JO03 - Detour to Murder

by Jeff Sherratt

  If one of those bizarre gizmos were present, the thing with two lightning rods sticking out of it and an electric spark buzzing like crazy and dancing back and forth between the tips, I would’ve thought I was staring at Dr. Frankenstein’s new high-tech lab, turning out monsters by the dozen.

  Marie stood. “This is highly irregular,” she sighed, “but who am I to argue with the doctor? You’ll only be allowed to see him for one minute and that’s my rule.”

  She came around from behind the counter and said, “Follow me.” I did, and she led me to Al’s bedside.

  I wasn’t shocked by how he looked. When I was a cop, I’d seen a number of gunshot victims and he looked better than most. But of course, the majority of those I had seen were already dead.

  I took his hand. His eyelids fluttered for a moment and remained open at half-mast. “Jimmy…” he uttered in a barely audible voice. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

  “Nothing to be sorry about. Just get better.”

  “They told me… I might… not make it… say my prayers… They’re… full of… shit.”

  “Of course you’re going to make it. Hell, I’m not worried.” I glanced up at Marie. She tapped her watch with a finger. Not much time left before she’d throw me out. I had to get to the point. I leaned in and whispered in his ear, “Al, the doc said you wanted to talk to me. What do you want to tell me?”

  “I need… a favor.”

  “Sure.”

  “Get… me… the fuck outta… here… I promised…”

  “Promised what?”

  “I promised… I’d take… her home.”

  “I’ll do my best, Al. Goddammit, I’ll make sure…”

  With difficulty he turned his face toward me and gave an almost imperceptible nod. Suddenly his eyes opened wide.

  “Al, the cops say you had a gun. They say…”

  His eyelids closed slowly, like drawing the curtain on the final act. The monitor flatlined and the beeping changed to a steady drone.

  Marie quickly shoved me aside and started pumping on his chest. She kept pumping. In a few seconds the machine on the wall started to beep again. “Get out of here!” she shouted without stopping. “Tell the nurses to get a doctor, stat!”

  I stood, frozen. But only for a second. I ran to the nurses’ station. They were already in high gear. One held a microphone to her mouth, and I could hear her voice reverberating around the halls: “Code blue, intensive care, stat!” She repeated the page twice. Other nurses darted into the room. One had a large syringe in her hand.

  The nurse holding the mike nodded toward the hallway, indicating that I should leave.

  “No! I have to stay. I have to know—”

  She dropped the mike. “Sir, leave the area, now!”

  “But—”

  “Look, you’ll just be in the way. Go to the waiting room. I promise I’ll come and tell you the minute there’s a change—good or bad.”

  I turned and started walking the long, lonely walk back toward the lobby.

  What would I say to Kathie, and what would she tell her mother?

  Two guys who appeared to be doctors raced around the corner, rushed past me and headed to the ICU.

  If I had been any kind of a religious person, I would’ve mumbled a prayer.

  I did anyway.

  C H A P T E R 35

  Capt. Russo and most of the police had left. One uniformed officer remained. He sat quietly in the lobby and didn’t seem to notice me when I returned from the intensive care unit.

  Kathie, standing by the window, rushed to meet me with a hopeful look in her eyes.

  “It’s bad Kathie. His heart stopped with me standing right there next to him.”

  “Oh, my God—” She collapsed in my arms.

  “No, no, wait. I’m sorry. He’s alive.” I held her and said, “The nurse got his heart started again right away.”

  She pushed away. “Is he going to be okay?”

  “I don’t know. But they called for some doctors. I saw them rushing to the ICU. They’ll save him, Kathie. I know they will.”

  “Oh, God. Please…”

  “They’ll talk to us as soon as they know something.”

  I took her hand and we walked to the ICU waiting room. The small room, decorated with bright cheery wallpaper and a potted plant, was devoid of people. We sat together on a couch facing the door. Kathie took a magazine from the coffee table and thumbed through it absently. She tossed it down and picked up another, thumbed through that one as well.

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  I glanced at my watch. “Almost three. Do you want to leave? I can stay—”

  “No! I’m staying too.” She stood and started to pace the room. “I should have never—” she turned back to me. “I mean… I’m sorry, Jimmy. I acted like a fool when I tried to get you to back off at Al’s parole hearing. Interfering the way I did.”

  “Stop wearing out the rug and sit down, please. We’ll talk.”

  Without protest she sat next to me.

  “Kathie, you didn’t scare me.” I let out a chuckle. “If you think that act of yours at the burger place in Chino had me worried, then you’ve been watching too many of your father’s old movies.”

  “You didn’t worry or wonder about me at all?”

  “Yeah, I wondered. I wondered what you were doing at an In-N-Out without ordering one of their great burgers.”

  “Oh, Jimmy…” Her voice tailed off; she rested her head on my shoulder and closed her eyes. Soon she began to breathe in a steady rhythm. She had fallen asleep with me staring at the door. I put my arm around her. She felt warm and nice, and for a moment I wondered what it’d be like if she fell asleep next to me every night.

  I didn’t move, just continued to stare at the door. It’s taking a long time for the medical staff to let us know what’s going on, I thought. That could only mean Al Roberts was still alive. If he had died, they would’ve told me right away.

  I had no way of knowing if the doctors were still working on him. I considered the possibility that his brain might have been damaged when his heart stopped. But it was only stopped for a second or two, not long enough to cause a loss of oxygen, not long enough to cause permanent damage—I hoped.

  My back began to ache from sitting in the same position, but I still didn’t move a muscle. I didn’t want to wake Kathie. Sleep would be good for her. Her mind would be at rest—at least for a little while.

  An hour and a half later Marie, the nurse from the ICU, appeared. I gently woke Kathie and we both stood.

  “Mr. O’Brien,” she said, “right after you left, they rushed Mr. Roberts back into surgery.”

  “Is he alive?”

  “Yes, he is. Right now he’s in the recovery room. The doctor said the operation was a success. He asked me to tell you that the patient is responding, and doing much better.”

  “Why did he need another operation?” I asked.

  “He had signs of rapid internal bleeding. The doctor had to perform emergency surgery to stop the leak.”

  “Will he make it?” Kathie asked.

  “He’s still in critical condition, but if all goes well he should pull through. We’ll know more in a few days.”

  “When can I see him again?” I asked.

  “Not for a while. After he leaves the recovery room he’ll be taken back to the ICU. I’m sorry, but no visitors will be allowed.”

  “That includes the police, I assume.”

  “Of course, especially the police.”

  “Thank you.”

  “The doctor also said to tell you both to go home and get some rest. Leave your phone numbers at the reception desk and we’ll keep you informed.”

  Kathie drove me back to my apartment in Downey. We didn’t talk much along the way. However, I did ask her if she wanted to stop for some food. With all that had been going on, I had lost my appetite. But I was concerned about her. I had no way of knowing if she’d eaten before she came to my ap
artment, I just knew she hadn’t eaten anything since.

  “No, thanks, Jimmy,” she said. “I need to get some sleep. I’ll have breakfast later with my mother. I want to discuss with her what you said about starting a new life.”

  She pulled the car to the curb in front of my apartment. We exchanged phone numbers and promised to keep in touch. I also promised I’d do everything possible to keep Al Roberts from going back to prison.

  “I don’t think they have a case, Kathie.” I gently took her chin in my hand and turned her face toward me. Our eyes locked. “Do I look worried?”

  “No,” she said hesitantly.

  “Do you know who Sol Silverman is?”

  “I’ve heard of him.”

  “He’s agreed to work with us pro bono. He’s putting all the resources at his command behind this. Sol and I together have never lost a case.”

  I didn’t tell her I was worried as hell, nor did I mention how nervous I was about the gun that the Laguna cop said Roberts had in his possession. If this were true, then he would spend the rest of his life in prison. There would be no getting around that. I didn’t want to think of the consequences if the police found a gun somewhere in the vicinity of the shooting and it turned out to be the one used to murder Ida Hathaway at the motel.

  As I opened the door to climb out of the Mercedes, Kathie leaned over and kissed me on the cheek. There was nothing implied in the kiss, but I couldn’t help wonder if it was the beginning of something more.

  “If you’re too tired to drive, you can sleep here in my apartment for a while,” I blurted out. “I mean… if you’re really tired.”

  Kathie didn’t answer for a moment; she just looked at me. Then, with a warm smile, she said, “Not this time, Jimmy. I want to see my mother as soon as she wakes up. But… thank you, anyway. Call me later, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  I climbed the stairs to the apartment with the phrase, Not this time, rolling around in my brain. Who knows, maybe when this was over…

  According to my alarm clock it was after five by the time I finally crawled into bed. As bone-tired as I was, I couldn’t sleep. I stared at the ceiling with my eyes open, listening to the sounds of morning twilight, an owl hooting somewhere, the occasional car driving down the street, and the rumble of a trash truck making its rounds. I lay there both exhausted and charged up, reflecting on the events of the night and Kathie’s beautiful face and that small kiss—Not this time, Jimmy.

  Forty-five minutes later I kicked off the covers and climbed out of bed. If I didn’t quit thinking about Al Roberts and Kathie I’d never get any sleep. I shuffled into the bathroom and took three aspirins, then went to the kitchen and ate a piece of leftover pizza. With my diet I adhered strictly to the three major food groups—pizza, donuts, and burgers.

  I climbed back into bed and soon nodded off.

  Beep, beep, beep…

  I bolted upright in bed and listened.

  “What the hell is that?” I said out loud, glancing at the clock: 10:30 a.m. I’d been asleep only a few hours.

  The beeping stopped. I flopped back down and pulled the covers over my head.

  Another couple of minutes went by and the beeping started again. I had no idea what was causing it, but I felt too tired to get out of bed and check. Probably that new coffee pot Rita had given me for my birthday. I’d forgotten to set the timer.

  I was about to doze off again when the telephone rang. My heart raced. It had to be the hospital. I jumped out of bed, ran to the kitchen and answered it.

  “Why didn’t you answer the beeper?” Sol asked.

  I took a deep breath and relaxed. The call wasn’t bad news from the hospital, after all.

  “What beeper?”

  “The one I gave you.”

  “Oh yeah, that thing. That’s what I heard.” I thought about the beeper I’d stuck in my jacket pocket, lying on the bedroom floor.

  “Well, why didn’t you answer the beeper?”

  “Why didn’t you just call?”

  “Because you have a beeper.”

  “For chrissakes, Sol, what’s up?”

  “Meet me at Clifton’s Cafeteria in one hour?”

  “Clifton’s? The one in downtown L.A.?”

  “Yeah, one hour. Don’t be late.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we’re meeting Vince Bugliosi in the owner’s office.” Sol hung up.

  C H A P T E R 36

  Before leaving the apartment, I phoned the office and told Mabel where I’d be just in case a call came in from the hospital. I also asked about Rita.

  “She’s on a wild-goose chase. She has a lunch appointment with some guy named Strickling out in Palm Springs. I had to give her five bucks from petty cash for gas. I don’t know—”

  “Goodbye, Mabel. Gotta go.” I hung up.

  Thirty-five minutes later I pulled into a parking lot on Hill St. and hiked a couple of blocks to Clifton’s on South Broadway, only ten minutes late.

  It was one of those clear, crisp autumn days with a stiff breeze that blew the smog out beyond Catalina. Pedestrians moseyed about and everyone’s mood seemed as bright as the sky. There was an aroma of spice from street vendors selling tacos and carnitas, and a sense of lethargy filled the warm, dry air. On days like this store clerks smiled, customers didn’t complain, and people said please and thank you. Even bums slouching on Broadway guzzled wine without shouting obscenities. And Clifton’s gave needy folks a meal for only a penny.

  Walking into the crowded cafeteria, I stood for a moment to take in the curious décor. The place tried to convey the feel of a mountain forest—a forest that would be right at home in Disneyland. In addition to a cascading waterfall next to a plastic tree, a huge deer head with antlers hung on the wall and looked down on the lunch crowd as they ate from plates heaped with plebeian fare. I asked a busboy where the offices were located, then strolled past a fuzzy bear holding a fishing pole and climbed the stairs up to the third floor. Finding the owner’s office, I rapped on the door.

  “Come on in,” someone shouted.

  “Sorry, I’m late,” I said to the three men who looked up at me as I entered.

  Sol sat on a couch, puffing a cigar. The couch rested against a wall filled with framed photos that had been taken at locations around the world, mostly China, from what I could tell from just a quick glance. Vincent Bugliosi leaned forward in a wooden armchair off to the side of a modest desk.

  The man sitting behind the desk came around to greet me. He had a slender build, thinning hair, and a wide smile. Probably in his late forties, he spoke in a voice tinged with authority.

  “Don’t give it a thought, O’Brien. Everyone’s late. The parking… what can I say? Anyway, the name’s Don Clinton. My sister and I own the place.” He nodded toward Sol and Bugliosi. “I think you already know these men.”

  We all shook hands, and I took a seat in the armchair on the other side of the desk.

  “Can I get you anything? Coffee? Maybe a little strawberry Jello to go with it?” Don asked. “We serve the stuff by the ton.” He chuckled.

  “No, thanks. I had my coffee this morning.” I didn’t mention that I hated strawberry Jello.

  “We were just talking about you. They say you’re working on a case that involved Frank Byron, the DA back in the early forties. Tell me about it.”

  Bugliosi stood. “Let me jump in here, Don. I want to give Sol and Jimmy a little background, just a few highlights about your father, Clifford. Then everyone will know why we’re having the meeting here at the cafeteria.”

  “Good idea,” Sol said.

  “Don’s father, Clifford Clinton—the founder of Clifton’s—was one of the good guys. Back in the forties, Los Angeles was as corrupt as they come. A political machine controlled by hoodlums ran everything, right down to dogcatcher. Clifford decided to do something about it. So he and a few other good citizens started a reform movement, a committee to clean up the government. They did their own inves
tigations, made a lot of noise and started to expose the bad guys. It wasn’t easy. Strong-arm thugs tried to stop the reformers. This cafeteria was smoke-bombed several times. Clifford received anonymous threats on his life almost daily, but he kept right on with his crusade.”

  “The press kept quiet about the corruption? No editorials, nothing?” Sol asked.

  “Not a thing, Sol. The L.A. Times went along with the status quo. Isn’t that right, Don?”

  “Yes. Dad and the others even started backing candidates for public office, straightshooters that they could trust. He gave them the money and the clout that they needed to win.”

  “The movement started making headway,” Bugliosi added. “In the late thirties, the committee managed to get a few reform candidates elected. But the big one, the election that would count more than all the others, came up in 1940. The office of District Attorney was up for grabs when it became obvious that the incumbent DA, Fitts, was an out-and-out crook. Earlier he’d taken a bribe and was indicted. Even though he wasn’t convicted, the stink clung to him like black on coal. Perfect opportunity for the committee to back a reform candidate. Long story short, Frank Byron convinced the committee that he was the man they were looking for.”

  Don nodded. “Dad thought Byron was too young, but the committee checked him out thoroughly. He came across as smart, clean-cut, without a hint of scandal. So Dad and the committee decided to back him to the hilt.”

  “But he didn’t stay straight. Did he?” Sol asked.

  “At first everything seemed okay. But after a while, things just didn’t add up.”