Front Page Fatale: The First Ida Bly Thriller

by Daniel Fox

  Bob went to the desk. The floor was quiet, almost completely empty. Nobody watching. He grabbed a pencil from Schuttman’s desk, laid it sideways, pencilled in the page on the pad. Schuttman had written in a heavy hand, the imprint came out clear. An address in the Skid Row area.

  Death and violence weren’t new occurrences on the Row. Bob looked around at the nearly empty detectives’ floor.

  What was so special about this death that it grabbed so much attention?

  CHAPTER 12

  Ida knew these houses. She’d been here, just yesterday. The empty houses in the vicinity of the supposed heavy gunfire.

  They weren’t empty now. Civilians had gathered. One or two reporters had already made the scene. There were already ten or so uniformed police here, being ineffective at holding back the crowd.

  Ida screeched into an open spot further down the street, wheels crunching on gutter garbage. No worries now about leaving her car outside the Row.

  Pencil.

  Notepad.

  Press credentials.

  Out of the car. She shoved and shouldered her way through the crowd, body odour everywhere, dirty bodies smearing her shoulders. The crowd got tighter at the far side, closer to the action. She threw herself too hard at the last line of civilians, stumbled through, windmilled her arms to keep from falling. She tripped on the curb anyway, crashed down, skinned her knees, the palms of her hands, and found herself face to face with the remains of violence.

  A woman’s body. Naked. Eviscerated. Lying in the scrub grass in an open lot between two of the sagging houses she had visited yesterday.

  The eyes were gone, the eyelids sagging in.

  The girl’s mouth was open. Her tongue removed.

  Breasts slashed.

  Her chest opened vertically. Things, parts, were missing.

  Ida scrambled to her feet, ran for the curb, vomited into the gutter, people in the front row of the crowd jumping back to avoid the splash.

  She felt like the dead body had coated her skin with something slick. She wiped at her watery eyes, angry at herself – she’d seen bodies before.

  But not like this. Never like this.

  A flask was held out in front of her. She looked up. A giant of a man, gut hanging over the waistline of his pants, a detective’s badge on the outside of his front jacket pocket, food stains speckling his shirt.

  He shook the flask. “Go on.”

  She took the flask, opened it, took a pull. She let the whisky burn her mouth clean before she swallowed it.

  “Don’t be too hard on yourself, some of my guys had the same reaction.”

  More reporters were at the scene, right in the scene, trampling the ground. Two of them bent to turn the body over.

  The giant turned, bellowing at them: “Hey! I’ll break your arms you stupid humps!” He charged off after them, scattering them.

  Ida got to her feet. She felt weak, like she had a bad flu. To hell with it, let some other reporter cover it. She wobbled her way back down the street toward her car.

  She heard a scuffling from between two of the small empty warehouses on her right. The great and mighty Bob Tree was in one of the alleys, his hands on his knees. Even the war hero had been brought down by the girl’s body.

  She shook the flask, there was still some whisky left. She hoped he would drink it in silence, she didn’t want to talk to the guy. She started towards him, saw his shoulders heaving. Maybe he was puking his guts out too. The thought made her feel a bit better.

  He turned a bit so light hit his face. He wasn’t throwing up. He wasn’t crying.

  Bob Tree was laughing.

  He was bent over, he was laughing so hard. Tears running down his face. He saw her, still couldn’t stop laughing.

  Ida stopped. Backed up out of the mouth of the alley. Somehow this image, the sound of Bob laughing, seemed to amplify the horror from the crime scene down the street. Boost its signal.

  He raised a hand, took a step towards her. Ida spun and ran for her car.

  CHAPTER 13

  Ida in Clifford’s office, seated on the couch at the back, her hands around a mug of tea. Staring at the floor, still white.

  “I haven’t ever seen you like this.” Silence. “Ida?”

  She looked up, was about to reply, but flinched back, eyes wide, as Bob knocked and entered, sounds from the floor coming in loud, everyone in a rampage over the severity of the girl’s body. Bob closed the door behind him. Memories of him laughing, sick with hilarity, at the girl’s mangled body hit her hard.

  Bob stopped in his tracks, seeing her. Bad eye contact between them. Had she told Clifford what she saw?

  Clifford was oblivious of the moment. “Perfect timing. I was about to light a cross for you.”

  Bob turned to Clifford. “That missing detective, I think there’s something there.”

  Clifford waved a hand. “Back-burner stuff now. From Bly’s expression that girl in the lot was the stuff of nightmares.”

  “She was.”

  “Beautiful. I mean, not beautiful, but interesting. It’s gonna sell, for sure. It’s been, what, two hours since they found her? I’ve already had to call people in to man the phones with all the tips coming in.”

  “I hear you.” Bob shuffled closer to the desk, almost sheepish. “Thing is, I think Wally Clemp might have some legs too.”

  Clifford looked up. “Who?”

  “The missing homicide det-”

  “Oh, yeah, yeah. That’s not going to be nearly as hot as the girl.”

  “Thing is, he came into some money just before he went missing. I’ve got this feeling maybe it was a lot of money.”

  “Sure, sure. I don’t suppose either of you got a good picture of the girl?”

  Bob: “Listen, Cliffy, I’m saying this might turn out to be as big as the girl. You wanted this to be the paper that kept the city on its toes. A homicide dick suddenly throwing big cash around could play into that.”

  “It’s not a leading-”

  “Two big stories at the same time. I got the feeling we’re the only paper that’s got teeth in the Clemp story. We’ll run the other papers out of town.”

  “Bobby, please. There’s no way a dirty cop jumps higher than a girl that got herself torn apart. That’s our main story, you’re my main guy, I want you to take the lead on-”

  “No.” Ida put the mug down, stood up. Stepped forward. “This story is mine.”

  Cliffy: “I know you’ve had a shock but-”

  “I’m your main guy.” She nodded her head at Bob. “He...” She could feel Bob staring at her. A guy laughing at the annihilation of a young woman, how would he react to getting ratted out? Finally: “He doesn’t want it.”

  “Sure he does.”

  “No. It’s mine.”

  “How many times do we gotta go through this? Nothing is yours unless I give it to you.”

  “I’m the better reporter.”

  “You’re the suspended reporter.”

  Ida jerked a thumb at Bob. “And he’s not a reporter at all. Whatever hot-shit ink-spiller he was before the war I don’t care. Now he’s just a gimmick. A mascot. A bulldog in a littler sweater running around with the paper’s logo on his back.”

  She turned, went for the door.

  Clifford called after her. “Did I say you could leave?”

  She kept walking.

  Clifford, louder: “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “To work my murder story.”

  “It’s not your-”

  Ida opened the door, turned back. “It is. If you don’t want to print it, fine and dandy. Someone else will. The thing about Los Angeles, this town is lousy with newspapers.”

  Out the door and gone before Clifford could yell his reply.

  CHAPTER 14

  They came in droves.

  Reporters, of course.

  The folks that lived here in the Row, naturally.

  And as news spread, people who wouldn’t otherwise
be caught dead in Skid Row started to show up as well. Society people. Upper crust. Mixing in the crowd with people who hadn’t properly bathed in a couple of weeks, muttering to themselves, hop-heads cheek-to-jowl with debutantes.

  It took the better part of two hours to get them all pushed back to the far side of the street and sawhorses set up to block off the scene. The damage was done by then though – the crime scene was trampled, trash added to the already cluttered gutters, even new fingerprints on the body from where those idiot reporters were trying to turn the girl over to see if the damage on her back side was as bad as the front.

  Uniforms were posted along the sawhorse barricades. That was about as far as George had gotten with his scene command.

  “Gather up. Gather up. Come on!” He waved his hands at the other milling uniforms. Some looked his way, three or four gathered, the rest shifted here and there, needlessly joining the barricade, some even jawing with the reporters behind the sawhorses even though George had expressly told them not to.

  “You!” He pointed at two uniforms accomplishing absolutely nothing, just standing there over the body, looking down on it. They looked over, saw George waving them over, looked back down at the body again. One of them pulled off his jacket and laid it over the girl’s nudity, crossed himself.

  He could feel it. The anger firing up in his gut. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Beating hell out of a bunch of L.A.P.D. officers. Good press. Might even be the top story, beating out the dead girl.

  “I said get over here! Now!”

  Angry George wasn’t a pretty sight. More uniforms shrugged and wandered over, like they were doing him a fucking favour. Some stayed put, clearly not impressed.

  He could feel his temples throbbing. The only thing keeping George from grabbing the rest of the uniforms by the scruff of their goddamned necks was all the reporters ringing the barricade.

  Then he saw one of the officers, over by the body, nod his head in George’s direction. O’Sullivan, something like that, some potato-eater last name. He said something to the other officers, they laughed, George as lead detective obviously the punchline.

  George red-lined. He started forward, shouldering through the uniforms he had managed to collect.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw the officers assigned to the barricade step to the side. A.C. Pointe stepped through. It was enough to bring George to a lumbering halt. The anger was still there behind his eyes, but he didn’t want the one member of the brass, hell, the one member of the force, who treated him like a real detective seeing him swinging like an ape.

  Pointe stood next to George then waved his arms, all the free officers huddled in, just like that.

  “Sergeant Schuttman, bring me up to date.”

  “Yes sir. Body was found at approximately eight thirty this morning by a local lady out collecting empty bottles. The scene has been heavily contaminated.”

  “Does this contamination include the poor girl’s body?”

  “Yes sir. It took from then until now to establish the perimeter. It’s been slow-going sir.”

  “I appreciate your candor, Sergeant. That’s all?”

  “Yes sir. I was just about to issue canvassing orders and set up a search for the weapon.”

  “Good, good.” Pointe looked at the officers surrounding them. “As you can imagine, a crime of...” He looked over at the girl’s covered body. “Of such a heinous nature has garnered its fair share of attention. I’ve been told that radio programs have been interrupted with the news. I would imagine papers are considering rushing out special editions. I can personally attest that the Mayor’s office has taken an interest in the case. As have I and Chief Horrall. While the circumstances are barbaric, this is an opportunity for the Los Angeles Police Department to show its determination and intelligence. And we will do just that. The Chief is set to hold a press conference within the half hour in which he will announce that justice for that girl will be swift and sure. Sergeant Schuttman has my utmost confidence that he will prove the accuracy of the Chief’s words.”

  Eyes shifted to George. They didn’t hold the same confidence as those of the Assistant Chief.

  “To that end, Sergeant Schuttman is about to shout ‘Jump!’ to which I am sure you will all ring out with ‘How high?’. I will accept no less. The L.A.P.D. demands it.” He pointed at the body. “And that girl begs us for it. Sergeant, all yours.”

  Pointe wheeled away, made for the reporters.

  Everyone watched him.

  Be a goddamned detective.

  George issued orders. Split the men. Group A responsible for a grid search for evidence, obviously the weapon was the priority.

  Group B – interview people in the crowd. Be on the lookout for men with a hard-on for the corpse – the killer might still be here getting off on the awe he’d created.

  Group C – door-to-door interviews. Including tents and lean-tos.

  A bulletin board would be set up back at H.Q. with the most promising leads and future assignments. Tip lines would be set up. They’d get all the nuts and attention whores calling in claiming the moon made them do it – they’d check them out anyway.

  He clapped his hands. Sent them off. Maybe he’d forgotten something, but the uniforms would be so busy over the next couple of days that they wouldn’t have time to realize it. He felt pretty good about the way he’d handled the briefing.

  Forty minutes later he was getting in early reports from crowd canvassing, overheard the Irish officer saying there was no way this case was getting solved with Sergeant Dimwit holding the lead spot. Daddy had to come in to get anyone to play nice with the borderline-retarded goon. And why was A.C. Pointe giving a case like this to the resident gorilla anyway?

  CHAPTER 15

  Ida got back to the Row after noon, parked nearby. Just in time to see the crowds part to let an ambulance through – the girl was on her way to the Medical Examiner.

  It was still a morbid fiesta – people of all walks gathered together, breathing heavy as they all came up with their own theories about what had happened to the girl to leave her in such a state. A few sounded off with the idea that she had been alive when all that damage was done to her. From the excitement in their voices they sounded like the idea got their motors running.

  She entered the fray. She raced other reporters and danced around beat cops to get interviews. An hour in she stopped taking notes; all she was getting were speculations and torture fantasies, no facts. Nothing printable. Nothing front page.

  The last guy she talked to was obviously a Row local, wearing a winter jacket in June with grime caked into its creases. Grime caked under his fingernails. Grime in the lines on his face. He could have been twenty-two, could have been fifty, she couldn’t tell.

  He was eager, pushed his way to her, it was taking too long for the cops to take down his story. “Lady! Lady! You’re news, yeah?”

  “L.A. Clarion, that’s right.”

  “I think I’ve got something for you. Sure do.”

  “Is your something a guess or an actual fact?”

  “Fact, you bet.”

  “Alright, lay it on me.”

  His eyes locked onto the tip of her pencil as she hovered it over her notepad. “I live here.”

  “Yeah? Where? Be specific.”

  He pointed a finger across the street at one of the small abandoned warehouses. “Close enough to spit, yeah?”

  “Close indeed. You saw something?”

  “People.”

  “More than one?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How many?”

  “Three, maybe four. They weren’t all together at once.”

  She nodded with her head, motioning for the guy to step away with her from the noise of the scrum. “This was last night?”

  “Oh no, this was during the raid, yeah?”

  Ida pulled her pencil away from her notepad. “Thanks for your time.”

  She turned away and started back towards the crowd, lo
oking for a likely face.

  The guy followed.

  “They had guns.”

  “She wasn’t shot.”

  “It was during the raid.”

  “She was too fresh to have died that long ago. I know. I nearly did a nose dive into her spleen.”

  She stopped in her tracks, the warehouse guy almost plowing into her back.

  Bob was there, at the edge of the crowd, looking like he wasn’t thrilled with the idea of diving in. He turned his head. Saw her. Took a step in her direction.

  Ida turned and marched away, willing Bob to not follow her. She’d had her fill of odious men dogging her heels.

  ***

  Bob tried the fringes of the crowd – got nothing but speculation. Being Bob Tree earned him some looks and handshakes and pats on the back but got him bupkis in terms of actual information. His stomach turned as he watched the people stare at the spot where the body was found. They made him think of some sea creature, some bottom-dwelling plants or tube-worms, all stupidly fixed, waving as one, ready for some morbid bit of information to be cast their way by the current, aching to ingest the girl’s suffering.

  He broke off and returned to his car. Leaned against it, hands on knees, eyes closed, trying to take deep cleansing breaths, but the street smelled of garbage, it left an oil-slick feeling in his throat, coating his lungs.

  He yanked open his car door, tumbled in, sped out of the Row.

  The big detective in charge, Sergeant Schuttman, wasn’t at the scene anymore. Bob guessed he was back at H.Q. Bob’s famous face could probably get him more bang for the buck there. He drove under the speed limit, took his time finding a decent parking space.

  The detective’s floor was a scrum. Detectives and uniforms alike were spending more time chasing reporters away from their desks and away from Schuttman than they were doing something about the dead girl. Bob might get to Schuttman, might even get some info, but all the other reporters would hear it and then it was bye-bye exclusive, so long scoop.

  He spotted Cliffy’s inside man, went over, nodded him aside to a quiet corner.