern said, opening the door wide enough to allow me to pass.

  Clay sat on the sofa and Mrs. Ahern asked if him if he wanted something to drink. He declined but asked her, “While I’m waiting for Mr. Ahern, I wonder if I might ask you about the Watsons next door.”

  Mrs. Ahern sat on a stiff-back chair, next to an end table with a phone on it. “What would you like to know, Mr. Cooper?” she said.

  “How long have you and the Watsons been neighbors?” Clay said.

  She thought for a moment and then offered, “Oh, about eight or nine years. They moved in a year after we did.”

  “And in all that time,” Clay said, “have you ever heard loud arguments of fights coming from next door?”

  “Oh my, no,” she said. “You sometimes couldn’t even tell that anyone lived there,” she said. “They were quiet and kept pretty much to themselves.”

  Clay was about to ask the woman another question when the front door opened and Louis Ahern stepped inside. Mrs. Ahern and Clay both got to their feet. Mrs. Ahern gestured toward Clay and said, “Dear, this is Mr. Cooper. He was asking about the Watsons next door.”

  I extended my hand and Louis Ahern reluctantly took it and shook it just once before releasing it. “I don’t know what you think we can tell you about The Watsons,” Louis said. “They kept to themselves and we only exchanged greeting when we passed each other outside every now and then.” He walked past Clay and sat in an overstuffed chair on the other side of the room.

  Clay’s eyes followed Louis to the chair and then shifted to a wooden three-place gun rack above and to the left of Mr. Ahern’s head. Clay hadn’t noticed it before, but now he took a good look at the one and only rifle on the rack. It had a scope mounted on top of the barrel.

  “Are you a hunter, Mr. Ahern?” Clay said, pointing with his chin toward the gun rack.

  “I used to be,” Ahern said. “Don’t have much time for it anymore.”

  “That’s a Winchester, isn’t it?” Clay said.

  Ahern nodded. “Uh huh.”

  “Looks like a .44 caliber,” Clay said, knowing full well that it wasn’t. “I’ll bet you’ve taken some good sized deer down with it in your day.”

  Ahern relaxed a little and offered, “Actually, it a .30-30 and no, I’ve never shot at a deer with it. I used to go to Wyoming and hunt antelope, of course that was many years ago.”

  Clay moved on with his questions. “Did you know Mr. Watson personally?” he asked.

  Ahern shook his head. “Like I said, just to pass him on the sidewalk or to say hi to in the yard. We didn’t hang out together, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Clay stood and turned to Mrs. Ahern. “Do you remember the last time you saw Mr. Watson?”

  The woman looked upward, as if thinking and then offered, “Must have been a couple of months ago, at least. Yeah, I remember, it was two days before that sniper got him. What a tra
gic thing that must have been for Mrs. Watson.”

  “Yes, it was,” Clay said, standing now. “Thank you again for your hospitality, Mrs. Ahern.” He turned to Louis. “You, too, Mr. Ahern. Have a good day.”

  Clay let himself out of the house, closing the door behind him. Once outside, he reached for his notepad and jotted down ‘.30-30 and Wyoming’ and closed the booklet. He’d share this information with Dean tomorrow. This afternoon he just wanted to grab something to eat and get back to the office.

  On his way back to the office, Clay pulled into the drive-thru lane at one of the burger joints on Sunset Boulevard. He got a double hamburger and a large soft drink and then pulled back into traffic. By the time he got to the office, he’d finished the burger. He carried what was left of his soft drink up to the office and opened his door.

  “Where have you been?” I said as Dad came into the office.

  Clay held up his soft drink cup. “Getting something to eat, why?”

  “When we finished up with Andy,” Gloria said, “We looked for you at Lieutenant Hollister’s office. You weren’t there and neither was Dean. Where’d you go?”

  “Oh,” Clay said, “Dean had sent me down the hall to some room where Sergeant Anderson had laid out all the folders for each of the Sniper victims.”

  “And?” I said.

  “Wait ‘til you hear,” Clay said.

  “Hear what?” Gloria said, coming out from behind her desk now.

  “I found a connection to all the victims except one,” Clay said, smiling wryly.

  “Watson?” I said.

  “Watson,” Clay said.

  “What was the connection between the other six victims?” Gloria said.

  “Cagney,” Clay said. “James Cagney.”

  “He didn’t do it,” I said. “He has the perfect alibi. He was dead at the time. Now that’s a rock solid alibi if ever I’ve heard one.”

  “Have you been into the smart ass pills again?” Clay said. “Do you want to hear this or not?”

  “Sorry,” I said. “Go ahead.”

  Clay explained what he’d found and how it all connected to Cagney. When he’d finished his explanation, he sat on the edge of Gloria’s desk and waited for their reactions.

  “It looks like you’re not the only old movie buff,” Gloria said. “How does it feel to have that in common with a serial killer?”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “If the Rooftop Sniper has a definite connection to the other six victims, then who killed Watson?”

  “If I had to put money on it,” Clay said, “I’d have to say Watson’s neighbor, Louis Ahern is looking pretty good for it.”

  “How’s that?” I said.

  “I just came from there,” Clay said. “He wasn’t home and that gave me a chance to talk to Mrs. Ahern. She didn’t tell the same story that Mr. Ahern told the police shortly after Watson’s murder. She told me they were a quiet couple, and he told me that they fought a lot. One of ‘em’s lying and I don’t know why.”

  “If it’s him,” I said, “what does he have to gain by lying?”

  “I don’t know that it is him,” Clay said. “He could be right and she could be lying. Again, I have no idea what either of them stands to gain by lying.”

  “Well how are we going to find this Rooftop Sniper?” I said.

  “We’re not,” Clay said. “That’s a problem for the police. Now that we know Watson wasn’t one of his victims, we can concentrate on finding Watson’s killer. That’s what Olivia Watson is paying us for.”

  “Oh, right,” I said. “I guess I got caught up in the whole sniper thing there for a minute.”

  “So what’s our next step?” Gloria said.

  “I think it might be wise to keep a close watch on Louis Ahern,” Clay said. “Something’s not right there and I want to know what that something is. How’d you like to put on one of your famous disguises and tail him for a day or two?”

  “You bet,” Gloria said. “See, I knew this would turn into a juicy case.”

  “Juicy?” I said. “What’s juicy about tailing a guy?”

  “In disguise,” Gloria reminded me. “It’s almost like having an acting job. I can be someone other than myself. It could actually be fun, I suppose.”

  “Don’t get too comfortable,” I said. “You let your guard down or you could get hurt.”

  Gloria clasped her hands together, laid them aside her cheek and gave me her best Scarlett O’Hara impression. “Oh Elliott,” she said in an exaggerated Southern drawl, “I didn’t know you cared.”

  I signed and shook my head. Dad laughed and Gloria joined him.

  “Go on,” I said. “Go do whatever it is you have to do to turn into someone else. Dad and I are going to check another angle. I pointed with my chin toward the door and walked out of the office, with Dad and Gloria following close behind.

  All three of us stepped out of the elevator into the lobby. We exited to the street and began walking east on Hollywood Boulevard. Just before we got to the corner Dad pulled his keys out of his pants pocket and a quarter fell out onto the sidewalk. Dad bent to pick it up and a piece of a brick from the building behind us shattered with the crack of a rifle. The slug ricocheted off the sidewalk and zinged off down the street.

  The three of us immediately ducked around the corner and plastered ourselves up against the east side of the building, our guns now drawn. I tried to peek around the corner, but another slug ripped another brick to shreds just inches from my head.

  “It’s coming from the rooftop across the street,” Clay said.

  “I’m on it,” I said. “I’ll circle around the back and try to come up on him from behind. Don’t take any chances.”

  Gloria pulled her cell phone from her purse and dialed Dean Hollister’s number.

  “Hollister,” Dean said.

  “Dean,” Gloria said, panic in her voice. “We’re under fire from a sniper on the roof across from our office building. Elliott’s gone around the back to try to sneak up on him from behind. Better get some of your men over here ASAP.”

  “Stay under cover,” Dean said. “We’re on our way.”

  I entered the building again from the east door and followed the corridors all the way over to the west side of the building, exiting to a dead-end alley that opened onto Hollywood Boulevard. I looked up at the roof of the building across the street, held my breath and made a dash for cover across the street. I paused in the doorway to catch my breath and then sprinted across the lobby to the elevator. I took it to the fifth floor and then found the stairs to the roof. I eased the roof door opened and peered through the crack. I couldn’t see anyone from that vantage point.

  I opened the door further and stepped out onto the roof. Around the corner from where the roof door opened, I could see the figure of a man leaning over the edge of the roof ledge. He had a rifle nestled up against his shoulder and was looking through the scope at a downward angle.

  I sneaked up closer and yelled, “Drop it,” aiming my .38 at the man’s back.

  The man spun around, his rifle in front of him. He raised it to his cheek but before he could pull the trigger, I put two in his head and the impact of my slugs sent the man stumbling backwards toward the ledge. He dropped the rifle on the roof, but his body continued tumbling backwards. He flipped back once, his feet coming up over his head and he disappeared over the ledge of the roof. Even from where I stood, I could hear the sickening thud as his body hit the pavement fifty feet below. I could also hear women screaming from the street.

  I hurried to the edge of the roof and looked down. Dad and Gloria were running across the street, toward the fallen man. A black and white cruiser had just pulled up and had stopped in the street. Dad looked up and waved at me. I waved back and then hurried back to the roof door and then back down to the street.

  Dean Hollister was waiting when I emerged to the street level again. He had his hand out, palm up and I knew what that meant. I pulled my .38 from its holster and lai
d it in his palm.

  “I’ll get this back to you after ballistics is finished with the preliminary investigation,” Dean said.

  I looked at the body lying on the sidewalk, face down. “Who is he?” I said.

  “I don’t know,” Dean said. “We just got here ourselves. Andy Reynolds will be here in a few minutes. We’ll find out then. Meanwhile, we have to leave him just like he is for now.”

  Gloria ran over and threw her arms around my neck and held on tight. “Elliott,” she said. “Are you all right?”

  “Sure, I’m in a lot better shape than he is,” I said, pointing with my chin to the man on the sidewalk. “How’s Dad?”

  “Dad’s fine,” Clay said, stepping up to where Dean and I had met.

  Gloria released her grip on my neck and stood back, trying to regain some of her composure.

  “I didn’t know you cared,” I told Gloria. I straightened my jacket out and brushed off my pants legs. Gloria cleared her throat and stepped back one more step.

  A few minutes later Andy Reynolds, the county medical examiner, pulled up behind the black and white and hurried over to where Dean stood watching over the scene. By now several other patrol cars had converged on the scene and officers immediately took up their positions around the scene, keeping the gawkers back.

  Andy looked down at the body, a large pool of blood now forming around the dead man’s head. Andy looked at his watch, noted the time on his clipboard and went through the motions of pressing two fingers into the man’s neck. No surprise there when he didn’t find a pulse.

  A police photographer circled the body, taking shots from every angle before he nodded to Dean.

  “All right,” Dean said. “Turn him over. Let’s see who this is, or was.”

  Andy grabbed the dead man’s arm and turned the body over onto its back. Clay’s eyes got wide when he recognized Louis Ahern staring back at him.

  “Know him?” Dean said.

  “That’s Louis Ahern,” Clay said. “I’d just talked to him not more than an hour ago.”

  A patrolman emerged from the building holding a rifle by the strap. He handed it to Dean. “Found this on the roof,” he said, pointing up.