The Pictures

by Guy Bolton

  It took some persuasion and threats of deportation, but eventually she confided that Herbert Stanley received a package on the morning of his death and not long after, an anonymous phone call. She stated on record that the package, a sealed five-by-seven envelope, was delivered by a black sedan but couldn’t give any indication of the age, model or license plate of the car. The phone call came thirty minutes after, when a male voice who wouldn’t give his name asked to speak to her employer. Mr. Stanley, who was working from home, took the call in his study but she had no knowledge of what was said or how long the conversation lasted.

  When asked about his reaction to the call, Martinez stated simply that Stanley remained in his study all day and that she hadn’t heard from him again until Gale Goodwin arrived that evening, at which point he instructed her to go home. She admitted that she could smell alcohol on his breath and also that this wasn’t unusual—her employer often seemed drunk during the day. But she also told O’Neill that Stanley had been in good spirits of late and had made weekend plans at the racetrack. Crucially, there had been no indication in the days preceding his death that he was depressed or suicidal. So either something had happened to make him change his mind, or something else happened that night. O’Neill was convinced that only the caller would know.

  At ten, he’d driven to the Pacific Bell Telephone Company on Grand Avenue and after much persuasion, a supervisor in the billing department took him down to the archives to retrieve the telephone records for Herbert Stanley’s house on Easton Drive. He received only one phone call the day of his death, an incoming call at eleven thirty in the morning. The supervisor had a nine-digit code, which after some searching was found to correspond to an address off West 7th Street.

  Standing beside his Plymouth, O’Neill looked at the painted sign hanging in an alleyway not far from the corner of 7th and Hill Street, then glanced down at the billing sheet from the telephone company. “The Shamrock Pub and Grub,” both said.

  The door was shut, so O’Neill knocked softly then took a step back.

  There was vomit beside the gutter and the smell of something awful coming from three garbage sacks by the door. Half-way down the alley, another fifteen yards from the street, three homeless men sat watching him from beneath a shelter constructed of corrugated iron and trash cans. One of them said something and another one laughed, wheezing loudly then spitting dark phlegm into his lap.

  After a minute O’Neill knocked again, louder this time, and then a third time a minute later. Eventually he heard a faint scraping sound and the door opened an inch. Two eyes and a cigarette cherry peered at him from the darkness.

  “Hello? Hi, my name is—”

  “We’re closed,” said a voice in an Irish brogue. “Read the sign.”

  The door closed as quickly as it had opened. O’Neill glanced around. There was no sign.

  He knocked again, talking loudly at the door.

  “Sir, my name is Detective O’Neill. I’m with the Los Angeles Police Department. Sir—”

  He heard a bolt slide, the door opening just enough for smoke to come out.

  “What is it? Can’t you read the sign? We’re closed.” His accent was first generation Irish-American, like his father’s, only darker.

  “There is no sign! Sir, my name is Detective O’Neill—”

  “So?”

  “May I come in?”

  “No, we’re closed. Come back later.”

  “I was hoping to speak to you.”

  “We’re closed.”

  “I’m a police officer.”

  “Then why are you coming to a bar? It’s eleven o’clock. Don’t cops have scruples?”

  “I’m not here to drink.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  “Police business. I have a few questions that relate to a murder investigation.”

  The door opened so quickly it almost knocked O’Neill off his feet. A heavyset man in his forties or fifties stood in the doorway with a long-handled club held down by one leg. He had lumpy shoulders and a hunchback that looked as if it had been earned rather than inherited, a consequence of a life of hard graft.

  “Murder?”

  The man measured him with curious eyes weighed down with liquor. It took him less than a second to assess O’Neill. Half his weight, four or five inches shorter. Skinny arms with no punch behind them. He knew he wasn’t a threat. “What did you say your name was again?”

  “O’Neill. Detective O’Neill.”

  “You Irish?” His breath smelt like his tongue was rotting.

  “Yeah.”

  The man grinned and held the door open. “Well, why didn’t you say so? Come on in. I’m Sean McGinn, the owner.”

  O’Neill tentatively stepped through the door.

  “I thought you were closed.”

  “We were, we just opened.”

  The Shamrock was long and narrow, a wooden bar traveling the length of the room and only enough tables to seat two dozen or so privileged customers. It was dark inside, but two faint orange bulbs hanging from the ceiling guided him toward a barstool. There were empty glasses and peanut shells along the bar top, a jar of boiled eggs and another of pickles stood in front of him. From behind the bar, McGinn drew himself a pint of dark ale. In his mouth was a half-smoked cigarette that he didn’t take out when he spoke.

  “Drink?”

  O’Neill tried to avoid his eyes in case he could see how apprehensive he was. It always happened when he was talking to strangers, as if he was waiting for them to ask how old he was or wonder out loud if he was too young to be a police officer. “Not right now,” he said, staring at his shoes. “No, thank you.”

  “What do you want, then? Hasn’t been no trouble here. No killings, not since I opened and that’s been twelve years.”

  “I’m not accusing you of anything.”

  “What then?”

  “Do you have a phone here?”

  McGinn stared at him with disdain. “You blind?” he said, waving a tattooed arm to one side. “We got two of them.”

  O’Neill’s eyes adjusted to the light. At the back of the room was a wooden phone cubicle crafted out of a confession booth.

  “People use them a lot?”

  “What’s a lot?”

  “Well, do the same people come by to use the phone, or is it different people?”

  “Depends. We got regulars. People in this neighborhood, most of ’em don’t have phones.”

  “So they use yours?”

  “Some of them.”

  “Any of these people you know?”

  He shrugged. “The regulars. Why?”

  “I’m interested in a phone call that was made from here at eleven thirty on Wednesday.”

  “We don’t open before noon,” he said in a flat voice. “There couldn’t have been any phone calls.”

  “You see this? This is from the Pacific Bell Telephone Company. Says a call was made from here eleven thirty Wednesday.”

  “We were closed at eleven thirty.”

  O’Neill was finding this incredibly frustrating. They were getting nowhere. “Which means,” he said as firmly as he could, “that it was either you or a member of your staff using the phone, am I right?”

  “I don’t have any staff.”

  “That leaves you, then.”

  McGinn stiffened visibly and shook his head. He took another swig of beer and wiped his face with the back of his arm. “There’s a guy who comes in here most weeks,” he said, the cigarette jiggling between his lips. “The other day, he came knocking on my door asking to use the phone.”

  “You let him in?”

  “Slipped me a dollar if I left him to it. Said it was important.”

  “You know his name?”

  “Yeah, I know his name. And for five bucks, I’ll even tell you where he lives.”

  Chapter 10

  “Is this your husband, Miss Goodwin?”

  Gale Goodwin stood over the body of her deceased husband, h
er eyes wide and unblinking. She was in the police department’s pathologists’ examination room, a small, confined chamber with green tile walls and polished linoleum flooring. Standing the other side of the table was Dr. Richard Collins, Los Angeles’ chief medical examiner. Craine stood against the wall beside the door, turning his hat in his hands.

  She had arrived at the precinct not long after Craine had returned from The Hollywood Enquirer. He’d offered her a cup of coffee but when Gale declined he led her toward the elevator. They’d sunk down six floors to the basement pathology department in silence and when the thought crossed his mind to ask her how she was feeling or how her morning had been, it dawned on him that he hadn’t properly spoken with anyone in months. He was incapable of polite conversation.

  “Is this your husband?” Collins repeated more delicately when Gale hadn’t replied.

  Craine kept his eyes on Gale before glimpsing the body on the table. Stanley lay on his back, wrapped in a white sheet from the shoulders down. He remained fully clothed but the belt had been removed from his neck and his tongue had been pushed back into his mouth. Purple bruising hung around his neckline but his skin was that pale yellow unique to the dead, sallow with a hint of gray. The image came to him of Celia lying on the very same table, her skin blanched white and crisscrossed with blue veins. He remembered that her blond hair had seemed so thin, so colorless. There were scratches on her arms where Michael had tried to pull her out of the water.

  “Yes, yes that’s him.” Gale said eventually. “That’s Herbert.”

  People reacted differently in the identification chamber. Some people liked to touch the body, to explore what they once knew and see how it had changed. Others obsessed over the narrative details, wanting to reconstruct the events leading up to someone’s death. It wasn’t so much about completing the biography of a loved one as much as it was their wanting to know exactly where they were and what they were doing themselves when that other person died.

  Collins pulled the sheet back over Stanley’s face before taking Craine to one side. Gale stood staring at the sheeted figure, arms tensed in front of her, one hand clutching the other.

  “That Irish detective—” Collins whispered.

  “You mean O’Neill?”

  “He’s been asking about doing an autopsy.”

  “I know. Is it strictly necessary? Legally, that is?”

  “It’s advised in these circumstances.”

  “What circumstances?”

  “Where cause of death isn’t clear.”

  “It is clear—he hanged himself.”

  “I can stall him, but in cases of suicide it’s the normal protocol.”

  “Fine. I want to know what the outcome is before anyone else hears about it.”

  Collins nodded. “One last thing, Detective. That G.S.W. cadaver you brought in. The girl—Florence Lloyd. You want to be present for the autopsy?”

  “No, just file the report with R. and I. It’s closed.”

  “No one’s come to claim the body.”

  Strange, Craine thought. How could a girl that looked like her go completely unclaimed?

  “I’ll have my secretary track down her next of kin.”

  When Craine turned back to the table Gale was crying. She rested her hand on Stanley’s chest for a second then stepped back. He could see that she was hurting. It was something most people never have to go through and he shared that pain with her. Seeing Celia was one of the worst experiences of his life. It didn’t matter how much you argued, how much your relationship was strained, how bitter things got between you; when you see someone you love lying dead in front of you it makes everything else irrelevant. It was something he wouldn’t wish on anyone.

  “Is there anything else? Can I go, please?”

  She should have had a friend with her today. This wasn’t something you should go through alone. “Would you like a ride home, Miss Goodwin?”

  “Please,” she said through tears, “take him away. I don’t want to be here anymore.”

  “We’re done, Miss Goodwin,” said Collins. “My deepest condolences to you and your family. When you come to make funeral arrangements, you can tell the parlor they can collect your husband from here. Please don’t hesitate to contact me if you have any questions.”

  Craine opened the door. “Miss Goodwin, I’ll drive you home.”

  Gale nodded then looked away. She seemed smaller than she did yesterday and more delicate and fragile than the self-possessed movie star he’d seen on the screen only last night. There was a sorrowful, almost pathetic look in her face that he recognized in himself.

  It was a five-minute walk through the lower corridors to the parking lot and they shared it in silence. When they reached his car, Craine held the door open and helped her inside. He shut it softly behind her and walked round to the driver’s seat.

  “Craine?”

  It was dark in the basement parking lot, but he recognized O’Neill instantly in his three-piece suit and thick-rimmed spectacles.

  “What is it, O’Neill?”

  O’Neill glanced toward the car and spoke quietly. “I wanted to tell you that I spoke to Stanley’s maid.”

  “And?”

  “She told me Stanley had seemed normal this week. He didn’t seem suicidal.”

  “Depressives often don’t.” Craine waved the matter aside, his tone telling O’Neill that this wasn’t the time.

  “Wait, there’s more. The morning he died he received an unsigned package. Then a phone call. She said it really spooked him. He locked himself in his study for the rest of the day.”

  Craine ushered O’Neill to one side to be certain they were out of earshot. “Who from?”

  “She couldn’t say. But I traced the call to a bar the other side of town.” O’Neill handed him a folded piece of paper. “The caller’s name is at the top.”

  Craine took it reluctantly. He looked back at the car. Gale was looking at them. He couldn’t leave her waiting.

  “Have you told Simms?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Then leave it with me. It’s probably nothing.”

  “Wait, I’ll come with you. I thought we could go together.”

  Craine held up a hand. “Go to the autopsy, O’Neill,” he whispered so Gale couldn’t hear. “It’ll put your mind at rest. But I don’t want you running around Los Angeles asking any more questions about Stanley. I mean that. I’ll handle this myself.”

  He unfolded the paper and glanced at it as he reached the driver’s door. It was a telephone bill with an address off Main Street penciled in the margin. The listed tenant was scrawled in capitals. His name was James Campbell.

  Craine’s Fleetwood drove up 2nd Street before turning onto Grand Avenue, with its long blocks of retail buildings, apartments, and commercial offices. It was dry outside; the roads were washed clean by the rain but there was a pressure in the air and he knew it would rain again soon.

  Gale sat quietly in the passenger seat, staring at the comings and goings of the curbside and Craine remained content to drive in silence. The Fleetwood inched through the northern edges of downtown, passing food lines, restless teenagers playing dice on street corners and old men stretched across liquor store doorways. Craine saw a line of newspaper vendors on the giant square paving slabs beyond the curb. He noticed Gale turn her head to read the headlines inked out on a sandwich board: “GALE GOODWIN’S HUSBAND COMMITS SUICIDE.”

  She sank low in her seat, and there was a slight tremor in her hands as she pulled a pack of cigarettes from her purse.

  “Do you mind if I smoke?” she said at last.

  “Please, go ahead,” he said, although he regretted it as soon as he realized that she was smoking Chesterfields.

  Craine kept his eyes on the road ahead. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Gale’s slender fingers fumbling over a lighter. She lit the cigarette and wound down the window, balancing her wrist on the doorframe. She was trembling.

  “Are you
alright, Miss Goodwin?”

  “It’s Gale, but yes, thank you.”

  Twenty minutes passed in silence. They began crawling up the winding roads into Brentwood. Joan Crawford’s house was only a few miles away. Finally Gale said: “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to be short before. I didn’t mean to make a scene like that.”

  “You don’t need to apologize. I know it can be difficult.”

  “No. No, it was completely uncalled for.” She drew on a fresh cigarette and sighed. “It was just . . . being in that room, I guess. I haven’t really thought about where he was. I’d assumed I’d never see him again. Then seeing him lying there, on that table . . . I’m so embarrassed, I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be. I understand.”

  “You must have done that so many times.”

  Craine nodded.

  “I suppose you get used to it.”

  “I can appreciate—I’ve been in your position. I know how difficult it is.”

  “Of course—Celia. I wasn’t thinking. When she died, you went down there? You went down to see her?”

  “Yes, yes I did.”

  “And was it easier, knowing what to expect?”

  ”No,” he replied, “it wasn’t easier.” Worse, in a way; he didn’t tell her. The anticipation of seeing Celia’s body was almost unbearable because he already knew what she’d look like dead. He almost didn’t go in there.

  “I didn’t want to go there today, not alone. I’ve been dreading it really, but there was no one else.”

  “Herbert doesn’t have any family?”

  “No. No one. He was an only child. His parents died before I met him. And he never wanted children. Do you have any children? I’m sorry, that’s none of my business. What I was going to say was that I’m glad you were there. Joan drove me down but she had to be on set today so she couldn’t stay. And Russell—Peterson—promised he would come with me but I called his office this morning and they said he wasn’t available. His secretary said he’d be in meetings all day. I left a message but he never called. I guess he was too busy.”

  “He’s a busy man,” Craine said, although really there was no excuse. Peterson only did what was good for him and M.G.M. He couldn’t care less about how Gale actually felt.