Columbo: The Game Show Killer

by William Harrington

  “Lieutenant Columbo, Homicide Squad, LAPD.”

  The boy shrugged. “He might see you.”

  Columbo’s eyes narrowed. “He’ll see me, sonny. And right now. Where is he?”

  “Hey, Arnie! Wanta talk to th’ fuzz?”

  Arnold Moore was not the wise guy his clerk was. He was a small, pudgy man with a belly that shoved his open-collared white shirt out over his belt buckle. His face was chubby, and his dark hair curled thinly over a pate that was soon going to be exposed entirely. He had the air of a man who felt himself harassed. He came from the back of the store and faced Columbo with a skeptical stare.

  “I’m Lieutenant Columbo, LAPD, Homicide.”

  Moore nodded. “Lookin’ into the death of that scuzzball bum Wylie. I saw your name in the paper.”

  Columbo turned to the smart kid, who stood staring and listening. He jerked his thumb. “Buzz off, boy.” He turned to Moore. “Your name came up..”

  “I suppose so. What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”

  “The story is, you threatened to kill Tim Wylie.”

  “I’m kinda sorry I didn’t.”

  You got an office where we can talk alone?”

  “Sure. This way.”

  The office was on the second floor, a small, littered room at one end of a large area used as a warehouse. Moore led Columbo inside and closed the door.

  “I think I know why, but tell me why you threatened to kill Wylie,” said Columbo.

  Moore opened a desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of bourbon. He offered, but Columbo shook his head, and Moore took a swig from the bottle. “You got a daughter, Lieutenant Columbo?”

  Columbo nodded.

  “What would you do—hey, what would you like doin’—if a man almost seventy years old got in your sixteen-year-old daughter’s pants?”

  “That’s what the law is for, Mr. Moore.”

  “He’d of denied it; she’d of denied it. Which didn’t make it any less true.”

  “Is she okay now?”

  “She’s not a virgin. Well… she’s seventeen now, and I don’t suppose she would be a virgin anymore in any case. She was broken up when she heard of his murder. So was I. I figured I’d hear from you sooner or later. I got a good alibi for last Thursday night. I took my wife to the movies. Another couple went with us.”

  “I guess I can forget about you,” Columbo said.

  “Don’t forget about Natalie.” Moore opened a desk drawer and pulled out a framed photograph. It was of an extraordinarily beautiful girl: blond, with an impish face and a womanly figure, posing proudly in a brief bikini. “You can see why he wanted her. And for her— Well, hell, man. One of the biggest stars Hollywood ever produced. She thought she’d died and gone to heaven. Lieutenant… he got her pregnant.” Moore blinked hard, and tears came from his eyes. “He got her an abortion. And he gave her twenty-five thousand dollars, cash, plus twenty for me. I shouldn’t have taken it, but I did. I’m glad he’s dead. I’m only sorry it was so quick and easy for him.”

  “Would it be possible for me to talk to Natalie?”

  “Wouldn’t hurt her anymore. Couldn’t hurt her anymore. What do you want to know?”

  “Anything he might have told her.”

  Moore began to write on a little notepad. “This is our address,” he said. “Stop by when I’m home, too, okay? Like—?”

  “How ’bout this evening?

  XVI

  1

  WEDNESDAY, APRIL 19—3:10 P.M.

  Grant Kellogg came out to the reception area to greet Lieutenant Columbo.

  “Lieutenant! Nice to see you. How long’s it been? Not since the O’Banion case, huh?”

  “You got me on that one, Mr. Kellogg. I was really sure he was guilty.”

  “Hey! Columbo! Between you and me—and I’ll deny it if you quote me—he was guilty. But… I know you understand. It’s my job, my professional and ethical obligation, to mount the best defense I can. I’m sorry I had to cross-examine you pretty hard. I hope there’s no hard feelings about it.”

  “Naw, naw, not at all. It’s all part of the job: mine and yours.”

  “Well, listen, I appreciate your coming.”

  “I got your phone message.”

  “Well come on in. God, I wish we had time to sit and reminisce about old times. Maybe someday soon. Over dinner. Mrs. Columbo invited. And—” Grant grinned broadly. “The fourth for that dinner will be Erika Björling.”

  “I’m not sure she’ll want to talk with me. I’m the guy who had the cuffs put on her.”

  “Did you feel sorry for her, Lieutenant? Off the record?” Columbo nodded. “I feel sorry for a lot of people when I have to do that to ’em.”

  “Anyway, have a seat.”

  Columbo sat down on the leather-covered couch that faced Grant Kellogg’s desk.

  “I appreciate your coming. The DA cleared it, said we can talk mano a mano.”

  “Right. I checked with him before I came.”

  “Would you like to hang up your raincoat?”

  “Well, no. Actually, y’ see, it’s sort of like my office. I got things in the pockets.”

  Grant smiled. “Okay. I’m entitled to disclosure of the evidence in possession of the police, you know. So I’m going to ask you a few questions. If you think I’m prying, you’re right; I am; I have to. You understand. I need to know just what is the case against Erika.” '

  “Well, Sir—” Columbo ticked off the points on his fingers. “In the first place, there’s the note. Then there’s the witness that says she was at the King’s Court Motel. Then there’s the fact that she told us she didn’t leave her apartment until eight o’clock, which doesn’t jibe with the fact that she had three calls on her answering machine between seven and eight. If she was there, she wasn’t answering her phone, but she says she always answered her phone.”

  “And that’s it? That’s all you’ve got against her?”

  “That’s about it. The note we found in Mr. Wylie’s bedroom is in Miss Björling5 s handwriting.”

  “What about fingerprints?”

  “No fingerprints. But fingerprints don’t always show up on paper.”

  Grant frowned. “I’m relieved. The case against her is not very strong.”

  ‘Y’ understand, I’m not finished.”

  “The DA warned me of that. He didn’t have to warn me. I know how you work, Lieutenant.”

  “Slow and steady. Uh… Is there anything else, Mr. Kellogg?”

  “I just wanted to know if I’m going to get any surprises.”

  Columbo rose. “Oh, no. No. Uh— Say, could I ask you a question? There’s something’ I’m curious about.”

  Grant Kellogg grinned. “Ask away.”

  “Well, Sir, what I’m curious about has got nothing’ to do with the case, I don’t think. It’s just something’ that bothers me. I get things in my mind and— Anyway, it’s none of my business, I guess, but I couldn’t help wondering why it was that on the morning Miss Björling was in jail and awful anxious to see you, you went out for a boat ride. Like I say, it’s none of my business, but—”

  “Why do you think I took my boat out that morning?”

  “I don’t know. That’s why I asked. If you’d been available Friday morning, she could have been arraigned then. As it was, she didn’t get arraigned until Monday morning.”

  “What’s the difference, Lieutenant? I knew and she knew that she was not going to be released on bail. So whether she was arraigned on Friday or Monday didn’t make a bit of difference.”

  ‘Yeah. Well— It was a pretty blustery day, as I recall.”

  “And I went out on my boat, Lieutenant, because it was blustery, with seas running. It’s how I relax. I knew I had a damned rough week coming, starting a defense for Erika, and I took the time to get away and go out to sea and think.”

  Columbo nodded. “Well, I’m glad you explained it to me. I figured there had to be some logical explanation. I thank ya.”


  2

  6:15 P.M.

  The yellow stucco house was small and square, with a pair of stately palms in front. If a house could be typical of Los Angeles, this was it. Southern California architecture, duplicated ten thousand times. It sat on a quarter-acre lot and still had room behind for a little swimming pool set in a miniature tropical garden guarded by a stone wall.

  Natalie Moore conspicuously reveled in her eroticism. She chose to meet a Los Angeles homicide detective at poolside in the kind of bathing suit that had once been called a thong—this one violet. No wonder her father had insisted on being present when Columbo interviewed her. Columbo was glad he had.

  “Tim was a wonderful man,” she said. She flipped the ends of her blond hair with the fingers of her right hand. “We’ve lost a real American hero.”

  Arnold Moore shook his head.

  “Do you know anything about why he was killed?”

  “That bitch Erika Björling was insanely jealous of every other girl he saw. He told me. She was always calling him, raising hell with him. She wanted money, too.”

  “He told you that?” Columbo asked skeptically.

  “She claimed he was the father of her kid, and she figured that some way it gave her the right to money from him.”

  “Her daughter has been dead six years, Natalie,” said Arnold Moore.

  “Makes no difference. Erika was blackmailing Tim!”

  “Pillow talk,” said Arnold Moore.

  “Guys say things…” The girl grinned. “Y’ want the truth out of a guy?” She laughed.

  “Slut.”

  The girl glanced at her father; then her eyes returned to Columbo. “My father thinks Tim was a seducer, nothing but a seducer. But let me tell you something, Lieutenant.” She glared at her father. “If he hadn’t interfered—my daddy, the protective father—Tim would have made me a star! I could have been—”

  “You’d of been the mother of his child,” said Arnold.

  “I’d of been proud to be the mother of his baby! He was the greatest American since… well, since maybe General MacArthur.”

  “Yeah, well it was Wylie that wanted the abortion,” her father grunted.

  “He said I was too young. He cared about me. He was going to make me somebody.”

  Arnold Moore stared at Columbo and shook his head. He pulled a Budweiser from an ice chest and popped it open. He offered it to Columbo, but Columbo waved it away, and Moore tipped it to his own mouth. “What’ve I got for a daughter?” he pleaded.

  “I wanta ask one more question,” said Columbo. “Has either one of you had a call from Mr. Grant Kellogg?”

  Both shook their heads.

  “Well, let me know if you do, will ya? I’d appreciate it.”

  XVII

  1

  THURSDAY, APRIL 20—9:10 A.M.

  Her clothes had been brought to the jail, so Erika wore her black suit and white blouse on the van ride to the courthouse. Also, someone had apparently decided it was not necessary to chain her legs, so she was wearing only handcuffs and a belly chain when she arrived for her first appearance before the Superior Court.

  “How’s it going?” Grant asked her when she had been unchained and sat down beside him in the courtroom. “Haven’t talked to you since Tuesday.”

  She fixed a stare on him. “I am now a jailhouse laundry sorter,” she said grimly. “I also have cellmates: one prostitute, one marijuana farmer, and a professional automobile thief.”

  “To whom you don’t talk,” said Grant emphatically. “I’ve got a little smarts.”

  “I’ve got a million-dollar offer,” he told her. “I’m gonna raise it before the court this morning. I think it’s going to need a court order.”

  “A million dollars…”

  “You still insist I give notice of alibi this morning?”

  She nodded. “Grant, I’m scared. What if Sonya and Freddy backed out?”

  “They won’t back out. I haven’t paid them yet.”

  “They may get cold feet. You got to put their names out. Once they’re publicly identified, they—”

  “It’s a bad tactic. It’s too soon.”

  “Grant…”

  He sighed and shrugged. “Okay, kiddo.”

  “They might even drop the case, once they know we’ve got five alibi witnesses.”

  “God forbid! Not until we get our million dollars.” Judge Frank Reynolds entered the courtroom. He was a pudgy, red-faced man in his sixties.

  The judge looked at his notes. “Let the record show that the defendant, Miss Erika Björling, is present before the court, with her counsel, Mr. Grant Kellogg. The People of California are represented by Mr. Charles Dunedin. Mr. Kellogg—?”

  Grant rose. “I have two matters to present, Your Honor. The second is routine. The first is somewhat unusual.”

  “Proceed with the unusual, Mr. Kellogg,” said the judge dryly.

  Grant nodded. “Your Honor, my client Miss Björling is in a difficult situation. She is not in such economic circumstances that she can ask for defense by the Public Defender. On the other hand, her circumstances are such that it will be difficult—no, Your Honor, it will be impossible—for her to mount a thorough and effective defense from her present financial resources. I refer in part to my fees, of course; but I refer also to the many and heavy costs of defending against a charge of murder. I am prepared, Your Honor, to postpone indefinitely the collection of my fees, or even to waive them, but the cost of transcripts, research, co-counsel, expert witnesses, and so on will quickly exhaust the defendant’s resources. It is not an unusual situation, Your Honor—a person who is not poor but is far from rich can find himself, herself, at an overwhelming disadvantage.

  “In Miss Björling’s situation, however, there may be salvation. She is a celebrity. The man she is alleged to have murdered was a star. The media—Well, Your Honor, I need hardly tell you. You and I ran a gauntlet to get into the courthouse this morning. A number of media organizations have offered substantial money for an exclusive interview with Miss Björling in jail. Sybil Brand Institute has not refused to allow such an interview, but I fear it will—not from arbitrary motives but out of fear that a precedent will be set. I respectfully move the court to issue an order allowing such an interview, or interviews.”

  “On what legal ground do you base your motion, Mr. Kellogg?”

  “On the basis that denying Miss Björling the right to be interviewed in the jail denies her the only source she presently has to raise funds essential for her defense.”

  “Mr. Dunedin, will the People object?”

  “We do not object, Your Honor—provided the order specifically limits the interviews to nondisruptive times and settings.”

  “Counsel will draft an order acceptable to both sides. If it is acceptable to me, I will sign it. And your second item of business, Mr. Kellogg?”

  “If the court please, I would like at this time to present a notice of alibi and a list of alibi witnesses. I realize of course that this need not be done in open court, and I will serve the notice and list on the District Attorney in the ordinary way. For now, however, Your Honor, I offer notice that the defendant will plead an alibi and will call five witnesses to testify that she was at a bowling alley more than thirty miles from Bel Air at nine o’clock that evening.”

  “What is the significance of that, Mr. Kellogg?”

  “Your Honor, the coroner has fixed the time of death of Tim Wylie as approximately eight-thirty. Miss Björling could not have driven from the Wylie home in Bel Air to the Ten Strikes Bowling Alley in Long Beach in less than forty-five minutes, and it would more likely have taken an hour. The prosecution is also suggesting that Miss Björling checked out of a Bel Air motel at approximately eight-forty-five. If that is true, it gives the defendant fifteen minutes to reach the bowling alley thirty miles away.” Charles Dunedin stood. “Your Honor, that defense will depend on the veracity of the alibi witnesses.”

  “Precisely,” said
the judge. “An issue to be determined by the jury. Is there anything else?”

  Charles Dunedin stood. 'Your Honor, the People would like an order to United California Bank, Van Nuys, allowing us to examine the defendant’s checking-account records.”

  “Mr. Kellogg?”

  “No objection, Your Honor.”

  When the court adjourned, Grant spoke quietly to Erika. “I’ve arranged for a photographer to be in the hall where they take you out to the van. I want him to get a shot of you with the cuffs on. Harry Gottsman will pay us $20,000 for it. Front page of PROBE ”

  Erika sighed and shook her head, but she said, “Alright.”

  “Listen, one more thing. Harry Gottsman will pay some really important money for nude or topless photos of you. Are there any?”

  Erika shook her head.

  “I figured that. Look, I can get a photo lab to fake them—I mean, put your head on another body. If you don’t deny them, we can sell them as real.”

  “Is there any end to how much I have to be humiliated?”

  He shrugged. “Is it a deal?”

  She closed her eyes and sighed. “Okay. If I’m doing everything else I’m doing for the money, I might as well do that.”

  2

  10:16 A.M.

  Columbo and Captain Sczciegel sat across a desk from Assistant District Attorney Charles Dunedin. Although the young lawyer was barely thirty years old, he wore bifocals: rimless bifocals. He carried a package of cigarettes in his vest pocket, and he lit a cigarette.

  “Can I borrow your lighter for a minute?” asked Columbo.

  Dunedin handed him the lighter, and Columbo lit a fresh new cigar.

  “Linda Delgardo, Michael Finn, Fred Mansfield, Sonya Pavlov, and Hugo Wilson. Who do you suppose they are, Lieutenant Columbo?”

  “Well, Sir, I’d guess those are people who’ll say they saw Miss Björling at the Ten Strikes Bowling Alley last Thursday night.”