Dean laughs. “Is this what I have to look forward to?” he says. “And with my own retirement less than two months away. Come on, Clay, let’s go get some coffee.”
“Don’t you have to stay here and secure the scene?” Clay says.
“Anderson can handle it,” Dean says. “Besides, I’m not even back from the doctor yet. Let’s go.”
Clay and Dean weave their way back through the house to the front door. Dean tells Sergeant Anderson to finish up with what needs to be done here. Dean opens the front door and steps out onto the porch.
The mailman walks up to the house, his shiny brown mail pouch slung over his shoulder and several letters in his hand. He’s looking down, sorting through the letters. When he looks up again he’s standing nearly toe to toe with Dean and Clay. He stops and nods at the two of them. “Morning,” he says and looks at his surroundings. “What’s going on here?”
“There’s been some trouble and this is a crime scene,” Dean says, holding up a hand, preventing the mailman from going up the porch steps.
The mailman holds up his handful of letters. “What about their mail?” he says.
Dean thinks about it momentarily and says, “What do you do with a person’s mail when they die?”
“She’d dead?” the mailman says in mock surprise.
“Yes,” Dean says and then turns and walks up onto the porch, retrieving the mail from the box. He steps back down to the sidewalk and hands it to the mailman. “Do whatever it is you do with the mail in these cases.”
The mailman takes the letters from Dean’s hand and stuffs in and the letters from his hand back into the mail pouch, in a side compartment reserved for outgoing mail. “I’ll take care of it,” he says. “I’m sorry to hear about Mrs. Leedom.” He turns and walks away up the street.
“There’s something I never thought about,” Clay says.
“What’s that?” Dean says.
“What happens to a person’s mail when they die,” Clay says. “It must go somewhere, but where?”
“Does it matter?” Dean says. “How about that coffee?”
“You want to grab a cup in my office?” Clay says.
“Your office?” Dean says. “You mean your house, or Elliott’s office? You’re retired, remember?”
“Habit,” Clay says. “I meant Elliott’s office. I need to see him for a minute anyway and he does have the coffee machine and it’s free and we don’t have to tip some waitress for taking those twelve steps from the kitchen to our booth.”
“Since when did you become such a skinflint?” Dean says.
“Just watching my pennies, now that I’m retired,” Clay tells him. “Every little bit helps, you know.”
“I’ll have to follow you down,” Dean says. “I have places to go, things to do and people to see yet this morning. I don’t have the luxury of retirement…yet.” He smiles again at the prospect.
The two men pull into the parking lot behind Elliott’s building, parking next to each other. They ride the elevator up to the third floor and find the office at the end of the hall, where’s it’s been for the last seventy years. Clay opens the inner office door and smiles when he sees Gloria sitting at her desk. Elliott’s desk is empty. Clay is just about to ask where Elliott is when he hears the toilet flush. A few seconds later Elliott emerges and walks over to the sink against the wall and washes his hands. As he wipes them on the towel, he looks up at Clay and says, “You know, Dad, I’ve always wondered why the sink in this office isn’t in the bathroom.”
“Well, hello to you, too,” Clay says sarcastically.
“Hi Dad,” Elliott says and then turns to Dean. “Good morning Dean. How’s your back?”
“Much better,” Dean tells him.
“Because the bathroom was added later,” Clay says.
“Huh?” Elliott says.
“You asked why the sink isn’t in the bathroom,” Clay reminded Elliott. “Dad had the bathroom added in the early fifties. He already had the sink in that recess where it is now. There was no room for a toilet so he added this little room for just the toilet. Anything else you’d like to know about the history of this office? Perhaps you’d like the guided tour.”
“All right,” Elliott says. “I get it.”
Clay turns to Gloria, who has risen from her desk and comes to greet him, throwing her arms around him and giving him a gentle hug. “Nice to see you again, Gloria,” Clay says. “You keeping my boy in line?”
Gloria’s eyebrows furrow. “That’s not in my job description,” she tells him. “Besides, I think he’s beyond that. He’s going to do whatever he wants, no matter what I say, so why fight it?”
Clay laughs and throws an arm around Gloria’s shoulder. “Just keep doing whatever you’re doing,” he says. “It seems to be working.”
“So what brings you here this morning, Dad?” Elliott says.
“Yeah,” Clay says. “Enough with the small talk. Let’s get right down to the Khyber Rifles.”
“What the hell is that supposed to man?” Elliott says, completely puzzled by the phrase.
“You just talking or do you really want to know?” Clay says.
“Because he’ll tell you,” Dean says. “I sat through that explanation one day and it was fascinating.” He rolls his eyes at Elliott.
“I saw that,” Clay says. “Forget it. Now I’m not going to tell you. You can look it up like I did.”
“Yeah,” Elliott says. “I’ll put that on my short list of things to do right away. So what’s up?”
Clay heads for the leather sofa that sits against the east wall of the office. He sinks into the leather cushions and sighs. Dean and I just came from a murder scene,” he says. “It’s the fourth such murder in the past few weeks. Each one has the same M.O. but there doesn’t seem to be any connection between any of the victims.”
Dean joins Clay on the sofa and tells Elliott and Gloria about the first three victims and how they were found. When he finishes the descriptions, he notices that Gloria is wincing.
“And you’d like us to do what?” Elliott says.
“I didn’t say I wanted you to do anything,” Clay tells his son. “I’m just running the facts past you to see if anything occurs to you that we might not have thought of.”
“Can I say something?” Dean says.
“Sure, go ahead,” Clay says.
“What about that free coffee you promised me?” Dean says.
Clay points to the coffee maker, its orange light illuminated, signaling that the coffee maker is on. “Help yourself,” he says.
Dean pours himself a cup of coffee and turns to Elliott. “Would you like a cup?” he says.
Elliott shakes his head. “I don’t drink coffee. Dad bought that machine and only Gloria drinks it now.”
Dean turns to Gloria. “Can I pour you a cup, dear?” he says.
“Animal group,” Elliott says.
“Huh?” Dean says, puzzled.
“Nicknames,” Elliott explains. “She doesn’t like nicknames from the animal, vegetable or mineral groups. She prefers just plain Gloria.”
Gloria holds up a hand. “That was just a rule for you,” she tells Elliott. “Coming from Dean, it sounds sweet.” She turns to Dean and winks. “Sure, “I’ll have a cup. Thanks.”
“No really,” Clay says. “Don’t go to any trouble for me. I can get my own.”
Dean pours a third cup and hands it to Clay. “Don’t forget to tip your waiter,” he tells Clay.
Gloria sips from the cup and wraps her hands around the mug, warming them. “What about age, occupation, race, social status? Are any of those things the victims might have in common?”
Dean shakes his head. “Not even close,” he says. “We were thinking that one of the victims might have been the intended target and the other three could have been killed to cover it up.”
“That’s been known to happen,” Elliott says. “Have you looked into that angle yet?”
Dean shakes his
head. “The only viable conclusion there would be the union organizer,” he says. “Ever heard of Donald Vogel, head of the local Teamsters Union?”
“Mad Dog Vogel?” Elliott says. “Who hasn’t? You think he killed these people?”
“Not unless he could do it from the grave,” Dean says. “He was victim number three.”
Elliott sighs. “That’s a shame,” he says sarcastically. “And such a fine, upstanding citizen, too.” He takes a deep breath. “But my, how much cleaner the air seems now. Did you notice?”
“But those other three victims,” Clay says. “They didn’t need to die.”
“I’ve got to get going,” Dean says, finishing his coffee and setting the cup down next to the coffee maker. “Just give it some thought and let me know if anything jumps out at you.”
“I have to head out, too,” Clay says, pulling a list out of his pocket. “I have a few errands to run myself.”
“Like what?” Elliott says. “Let me see that list,” he says, taking the list from his dad’s hand.
Elliott looks at the list, rolls his eyes and hands it back to his dad. “Better get to number three right away,” he says. “They’re probably wondering where you are.”
Gloria looks at Clay. “Who’s wondering?”
“The pigeons,” Elliott explains. “Number three says, ‘Park – feed the pigeons. That’s your idea of retirement?”
“It’s actually quite soothing,” Clay says. “All that cooing and strutting—it’s enough to lull you into a nap.
“Better get on it,” Elliott says. “They’re waiting.”
Dean and Clay leave the office and separate once they get back to the parking lot. Gloria takes her place behind her desk and continues with her computer data entry task. Elliott stand looking out the window, down onto Hollywood Boulevard. A moment later he turns to Gloria and says, “What if the killer doesn’t care about any of the victims?” he says to Gloria.
“Well, obviously he didn’t,” Gloria says, or he wouldn’t have blown their heads off.”
“No,” Elliott explains. “I mean suppose he didn’t care about the victims themselves or whether they had any connection at all. What if the killer is just choosing his victims at random? That would be a new twist on an old problem. And while the police are busy trying to establish motive or similarities, he’s off selecting another random victim. Does that make any sense to you?”
“Not too much,” Gloria says. “People generally have a reason why they kill other people, otherwise what’s the sense?”
“No one says it has to make sense,” Elliott tells her. “We’re dealing with a sick mind here, so it could be anything.”
“So if you proceed on that theory,” Gloria says, “Where do you start looking? Hmmm?”
“And therein lies the rub,” Elliott says. “I didn’t say I had all the answers. Does anything jump out at you?”
“You mean besides you?” she says. “Not right off. Give me a while and see what develops.”
Elliott puts his feet up on his desk, leans his chair back, locks his fingers behind his head and stares at the ceiling. Without looking over at Gloria, he begins thinking out loud. “Think about it,” he says. “Those four victim have something in common, whether they know it or not. We just have to find it. Is there anyone that all four people would have run into during the course of their day?”
Gloria thinks about it for a moment and then offers, “They all could have shopped at the same grocery store. They could have all had the same bag boy. They could have all filled up their cars at the same service station. They could have all gone to the same movie theater at the same time. You want me to go on?”
“Keep going,” Elliott says. “You may be on to something here.”
Gloria pauses briefly and then adds, “They all could have the same paper delivery boy, since they all lived within a dozen blocks of each other. All of them could have gone to the same church or the same library or the same second-hand shop. Help me here, I’m running out of could-haves.”
“Back up a minute,” Elliott says. “What was that you said about a twelve block area?”
“I said they all lived in the same twelve block area and may or may not have had the same newspaper delivery boy. You don’t really think some twelve-year-old is going around murdering his customers, so you?”
“Obviously not,” Elliott says. “But you got me thinking about other home delivery people. What if the killer is a UPS driver.”
“The UPS driver?” Gloria says. “Could have been the FedEx driver or any other package delivery company. Could have even been the steak-of-the-month club driver if you really want to stretch this.”
“Skip that,” Elliott says. “Those kinds of drivers would be too specific to a certain house. It would have to be someone who delivers to every house every day.”
Gloria sits upright and snaps her fingers. “The mailman,” she says.
Elliott pulls his feet off his desk and stands up. “That’s got to be it,” he says. “No one else would be roaming the neighborhood on such a regular basis. No one else would have the opportunity to stop at every house every day. He’d be in a position to see who’s home and when. He’d know if someone had a family or lived alone.”
“He’d know who was most vulnerable,” Gloria added. “Think about it. No one else fits all the criteria like the mailman. It has to be him. What are you doing?”
“Calling Dean,” Elliott says. “He should know all this.”
“Hold on, Elliott,” Gloria says. “How about if we take a look for ourselves first before we go crying wolf? Let’s cruise the neighborhood where these murders too place and stake out the mailman for a while. What can it hurt?”
“You know there’s no money in this for us,” Elliott says. “No one hired us to do anything so we’d be on our own dime on this one.”
“Do you have something better to do right now?” Gloria says. “We’re not on any cases at the moment and if anyone calls, we can let the machine take the message and we can get back to them shortly. Come on, let’s at least have ourselves a look.”
“All right,” Elliott says. “Just a quick drive-by, though and then it’s back here.”
The two of them hurried down to Gloria’s car and pulled out onto Hollywood Boulevard. Gloria turned south on Gower and east onto Sunset for two blocks. Gordon Street intersected and ran north and south. Gloria stopped at the corner and looked both ways.
“Which way?” she says, turning to Elliott.
“Go left,” he tells her. “Gordon ends in a T two blocks north. We can start from there and go south.
When they get to the intersection of Gordon and Carlton Way, Gloria swings wide and turns around in the intersection, heading south. She slowly drives south toward Santa Monica Boulevard. Elliott watches out his window as they proceed.
“There’s the house where the last murder took place,” he says, pointing out a white stucco two-story house near the corner. The crime scene tape was still stretched across the front door.
Gloria drove on past Fountain and down to Santa Monica, turning east for a block and then back north onto Tamarind Avenue. She drove slow enough to be able to observe but not so slow as to attract undue attention to the car. Tamarind ended at Sunset and Gloria headed east again one block to Bronson Avenue, turning south again. Bronson ran south and ended at Santa Monica. North Van Ness Avenue was the eastern boundary for this particular mail route. Once they’d taken that north to Sunset again, all that was left to cover were the side streets—Fountain and Lexington.
On Lexington near Van Ness, Elliott spotted a mailman walking west. He would walk up each private sidewalk, drop the letters into their boxes and proceed on to the next house. Gloria pulled to the cub and cut the engine. They watched as the mailman stepped up onto one porch and rang the bell. When the door opened, a man stood there facing the mailman. The mailman held out his clipboard and the homeowner appeared to sign something. The mailman reached into his pou
ch and handed the man a package and descended the stairs again. He walked on to the next house.
“That’s it,” Gloria says. “That’s how he’s getting inside. He asks for a signature and when they let him in, he lets ‘em have two in the face.”
“But that last guy just signed for his package right there on the porch,” Elliott says. “No slugs between the eyes, no mess in the hallway, no nothing.”
“This may not be as random as it first appeared,” Gloria says. “Think about it. He rings the bell, sees whoever it is who comes to the door and has a quick look into the house. Maybe that last guy had a wife standing behind him that we couldn’t see. Maybe this would be too short of a time frame since this morning’s murder. Maybe the voice in his head told him to pass this guy up. I’m just guessing here.”
“But they’re good guesses,” Elliott assures her. “I think you’re right about it being too soon after the last murder, though. That should give us time to check a few things out.”
“What things?” Gloria says. “This morning’s murder didn’t happen this morning. Remember? Dean said that Andy Reynolds figured the old lady had been lying there for at least three days before anyone noticed the smell and the newspapers piling up on the porch.”
“The medical examiner’s guess is just that; a guess until he does the autopsy,” Elliott says. “I don’t think he’s had time to do that yet. But okay, let’s say it’s been three days since the last murder. The first three murders have all been in the papers. You’d think this neighborhood would be a little wary about letting anyone inside their homes.”
Gloria shakes her head. “No,” she says, “People are like buffalo in a herd.”
“This I’ve got to hear,” Elliott says. “Tell me how murdered neighbors are like a buffalo herd.”
“Have you ever seen a buffalo hunt?” she asks. “The hunter sights in on a buffalo standing on the edge of the herd and drops him with a single shot. The other buffalo just stand there, oblivious to what just happened. The hunter gets the next closest buffalo to the edge and picks him off, too. The buffalo still don’t stampede. I don’t know if they think the other two are just taking a nap, but it’s not until he picks off a buffalo in the middle that the rest of them finally realize that something’s wrong and head for the hills. These neighbors are the buffalo on the edges of the herd.”
The Complete Cooper Collection (All 97 Stories) Page 212