Staring into the Darkness (Urban & Brazil Book 1)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘I’ll have the New York sirloin steak with Béarnaise sauce, please.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘The lobster thermidor for me, Antoine.’

  ‘Of course, Doctor Caplan.’

  ‘They know your name?’ Katie said once the waiter had left.

  He smiled. ‘Antoine does, at least. So, what’s all this about, Miss Brazil?’

  ‘Katie.’

  ‘A lovely name.’

  She ignored his flattery. ‘I’ve come to Los Angeles to find my sister’s killer.’

  ‘Is that not the job of the police?’

  ‘That’s what I thought, but they’ve not been doing a very good job.’

  ‘And they need your help?’

  He was being facetious. Under normal circumstances she would have reproached him for it, but she needed his help. ‘It’s been nearly two years since he killed Hildegard Zinn. Since then, he’s killed seven more starlets. My sister – Annie – was number seven. The police are no further forward than they were in February 1946. So yes, they need my help, and I need your help. Are you prepared to give me your help, Doctor Caplan?’

  ‘Of course. What do you want to know?’

  ‘The type of man I’m looking for. Doctor Levitsky led me to believe that you can derive a killer’s likely personality characteristics from the way in which he committed the crime, and thereby help me to identify him.’

  ‘I’m still testing my hypothesis, but so far I’m pleased with the results.’

  ‘Have you actually field-tested your hypothesis?’

  ‘No, I don’t think we’re at that stage yet.’

  ‘I’m not the police, Doctor Caplan . . .’

  ‘Howard.’

  ‘You’ll either be right or wrong. If you’re right, it might help me to get closer to identifying the killer, bringing him to justice and stop him killing any further young women. If you’re wrong, then there’s no harm done.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘If your description makes a positive contribution to identifying the killer, then you could write an academic paper for one of the criminalistics journals.’

  He rubbed his chin between the thumb and forefinger of his left hand. ‘Mmmm! I could, couldn’t I?’

  ‘We could.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You’re not the only one with a degree. I have a Bachelor’s degree in History from Minnesota State University Moorhead.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  ‘There are very few women with degrees.’

  ‘And whose fault is that?’

  ‘Ah! I walked right into that, didn’t I?’

  ‘You certainly did. Men have a lot to answer for. So, if there’s an academic paper to be written, then I expect to co-author it. I’ll let you put your name first.’

  ‘I’m overwhelmed.’

  ‘Think of it as a small but significant reparation for injustices done to American women. Not only that, I have access to all the information on the murders, which I’m prepared to share with you.’

  ‘I could simply ask the police for that information.’

  ‘They wouldn’t give it to you.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I’d tell them not to.’

  ‘How could you possibly do that?’

  ‘All you need to know is that I can. Now, are you prepared to help me?’

  ‘And my assistance includes agreeing to let you co-author an academic paper on the field testing of my hypothesis?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’d become a laughing stock in academia. You know nothing about psychology or criminalistics.’

  ‘You’d become a trailblazer.’

  ‘Mmmm! I would, wouldn’t I? All right, but my name goes first?’

  ‘Of course.’

  The waiter brought their food. ‘Bon appetite.’

  Howard spoke while they were eating. ‘The first person who described a killer from their behaviour was actually a police surgeon in England called Thomas Bond. He was asked to provide his opinion on the extent of Jack the Ripper’s surgical skill and knowledge . . . He butchered at least five women in the district of Whitechapel in London, England in 1888.’

  ‘I’m a historian, Howard. I know all about the Whitechapel murders.’

  ‘My apologies. Bond’s opinion was based on his examination of the most extensively mutilated victim and the autopsy reports from the other four murders. In his notes, he mentioned the sexual nature of the murders, which was coupled with aspects of misogyny and rage. He stated that the murderer must have been a man of physical strength with great coolness and daring, and subject to periodic attacks of homicidal and erotic mania. He also suggested that the man may have had Satyriasis, which is an uncontrollable or excessive sexual desire . . . I’m not putting you off your lunch, am I?’

  ‘Not all women swoon at the sight of blood or sex.’

  ‘No. Anyway, in 1912, a psychologist in Lackawanna, New York delivered a lecture in which he analysed the unknown murderer of a local boy, who the press had called “The Postcard Killer”. Then, in 1932, a New York psychiatrist, Doctor Dudley Schoenfeld was asked to provide clues as to the identity of the man who had kidnapped the Lindbergh baby. Also, something that isn’t widely known, is that in 1943, psychoanalyst Walter Langer hypothesised what Adolf Hitler might do in various situations based on his previous behaviour. So, you can see, there are some precedents underlying my hypothesis.’

  ‘Yes, I can see how you might think that a killer’s personality could be predicted from his behaviour at a crime scene, but surely it’s an oversimplification, isn’t it? Human beings aren’t robots, they have free will.’

  ‘Suddenly you’re an expert in human behaviour?’

  She laughed. ‘Don’t go building walls between us, Howard. I am, after all, your co-author.’

  His face reddened. ‘Yes, I’ve been known to get overly defensive if people criticise my work.’

  ‘Which is not an endearing trait. Nor, I might add, an adult response to an attempt at reasoned critique.’

  ‘Consider me chastised.’

  ‘All I’m saying, is that human beings are complex. I’m sure it’s not as simple as, “if they did that, then this is what it means.” There must be a lot of intervening variables.’

  ‘Oh, there are . . .’

  She glanced at her wrist watch. ‘We’re running out of time. So, I’ll describe what the killer does, and you tell me the type of person he is?’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Is that not how it works?’

  ‘No. I’ll need time to consider my response, and refer to my notes and textbooks.’

  ‘Time! How much time?’

  ‘At least a week, maybe more.’

  ‘You have until Friday at six o’clock. Come to my apartment – 5F George Washington Heights on Arlington Avenue in Old Town Torrance – and I’ll introduce you to the other people who are helping me.’

  ’But . . . That’s only two days away.’

  ‘Are you saying you can’t do it in two days?’

  ‘Well no, but . . .’

  ‘If the police called you in to help them catch a killer, do you think they’d be happy about you saying you needed at least a week, maybe more, before you could give them anything?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘Think of the time restraint as part of the field test. We’ll include it in the academic paper.’

  He nodded slowly. ‘Yes, we could do that.’

  ‘Two heads are generally better than one.’

  While she described the killer’s behaviour, Howard made notes in a spidery scrawl with a black Montblanc fountain pen in a small notebook that he kept in the inside pocket of his jacket.

  She told him how the killer brutally raped and strangled the starlets; how he washed the body; coiffured the hair in different styles; manicured the finger and toe nails; applied make-up; dumped their naked bodies in municipal park
s in the middle of the night; and left items between their breasts. She described the items . . . ‘I have photographs of each item at my apartment.’

  ‘I’m curious about how you’ve managed to become involved in a police investigation.’

  ‘Another reason to come to my apartment on Friday evening.’

  ‘What does “brutally raped and strangled” mean exactly?’

  ‘The autopsy reports identify bruising on the necks, upper arms, abdomen, inner thighs and genital area, which suggests they were beaten into submission. The medical examiner states that the contusions occurred before death and postulates that the women were probably strangled during sex.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Do you think so?’

  ‘From the perspective of a criminalistics lecturer only.’

  Just then, a man appeared at the end of the table and addressed her specifically. ‘Excuse me for bothering you Miss, but are you represented by an agency?’

  ‘Represented! Why?’

  ‘Surely, someone as beautiful as you must already be an actress?

  She batted her eyelids. ‘No.’

  ‘No!’ As if he was practising sleight-of-hand, a business card appeared between his fingers. ‘Let me give you my card. Should you change your mind, which I strongly urge you to do, please call me, Miss . . .?’

  ‘Brazil . . . Katie Brazil.’

  He smiled like a used-car salesman. ‘A name to conjure up costumes and carnivals. I have casting directors eagerly awaiting to snap you up, Katie Brazil.’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  Sam Rich

  Agent to the Stars

  Rich Talent Agency

  2031 Wilshire Boulevard

  Hollywood

  (408) 995-1010

  She looked at the card and slid it into her handbag. The seed of an idea began to germinate in her mind. ‘If I do have a change of heart, you’ll be the first person I call, Mister Rich.’

  ‘That’s all anybody could ask for. Enjoy the rest of your lunch. Sorry to have bothered you.’ He wandered off.

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ Howard said.

  ‘I won’t. I’m not here to pursue an acting career. That’s why my sister came to Hollywood and look what happened to her.’

  ‘Sam Rich is not his real name either – it’s Barney Cornthwaite. And the Rich Agency is not one of the better agencies in town.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind. Can you make Friday at six o’clock then?’

  ‘I suppose I have no choice, do I?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Sam Rich is right though.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘You are beautiful. If you wanted to be an actress, I think you could simply walk right in off the street and get the part of a leading lady in a film without too much difficulty.’

  ‘Instead of co-authoring an academic paper on the link between personality characteristics and crime scene behaviour, you mean?’

  ‘No, that wasn’t what I meant . . .’

  ‘Of course you didn’t. You men are all the same. You just want to keep women in their place, because you believe it’s the natural order of things. And what’s worse, you don’t even know you’re doing it.’

  ‘The Nineteenth Amendment to the Constitution gave women the vote in 1920, you know.’

  ‘And you think that was the end of the fight?’

  ‘I guess you don’t?’

  ‘Not by any means. It was simply one injustice in a catalogue of injustices.’

  ‘I’m not going to win this argument, am I?’

  ‘No.’

  They finished lunch, Howard settled the bill and he escorted her outside.

  ‘Do you have everything you need?’ she asked him.

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Let me give you my telephone number in case you have any other questions.’

  He took out his notebook, wrote down the number and opened the door of a waiting cab for her. ‘I’ll see you at six o’clock on Friday evening at your apartment then, Katie.’

  ‘With a description of the personality characteristics of the killer?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ***

  There was soft knock and the door opened.

  Ruby came in. ‘Ready for some food? I’ve cooked a fine ham and pea soup with thick crusts of bread for dipping.’

  ‘Makes an invalid want to get out of bed.’ He threw the covers back and swung his legs over the side. ‘I’ll just get dressed, wash my hands and face, and I’ll be right there.’

  ‘Right you are, Detective.’

  ‘In your apartment I’m Erik, Ruby.’

  ‘Right you are, Erik.’ She shut the door.

  He sat on the side of the bed for a handful of seconds while his head got its bearings. It was hard adjusting to weakness. He’d always been strong, especially in the Marines – it was expected. Now, he could barely lift cutlery to eat his food. Thanks to Katie, Martha and Ruby he was on the mend. A week ago, he’d been closer to death than he was to life. They’d pulled him back from the abyss, stopped him falling. He wondered whether he’d crawled to the abyss on purpose, or whether it really was a sickness of his mind.

  After he’d dressed and washed, he made his way into the kitchen to find Katie there as well.

  ‘Katie’s joining us, if that’s all right with you, D . . . Erik?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’ He sat down. Already he was out of breath. ‘How was your day?’

  ‘Interesting. And yours?’

  ‘The same.’ He swallowed a spoonful of soup. It was as thick and lumpy as it was meant to be. ‘You should open your own restaurant, Ruby,’ he said, tearing a piece of bread in half like a circus strongman.

  Ruby’s face reddened. ‘Where they ate my ham and pea soup for every meal?’

  ‘People could do a lot worse.’

  ‘It’s lovely, Ruby,’ Katie agreed.

  ‘I saw something interesting at the library today,’ Erik said.

  Katie licked the green soup off her top lip. ‘Oh?’

  ‘A silent film star called Theda Bara, which is not her real name – it’s an anagram of Arab Death, apparently – starred as Cleopatra in a film in 1917. The interesting part was that she wore a metal coiled snake brassiere, which wasn’t very successful in covering her breasts, I might add. Also, if I recall correctly, Cleopatra was killed by snakes.’

  Ruby shook her head. ‘Disgusting – that’s what it is. I don’t know how they get away with it. A woman’s private parts should remain private. Nobody but my Shimon saw my private parts, and that was only in the dark with his eyes closed. May he rest in peace.’

  Katie said, ‘Times are changing, Ruby.’

  ‘And not for the better if you ask me, but nobody ever will.’

  Erik continued. ‘I thought about what you’d said about the killer having his own rhyme and reason for what he was doing, and that maybe Hildegard Zinn was made up to represent Theda Bara or Cleopatra, and the dead rattlesnake was the clue to that connection.’

  Katie’s eyes opened wide and the spoon stopped midway between the dish and her mouth. ‘That is interesting, Erik. It’s certainly an idea that we hadn’t thought of before. I have time tomorrow. I’ll have to check out whether any of the other items might represent other actresses.’

  ‘What about you?’

  ‘I went to see Doctor Levitsky at the County Poor Farm as Eliza had suggested, and he put me in contact with a criminalistics lecturer at the university called Doctor Howard Caplan who is testing a hypothesis that the personality characteristics of a killer can be inferred from his behaviour at a crime scene.’

  Erik nodded. ‘I can see how that might work. Everything we do says something about who we are?’

  ‘Yes. You working yourself to exhaustion to find the killer of these girls says something about who you are as a person.’

  ‘And you coming all this way from Minnesota to find your sister’s killer and moving into my apartment says something about
who you are as well, doesn’t it?’

  Katie smiled. ‘Exactly.’

  Ruby chuckled.

  ‘Doctor Caplan agreed to come to my apartment on Friday evening to provide us with a description of who we might be looking for.’

  ‘A psychological description, not a physical one?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Which probably won’t be of much help.’

  ‘Small stepping stones, Erik. A psychological description is a lot more than we have now. And by “we”, I mean the police. Of which you’re a part. I’m not doing this for me, I’m doing it for my sister Annie. I don’t expect any thankyous, fanfares or parades. You’ll be the detective who’ll solve these murders and get all the accolades. I’m merely a woman who has no business dabbling in police affairs when I should be in the home making babies and looking after my husband.’

  Ruby stopped eating her soup and stared at him. ‘Well, what have you got to say for yourself, Detective?’

  He bowed his head. ‘I’m a sick man.’

  ‘Isn’t that true of all men?’ Katie said.

  Chapter Eight

  Thursday, January 22, 1948

  She wore more sensible clothes – a pair of black swing trousers that matched her black hair, a white pleated blouse, a pair of black low-heel pumps and a red pearl jacket. She thought about wearing her red matching hat, but she wasn’t a hat person – never had been. She’d always found them uncomfortable and they made her head itch.

  Outside the apartment block she hailed a cab.

  ‘Where to lady?’

  ‘Sunset Boulevard.’

  ‘Any place in particular? Sunset Boulevard stretches from the Sea of Cortez to Chinatown.’

  ‘Where the shops are.’

  ‘Ah! You want the Strip. I’ll drop you at Sunset Plaza. You can go from there.’ He pulled out into the traffic.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Buying anything special?’

  ‘I’m looking for places that deal in 1920s Hollywood memorabilia.’

  ‘Ah! Why didn’t you say so? There’s a couple of places I know, but they’re on Hollywood Boulevard, which is called “Bookseller’s Row”, but there’s a lot more there than bookshops. It’s only one block up from the Strip. There’s Larry Edmunds Bookshop and Hollywood Movie Posters. My advice is to start there, and if you don’t find what you’re looking for, I’m sure they’ll point you in the right direction.’