Staring into the Darkness (Urban & Brazil Book 1)

by Tim Ellis

  ‘Interesting.’

  ‘Yes and no. He didn’t link any of the other clues to actresses in films.’

  ‘Maybe the clues aren’t just related to actresses in films.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I may have found two other clues, but it could also be wishful thinking on my part.’

  ‘Go on?’

  ‘The new red shoe could relate to the suspicious death of Thelma Todd on December 16, 1935.’ He told her about the circumstances surrounding the actresses’ death. Also, the car key could refer to the shooting of Courtney Dines and Mabel Normand’s limousine.’ He told her what had happened on New Year’s Day in 1924.

  ‘Mmmm! I was going to ask you what type of car key it was, but it’s all a bit . . .’

  ‘Tenuous?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Which is exactly what I thought, but I don’t think that the circumstances surrounding the clues are important in themselves, I think they’re simply pointing to the actresses. All three women who we’ve identified so far were silent movie stars.’

  ‘And you think the clues point to silent movie stars?’

  ‘That’s the way it’s looking.’

  ‘Why?’

  He shook his head. ‘I don’t know, but it was you who gave me the idea.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘You said that the killer would have his own rhyme and reason for what he was doing, that we might not understand what it was yet, but he’d have one. So, I began to think about things differently, which is when I started seeing connections between the clues and events surrounding silent movie actresses as I was going through the newspapers. As I said, I could be fitting round pegs into square holes for all I know. What do you think?’

  ‘It’s possible, isn’t it?’

  ‘How it helps us I have no idea.’

  ‘Well, let’s try to think like the killer.’

  ‘I imagine that would be difficult.’

  ‘Maybe, but we could try. And you have more experience of thinking about a killer’s motive than I do.’

  ‘This isn’t any kind of motive I understand, Katie. All the killers I’ve dealt with have murdered people for money, greed, jealousy, revenge, drugs and, of course, war. I have no insight into the mind of the person who’s killing these young women.’

  ‘Which is why I went to see Doctor Levitsky who put me on to Doctor Caplan. He understands how people think, and he specialises in people who kill.’

  ‘A strange occupation, if you ask me.’

  ‘Like being a murder detective, you mean?’

  ‘There’s probably some truth in what you say, but the way I see it is that the dead can’t seek justice for themselves, so I’m doing it for them.’

  ‘Which is what we’re doing for these women – my sister being one of them. Sometimes though, it doesn’t hurt to ask other people for help, especially if those people know more than you do. As you’ve said, you’re used to dealing with murders where there’s usually an obvious motive and the killer is one from a small pool of suspects. That’s not the case with these murders, is it? You and the other detectives are no longer the experts. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that your previous experience is an impediment. You’re having trouble thinking beyond the confines of what you know. These murders are different. If we’re going to bring him to justice, then we need to employ different methods.’

  ‘I’m not arguing with you. For one, I’m too tired to argue. And for two, there might be something in what you’re saying.’ He pushed himself up. ‘I just dropped by to tell you what I’d found. I’m not here to crawl into the mind of this killer, that’s not something I’m well enough to do. Maybe tomorrow evening we can discuss it more, but for now I need to lie down before I fall down.

  ‘All right, Erik. I’ll see you tomorrow at six o’clock.’ She didn’t see him to the door. Already, she was putting the new information on the pin board and thinking about the reasons why someone would kill young starlets and link them to silent movie stars.

  Chapter Ten

  She phoned Milton Luboviski at Larry Edmunds Bookshop. His wife Git answered the phone.

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘It’s Katie Brazil. I came this morning and asked Milton some questions about the movies.’

  ‘I remember. Dark hair, young and pretty?’

  ‘That’s right. Can I speak to him again, please?’

  ‘He’s with a customer at the moment. Can I get him to call you back?’

  ‘Of course. He has my number.’

  ‘Does he now?’

  ‘Yes, I gave it to him in case he remembered anything else.’

  ‘I see. He’ll call you soon.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She put the phone down.

  Git sounded jealous. She wondered why. Milton didn’t give the impression of being a ladies’ man. In fact, he wasn’t at all good looking.

  The phone jangled.

  ‘Katie Brazil.’

  ‘It’s Milton Luboviski.’

  ‘Thank you for calling me back.’

  ‘What can I do for you, Miss Brazil?’

  ‘I have some more news.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Remember I provided you with a the list of items that were left on the victims of the starlet killer?’

  ‘Yes, I remember. The dead rattlesnake, which might be linked to Cleopatra; a car key, but you didn’t know what type of car the key belonged to; a bottle of perfume; a needle and syringe; a new red shoe; a Chinese hair pin; a black velvet wrist bow; and a red and blue scarf.’

  ‘What would you say if I told you that the car key could represent Mabel Normand’s Stutz Bearcat limousine and the shooting of her lover – Courtney Dines – on New Year’s Day, 1924; and that the new red shoe might be connected to Thelma Todd’s suspicious death on December 16, 1935?’

  ‘I’d say those two facts were very interesting. The items left on the victims don’t just relate to films then?’

  ‘Probably not.’

  ‘And the three actresses you’ve mentioned are all silent movie stars?’

  ‘So it would appear.’

  ‘Mmmm!’

  The line went quiet.

  After a handful of seconds she said, ‘Are you still there, Milton?’

  ‘Yes, yes. I was thinking and trying to make connections. The needle and syringe could very well relate to Barbara La Marr who died on January 30, 1926. Rumours were rife that after being prescribed morphine for an injured ankle she became addicted to both morphine and heroine. How true that is, I don’t know.’

  ‘What about the other items? Can you think of any more connections?’

  ‘I’ll need to give it some thought. Can I call you tomorrow?’

  ‘I’m not going to be here tomorrow. What if I call you upon my return?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll be here. I’m always here. Running a bookshop doesn’t lend itself to trips out, or vacations. One always has to be here. Git makes sure I’m always here. So, I’ll be here. Call me any time.’

  ‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow, Milton. And thank you for your help.’

  ‘You’re welcome, Miss Brazil.’

  She hung up, walked over to the array of boards and added the details of Barbara La Marr’s death. It might not be related, but then again, it might be.

  If the connections were real, and they were what the killer had intended by leaving the items on the dead women, then it was likely that they’d worked out the meaning behind the clues. So far, they’d only deciphered half of them, but it was possible that they were on the right track. And it was probable that either Erik or Milton could work out the remaining four clues soon.

  If the items did refer to silent movie stars, then the next question to ask was why? What message was the killer trying to convey? Maybe Howard Caplan would be able to tell them that tomorrow night.

  She began making notes on the chalkboard. Why had the killer chosen those particular women? What had drawn him to H
ildegard Zinn? Or to Annie Brazil? Or to any of the other women for that matter? Were they simply random selections? Or was there some other reason? She listed the killer’s actions:

  Lured victim to the place they were murdered;

  Brutally raped and strangled them;

  Washed them;

  Applied make-up;

  Manicured their finger and toe nails;

  Coiffured each victim’s hair in a different style;

  Moved the body to a vehicle;

  Transported it to a municipal park;

  Placed a different item between their breasts;

  Left.

  Where were the women murdered? They were all hoping to be discovered, to become actresses, movie stars, famous. She imagined that they would probably have done anything to get noticed, to get their first film credit. Is that how the killer lured them to their deaths? The promise of a contract? A screen test? A reading? An audition? Fame? Fortune?

  She recalled Annie’s obsession with Hollywood, and the lives of the actresses and actors. Annie wanted desperately to be a part of it. Knowing father would never have allowed her to become an actress or to go to Hollywood, she’d run away from home. For Annie, it was an easy decision. She’d had no doubts that once the people who mattered saw her, they’d make her dreams come true. Well, there was a gossamer line between dreams and nightmares.

  If each victim did represent a silent movie star – why? What was it about silent movie stars that would make the killer now want to abduct women and do what he did to them? Was there someone in his past? Someone who had also been a silent movie star? A lover? A sister? His mother? But why beat and rape them? Why strangle them? And why did he keep doing it? Yes, there were patterns, but there still wasn’t a rhyme and reason for why he was doing what he was doing. On the one hand he was beating, raping and strangling them; and on the other he was washing them and making them look beautiful. It was a pattern of behaviour that she’d seen in children when she’d been teaching. Angry outbursts followed by bouts of tearful remorse. Did that explain the strange contradictory behaviour of the killer?

  She also wondered whether anyone really cared about identifying the murderer of these women. Yes, the police were obligated to investigate each murder, but those investigations were going nowhere. The studio bosses, directors, producers and leading actors simply didn’t seem to care. As far as they were concerned, there were plenty more where they came from. And eight was hardly any number at all. Deaths and scandals happened all the time in Hollywood, what was one more?

  ***

  ‘700 South Saint Andrews Plaza, Leimert Park,’ he said to the cabbie as he settled himself into the back seat for the journey.

  He was going on his first date in a hundred years, or that was how long it seemed. The only clothes he possessed were hand-me-downs from Ruby’s dead husband who was a size bigger than his emaciated frame. He was so thin that he had difficulty seeing himself in the bathroom mirror when he was naked and standing sideways.

  Well, he was supposedly on the mend. And he was feeling better with each passing day. As long as Marilyn Rackham didn’t ask him to take off his clothes for a physical inspection, he’d be able to pass as a replica of a human being. He hoped she wasn’t expecting more than a conversation, because he wasn’t ready for any of that yet. Maybe he should have declined her invitation, taken a rain check, or at least stipulated some boundaries. She was attractive, witty, had good conversational skills and seemed to have taken an interest in him, but he wasn’t in any position to promise her anything for the future. He had no money; his health was touch-and-go; he had no place to live that he could call his own; he had a bunch of oddballs helping him to solve a murder case; he only had a job by the skin of his teeth; and the future looked bleak. If he was being honest, he had no prospects at all. She’d have been better off choosing one of her other library members.

  He’d said he’d be there, and he was a man of his word. After his nap, he felt rejuvenated. But how long it would last was anybody’s guess. He was just as likely to fall asleep with his face in his meal, than to make it to the end of the night.

  The cab pulled up outside the apartment block.

  ‘That’ll be eight bucks, fella.’

  He gave the driver a ten and said, ‘Keep the change.’ He was being overly generous with money he didn’t possess.

  ‘Appreciate it.’

  Taking his time, he pushed himself onto the sidewalk and stood holding his walking stick until he’d got his bearings. Once he was sure of his equilibrium, he headed for the door.

  Thankfully, the elevator was working. He walked inside and pressed the button for the fourth floor.

  He knocked on apartment 4E and waited. There was an eye-viewer, which he saw flicker just before the door opened.

  ‘Hello, Erik,’ Mrs Rackham said.

  He hardly recognised her. She’d let her dark hair down and it touched her shoulders; she had on a hint of make-up with a cherry-coloured lipstick; she wore a white flower-patterned sleeveless summer dress with a v-shaped neckline that hinted at cleavage; and if he wasn’t mistaken, she was wearing silk stockings.

  ‘Hello, Marilyn. You look like a million dollars.’

  ‘Thank you, kind Sir,’ she said. ‘Come in.’

  He squeezed past her.

  She didn’t make it easy for him.

  ‘Can I take your jacket and walking stick?’

  ‘The jacket,’ he offered her. ‘I’ll hang onto the walking stick, if it’s all the same to you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He would like to have kept Shimon’s double-breasted suit jacket on over the yellowing oversized shirt, and the suspenders holding up the baggy trousers, but he shrugged out of it and passed it to her anyway. He’d have appeared stupid keeping it on when the apartment was warm and she was wearing a thin summer dress. They were having a meal together, not dining the King of Siam.

  ‘Excuse the clothes,’ he said, feeling the need to explain why he looked like a hobo. ‘While I was sick . . .’

  She interrupted him. ‘You look just fine. Take a seat. Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘A beer would be good.’

  ‘Blatz?’

  ‘Whatever you’ve got in.’

  ‘The meal will be ready in about fifteen minutes. Take a seat. I’ll get your beer.’

  He perched on the edge of the beige two-seater sofa and looked around the room. The walls were mostly an off-yellow, except for one wall that had been covered in a strange flower-patterned dark-brown wallpaper. The wooden furniture was a bright-green and the small dining table had been set for dinner with two tall candles. There were also two matching table lamps and two beige easy chairs either side of the sofa, and on top of a small bookcase he saw a photograph of a man in the uniform of an Army private with his hat set at a jaunty angle.

  Marilyn returned, handed him a glass of beer and sat down in one of the easy chairs. ‘I hope you’re feeling hungry?’

  He held out his arms to indicate his physique. ‘I’d be a fool to say no. Since my illness, I live in a perpetual state of hunger.’

  ‘I like a man who likes his food.’

  ‘You won’t get any complaints from me.’ He took a swallow of beer. It was nice and cold – just how he liked it. He indicated the photograph on the bookcase. ‘That Henry?’

  ‘Yes. It was taken the day before he left for England. To remember him by, he said. I think we both knew he wasn’t coming back.’

  He didn’t say anything. What was there to say? Henry Rackham didn’t come back. A shadow of Erik Urban had made it through, but he’d left pieces of himself all over the Pacific. What remained, was held together by a darkness he couldn’t seem to shake.

  Tears welled in his eyes and skittered down his face. He dabbed at them with the cuffs of his shirt. ‘Sorry.’

  She moved and sat next to him on the sofa, took a handkerchief from her cleavage and wiped his eyes. ‘You have no cause to apologise. All of us are gr
ateful for the sacrifice you made.’ She held his face in her hands and kissed him on the lips.

  He had no idea whether to respond in kind, or not. So he simply sat there and did nothing.

  ‘Dinner’s ready,’ she said.

  Saved by the food, he thought. ‘Is it all right if I wash my hands?’

  She pointed to a door off the hallway. ‘And then, sit down at the table and I’ll bring the food through.’ She went back into the kitchen.

  He put his glass of beer on the dining table and then went to the bathroom to wash his hands and face. In the mirror was a wraith of a man he barely recognised, but she didn’t seem to care that he was damaged goods. She obviously saw beyond the skin and bone to the man inside, or what was left of that man?

  The food was excellent. Marilyn was a good cook.

  He listened as she told him about her childhood in Thousand Oaks; about her love of books; and about her desire to be a writer of fiction one day.

  ‘Not much of a reader,’ he said. ‘Not that I don’t like reading, just never found the time.’

  ‘People who read for work, rarely read for pleasure,’ she said like the font of all knowledge.

  He nodded. ‘I suppose that’s true. I certainly do a lot of reading for work.’ In return for the story of her childhood, he told her about his own childhood in Borrego Springs, San Diego County; about Eva Moens and her strange disappearance; and about becoming Deputy Sherriff before joining the Marines.

  They moved to the sofa.

  She sat close to him.

  ‘And you settled here?’

  ‘I had no reason to go back to Borrego Springs, so I got off the train downtown and became a murder detective.’

  ‘And now here we are,’ she said, snuggling up to him. ‘Two lost souls paddling for all we’re worth and trying to keep our heads above the murky water of the fishbowl they call Hollywood.’

  ‘Here we are,’ he repeated. ‘Some are better paddlers that others, but ain’t that always the way of things?’

  ***