Worms of anxiety began to gnaw at me. I hadn’t read the whole autopsy report, I had been out the door as soon as Bones told us we had a homicide on our hands. Riker couldn’t have gotten that detail from the newspaper. The story had only quoted the paragraph from the report that pertained specifically to the fact that she was murdered.
“Anybody could have read that report and phoned you,” I said.
“I didn’t even see the paper until I got up this morning. It doesn’t even hit town here until 4:00 a.m. And there’s nothing in it except the information about water in her lungs and the radio causing it to look like an accident.”
“Your lawyer called you this morning. He could have gotten a copy of that report with a phone call, called you up, and read it to you.”
“Wrong again; I called him first, when I read the Times. He called me back the same as you, in no time flat.”
I thought about what he was telling me. It made a kind of terrible sense. Someone paid to have Wilma’s nose fixed to make her harder to recognize. Then she laid low for a while. Then someone arranged to get her a job in the tax office. Someone with clout.
Someone like Culhane.
“I considered the possibility that she wasn’t dead,” Riker said. “I always figured it was Eddie Woods who set me up on Culhane’s orders. But what could I do? I’m in the can for life. Then I saw the picture this morning and read the story and I knew it wasn’t Lila. So there it was. Verna Hicks was Wilma. I figure the little twist wanted to up the ante on Culhane since he’s running for governor. And if he got elected, she’d probably jack it up again. So Woods did the job for good this time.”
“Pure guesswork,” I said bitterly. “You think you can con everybody into thinking Wilma Thompson’s been alive for the last twenty years, something nobody can prove.”
His lips curled into a sneer.
“Just another lousy cop,” he snarled. “You don’t want to know what really happened. You have any idea what it’s like to live in a cage? The worst part about it is you have no options. You get up at the same time every day, shower at the same time, eat three lousy meals at the same time, and go to bed at the same time. One day is just like the next. You know it will never change for the rest of your life. And worst of all, you know you’re innocent. Well, now it will change. I can change it because now I can prove I was framed. The dentist who did Wilma’s bridgework still lives in San Pietro. His name is Wayne Tyler. I’ll bet he’s still got all the charts and pictures he took when he was working on her. If you’re such a good cop, you’ll go get it. And the coroner can see if I’m telling the truth.”
His smile was an evil leer.
“You know what I like best about all this?” Riker threw his head back, laughed, and smacked his hands together. “The thing I like best is that you, the hotshot L.A. detective who’s been sucking up to Culhane, are going to get me sprung, prove that son of a bitch framed me, and end his run for governor. Who else but Culhane would be paying her five hundred a month to disappear?”
I made a fist and dug my fingernails into my palms to keep from doing something stupid.
“You know something, Riker?” I said, standing up. “The thought of scum like you having one day on the outside turns my stomach.”
“You’d better get busy,” he snapped. “My lawyer’s already on the case. It won’t look too good if he calls a press conference and tells all those newsies who Verna Wilensky was, especially if you knew all about it and didn’t do a goddamn thing.”
I took the ashtray but left the pack of cigarettes in front of him.
“You forgot your butts,” he said.
“They’re not my brand,” I said, rapping on the door.
Behind me, I heard him chuckling. “Thanks a lot, Sergeant. If you’re half as good as you think you are, I’ll be outside the walls suing everybody in sight before I need another pack.”
CHAPTER 32
I stopped at the first pay phone I saw when I left Wesco and dialed the general operator in San Pietro. When I asked for Dr. Tyler’s number, she informed me that he did not work on weekends.
“May I have his home number then?” I asked.
Pause.
“Is this an emergency?” she asked haughtily.
“Oh yes,” I said.
“What’s the name?”
I hesitated for a moment before I said, “Wilma Thompson. She can’t come to the phone right now.”
“Why not, is she in some distress?” the operator asked.
“Distress? Yes, definitely.”
“I’ll see if he’s available. What’s your number?”
“Can I hold?” I said. “I’m at a pay phone.”
“Well . . . alright.”
There was a long pause and then a man answered.
“Who is this anyway?” he said. He sounded younger than I imagined. And very annoyed.
“Dr. Tyler?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you but the operator was being overly protective. My name is Bannon, sir, I’m with the Los Angeles police.”
“What’s this about Wilma Thompson?”
“You were her dentist, weren’t you?”
Long pause again.
“Why do you ask?”
“I don’t mean to be impertinent, but you don’t sound old enough. Perhaps I’m looking for your father.”
“My father doesn’t practice here any longer.”
“He may be able to help me in an investigation I’m working on,” I said. “It’s urgent that I talk to him. May I have his number?”
“How do I know you’re with the police?” he asked.
“Look, Doctor, I’ll make this easy. Will you have your father call central homicide in L.A.?” I gave him the number. “Tell him he can call and leave his number with the desk man and I’ll get back to him as soon as possible. My name is Bannon.” I spelled it for him.
I hung up before he could argue with me and invested another half dollar on a call to the desk. The day man was Pete Craig.
“Pete, this is Zeke Bannon.”
“Yes, sir, Sergeant.”
I told him I was expecting a call from a Dr. Tyler and he should confirm that I was a police detective, then get his number and address.
“Okay,” he said. “That was a helluva story this morning, Sarge.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I should be in radio range in about forty-five minutes. I’ll contact you then.”
“Right, sir.”
I hung up and headed down 101 toward the city. At 2:00 p.m. I was crossing the mountains into Santa Clarita and I raised Craig on the radio.
“Any luck?” I asked.
“Yes, sir. Dr. Tyler left the information. He lives in Santa Monica, off California on Seventh Street, just west of Lincoln Park.” He gave me Tyler’s phone number.
“Good work,” I said. “I’m heading there now.”
“Sergeant, Lieutenant Moriarity is looking for you big-time.”
“Is he there now?”
“No, sir. I’ll have him call you on the radio as soon as he gets back.”
“Thanks. Ten-four.”
By now, Moriarity probably had an APB out on me. I wanted to have as much evidence in hand as possible when he did reach me. I envisioned a hard time in his hot seat.
I headed straight for Dr. Tyler’s house instead of calling first, figuring a little charm and my ID would be harder to turn down than an impersonal phone call. Another thirty minutes and I was looking at street numbers. The house was a modest two-story stucco with a coral tiled roof and a flawless front lawn. The Saturday paper was on the front steps. I picked it up and rang the doorbell. A pretty woman in her late fifties opened the door.
“Hi,” I said cheerily, handing her the paper and showing her my best smile along with my credentials. “My name’s Bannon, L.A.P.D. Is Dr. Tyler in?”
“So you’re the mysterious Sergeant Bannon,” she said with a smile.
“Mysterious?”
“My son called us,” she said, stepping back and holding the door open for me. “He tends to be a little melodramatic, although I must say, invoking Wilma Thompson’s name raised my eyebrows. I’m Mary Tyler. I was Doc’s nurse when Wilma was his patient.”
“Then he did do some work on her?”
“Oh yes,” she said, leading me through the house. “A terrible man, Arnold Riker, had the gall to bring her into the office. He said she fell and hit her jaw on the car door. Wilma was terrified of him, but she finally admitted that Riker had beaten her up.”
“Did he pay for the work Dr. Tyler did?”
She nodded, then led me out the back door into the yard, a sprawling rose garden. The entire yard was ablaze in color, and the aroma, carried on a soft breeze, was intoxicating. Tyler was on his hands and knees in front of a rose bush, with a roll of tape in one hand, a small knife in the other, and a twig with a single pale mauve rose on it clasped between his teeth. He was using the knife to make a slit in the stem of the bush.
“Doc?” she called.
“Uh-huh,” he said without looking up from his work.
“That detective, Sergeant Bannon, is here.”
“Tell him to come on out,” he said without taking the twig from his mouth.
“Thanks,” I said to Mrs. Tyler, and made my way through the array of roses to his side.
“Hold this a minute, will you?” he asked, handing me a roll of tape, still without looking up. I watched as he trimmed the end of the twig to a flat edge, like the end of a screwdriver.
“I’m making a hybrid,” he said as he worked. “The main bush is the recipient. I’m grafting this cutting onto it, hopefully to produce a new strain of rose.” He traded the knife for the tape, carefully wrapped the incision, then got up, and looked down at his operation. Satisfied, he took off his gloves and looked at me for the first time, offering his hand.
“How do you do, Sergeant Bannon,” he said. “Thanks for the help.”
“My pleasure, Doctor.”
“Call me Doc, everybody does,” he said. Tyler was a cheerful man in his sixties, his brown hair just beginning to show a little gray. He was wearing a pair of baggy chinos and a faded Hawaiian shirt that probably had blinded people when it was new.
“Now what’s this about Wilma Thompson?” he said.
“I understand you did some dental work on her back in the early twenties.”
“I did,” he said, and nodded.
“Did it involve some bridgework?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Could you tell me about it, please?”
“You’re playing hell with my curiosity,” he said.
“I’ll get to the point in a minute.”
“When I came back from the war, I opened an office in San Luis Obispo, with a small clinic down in San Pietro,” he said. “I’d go down there once a week. One day a man named Riker brought Wilma in. He said she had fallen and hit the side of her face. I knew he was lying the minute I examined her. It was clear she had been beaten. The bruise on her jaw and the injuries to her mouth made that quite apparent. You could see the imprint of his knuckles in the bruise along her right jaw. Two of her lower teeth on that side were so badly damaged they had to be extracted. She also had a hairline fracture right along here,” he traced a four- or five-inch line across the jaw from his mouth toward the bottom of his ear, “and a chipped upper tooth on the same side.”
“When was this?”
“I’ll have to check the file. Nineteen twenty, as I recall.”
“You have a vivid memory of this event,” I said.
“Yes, I do,” he said. “Particularly after what followed. I felt really sorry for Wilma.”
“She told you that Riker struck her?”
He nodded. “The work was extensive, it spread out over a couple of weeks. She was obviously scared to death of Riker. With good cause, needless to say. I finally got her to admit that he had hit her—and it hadn’t been the first time. But she was afraid to leave him. She was just a kid, eighteen at the time. Dreamed of going to Hollywood and becoming a star. She was a sad young lady. Pretty in her way, but it was obvious to me that Hollywood was not going to rush to her door.”
“What exactly did you do?”
“I extracted the first molar and second bicuspid on the bottom. Then I made what we call a three-quarter crown on each side of the gap and bridged them with gold.”
“Gold?” I said with surprise.
“Gold is inert,” he said. “It doesn’t corrode—doesn’t react to anything in the mouth—and has the same consistency as a tooth. It was relatively inexpensive in those days. That’s the way it was done. I also filled the first molar on top with silver. And I used stainless wire to draw the hairline fracture shut.”
“Did you make any charts or reports on the work?”
“Of course. It’s part of the process. First you diagram and assess the damage, then you chart exactly what procedure you’re going to use to correct the problem. The charts are standard.”
“Do you still have the paperwork?”
He looked at me strangely for a long minute before nodding.
“I have all my records. The inactive ones are in the basement,” he said. “Why?”
“I have reason to suspect that Wilma Thompson wasn’t murdered. She came here in 1924 as Verna Hicks, moved into Pacific Meadows, married happily. Her husband was killed in an auto accident about four years ago, and she lived alone until last week, when she was murdered in her bathtub.”
He was genuinely shocked.
“That would mean she helped frame Riker?”
“So it would appear.”
“Then who killed her?”
“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”
“My God. Little Wilma.” He shook his head. “Well, she got even with him, if it’s true. Believe me, I have no sympathy for Riker. He deserved everything he got. Is he still alive?”
I nodded. “He’s in Wesco. His sentence was commuted to life without parole. He saw that picture this morning and called me. He’s the one who told me about the work on her mouth. Could that be Wilma, Doc?”
He looked back at the picture. “She was a blonde back then,” he said. “And you can tell how much weight she put on. But . . .”
He stared some more. “I couldn’t swear to it, Sergeant.”
“But it’s possible?” I suggested.
He nodded. His shoulders slumped and he sat down on the steps. “Almost twenty years,” he said, shaking his head. “And all these years we thought she was dead.” Then the same thought that was burning a hole in me began to fester inside the doctor.
“You say you met Riker?”
“This morning. A nasty human being.”
“But this may end up freeing him?”
His comment hit a nerve. I thought again about Wilma, the same thoughts that had provoked my interest in her “accidental death” to begin with. A kid with dreams, abused by a psychotic mobster, who escaped and lived a normal, decent life until time caught up with her. Now it had come to me to free the ferret who had started the whole tragedy twenty years ago.
“I’m not a judge, Doc,” I said. “I just go where the evidence leads me.”
“Tough job,” he said.
“Sometimes.”
“What exactly can I do for you?”
“I’d like to borrow your files on Wilma. I’ll be glad to give you a receipt.”
“I could have a lapse of memory about all this,” he said.
“You could. It was a long time ago.”
“I could say I didn’t keep the files after she was killed.”
“That, too. But you don’t strike me as a man who would lie under oath, regardless of the consequences.”
“And you don’t strike me as a man who would let me get away with it if I tried.”
“It’s a tough call,” I said.
“Tougher for you,” he answered, and led me into the house.
&n
bsp; I decided to check in on Ski, who was sitting up in bed and, between bites of Boston cream pie, was regaling two nurses with tales of dauntless adventure. There was an empty dish of chocolate ice cream on the table beside the bed.
“Hi, pardner,” I said. “Spare a word?”
His face turned red. “Excuse us, ladies,” he said quickly, “we have business to discuss.”
The nurses were all giggles as they left the room.
“I heard you spent the night in that fancy hotel,” he said, feigning anger. “What’d you do? Sleep till noon and have breakfast in bed while I was being carried down here in an ambulance?”
I grinned at him. “While you were playing Andy Hardy for the angels of mercy, I was busy finding out who Verna Hicks Wilensky was in her previous life,” I said. “I was up at 6:30, stopped for a bite of breakfast over near Bakersfield. Read the paper. Actually I thought Jimmy the Pen did a pretty good job of . . .”
“What were you doing in Bakersfield?”
“Actually I was in Marapisa, it’s about thirty . . .”
“I know where Marapisa is.”
“Do you know what’s in Marapisa?”
He thought for a minute. “Wesco State jam.”
“Very good. And do you know who’s in Wesco?”
“A lot of felons,” he blurted. “Will you get on with it!”
“Does Arnie Riker ring any bells in that lame brain of yours? He’s currently in residence there. And he recognized Verna Hicks when he saw the paper.”
“Damn it, stop playing twenty questions with me. Who is she?”
“Did you ever read Bones’s full report?”
“. . . no. Did you?”
“No, but I’m going to. Meantime . . .”
I gave him a quick rundown on my conversation with memory-expert Arnie Riker, my trip to Santa Monica, and the details of the X rays. I handed him the yellowed charts. “Look who the patient was.”
When he saw Wilma Thompson’s name his jaw almost hit the floor.
“You think it’s possible?” he asked.
“If Tyler and Bones agree, school’s out—and so is Riker. Our problem is, who killed Wilma Verna Hicks Wilensky Thompson? And why?”
I started out the door.
“Hey,” he said. “What’re you gonna do about Moriarity? He’s on the warpath and . . .”
Eureka Page 36
