Columbo: The Game Show Killer

by William Harrington

  The doctor went up the stairs.

  “Uhh… Tell me somethin’, Heath. You found this note. Did you find the envelope?”

  “No, Sir. We’ve been going through the trash, too. About a week’s trash is still in the house, from the look of it. You notice there’s no date on the note, so it could have been around here a long time.”

  Columbo frowned at the note. “Doesn’t seem like somethin’ a man’d want to save.”

  “We’ll check it for fingerprints,” said Sergeant Davidson. “Right.”

  When Mulligan knocked on the door and came in to say Mrs. Glassman was outside, Columbo suggested he take her in the back door and up the back stairs. Her father’s body was still in the house, and his blood still gleamed on the floor and carpet. Columbo went back to say hello.

  Victoria Wylie Glassman was a handsome, well-put- together woman of thirty-five or so.

  “My condolences, Ma’am. I won’t trouble you with any questions, except maybe you could answer just one.”

  “I have no idea, Lieutenant Columbo. My father was liked by everyone.”

  “Uh… I’m sure he was. My question is, what kind of liquor did he drink?”

  “Scotch.”

  “Thank ya, Ma’am. That’s helpful information.”

  She paused in the kitchen. She was a big woman, taller than Columbo: a dishwater blond with a wide mouth. “So long as we’ve confronted each other, do you have any idea who did it? Or why?”

  “No, Ma’am, I haven’t. A valuable painting is missing, but the house wasn’t broken into, and your father seems to have poured a couple of drinks just before he was killed. We thought burglary, but it doesn’t seem quite that simple.”

  “Is my mother asleep?”

  “I’d guess so. Dr. Haas said he had her sedated.”

  Victoria Glassman sat down on the stool where the maid sat at the kitchen counter to peel vegetables. “Can somebody bring me a Scotch?”

  “The bottle has to be dusted for fingerprints, but if there’s another bottle—”

  “There’ll be another. Underneath the bar.”

  Officer Heath had overheard and went to bring the bottle.

  “Lieutenant… You’re going to find out something my father managed to keep secret for years. So—”

  “Does it have anything to do with Miss Erika Björling?”

  “Damn! You’re sharp, Lieutenant Columbo. How’d you figure that out already?”

  “I didn’t. We found a letter written to him by Miss Björling.”

  “She was only one of many, and her affair with him goes back many, many years.”

  “Did she have a child by him?”

  Victoria Glassman blanched. “My god! You don't mean Tammy! You don’t mean Tammy Björling was my half sister?”

  “Miss Björling says so.”

  “No… It could have been any of a dozen men. Any of a score. Erika is a slut, Lieutenant! She slept all over town. What did she do in this letter, demand money?”

  Columbo shook his head. “It’s gonna come out. We can’t keep it a secret. She accused your father of killing Tammy.”

  “Then she killed my father! She came here and killed my father!”

  “I’m gonna look into that possibility, Ma’am.”

  2

  FRIDAY, APRIL 14—1:09 A.M.

  Erika lived in an apartment building in Van Nuys. When Columbo arrived and rang her bell, she did not answer. He went out to the black-and-white he had followed to the address.

  “Okay, Mulligan, lemme have your mike.”

  Patrolman Mulligan, whom Columbo had rescued from duty in the rain outside the Wylie house, handed over the radio microphone.

  “Center, this is Unit Four-oh-Four. Lieutenant Columbo speakin’. I need a telephone-authorized search warrant and an arrest warrant. Reasonable cause to believe murder was committed by the resident of this address. That’s the Tim Wylie murder. Need that toot dee sweet, if you can get it for me. Officer Mulligan will fill you in on the name and address. Also, since I’m probably going to have to arrest a female here, send me a unit with a female officer, if ya please.”

  He walked back to his car, the Peugeot, and checked the piece of plastic he had thrown over the top to keep the rain from leaking through a couple of rents in the canvas. He was going to have to have that fixed one of these days.

  Usually, in a case like this, a night-duty Assistant DA could get a warrant by telephone, from a night-duty magistrate. In the old days you didn't bother with stuff like that. These days, it was a good idea to bother. They’d set up procedures so an officer could get a warrant in minutes, then do the paperwork in the morning. Mulligan would get the search-and-arrest authorization by radio, and then they could move in.

  Another black-and-white pulled up behind the Peugeot. The driver was the woman officer he’d asked for.

  “Hiya. Lieutenant Columbo. Homicide. Y’ may have to arrest a celebrity here.”

  The officer nodded. “Lieutenant. I’m Patricia Finn, Van Nuys. Got the call from downtown.”

  Columbo ran his hand through his hair and flipped away rainwater. “The worst part is, this is not my tour. It’ll teach me to stay away from the center if I want to get home at a decent hour. Incidentally, I’m workin’ on the Tim Wylie murder. Erika Björling lives here.”

  “My god, is she a suspect?”

  “May be, dependin’ on how she answers a question or three.”

  V

  1

  FRIDAY, APRIL 14—1:09 A.M.

  The warrants came by radio, and Columbo could have entered the Björling apartment; but he decided to wait outside until Erika Björling appeared. If she didn’t appear in thirty minutes or so, he would enter anyway.

  Officer Patricia Finn was an interesting woman: of somewhat slighter build than the typical female officer of LAPD but visibly muscular and self-assured. Her face was long and thin, her hair mousy brown, and her hazel eyes mobile and foxy.

  He lit a cigar while they waited. She lit a cigarette. “I’ve heard of you, Lieutenant. I suppose everybody in the Department has heard of you.”

  “Not guilty,” said Columbo.

  “Do we really have a case against Erika Björling? I mean, my god, did she kill Tim Wylie?”

  “Well… Finn, you know how it is. Ya gotta check out everything. There may be better ways of figuring out cases, but I haven’t found any yet. Who was it said something about how something was one percent inspiration and ninety-nine percent perspiration?”

  “Edison said that about invention.”

  “Yeah. That’s right. I always remember that, except I sometimes forget who said it about what. But that’s important to keep in mind. It must be great to be smart. I wish I was. I have to do my job by—” He stopped and shook his head. “I have to work hard, check out every little thing. What I’d rather be doin’ right now is sleeping at home in bed. But— Well, this thing has got to be checked out.”

  “I’m hoping to become a detective.”

  “Well, good luck to ya. If there’s anything I can do to help, let me know. Be glad to put in a word with Cap’n Scziegel for you.”

  Finn smiled. “I’m afraid the first thing I have to do is pass a civil-service examination.”

  “Oh, yeah. I guess that’s right. They got things all organized these days, haven’t they? You pass your qualification at the firin’ range?”

  “Yes, Sir. I have.”

  “That always gives me troubled I gotta get out there one of these days and—”

  2

  1:27 A.M.

  Just before one-thirty, a green MG pulled into the garage adjacent to the apartment building. Columbo and Finn walked in.

  “Miss Björling? Miss Erika Björling?”

  “Yes.”

  Columbo’s first impression was that this exquisitely beautiful woman could not have committed murder. She had about her a delicacy that had not shown on the television screen. In a pink mini-dress and showing shapely legs in da
rk stockings, she looked like anything but a person who would have paused to put a final shot into the ear of a man she had just felled with .32 slugs.

  “I’m Lieutenant Columbo, LAPD Homicide. This is Officer Finn. We have a warrant for your arrest, Miss Björling. I’m kinda hoping we can settle the matter and we won’t have to arrest you.”

  “Arrest me for what?”

  “For the murder of Mr. Tim Wylie.”

  She blanched. “I heard on the news that— My god! How could you think I did it? Why would I do it?”

  “Can we go inside your apartment, Miss Björling? We’ve got a warrant to search it.”

  Erika Björling glanced from Columbo to Finn and back. “Can I say no? What if I said no?”

  “I’m afraid we’d have to do it anyway,” Columbo said. “A team of officers.”

  Erika turned and stared at four uniformed officers who had now entered the garage. Her jaw trembled, and she pointed toward the door.

  Inside her apartment, Erika poured herself a drink, though she was already wobbly. She sat down on the couch in her living room and watched policemen work through her rooms, opening drawers and closets, intruding into everything.

  “Miss Björling, I have to ask you a question,” Columbo said grimly. “You lost your daughter some years ago. She was kidnapped and murdered.”

  “The worst thing that ever happened to me in my life,” Erika mumbled.

  “I have to ask you who was Tammy’s father.”

  Erika shook her head convulsively. “I don’t know.”

  “Well… We have an idea who it was. We can get a court order to exhume Tammy’s body and get DNA that we can match against Tim Wylie’s.”

  “No! No! You leave her alone. If you have to do something like that, I can give you a snip of her hair. That has DNA in it. But… Why? What… ? ”

  One of the uniformed officers came to Columbo, bent over, and quietly told him something.

  “I’d like to change the subject, Miss Björling. If I can. Where have you been all evening?”

  “I was here until… I don’t know when, exactly. I guess about eight. I was lonely and didn’t have anything to do, so I drove down to the Ten Strikes Lounge for a couple of drinks.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “It’s in Long Beach.”

  Columbo smiled and scratched his head. “That’s a long way to go for a couple of drinks, isn’t it?”

  “It sure is. But I have friends there.”

  “What time did you leave here?”

  “Well… I got to the Ten Strikes about nine. I go down the San Diego Freeway, and it’s got to be—what?—twenty- five or thirty miles. Depending on traffic, it takes almost an hour to get there. So I suppose I left here a little after eight. Something like that.”

  “When did you stop answering your telephone, Miss Björling?”

  “I always answer my telephone.”

  “Well, you didn’t answer it at 7:00, and you didn’t answer it at 7:22, or at 7:38, which are all before the time you say you left. Calls from those times are on your answering machine.”

  Erika shrugged. “So? I was probably in the shower. Or— Oh, yeah, I ran out for a can of soup.”

  “When you got out of the shower and came back from buying soup, were there calls on your answering machine?”

  “You say there were.”

  You didn’t check?”

  “I don’t always. I’m not a slave to the telephone. Anyway, what the hell? What difference does it make?”

  “Well, the medical examiner places the time of Mr. Wylie’s death between eight-thirty and nine, roughly.”

  “I was at the Ten Strikes before nine.”

  “And witnesses saw you there?”

  “Sure. I go there every week, sometimes twice a week. The woman who manages it is a friend of mine. When I’m feeling all alone and want somebody to talk to— The bartender knows me, too.”

  Columbo nodded solemnly. “The times here get a little sticky, Miss Björling. You say you left here at eight. Your telephone recorder suggests you weren’t here after seven. Well—Not so big a discrepancy, I suppose. The warrant for your arrest was issued on the basis of something else. You can refuse to do what I’m about to ask you to do, but would you mind giving me a sample of your handwriting?” Erika shrugged. “Why not? Your men searching my home will find a grocery list, my telephone list… Sure. What do you want me to write on, and with?”

  “Uh— Uh, Finn. Gotta a pen and pad?”

  Officer Finn tore a sheet from her notebook and handed it to Erika, together with a ballpoint pen.

  “What you want me to write?”

  “If you don’t mind, write ‘I know what happened to Tammy.’ ”

  Erika frowned, but she wrote. Columbo took the sheet and studied it. “You did know Mr. Wylie, didn’t you?”

  Erika sighed. “Biblically,” she said. “If you do the DNA test, you’ll find out.”

  “Okay. Well, he was killed by someone he knew. He let the person in. The house wasn’t broken into.”

  “None of this makes it me.”

  “But there’s something else,” said Columbo. “Miss Bjor- ling, we found in Mr. Wylie’s house a note signed ‘Erika’ and accusing Mr. Wylie of kidnapping and murdering Tammy. Also, it sort of threatens Mr. Wylie. On the basis of that evidence, the arrest warrant was issued, and I’m afraid I’m gonna have to execute that warrant. I’m sorry.”

  Erika blinked. “You mean I’m under arrest? You mean I’m going to jail?”

  “I’m afraid so. Officer Finn will read you your rights and take you into custody.”

  “No!”

  Officer Patricia Finn spoke to Erika. “Take it easy, Miss Björling. No one ever died of being arrested. Now listen to me. ‘You are under arrest. You have a right to remain silent. If you make any statement, whatever you say will be taken down as evidence and may be used against you. You have a right to be represented by an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed for you at public expense.’ Do you understand your rights?”

  Erika nodded. She mumbled, “Yes.”

  Officer Finn pulled a pair of handcuffs from the pouch on her belt. “Turn around please. Behind your back.”

  Erika began to cry as her hands were locked behind her. “Jesus Christ!” she sobbed. I’m not a murderer! You’ve all seen me on television. Hey! How could you believe I could kill someone?”

  VI

  1

  FRIDAY, APRIL 14—2:39 A.M.

  Officer Finn took Erika to Sybil Brand Institute, the Los Angeles County jail for women. She demanded to be allowed to make a telephone call. She called Grant Kellogg.

  “Are they listening?” she asked him. “Is this call private?”

  “Absolutely private,” he told her. “If they want to lose a case for sure, all they have to do is listen to prisoners’ conversations with lawyers.”

  “Prisoner— Right. That’s me. I guess I’ll be locked up in a little while.” Her voice broke. “I was brought in here in handcuffs, hands behind my back. What more have I got to go through? Fingerprinting, mug shots… and strip search, I suppose.”

  “Don’t let it get to you. Standard procedure, like I told you. Any surprises?”

  “No. They bought the note. And they bought the calls you and Sonya put on my answering machine, which of course made it sound like I was lying about the time I left the house.”

  “Who arrested you?”

  “A nut! Some slovenly bastard in a tattered raincoat, that—”

  “Erika. Are you talking about Lieutenant Columbo?”

  “Right. Columbo.”

  “Did you talk to him, much?”

  “No. Not much. I played the innocent.”

  “Well, just remember this. Columbo is maybe the shrewdest, smartest homicide detective in Los Angeles. Does he know you’ll be represented by me?”

  “I told him who I was calling.”

  “Hey, kid! Couldn’t be bette
r. The story suddenly got worth twice what it was. The best homicide detective LA has got against the best defense lawyer in town!”

  “But, Jesus Christ! Will he—?”

  “Figure it out? Get you convicted? No way! He’s got a problem to solve, and he doesn’t know the answer. know the answer. We know all the answers.”

  “I’m scared, Grant.”

  “You’re scared of the trappings. The handcuffs, the strip search, the—”

  ‘You warned me about those things. But I’m scared this guy’s gonna figure it out.”

  “Honey, baby! We wouldn’t have done it if we weren’t sure. You just relax now. This is the hell part for you. Just sleep with thoughts of how rich you’re going to be.”

  “I’ll try, Grant. I’ll try. But, Jesus, this is tough! Sleep? Where’ll I be? In a cell? How could I sleep?”

  “This is the worst night. After tonight it gets easier. Believe me—it does.”

  2

  9:28 A.M.

  Except for the night when Tammy disappeared and the agonizing nights afterward, it was the worst night Erika had ever known in her life. They booked her on the charge of murder and advised her that she would be held without bail. They took her mug shots, then fingerprinted her, then ordered her to strip and submit to a humiliating and painful search of every orifice of her body. They handed her a pair of blue dungarees and a pair of white sneakers. When she was dressed, they led her to a cell and locked her in for what remained of the night.

  She did not sleep. Not for a moment. She had no idea of what time it was but supposed it was early in the morning when a woman came pushing a stainless-steel cart, poured her a tin cup of black coffee, and handed it and a stale doughnut through the bars: Erika ate the doughnut and drank the coffee. In addition to everything else, she had a hangover and thought she might have to vomit in the toilet.

  A long time later, another woman, this one in uniform, came to her cell. “Erika Björling, right?” The burly woman shook her head. “I’ve seen you a thousand times on the TV. Never thought Td see you in here.”