“Well,” Dinan continued, “Ellis is wealthy, but he is dumber than a double-clamped oyster. Believed the fella when he said the gun discharged accidentally. And speaking of shells, this guy’s skull was smashed so hard it’s a miracle he is alive, never mind able to talk.”
“I don’t understand. If he wasn’t shot, why is he in one of your hospitals?”
Dinan relayed the whole story. Ellis simply could not resist the charms of this would-be assassin, and even loaned him substantial sums of money to gamble with. “Even though I detested the man—” Dinan read Ellis’s statement off his notes, “—and tried to keep away from him, when I met him face to face I forgot his wrongdoings and could not help liking him.” So much so, he explained, that Ellis agreed to sail to California with him and the blonde that was his wife. At least, she was supposed to be his wife. They would bet on the horse track in Emeryville, and then head down to Ascot Park if their winnings got too big or too small.
Exasperated, Auble urged him to continue.
“I had your rather fantastical description of the man observed going in and out of that Los Angeles home in 1903—the one who murdered your banker fellow?” Dinan said. “Every copper up here knew about him, though I have to admit, we all thought you might be having us looking for a phantom.” Auble rolled his eyes and let the captain continue, so he wouldn’t get distracted. “Well, O’Brien got a ring from a Mrs. Hornbeck, who owns a little grocery and bakery at number 743 McAllister Street. There was this young woman who came into her store daily to buy large amounts of Battle Creek malted milk, and a dozen eggs at a time. She always kept her head down and spoke rather softly, and would never make the usual talk about family, where she was from, and so forth. Well, one day last week, this gal shows up with bleached-blonde hair, and wearing smoked glasses. Mrs. Hornbeck had not been following the Ellis story in the papers, so she figured this woman had merely fallen into idiocy. But when her son mentioned the story over dinner that evening and talked about the strange couple that came to town with Ellis, she formed the opinion that this woman could be Franklin’s latest paramour.”
“Yes! And?” Auble said.
“We thought she was batty and paid her no mind,” Dinan said. “We get these kinds of old ladies all the time, trying to be ‘part of the action,’ you know. We had most of our men at the Ellsworth Street cottage where Ellis says he was bludgeoned by a hammer from behind. We busted open the cottage and found the most terrible sight you ever saw: oil cloths laid out on the floor; a bowie knife, a stiletto, and a butcher knife, all laid out on a dining table. We found a bottle of carbolic acid and rubber gloves hidden under a mattress. Clearly, this pair planned to dispose of Ellis’s body.”
“Was any money taken from Ellis?” Auble asked.
“Nearly one thousand British pounds and a pair of diamond cufflinks,” Dinan said. “Remarkably, Ellis was able to fend off more blows even after being hit from behind. His right forearm is broken, but it’s a miracle he is not dead. The doctors say he has a skull at least twice the thickness of an ordinary man. I’m inclined to believe them.” Dinan chuckled at his observation. “Point is, we showed him your sketches of your Sixteenth Street man, and those of the man who killed Bessie Bouton. They are one in the same, and Ellis says they are definitely the man he knows as William Brush…real name Milton Franklin Andrews.”
“What about the woman at the health food store?” Auble asked, excited.
“Yes, well. We are going to follow her the next time she comes in. Although, given what has happened, she—if it is she—and this Andrews terror might be long gone.”
“They’re not gone,” Auble said. “They’re holed up somewhere, trying to figure out how to get another roll of cash to leave the country. Keep an eye on poker games, the race track, and this blonde at the grocery,” he said. “I’m going to be on the next train to Oakland. I’ll meet with you and Vollmer there.”
Acting Chief Walter Auble arrived in Oakland on October 14th. He visited the Australian, who was recuperating at his hotel, and quickly realized this victim was quickly cashing in on his newfound celebrity. Auble had to shoo away several young women and one young man who had gathered around to offer financial support in return for the pleasure of Ellis’s company. The chief interviewed the former jockey about Andrews’s current female companion.
“She first told me her name was Julia Ward,” Ellis said. “But I overheard Brush—er, Andrews—call her ‘Nulda’ one night, and she confided that that was her real name, Nulda Petrie Oliva. Odd name, eh? Canadian. She is lovely. I should say, she was lovely until she tried to kill me.”
Florence Auble was upset when her husband telephoned her the evening of October 15th. He would not be coming home until he caught or killed Milton Franklin Andrews, even if he had to stay in San Francisco until Christmas. He didn’t care if the mayor did not give him the permanent chief job. In fact, he hoped he wouldn’t. It might even be time to move his family back to the Midwest. Or better, some farm land up in Oregon.
As it turned out, he did not have to stay in the Bay Area for very long. On November 6th, at his usual perch at the café across the street from Mrs. Hornbeck’s healthful grocery, Auble watched as a platinum blonde barely constrained by a scarf looked both ways over her shoulders and walked into the store. It was dusk, but there was no mistaking that it was the woman who could be—was likely—Franklin’s latest companion. He waited until she left with her bags of boxed food, and slipped behind her, careful not to get too close or to make his footsteps too loud. Auble knew that he, too, was being followed. He stole a furtive glance behind him as he rounded Octavia Street and immediately recognized two of Dinan’s detectives. That was fine. He hoped they would play it safe.
The blonde woman climbed the steps at 748 McAllister. She looked around again before unlocking and pushing in the front door, straining with her groceries. Auble waited for a few minutes. No one else came in or out of the home. He crept around the side of the structure, scraping himself against the thorned bushes, hoping no neighbors would see him and scream. He peered through the lace curtains of what seemed to be a living room window. On the floor, he could see suitcases. Looking more to the right, he saw a massive maple table with all manner of coats and dresses and several brown bottles of liquid. The setting sun captured a glint of something that made Auble wince and pull back a little. He rubbed his eye and looked again: there was a brand-new ax lying next to a pair of sunglasses. He knew in his gut that this was Nulda’s last night on Earth.
Auble crept further along the house toward the back yard, waiting for a car to pass before cocking his pistol as quietly as he could. Just as he reached the back door, he heard a loud splintering of wood. A crash. Voices yelling. “POLICE! PUT ’EM UP! PUT ’EM UP!” Two shots!
“It’s him! It’s him! You were right!” San Francisco Detective Freel yelled at Auble, who had rushed into the room. The woman, no doubt Nulda, lay in almost perfect repose on a cot in the corner of the living room and her hands clasped in front of her, with her fingers interlocked. Blood oozed from a wound in her left temple and was splattered all over the walls. Andrews’s self-inflicted bullet had entered his right temple. His left hand, which had clasped his .44 caliber, lay still next to his crumpled body at the base of the cot. He’d shot his lover, and then himself.
Auble was made permanent Chief of LAPD on November 20, 1905. Florence convinced him that a few years of political nonsense would be a small price to pay for a large salary and a safe job behind a desk. Sometimes, when it looked to his employees like he was reading the latest crime reports, Auble would re-read the many letters he copied from those found in the McCallister house. Andrews had confessed not only to Bessie Bouton’s murder, but several others across the country. He asked that if he was caught or killed that the police and newspapers take mercy on his wife in Mount Holyoke, who knew nothing about his activities and thought he was just a traveling salesman. Andrews’s rage could be seen to ebb and f
low even in his writings, which vacillated between apologies and indictments: “If I had known Ellis had the skull of a gorilla,” he wrote, “I would have hired a pile driver.”
On Thanksgiving Day, 1905, Auble took his youngest child for an outing in his department-issued electric car. They drove to 821 Sixteenth Street. It was rented. Auble smiled.
Back to TOC
Resurrection
Jennifer Younger
Jimmy Pritchard lit his last cigarette in an alley near 42nd and Central Avenue. He could hear the end of “Washerwoman Blues” being sung by some nobody singer coming from Club Alabam a few doors down. Jazz. Swing. Bebop. Blues. He always found his way back to this part of town because this was where the good music was. Besides colored dudes always had something going down, so maybe he could score.
He looked at the date of the Los Angeles Sentinel that he had picked up out of the garbage. Saturday, March 20, 1948. He was two weeks and two days out from an eighteen-month stretch in the joint for burglary. It should have been less time, but he mouthed off to the judge. Now he was out and just wanted to breathe in clean, fresh air.
Jimmy leaned against the brick wall savoring every bit of the harsh, bitter tobacco scorching the back of his throat. His mouth was dry for the taste of whiskey. He needed money, but he wasn’t going back to the joint by getting caught doing whatever he was going to do. He’d have to figure out a smarter way to fill his wallet. Take that big score in ’36. He’d got paid all right, only because he didn’t tell Big Ed that the girl was dead. Didn’t nobody still know what happened to her. He didn’t mean for her to end up dead, sometimes shit just goes sideways. But that was a long time ago, and he had learned a lot over the years as a career thug.
Hessie Mae was not a pretty woman. She was prematurely gray and her right eye drooped just enough to be noticeable. She looked closer to fifty than the actual twenty-seven that she was. And then there was the way she walked, her hips swaying back and forth to the rhythm of music that only she could hear. Sashaying right and left like she was putting on a show, but that was the only way she could walk.
The sounds of a shovel hitting hard dirt and clinking against sharp rock whispered in her left ear. Although the thing happened twelve years ago, nothing stopped the sound. Not the melting ice tinkling in a half-full glass of liquor. Not the blare of the jukebox or the banging of pots and pans from the dishwashers inside the restaurant where she worked.
Absently, Hessie flicked at her earlobe, trying to brush the sound away, but it stayed. A shovel hitting dirt; a shovel hitting rock. Always in her ear. The empty grave she crawled out of a shadow in the corner of her eye.
She emptied a bucket of scraps and peels from the kitchen into the garbage bins outside. Glancing down the alley, she noticed a white man walking toward her. He looked familiar. His shape. His height.
Hessie took the Chesterfield cigarettes she had stuffed in her bra and pulled one out of the pack. The striking of the match lit up part of the alley. She lifted her eyes just a little. He was coming closer.
“Hey! Got one of those for me?” he asked as he approached. His sharp tone startled her.
She looked him over. Straggly blond hair, jail workhouse dungarees, and old army coat. Hessie wondered what this white dude was doing in the neighborhood.
Club Alabam. Must be. It was either the jazz that drew him here or he was a pimp. Must be the music. No pimps would be looking to set her out on the stroll. She kept her head down as he walked closer.
Hessie took a long drag of her cigarette and let the smoke out slowly. She looked up and watched as his face came into view in the dim light.
“Hey, I asked you for a smoke.”
She stared into his eyes and threw up at his feet.
“Wha the fu—?” he screamed while shaking the puke off his boot.
Hessie threw the pack of cigarettes at him, her hand shaking as she ran back into the diner’s kitchen. She almost tore the screen door off its hinges. She didn’t stop running until she reached the women’s restroom, which was for customers only. Slamming the door behind her, Hessie rested the side of her face against the cool tiles that covered the walls and tried to catch her breath. She cursed at her shock and fear.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!” She hurried into the stall and threw up again.
A few minutes later, she emerged and walked over to one of the sinks. She bathed her face in cool water and washed out her mouth.
Hessie had recognized him instantly. It was his eyes, his beautiful crystal blue eyes. Twelve years, but she couldn’t forget those eyes. She clawed at her left ear. Shovel hitting hard dirt, clinking against sharp rock. That hideous laugh. The unbearable pain.
“Hessie! Hester Mae?” Ruth Ann’s stern voice brought Hessie out of her nearly unresponsive state.
“Girl, what’s wrong? Ruth Ann asked.
Hessie blinked in confusion. “I’m alright.”
“Well, you don’t look right.” The concern still in her voice.
“I said I’m fine Ruth Ann. Let me be.” Hessie turned away from her friend and went back to work.
A few nights later, Hessie saw Jimmy come strolling down the alley. He was back.
“Gotta smoke? Jimmy asked.
Hessie stood still, the scraps bucket dangled from her fingers. Absently, she clawed at her left ear. Her eyes grew wide as he stepped closer.
She swallowed hard, willing herself not to throw up again. The shock of Jimmy showing up in her life after all this time made her chest hurt. Hessie set the bucket down and lit a cigarette. Except for his eyes, time had not been good to him.
Tapping another one out of the pack, she handed it to him. Her fingers sizzled as they touched his.
Hessie could see he had no idea who she was.
Well, she would make him remember. She’d make him remember all the things she could never forget.
Jimmy nodded toward the restaurant. “You know if they got any work here?”
“Ruth Ann don’t hire no ex-cons.” Hessie’s hand shook as she lit the cigarette she tapped out for herself.
“Why you think I’m an ex-con?”
“Them jailhouse dungarees, ain’t they?” She pitched the half-smoked cigarette in the small puddle of water.
“How long you work here?” he asked.
“Long time. Long time.” She was deliberate with each word. The hate Hessie felt for him festered in her breast. She looked into his eyes, and the anger grew. She grabbed the empty bucket and turned to go back inside.
“Say, don’t you want to have a smoke?”
“Why you keep comin’ around here?” she asked. “I ain’t got nuthin for ya.”
“Say, girl, lemme ask you something. You know where a guy could, you know, score a—?”
Hessie stopped and looked down at him from the top step. “No.” She opened the screen door and stepped inside.
“I don’t mean dope!” Jimmy said in a loud whisper. “Look, I mean I could really use some cash. I need a job. I’ll do anything.”
“I’ll see.” She closed and locked the screen door, then called out to Ruth Ann on her way went back into the kitchen.
Ruth Ann came up beside Hessie as she washed dishes.
“I need you to do something for me,” Hessie whispered.
“What?”
“You know that dude Jimmy that comes around the alley at night? I need you to give him a job.”
“You mean that white boy you been hangin’ out wit? Why you messin’ with him?”
“He’s an ex-con, Ruth Ann. I just need you to do this for me.”
“What’s this about, Hessie? You know I don’t need no trouble with ex-cons ’round here.”
Hessie reached down, picked up another bucket of scraps and headed outside to the garbage cans. She could feel Ruth Ann behind her as she emptied the scrap bucket.
“He’s just someone to smoke with.” Hessie paused to light up a cigarette. “He likes
the music down there at the Alabam. He comes by and grabs a smoke off me.” Hessie sucked in a lungful, blowing out blue-grey smoke that floated up and circled around the single dim light bulb at the back door.
“Well you bess be careful. He don’t look too right ta me.”
Hessie drew on her cigarette and held in the smoke. “Ever notice how beautiful the sky is? Look at that moon.”
“Girl, you crazy, whatcho talkin’ about? The sky and the moon?” Ruth Ann walked down the steps and stood next to Hessie. The slight breeze felt nice. The kitchen inside was too hot, too small, and crammed in too many people. Ruth Ann seemed grateful to sneak away for a little break.
Hessie leaned against the wall, staring down at the cigarette in her hand. She was quiet for a long time. Absently she pulled at her left ear.
“We been tight a long time, right?” Ruth Ann said. “Let me ask you tho’. Why you always do that? Scratch at your ear like that?”
“You really want to know? Hessie hesitated. “It’s rough. Maybe you won’t want to like me no more after you hear the whole story.”
Ruth Ann lightly touched her shoulder. “Can’t nothing you say gonna worry me.”
“I was kidnapped and raped when I was fifteen. Left for dead.” Hessie was surprised at how easily the words tumbled out.
“Law’d…Merciful Jesus! You mean that girl they said was buried up in the hills? You mean that?”
“Yeah. But the grave wasn’t deep enough. I held my breath and kept still. Jimmy, that bastard I been seein’ in the alley, he’s the one that did it to me. Rolled me in a hole he dug and threw dirt on me. He thought I was dead.”
Ruth Ann and Hessie were quiet. Both leaned against the brick wall in the alley. It was a long time before Hessie spoke again.
“Junior got into some shit with Big Ed.”
“Junior? Your brother Junior?” Ruth Ann raised her brow, and then nodded her head. “That boy never been no good. Still no good to this day. I bet he owed somebody money, uh-huh. Sure as I’m standing, he owed somebody money, right? Boy always down on Waverly in one of them jukes gamblin’ away his paycheck and anybody else’s money he can get his hands on.”
Fatally Haunted Page 18
