Cooper By The Gross (All 144 Cooper Stories In One Volume)

by Bill Bernico

  “That’s just great,” I said, as if there were anyone there to hear me. I closed the window, cursing under my breath at the contraption that once occupied that space. I hurried downstairs and out to the sidewalk to pick up the pieces of my fan. Luckily no one was hit by any of the pieces. I left the pieces in a pile just inside my office and took a seat behind my desk again. My pulse and heartbeat were just getting back into the normal range when the phone rang.

  “Cooper,” I said.

  “Matt. It’s Dan. Hot enough for you?”

  “Hey,” I said sarcastically, “I’ve never heard that one before. You just make that one up?”

  “Forget it, wise guy. You looking for a little work?”

  “Hollister,” I said, “don’t you ever call just to shoot the breeze? The only time I hear from you is when you’re up to your armpits in bureaucratic bullshit. What is it this time? You need someone to peddle some more tickets to the policeman’s ball?”

  “Maybe I’ll get back to you when you’re not so ornery, Cooper. Goodbye.”

  The phone went dead and I stood there looking at the receiver. I’d no sooner hung it back in its cradle when it rang again.

  “Cooper.”

  “You in a better mood yet?” Hollister said.

  “You know Dan, you could have told me about this an hour ago. I was just there, remember?”

  “It came in just after you left,” Dan said. “Now, take a deep breath, relax and let it out. Okay, now tell Uncle Dan what’s troubling you.”

  “It’s starting out to be one of those days,” I said. “This damned window fan just died and fell out the window and I’m sweating like a fat lady at a church bazaar. What do you need?”

  “It no cooler here,” Dan said,” but you don’t see me crying about it.”

  “You wanna get to the point,” I said.

  “How about you meet me at my office and I’ll lay it out for you? Better yet, I’ll come there. It’s on my way. Ten minutes okay for you?”

  “Where have I got to go?” I said and hung up.

  I slipped out of my shoulder holster and wet shit and hung the shirt on a hook next to my sink. My clean, dry shirt hung on the coat rack. I slipped into it, buttoned it up and tucked it in before pulling on my holster again. There, that felt much better.

  Dan got to my in eighteen minutes. Guess he wasn’t afraid of getting a speeding ticket. I was still sitting at my desk when he walked in. I pointed to my client’s chair but Dan remained standing.

  “Come on, Matt,” he said. “I’ll fill you in on the way.”

  “On the way to where?” I said.

  Hollister said nothing until we got into his cruiser. “It’s another homicide. Same as the other two almost down to the detail.”

  “Single woman driver?” I said. “Desolate street? Car at the curb?”

  Hollister nodded. “Same M.O. Single bullet hole between the eyes. Nothing disturbed in the car. No robbery or assault, just the bullet hole. I tell ya, women around here are starting to panic.”

  We pulled to a stop behind a black and white and got out. Two officers were guarding the scene, waiting for Sergeant Hollister to show up. A small crowd of people began inching their way closer to the victim’s car. A police photographer had arrived just ahead of us and was busy snapping shots of the car, the victim and the surrounding area.

  Dan motioned to one of the officers. “Keep those people back.”

  I looked into the driver’s window of the Ford coupe. A woman perhaps in her early thirties sat slumped in the driver’s seat. Her brown hair fell to her shoulders with a sticky clump of gray matter and blood at the back of her head where the single bullet had exited. Her mouth hung open and her eyes were fixed wide.

  I turned away and met Dan at the rear of the woman’s car. “What a waste,” I said. “No apparent motive again. And you’re thinking it’s the same guy for all three murders?”

  Dan nodded. “This thing is getting spooky. If he’d robbed any of his victims, we might be able to trace jewelry or watches or something. But this guy just seems to like the killing part.”

  I scratched the back of my head. “So tell me, Dan. What am I doing here? Why do you need me? Can’t you handle this by yourself?” I knew that was a mistake the minute the words left my mouth.

  Dan gave me that look he always saved just for me.

  “Scratch that,” I said. “I’m just cranky with the heat.”

  I could see Dan’s clenched fists relaxing as he slowly let out his breath. “Cooper, that mouth of yours is gonna get you in deep shit one of these days. You want this one or not?”

  “Sure,” I said. “But why me?”

  “Mayor’s on the Captain’s ass and he’s on mine about this one and I’ll take help wherever I can find it.” Dan handed me a large manila envelope. “This might be a good place to start. It’ll get you up to speed on the first two homicides.”

  I took the envelope and pulled a pencil from my jacket pocket and wrote on the back. I made notes of what I saw at this crime scene. I motioned to the photographer. “When can I see those shots?”

  He looked over at Dan. Dan nodded and the photographer turned back to me. “You can have ‘em in an hour or so. They’ll be back at the precinct in Sergeant Hollister’s office.”

  Dan drove me back to my office and then returned to the precinct. I took a seat behind my desk and opened the manila envelope. I poured its contents out on my desk and sifted through it. Each murder evidence packet was clipped in the upper left corner with a large paper clip. I set the pieces in two rows across my desk.

  I laid a picture of the first victim at the upper left edge of my desk. I laid a picture of the second victim directly below it. Next to the first victim’s picture, I laid a picture of the car, taken from the back. Below that I laid a picture of the second victim’s car. For everything I laid out on the top row, I had a corresponding piece of evidence directly below it. If there was any kind of pattern there, I didn’t see it. I laid out the rest of the evidence next to their corresponding victims’ photos.

  I sat staring at the two rows of clues, looking for any link. It had been almost two hours since I left the crime scene with Dan when my office door opened. Steve Froman, the photographer who’d been at the last scene, walked in and handed me an envelope. “These are the shots from Sycamore Street. It was closer just to drop them here than it was to drive back to the precinct.” Sergeant Hollister said he’d drop off whatever else he had as soon as he could get copies made.”

  I thanked him and waited until he closed my door again before I opened the latest envelope. I withdrew a picture of the brown-haired woman I’d last seen slumped in her car earlier today. I laid it in a third row directly below the other two. Next to it I laid a picture of her car, a picture of the area, and a small piece of paper with the victim’s description. Her name and other essential information would come with Hollister.

  Now I was looking at pictures of three cars. One was an Oldsmobile while the second car was a Buick. The third car was the Ford I’d seen. No pattern there—different models, different makes, different colors and different locations. The only similarity was his M.O., modus operandi, or mode of operation. They were all the same.

  The crime scene pictures yielded no further clues. All were relatively non-busy streets but beyond that there was nothing outstanding about them. The shots of the victims were of no help, either. The last victim had long brown hair, while the first and second victims were both blondes. One was forty-seven years old and one was twenty-two years old. I was still waiting for the stats on victim number three. I left the items on the desk and paced the room, trying to think of a possible connection between the three victims.

  I agonized over the tidbits on my desk for another hour before Dan showed up holding yet another envelope. He handed it to me and I emptied its contents out on my desk next to their corresponding pieces. Dan watched as I explained what my layout meant.

  Victim number three turn
ed out to be a thirty-three-year-old single mother from North Hollywood. She had no criminal record and there was nothing extraordinary about her enough to make anyone pick her out from a crowd.

  “If there’s any connection here,” I said, “I’ll be damned if I can see it.”

  Hollister looked over the collection of photos and information sheets. “It has to be there, Cooper. I’ve never heard of any killer picking his victims totally at random. Everyone has a motive, even if it’s just for the thrill of killing. But believe me, these victims are connected in some way.”

  “Well,” I said, “I’ll keep at it, but I can’t promise anything.”

  “Do what you can, Matt,” Dan said. “I have to get back. Let me know if anything turns up.”

  I agreed and took a seat behind my desk. “You can let yourself out, can’t you?”

  Dan mumbled something under his breath and left. I pulled a pencil out of my drawer and found my notepad. On the first page I wrote the victims’ names—Melanie Peterson, Paula Griffith and Shirley Jacobson.

  I flipped to the second page and wrote the makes and models of their cars—Olds, Buick, Ford.

  On the third page I scribbled down each of their license plate numbers—SE 9891, PT 2230 and 0338 NT.

  I paced some more, staring at my notes. Nothing was coming to me. I pulled the pages from my notebook, tore them in half and in half again and threw them on the floor and threw my hands up in frustration. It was hotter than ever how and my patience was wearing thin. I pulled my office door open, looking for any relief from the heat. The movement of the door blew the little pieces of paper on the floor and it made me look down at them. I noticed something I hadn’t seen before.

  The pieces of the page with the license numbers had been rearranged on the floor. I looked down at the pile and it hit me. The page had been torn down the middle, separating the first two places in the license plate from the rest. All I could see now was SE, PT and 03. September third. I picked up the other pieces and laid them out on my desk again. The first two plate letters spelled out SEPT and the last plate number showed 0338. It was September 3, 1938. That was just short of ten years ago, but there anything significant about September third? And if so, what was it? It could be nothing at all. Maybe I just wanted a clue so bad that I saw something that really wasn’t there.

  I rearranged the torn pieces on my desk and taped them back together. I deposited the taped scraps and other evidence back into the envelopes and tucked the bundle under my arm. Maybe Dan would have an angle.

  I found Dan standing near the water cooler with a small conical paper cup in his hand. He was talking with Jerry Burns, a uniformed officer I’d met several time in the past. I waited for a lull in the conversation before I jumped in.

  “Hi Jerry,” I said and immediately turned toward Dan. “Can I see you in your office for a moment, Dan?”

  Dan looked at Officer Burns and nodded. Burns turned and walked away while I followed Dan back to his office. He stood alongside his desk while I laid out the scraps on his desk and stood back.

  “Notice anything out of the ordinary?” I said.

  Dan studied the scraps for only a few seconds. “September third?” He looked back at me.

  “That’s what I see, too” I said. “Does that mean anything to you?”

  Dan thought for a moment and drew a blank. He shook his head and scanned the rest of the evidence. “Nope. Maybe it’s a fluke. Maybe it just turned up that way totally by chance.”

  “That’s what I thought at first,” I said. “But nothing else really fits. It has to be the clue we’re looking for.”

  “A long shot at best,” Dan said.

  “What are the odds?” I said. “Besides, there is absolutely nothing else that makes any sense in these killings; nothing else that ties any of the victims together. It has to be the plates.”

  “Maybe,” Dan said, but unless we know the significance of that date, we still don’t have anything to go on. You sure none of the rest of the evidence fits in?”

  “Think,” I said. “Did you arrest anyone with that birthday that you can remember?”

  “Oh yeah, Cooper. I think you’re on to something here. Let’s see, if that were the case, our killer would be nine years old today. I’ll put out an APB at the schoolyard.”

  “All right,” I said. “Bad idea. But what about arrest dates, conviction dates, major crime dates? One of those has to have a connection to these three victims.”

  “Well, Cooper,” Dan said, “the storage room is in the basement. Good luck. Everything’s filed alphabetically. How you gonna find a particular date?”

  I thought for a moment. “All right, bad idea number two. So why don’t you come up with something?”

  We sat in silence when Dan’s office door opened. Hannah, Dan’s secretary, walked in with a coffee cup in one hand and a small book in the other. She set the cup down on Dan’s desk. “One coffee, black. Anything else?” She looked at me. “Hi Matt. What brings you to our neighborhood?”

  “Why, you, of course,” I said, winking. “You and that lovely smile of yours.”

  “Smooth,” she said. “If I wasn’t married…”

  I smiled a wry smile.

  Dan sipped from the cup and looked back at Hannah, who was poised with the small book open and a pencil in her hand, ready to write. Dan thought for a moment before setting his cup down. “Remind me that I have a court appearance next Tuesday at three. If I forget this one, the judge’ll have my ass in a sling.”

  Hannah jotted the information down, closed the book and nodded. “Tuesday, three o’clock,” she said and turned to go.

  “Excuse me, Hannah,” I said.

  “Matt, I told you, I’m married.”

  “No,” I said, “not that. I was just wondering about that appointment book you have there.”

  “You can’t even make an appointment,” Hannah said. “I’m still married and plan to be for some time. However, if anything happens to Bob, I could pencil you in for, let’s say…” She rifled through the pages and stopped near the back. “…Let’s say, never.” She closed the book.

  She smiled a broad smile but when I didn’t smile back she said, “Lighten up, Matt. When did you lose your sense of humor?”

  “You get a new book like that every year, don’t you?” I said.

  Hannah looked at the book. “Sure, but…”

  “What do you do with the old ones every January?”

  Dan sat up straight in his chair. Hannah looked at Dan, puzzled. “Hannah,” Dan said, “would you bring me your appointment book from 1938?”

  Hannah looked at me and then over at Dan. “What’s going on here?”

  “Please, Hannah, just bring me the book?”

  “Okay,” Hannah said. “You’re the boss. But it’ll take me a little while to go and get it from the basement.”

  “Thanks,” Dan and I said in unison. I held my crooked pinky finger up and Dan looked at it for a while before sighing and crooking his own pinky finger. We locked fingers and then released them.

  Hannah returned fifteen minutes later with her old appointment book and laid it on Dan’s desk. Dan snapped it up and quickly turned to September. He flipped a few more pages before stopping on the third. There were no significant entries. He turned a few more pages until he came to September fifteenth. There was a note in Hannah’s hand that said, “Dan – court. Three-thirty. Bettencourt case.”

  “That’s gotta be it,” Dan said. He looked up at Hannah. “Would you bring me the Bettencourt file, please?”

  “Who’s Bettencourt,” I said.

  “Leo Bettencourt,” Hannah answered. “I remember that one. He was spooky. He gave me the willies just looking at him.”

  “Hannah?” Dan said.

  “Right away,” she said and left the office for the basement.

  “All right, Dan,” I said. “Wanna fill me in on this Bettencourt?”

  “Not much to tell, really,” Dan said. “It was a s
imple arrest. I was still on patrol back then and my partner and I were cruising Santa Monica Boulevard, headed back to the precinct when I spotted Bettencourt in an alley beating up on another man. I’d gotten out of the car and pulled Bettencourt off the guy, but it was too late. The guy was dead. Bettencourt claimed three guys jumped him and that the other two took off when they spotted my cruiser. By the time I pulled up to the alley, all we saw was Bettencourt and the guy he was beating.”

  I waited for more details but just then Hannah came in with the Bettencourt file. “Here you are, chief.”

  “Thanks, Hannah,” he said. “And please don’t call me chief.”

  Hannah snapped to attention and saluted. “Yes sir, sergeant sir.” She dropped her salute and stood with her legs apart in the at-ease position.

  “Funny,” Dan said, opening the file on his desk and rifling through the pages. He stopped when he came upon the original arrest sheet. He read to me from it. “Murder one charge was bargained down to manslaughter. He got eight years and nine months. Claimed it was self-defense and stuck to his story of there being three attackers. The other two were never found and all we had to go on was what we saw when we arrived on the scene. Bettencourt swore he’d get even.”

  “Eight years and nine months,” I said. “That would have put him on the street last June. Where’s he been since then?”

  Dan flipped through a few more pages. “Looks like they tacked on another year to his sentence while he was in prison. Says here he beat up another inmate. Doesn’t say why.”

  “That would have put him back on the street less than three months ago,” I said.

  “Time frame fits,” Dan said. “But why kill three women? Why not just go after the judge that sent him up or the jury members?”

  “Or the arresting officer,” I said. “He could be trying to get your attention, Dan. Who knows what he’s planning for a finale.”

  Dan thought for a moment. He looked up at Hannah. “I’ll be out for a while. Hold my calls and get a bulletin out on Bettencourt. Let’s bring him in.”

  “Right away,” Hanna said and returned to her desk.

  It had been twelve days since I’d met with Dan. It was September third–the ten-year anniversary of Bettencourt’s arrest. I sat behind my desk, fidgeting with a table fan I’d brought from home. It helped a little but then a little was all I needed. The weather had mellowed a bit and fall wasn’t far off.