The Pictures

by Guy Bolton

  Henson tilted his chin, said “Detective.” Craine gave them a polite nod. Keep walking, he told himself, don’t think about it. He felt their critical eyes following him as he crossed toward the interview rooms. He hated how they made him feel. Like he was different, worse somehow. An outsider in his own office.

  When he’d turned the corner, he heard Henson say, “Who knows why he’s back? Some investigator. Surprised they don’t put his office in M.G.M.”

  Interview Room C was a small square cell with bare concrete walls and no windows. The door was plate steel and bolt-locked from the outside. A uniform guard stood by the door at all times.

  Leonard Stone was seated on one side of a wooden table, his hands manacled and chained to the chair between his legs. Sinewy arms shivered as Craine entered and took a seat opposite.

  Craine placed two thin folders on the table beside a pen and shorthand pad. In one was Leonard Stone’s record of arrests and prosecutions, his known employment history and the first officer’s report outlining how Stone was found. It had a red band across it and a legend on one side that read STONE, LEONARD. In the other file was a pre-typed statement of confession, a formal declaration of guilt that needed to be signed by the suspect to guarantee a court conviction. Craine didn’t need to open it to know what it said; it was a template he knew well: “Between 9 P.M. and 11 P.M. of Wednesday May 10th, 1939, I, LEONARD STONE, entered the property of FLORENCE ELIZABETH LLOYD with ambitions to rob said property to the value of less than one hundred dollars. During this episode, I encountered Miss Lloyd in her bedroom. A fracas ensued and I shot Lloyd with a .38-caliber weapon . . .”

  Craine stared across the table at Stone’s boyish black face. He was young, maybe early twenties, perhaps even younger. His wiry hair was greasy and coiled, matting into a dirty Polish plait. He was thin, gaunt even, but he had marred, knotted forearms and bulbous shoulders, probably from years of manual labor.

  “Am I right in thinking you’re from Oklahoma originally, Mr. Stone?” Craine asked politely, opening proceedings. He picked up Stone’s police file and scanned his employment records. Stone’s life story was short and familiar. He could have been any other of the thousands of itinerant Negroes driven West after years of drought and dust storms turned prairie lands into a desert. “Okies” was what most Angelenos called them.

  Craine sat back and tapped his pen against the table. “Mr. Stone? I said are you from Oklahoma?”

  “Yes-suh,” Stone mumbled. His voice was deep but soft. Two bloodshot eyes rolled from side to side, roaming aimlessly around the room. Craine could smell old alcohol on his breath.

  “I see here you moved West eighteen months ago. I assume you were part of the F.S.A.’s rural rehabilitation program,” he suggested, the model of dispassion.

  Stone shrugged.

  Craine thumbed through the file and removed Stone’s criminal record. “And you stole from a foreman, on June 17th last year,” he said plainly. “You stole a bag of oranges from his cellar and you were sentenced to three months’ labor at Kent Penitentiary.”

  There was a silence, during which Craine leaned forward in his chair and turned the R.A.P. sheet around so Stone could see the printed conviction typed across his criminal record. Stone chewed the side of his mouth. His eyes started to water. He tried to wipe them with his hands but the chains wouldn’t stretch. He turned away as Craine continued to read from the file.

  “Mr. Officer-suh, can I please have something to eat,” he whimpered, “I’m so hungry.”

  “In a minute. We’re not done yet. I’m curious as to where you have been living since your release.”

  No reply.

  “Mr. Stone, it’s not a difficult question. Where have you been staying? Mr. Stone!” Craine was shouting now.

  “Here and there, suh.” Stone’s voice was high and stretched. He cleared his throat and tried to compose himself. “I been with friends, mostly. In my car sometimes.”

  “That would be the 1932 Model B Ford that you were found in?”

  Stone squeezed his eyes shut. His face grimaced and his body trembled. He took quick, shallow breaths and tried his best not to cry. There was no hope now. He began to see how this would end.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “And can you tell me what was in the trunk of your car? Would you like me to remind you? The officers at the scene found two rolls of dollar bills, a bag of silverware and various items of jewelry. Can you tell me who those goods belonged to?”

  “I’m hungry, I’m so hungry.”

  “Leonard. Let’s start with the basics and then I’ll get somebody to bring you a hot plate. The items in your car: where did you get them from?”

  Leonard tilted his head back and studied the ceiling. When he lowered his gaze Craine could see tears crawling down his cheeks.

  “I took them.”

  “You stole them? From the house on Longbrook.”

  “Maybe, I don’t remember.”

  “The house on Longbrook, Leonard.”

  “I’m not sure. Yes, maybe. I didn’t know the name of the street.”

  “And you shot Florence Lloyd? You were in her house, she saw you and you shot her in her bed, is that right?”

  “No.”

  “Yes, you did, Leonard,” Craine persisted. “You shot her in her bed. You said it yourself, you robbed Miss Lloyd’s house.” He’d reached the concluding verse of his well-practiced routine. He took a breath for the finale: “Come on, Leonard, either you went in there and shot Florence Lloyd in malice before robbing her entire household or you shot her in self-defense. Which is it?”

  Craine opened the second folder and laid out the confession form. His voice was softer now: “Look, it says it right here, ‘self-defense’—we know you didn’t mean to do it, Leonard. We know it was a mistake. No one will be angry with you. You shot her by accident, didn’t you Leonard?”

  “No—”

  “Leonard.”

  “I didn’t shoot her. I didn’t shoot nobody. I’m hungry. I’m so hungry. Please, suh—”

  “I’m trying to be transparent with you here, Leonard,” Craine interrupted, growing impatient. “I’m trying to be honest and I’m trying to be fair. If you sign this form now, I can ask for a reduced sentence. No death penalty. It was an accident; she tried to shoot you, you acted in self-defense. The jury will take pity on you, it wasn’t your fault—they’ll know that. You’ll do a stint back East, go to work on some road. You’ve done it before; it’s easier the second time around.”

  Leonard Stone was crying freely now and Craine gave him a moment. Stone looked distraught, broken even, and Craine felt a twinge of sympathy. He wanted his confession but he didn’t want to destroy the boy. Maybe I’m getting soft in my old age, he thought.

  Craine spoke gently, trying to reassure him.

  “You won’t have any trouble, Leonard, I know it. How old are you now? Leonard, stop crying. How old are you now?”

  “Twenty-one.”

  “Twenty-one,” he repeated. “I remember being twenty-one. It’s young. And you know what, Leonard, you’ll come out and you’ll still be young. You might not even be middle-aged. That’s still plenty of time to get married, start a family. Is that what you want, Leonard, to start a family? Everyone wants to start a family. You want a wife? You want children?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well then, that is what you’ll do. I’m sure of it. Come on then, let’s get this signed and we can find you some breakfast.”

  Stone sank in his chair, defeated. Craine nodded to the guard to unlock the cuffs.

  “Sign this, Leonard.” He pushed the form in front of him and placed the pen on the other side of the table.

  Leonard lifted his large, blistered hands onto the table and rubbed his swollen wrists.

  “Go on, don’t be afraid, Leonard.”

  Leonard slowly wrapped his fist around the pen and looked across for approval.

  “Well done, Leonard. Well done,” Craine repea
ted graciously. “You did good. Can you spell your name? You want me to help you? Here, I’ll print it, you just do a little cross right above it. Right there. That’s it. Congratulations, Leonard, you did the right thing. Everything is going to work out fine for you, I promise, everything will be fine. Now, let’s get you something to eat.”

  As Craine stood up, the door opened and a clerk appeared in the doorway.

  “Detective Craine. When you’re finished Captain Simms would like to see you in his office.”

  There was no one in Simms’ outer office, so Craine checked himself briefly in the reflection of the glass doors. He looked tired, dark circles forming around his eyes. He pushed his hair back and straightened his jacket before heading inside.

  He found Simms sitting alone in his corner office, talking quietly into a phone resting on his lap. Behind him morning rain was slashing against two broad windows that overlooked the City Hall tower.

  Simms looked up, motioning with his hand that he should come in and take a seat in the chair opposite. Craine shut the door behind him and sat down, taking the opportunity to glance at his watch. It was almost twelve o’clock.

  Simms ended his conversation then placed the phone back on his desk. Without saying hello, he took a cigarette from a pack in his jacket pocket and lit one, drawing in a long satisfying breath. He was smoking Chesterfields. Craine knew this because Celia had smoked Chesterfields and because every breath Simms exhaled reminded him of her.

  Roger Simms was a quiet and considered leader for a paramilitary organization and with his thick-rimmed bifocals looked more like a bookish schoolteacher than a police captain.

  “How are you settling back in?” Simms said eventually, sitting up in his chair and pushing his glasses up his nose.

  Craine shrugged. “I’m pleased to be back.”

  “Good. And your interview this morning?” he asked with some apprehension. As head of the Hollywood division, Captain Simms was in place to ensure that criminal activity in his district conformed to predetermined levels set by senior personnel. Police work was no longer about protecting county citizens. It was about maintaining trends, reducing crime levels, increasing conviction rates. The bureaucrats had seen to it that crime was not merely recorded, it was budgeted. Failure to convict a suspect would not be tolerated. These were the rules. If you didn’t comply, you were simply transferred to another unit.

  Craine handed Simms the signed confession. “He expressed remorse for what he had done and signed it willingly.”

  “Already?” Simms looked relieved but not surprised. Craine succeeded where other detectives failed because he was a yes-man, well-practiced at maneuvering the political structure of the division. “As always, your efficiency is very impressive, Craine. Who was the victim?”

  “A nobody. Florence Lloyd. Employment unknown.”

  “A woman? Such a tragedy.” Simms sighed. “Dead men are so much easier to deal with. Have the Attorney’s Office set a court date for this Leonard Stone. He may even hang before the next quarter.”

  Craine shifted in his seat. This wasn’t what he’d expected. “I offered him concessions,” Craine said. “Manslaughter doesn’t carry the death penalty. I told him he wouldn’t be executed.”

  “You shouldn’t have. New guidelines are no plea without a lawyer present. From now on, a confession guarantees a conviction, not a reduced sentence. The Chief is demanding murderers be made examples of. Apparently City Hall don’t want to seem soft on crime.” Simms rolled his eyes. “But I wouldn’t worry about it. He may get lucky. What matters is that he’s a suitable conviction.”

  Simms tapped a thin manila file on the center of his desk to signal the end of the matter.

  “My apologies for dragging you in here, Craine. I wanted to talk to you before the press got hold of it. I had a call from M.G.M. about an hour ago.” Craine stiffened. He felt an apprehensive drumming in his chest. He’d asked not to be involved with any more studio crimes, so why was he here?

  “Herbert Stanley’s body was found at ten o’clock this morning. He hanged himself late last night.”

  A ruminative silence filled the room. Craine knew who Stanley was. He knew he worked for M.G.M. and he was starting to understand why Simms had brought him in.

  “Did you know him?”

  “We’d met a few times. Briefly. His wife is—”

  “The actress, Gale Goodwin. Yes, M.G.M. made her importance very clear.”

  Craine became conscious of Simms’ probing stare. “Were there any suspicious circumstances?” he said eventually.

  “I’m not familiar with the details of the crime scene, but none that I’m aware of.”

  “Who found him?”

  “His maid. He hanged himself from a ceiling fan in his study. We’ll have a formal statement from her shortly.”

  “And Stanley’s wife?”

  “She wasn’t there.”

  “I saw her at the Lilac Club.”

  “That matches Louis Mayer’s report. We haven’t had a full statement from her yet but as far as we know she was staying with a friend of hers, Joan Crawford.”

  Craine nodded. “Thank you for letting me know.” His posture didn’t alter by a fraction. “Is there anything else?”

  Simms frowned. “You don’t look surprised?”

  He didn’t reply.

  “Would you say he had suicidal tendencies?”

  “I didn’t know him particularly well.”

  “Then what do you know about Herbert Stanley?” Emphasis on the “do.” He was peering down at him through bifocals.

  “He was a producer, must have worked for M.G.M. for most of the past twelve years. One of Louis Mayer’s top men; supposedly had a real talent for story.” He paused but Simms waited for him to continue. “I know he started off as a writer, then started producing musicals. Last I heard, he was shortlisted to head his own production unit but he had an argument with Peterson over marketing.”

  “Russell Peterson from Publicity?”

  “Mayer’s right-hand man,” Craine replied with another nod.

  “When was all this?”

  “Past year or so.”

  Simms took this all in. “I spoke with Peterson a few minutes ago,” he said, leaning forward in his chair. “He told me Stanley was a depressive homosexual who’d tried to kill himself several times before. That’s their line exactly, and we’re going to read about it in the papers tomorrow. Is it true?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” He raised his voice. He had to calm himself. He softened, continued: “I heard he had issues in his personal life, I know that much but I wasn’t aware of any previous suicide attempts.”

  “Do you know if either of them had affairs?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Well, was he a queer, like they say?”

  “There were rumors. No substantial evidence.”

  “But you think he was?”

  “As I said, I didn’t know him well.”

  “Do you know his wife?”

  “We’ve met before. A long time ago. Rarely since. Look, where are you going with this? If he hanged himself, this isn’t a murder so why is this even being discussed like one?”

  The room fell silent except for the rain beating against the windows. Simms stubbed out his cigarette then looked at Craine steadily. “There was no note.”

  There it was. The sole reason for this conversation. Not curiosity but necessity. In Craine, Simms had always found a loyal disciple, an investigator who followed his very own maxim that it was more important that a case be closed than solved. Now he wanted Craine’s help to ensure Stanley’s suicide remained that way.

  “The papers will jump all over it,” Simms continued. “Yellow press will probably start shouting from the rooftops that he was murdered, that it’s a cover-up and the L.A.P.D. are blind to it or in on it. Either way we’re culpable. I’ve been asked to use someone who can take control of this situation. Someone with the necessary contacts, someone capable of e
xercising discretion.”

  “By who?”

  “Message from higher tiers suggests this is important. Chief Davidson wants to make a good impression with the new administration. We’ve been instructed to keep this a filed case, nothing cold, nothing open. Straight-up suicide, which is exactly what this is and you know it.”

  “You need a fixer.”

  Simms shook his head. “I need someone who can operate alongside both the studio heads and the press—it’s not the same. City Hall doesn’t want any tantrums, absolutely no press hysteria.”

  “You know my return to the department was contingent on me being assigned regular cases. I asked not to be involved with the studios.”

  “It is; it will be,” said Simms, mustering his persuasive talents. “I need this one last favor. Use your better judgment to smooth things over with the press. A simple explanation of fact is all I ask.”

  “Is no one else available? Who’s the primary?”

  “Patrick O’Neill. He arrived a few weeks before you left. He’s a good investigator, nine homicides since he arrived, all in the black but he doesn’t know the industry like you do. You’re part of it.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Craine, your presence in this investigation would be invaluable. Look, I’m not oblivious to the fact that your own personal history with M.G.M. is somewhat tied. I appreciate that there are elements of this case you may find difficult . . . with Celia, I mean. But there’s no reason for you to become emotionally involved. All I’m asking you to do is take some statements, supervise the press releases, monitor the newspapers and liaise with the necessaries over the coming week. Your role is merely to oversee the case and hold the M.G.M. line—that’s not much of a request. There’s also the matter of remuneration.” Simms slid across a small piece of paper. Several inked zeros lay exposed on the page. It was enough money to keep the bank at bay. “Two thousand now, another two if they’re satisfied with your work. And you know they always are.”

  Craine stared at him for a long moment before reaching across the desk and picking up the file.

  “Detective,” said Simms, “I don’t need to tell you how important it is that Stanley’s death pass untroubled. This has been expressed clearly through chain of command. Do you understand what I’m asking of you?”