by Fred Rosen
Breshears, Reese, and the local cops went back. Armed with their warrant, they knocked on the door, and when no one answered, they broke down the door and entered. The smell assailed them immediately. It was a distinct animal smell, pungent, sharp.
“Dogs,” Breshears muttered, “it smells like dogs.”
That was it. Mary had talked about Singleton having dogs and how she’d carried bags and bags of dog food out to his van.
It turned out that Mary had given them a fairly accurate description of the house’s interior, especially the fireplace. Breshears poked around in the black, charcoal debris that sat in the brick-enclosed space and came up with cloth remnants.
Now, why would he burn clothes? Breshears wondered, and the answer came almost instantly.
He was trying to cover up the evidence. It was the girl’s clothing he had burned. Without the clothes, or her body, there would be no evidence a crime had taken place and Mr. Singleton could go on living his life as if nothing had happened.
Peering out their windows, neighbors wondered why, all of a sudden, their block had become police central. There must have been at least twenty police vehicles on the street and twice that many cops, most of whom seemed to be traipsing in and out of their neighbor Lawrence Singleton’s house. What could he have done? they asked. He was just an ordinary middle-class, middle-aged man. And so nice. The only time he wasn’t particularly friendly was when he was drunk, which seemed to be happening more and more recently.
Inside the house, the “techs” gathered up evidence in their glassine bags, with the detectives supervising. While the house wasn’t technically the crime scene, the cops treated it as though it was—vacuuming the rugs, dusting for prints, anything that would help them convict the son of a bitch who had chopped the girl’s hands off. There weren’t very many cases that raised the hackles on a seasoned cop; the Vincent case was one of the rare few that did.
It was long past midnight when the police concluded their search and took off. For a moment, Breshears gazed at the house, thinking of the girl who had entered with two, whole arms, and the one he knew, mutilated and crippled for life. He was anxious to confront the mutilator. He wanted to see what kind of scum bucket could do such a thing. And he wanted to ask him one question:
Why?
Chapter Three
Lawrence Singleton was arrested at the home of his estranged wife, Celia Johnson, in Sparks, Nevada.
Reporters, who went to the crosstown neighborhood in Sparks, where Singleton lived, discovered his blue van in the driveway of the modest $40,000 tract home. Crime-scene techs were crawling all over it. After they were finished, it would be transported back to Modesto and used against Singleton as evidence at his trial. As for his neighbor’s reactions, they were in shock over his arrest.
“He was a peach of a guy,” said neighbor Vince Lowell.
“He had this hobby. I’d see him all the time doing it,” said another neighbor, Betty Provost.
“What hobby was that?” asked a reporter, hoping it would be something sensational to match the crime.
“Macramé,” she answered. “Lawrence made macramé plant hangers.”
“And he was quiet,” her husband, Scott, added.
I just can’t believe it. That was the general response from all of the people who knew Singleton in Sparks. Police told a different story.
“Everything fits,” said Stanislaus County Sheriff Lynn Wood. “I think we have enough to put it [the case] together against Singleton.” The police relied on citizens to come forward and help, he said, and they did.
In Sparks, police Lieutenant Barry Tone said that Singleton had a police record of minor violations involving alcohol, the most recent a drunk driving arrest on April 30. But Singleton had no record of violent sex crimes, like the one perpetrated on Vincent.
Waiving extradition, Lawrence Singleton was taken back to Modesto for questioning.
Laws may vary from state to state, but interrogation rooms do not: they are always drab, colorless places, smelling of sweat and fear. It was in such a room that Singleton found himself in Modesto.
Singleton was seated at a scarred wooden table. Someone had given him a Styrofoam cup filled with strong coffee, which he gulped intermittently.
Barely over fifty, the years at sea had weathered Singleton’s skin and made it the consistency of shoe leather. He looked more like sixty. He was of medium height and stocky, balding, with the veined bulbous nose so common to lifelong alcoholics. His manner was courteous and affable, referring to the cops as “sir,” as if to prove that he had been raised the right way, to have respect for the law.
Across from him sat the detectives, Breshears and Reese. On the table in front of them were file folders and a pad, and pens with which to make notes. And in the center of the table was a big, clunky-looking tape recorder. Reese reached over and hit the “record” button.
“Present in the room are detectives Marc Reese and William Breshears of the Stanislaus County, Modesto Police Department. We’re here to interview the arrested subject. Could you tell me your full name please?” Reese began.
Singleton looked up. He lit a cigarette and smoke plumed over his head.
“Lawrence Singleton,” he answered quietly.
“Spell the last name.”
“S-I-N-G-L-E-T-O-N.”
“And your home address?”
“826 Glennbrook Court, Sparks, Nevada.”
“And your age?” Reese continued.
“Fifty-one,” Singleton answered.
“And your date of birth?”
“July 28, 1927.”
“Now before we ask you any questions, you must understand your rights. You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in court. You have the right to talk to a lawyer for advice before we ask you any questions and to have him present during any questioning. If you cannot afford a lawyer, one will be appointed for you before any questioning is done. You understand all this?”
“Yes.”
“If you decide to answer questions without a lawyer present, you may do so. You may stop at any time and demand a lawyer be present before you continue. Okay? Understand that?”
Singleton nodded.
“All right. Now, having these rights in mind, do you realize that we are taping this statement?”
Singleton eyed the tape recorder. “Yes, I understand that.”
“This is of your own free will without any coercion or threats on our part?”
Singleton gestured with his hand. He seemed frustrated and answered, “Right, yeah.”
“Okay. In your own words, Larry, now, you had talked to me earlier today after being advised of your constitutional rights? Is that correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“And did you understand your rights at that time?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Then, in your own words, why don’t you tell us what happened Friday, September 29th, when you left your home to come up here.”
“I left San Francisco and went to Berkeley,” Singleton began, as though he was describing any ordinary day. “Had lunch around 2:30 P.M. at Spingers and left, and I was going to drive straight to Sparks. I was going home. Anyway, there was a young lady on the on ramp, hitchhiking, so I offered her a ride. She got in and I told her, ‘I’m going to Reno. I got to make a stop and pick up some papers and dirty laundry, clothes, and other stuff.’ Then I also told her, ‘If you’d give me a hand loading that stuff, I’d give you five bucks for lunch.’ So, that’s what I did. I stopped, at uh … on Flannery Road.…”
“That’s your house, right?” Reese asked.
“Yeah.”
“What’s the address there?”
“2680 Flannery Road.”
“What’d you do there?”
“Picked up some dirty clothes.”
“Okay, earlier you said you picked up some dog food, too?”
“Yeah, I did pick up some dog food.�
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“Where did you pick the girl up at?” Breshears interrupted. “You said on an on ramp?”
“In Berkeley.”
“Do you remember what on ramp, to what freeway?”
“To the 280 there,” Singleton responded, referring to the 280 freeway.
“Do you know which on ramp it was?”
Singleton thought for a moment. “Yeah, it was at the foot of University Avenue.”
“Okay. Thank you,” Reese said politely.
It was standard cop technique. Make the subject comfortable. Keep him talking, all the way into prison.
“So, then I left and started to Sparks,” Singleton continued.
He stubbed out his cigarette and lit up another, blew out some smoke, and smothered the match in an ashtray.
“The young lady told me she has a sister that lives in Reno. So I said, ‘Well, we ought to be there in an hour and a half or so.’ So I stopped for gas in Auburn. And she went to the restroom and I got the gas, then I went to the restroom. Came back, she got in the car.”
“What kind of service station was that that you stopped at, do you remember?” Breshears wondered.
“It was an Exxon.”
“Do you know what time that was about?”
“Oh, it was around five o’clock, five-thirty.”
“P.M.? In the evening?”
“Yeah, p.m. So, the young lady come back and got in the van. Soon as I pull out of the station, she got a surveyor’s stick from somewhere, I don’t know where she got the goddamn thing, and tapped me upside the head with it, and says, ‘You’re gonna drive me to L.A.’ I said, ‘Lady put the stick away. I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.’”
“Where did she get the stick from? Was it in the van?” Breshears asked.
“I don’t really know where it come from,” Singleton answered. “But I don’t recall having it in the van. Anyway, I told her, I said, ‘Look, why don’t I just take you back over here on this on ramp, nobody has to wait more than a couple minutes there and you’ll get a ride within five minutes.’… So, then she tells me if I don’t take her to L.A., she’s going to stick me in the eyes and in the stomach. And I told her, I said, ‘Lady just keep the stick down, and I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.’”
“So, then she says that I’m bullshitting. I told her, ‘I don’t bullshit’ I figured I had to. I had to take her to L.A. She said that unless I followed through, she told me she was going to say that I assaulted her. All right, so we drive down to … what’s the name of that town? I think it’s somewhere where I got the root beer.…”
“Galt?” Breshears questioned him.
“Is Galt down that way?”
“Galt is south of Sacramento.”
“Well, we drove down and stopped at the A & W.”
“Do you remember what you had to eat?”
“I had a hot dog. It was hotter than hell. I got two big root beers.”
“What did she have?”
“Truthfully, I don’t recall. I think she had a sundae or something.”
“Did you have to ask directions how to get to the A & W?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Where did you ask your directions at?”
“I don’t know. I think it was a business. So, at any rate, we get there, she takes the van keys. There was a huntin’ knife in the van, which she picks up.… So I told her she could have anything she wanted to eat. She was a little bit belligerent and hollered. At any rate, she hadn’t even eaten what she ordered.”
Breshears didn’t really care what Singleton or the girl had eaten. The idea was, if you could trap the suspect in an insignificant lie, such as what they had eaten or not eaten, he would eventually break down on the really key details and ultimately confess. It was a tactic that, time and again, worked during the police’s questioning of suspects.
“So, then I wanted to get some cigarettes. I was out,” Singleton continued, puffing on his cigarette. “I looked in the machine and they didn’t have the brand that I smoked, so I drove over to another store and I got some 7-Up, and I think a bottle of milk.”
“What kind of cigarettes do you smoke?”
“Pall Mall 100s.”
“Is that Pall Mall Golds?”
“Yeah. So then, we start back on the freeway and there’s two guys hitchhiking there and she says why don’t I pick them up. So I stopped and picked them up.”
“Where was this at on the freeway?”
“I don’t recall but it was just before the on ramp on there.”
“In Galt?”
“Yeah.”
“What did they look like?”
“Well, one of them was almost my size and blond, sorta weather-beaten and he had a beard on him.”
“How old would you say he was?
“I’d say he’s about thirty-five.”
“Do you recall what he was wearing?”
“Yeah, he was wearing [a] denim jacket, denim pants, and a sorta grayish sweater.”
“What about the other guy?”
“The other guy was more Mexican descent, and he had quite accent an there, too.”
“What did he look like?”
“Well, he was shorter. I guess about 5’6” and heavy, a little heavy set.”
“How old a guy would you say he was?”
“It would be hard to guess, but I’d say somewhere between, anywhere from thirty to forty or maybe twenty-five, but I wouldn’t say younger.”
“What was he wearing?”
“Well, I don’t know whether it was sort of a old military wool coat or a leather one. Well, it’s wasn’t military but it was sorta like a, you know, Eisenhower jacket.”
Singleton was referring to the tight, body-hugging jacket that Eisenhower had made popular during World War II.
“What color was it?”
“A faded brown.”
“What else did he have on?”
“A sweater and also I think he had sort of heavy gray pants on. They were heavy.”
“Were the two guys together?”
Singleton answered, “Oh yeah, they were together,” nodding vigorously.
“Did they seem like they knew each other?”
“Yeah, they knew each other well, because now, as soon as they get in, the girl starts off and she asks did they have anything to smoke or to blast. So then, I forgot which one of them broke out a ‘reefer,’ and she told them that I was giving her a bad time, you know, a rough time. But then I told them, I said, ‘Look fellas, I’m just out having fun and I’m not giving anybody a bad time. The lady said she wants to go to L.A. She wants to go to L.A., we’ll go to L.A.’”
“Where were they going?”
“San Bernardino,” Singleton answered promptly. “That’s what they told me. So, then the girl said she wanted to get stoned. So I said, ‘Well, honey, if you want to get stoned, I got plenty of money.’ And, so the guy who called himself Larry I think it was, what did I say his last name was?”
“I don’t think you ever gave me a last name,” said Reese. “Larry is one guy and the other is …” Reese looked at Singleton expectantly.
“Pedro.”
“Right, Pedro”
“It was Larry Schmidt. And through the conversation there he said that he’d been in the marines and he had a bad discharge. About this time I’m really beginning to worry about myself see …”
“Up until this time, had you had anything to drink?”
“I’d had two drinks in Berkeley and one drink after … I had one drink sitting there then.… I put alcohol in a drink … and that son of a bitch spilled it. That’s right, I remember—”
Breshears interrupted. “You put alcohol in a drink? Where was this at?”
“I put a drink in that root beer and then that spilled.”
“Did you have anything to drink from your house down to A & W? Did you have any liquor with you?” Breshears continued.
“Yes, I did.”
“What did
you have with you?”
“I had vodka and mixed with straight alcohol.”
Straight alcohol is 200 proof.
“How big a bottle of vodka did you have?”
“What I did, I poured two quarts and one quart … a quart of water in a gallon.”
“In a gallon bottle?”
“Yeah.”
“So you had a one gallon bottle with you?”
“Yes.
That was one part of his story Breshears didn’t doubt. Merchant marines were notorious for their consumption of booze. They liked to mix 200-proof alcohol and cut it with water, in exactly the way Singleton was describing.
“So, then that drink was spilled, yeah, that’s right,” Singleton continued. “Well, I think, I might as well have another drink, see, so I poured myself another. So then the girl says she’s drinking. She asked this Larry could he drive. He said yeah. I said, ‘If you want to drive, you can drive.’ We stopped and he started driving then.”
“Why did you want Larry to drive?” Breshears wondered.
“I didn’t want him to drive, I just didn’t want to get in no goddamn argument and with a knife on top of me.”
“Who had a knife on top of you?” Breshears asked sharply.
“Well, the girl still had the knife.”
Singleton was on a roll; they let their suspect continue.
“Yeah, I got out two times, I remember that. But she had the knife in her hand and my car keys. So, okay, she mentioned she wanted to stay stoned so I told the guys, ‘I got plenty of money. If you want anything, we’ll stop and get it.’ Then they went down, I don’t know how many miles down there, but turned off the road and went back over there to the east over to some highway and come back towards the north. I know we come back to the north. We stopped at some tavern. I didn’t really pay much attention. And Larry goes on and then about two minutes later, this old green pickup truck, it still had the old California plates on it. So the guys, they get out and they dicker awhile and they get a package, two packages, I don’t know nothing ’bout dope, see, I was just bluffing.”
“You don’t remember what tavern this is?”
“No, I don’t even know what town it was. I don’t even know how far south down there it was. But, at any rate, they get back in and they’re sniffing, like they done cocaine and they’re stoned by that time.”