by Bill Bernico
“In a nutshell, he said he could buy out Ernie’s half, that is my half of the business and I could just take the cash and enjoy the rest of my life. Or, he said if I pursued this any further that whatever there was left for me would be eaten up in legal fees and whatnot.”
“And that’s all it took to get you to back off?” I said.
“It made sense the way he told it,” she said. “As much as I’d like to get justice, I just don’t think I could afford it. Do you?”
“Can you afford not to pursue it?” I said. “If you do and you win, the entire business would be yours and Duncan could get the gas chamber.”
“Pull up here,” Bernice said.
I stopped in front of “AAA Investments” and looked at Bernice. “AAA Investments?” I said. “Why are we stopping here?”
“It’s Ernie’s, I mean my company,” she said
“Where’d the AAA part come from?” I said.
“Ernie wanted to be first in the yellow pages under investments and “Williams” would have been way down the list, so…”
“I see,” I said. “So now what?”
“Nothing,” she said. “I just thought I owed you an explanation. I’m dropping the whole matter and I’d like you to do the same.” She looked at me like an old hound dog begging for a bone.
“If that’s the way you want it,” I said.
“That’s the way I want it,” Bernice said, sliding out of my car and closing the door. She leaned over the passenger window. “It’s for the best, Mr. Cooper. And thank you for understanding.”
She turned and walked away before I could answer. I pulled away from the curb feeling empty and unfulfilled.
Three weeks later I was sitting at my desk, not sure where my next client was coming from when I turned the page of last night’s paper and something caught my eye. It was just a couple of paragraphs on page twelve but something drew my eye to it. The article mentioned that police had found the body of a man in an alley downtown. The man had been stabbed twenty-eight times and left under a pile of cardboard boxes, rags and other garbage. He had no identification on him when the body was found and police were waiting for fingerprint results to come back from the FBI before they could release any names to the press.
I folded the paper and laid it on my desk. I was pouring myself a cup of coffee when my office door opened and Dan Hollister let himself in.
“Well, Sergeant Hollister,” I said. “What brings you to my neighborhood? You run out of crime downtown?”
Without waiting to be invited, Dan sat in my client’s chair. “You read about that body we found downtown last night?”
“Just finished the article,” I said. “Looks like that guy pissed off the wrong people.”
“Looks like it,” Dan said.
“And you’re here because…”
“Because the guy’s name was Duncan Davenport,” Dan said, waiting for my reaction.
“It’s a familiar name,” I said.
“Familiar enough to remember your connection?” Dan said.
“Nothing comes to mind,” I said.
“Think harder,” Dan said. “Last month you were on the scene right after Izzy Goldstein took one in the head. I believe you told me something about a client and a killing and a partner in some business.”
“I said that?” I said.
“And it didn’t take much digging on my part to put two and two together,” Dan said confidently. “Does the name Ernie Williams ring a bell?”
I was sure Dan was holding all the cards and I was in no position to bluff. “Now that you mention it, I think I hear a little tinkling.”
“Try again, Cooper,” Dan insisted. “Ernie Williams and Duncan Davenport were partners in AAA Investments and now both of them are dead.” Dan flipped though his notepad and stopped on a page and read to himself. “And almost two months ago Williams’ widow comes to see me about a shooting on a Hollywood bus where seven people were shot, her husband included. And I’ll just bet that if we looked a little deeper we might find that the late Izzy Goldstein was the auditor looking into their company finances.”
Dan had all the facts so there was no need to carry out this charade any further. I snapped my fingers as if I’d just remembered something. “Come to think of it, I do recall Mrs. Williams coming to see me a while back. She mentioned that you kinda blew her off when she first came to you for help. She must not think too highly of L.A.’s finest.”
“Never mind that,” Dan said. “We have her in custody and she’s asking to see you. So if you’re not too busy reading the comics do you think you could pull yourself away long enough to come downtown with me?”
I folded my paper and set it down on my desk. “What are we waiting for?” I said.
Dan drove me to the precinct and led me to a holding cell. When Bernice Williams saw me, she quickly stood and hurried over to Dan and me. She looked at Dan suspiciously and then at me. I looked at Dan.
“Could we have a moment in private?” I said.
“Five minutes,” Dan said as he walked away and closed the door behind him.
Bernice clung to the bars in desperation, her eyes filled with tears. “They say I killed Duncan,” she cried.
“And did you?” I said.
She bought some time by wiping at her eyes and swallowing hard. “You’ve got to help me.”
“Have you called your lawyer yet?” I said.
“No,” she said. “I asked to see you first.”
“Why?” I said.
“Mr. Cooper,” she began, “I was all set to just accept Duncan’s cash offer to buy me out and then I talked to you, remember? You asked if I was satisfied with just cash and no justice.”
“I said that?”
“Yes,” Bernice said. “And the more I thought about it, the madder I got. When it came time for the buyout payment, Duncan tried to drop the price one more time and he even gloated about getting the whole business for himself. I told him I’d agree to his price and arranged to meet him in secret for the extra cash he wanted.”
“The alley downtown,” I added.
She nodded and hung her head.
“And you paid him in full,” I said. “Twenty-eight times.”
She nodded again.
“Mrs. Williams,” I said. “I’m just an investigator. What you need is a lawyer and I’d advise you strongly to get one. Technically you’re not my client anymore and what you tell me now is not privileged so I’d also advise you not to say anymore until you talk with your lawyer.”
“You can understand, can’t you?” She said.
“I guess I can,” I said. “And if you’re upfront with your lawyer and he can play the sympathy card for the jury, you may just get off with just a couple of years. I’m afraid I can’t do any more for you, Mrs. Williams. I do wish you luck. Good-bye.”
As I left the cell area I could hear her whimpering behind me. It didn’t make it any easier for me, but it was best if I stayed out of the picture. I was sure the prosecution would rake me over the coals on this one when the time came.
That very afternoon I ran into Bertie Stein over on Highland and Hollywood. She was walking with Todd Simmons. She stopped long enough to acknowledge me but when she saw a dozen or more girls milling about and whispering as they pointed her way, she thought it best that she keep moving. I moved with her.
“I’m glad I ran into you,” Bertie said. “I’ve made a few contacts and I can get you interviews with at least three of Davenport’s clients. They all said they be happy to nail him with your help.”
“Thanks, Bertie,” I said. “I’ve been meaning to get back to you about that but it just slipped my mind until I just now saw you.”
“About what?” she said, a little impatient now.
“I’m afraid I won’t need to do that now,” I said.
“And why not?” she said.
I gave her the Reader’s Digest condensed version of the Williams-Davenport saga.
“I do appr
eciate your help, though, Bertie,” I said. “And I’ll tell you what. Not only will I owe you one, but the next lunch is on me as well. And not just a salad. Any place you want. Just let me know when and where. Deal?”
Bertie reluctantly conceded and gave me a shallow hug and one of those phony Hollywood kisses where our faces don’t even touch.
It had been one hell of a ride but I still felt a bit hollow after it was all over. And when you think about it, justice had finally been served, even though not in the manner prescribed by law.
18 - Violence Is Golden
The unmarked cruiser screamed around the corner and skidded to a stop at the opening of the alley on Selma Avenue. Two men emerged and took their places on either side of the alley. Detective Sergeant Dan Hollister silently signaled to the rookie officer, Jerry Burns as he crouched and made his way up the alley with Burns following close behind. The alley dead-ended and branched off like the letter L, continuing to the right for another hundred feet. Dan stopped at the corner, slowly peered around the corner and motioned to Burns to follow. They’d gone another twenty feet when Dan spied a pair of shoes protruding out from under a pile of cardboard refuse.
He grabbed the microphone on his shoulder and softly said, “Headquarters, this is Sergeant Hollister requesting backup in the alley on Selma Avenue between Vine and Ivar.”
“Copy that,” the dispatcher answered.
“Might as well send the M.E. while you’re at it.” Dan released the microphone and tiptoed closer toward the feet. He signaled to Burns who took up his position on the other side of the cardboard pile, his gun raised and ready. Dan plucked a few pieces of cardboard and tossed them aside. A few moments later the entire body became visible. Burns looked down at it and gasped, slapping one hand over his mouth as he stepped back. He pulled the flashlight off his belt, flicked the switch and shined it down onto the body. The beam glinted off something shiny lying on the victim’s chest. Burns played the beam back and forth a few inches and knelt for a closer look.
The sound of two additional vehicles screeched to a stop at the alley entrance as Burns shined his flashlight, trying to identify the shiny object. He looked at Hollister. “What do you make of that?”
Hollister shook his head. “Doesn’t look like anything I’ve seen before at a murder scene.”
“Murder?” Burns said.
“Well, he didn’t do that to himself,” Dan said.
Footsteps came closer as Dan called out, “Back here.”
Two men approached, shining their flashlights in front of them. The first man knelt next to Dan. “Whatta we got here?”
Dan looked up from the body. “Answered an anonymous call about a body in the alley and found this guy here.” He pointed to the body with his flashlight. “That shiny chunk of metal was right where you see it now. We’re not sure what it is yet. We’re waiting for the medical examiner.”
“I’m right here,” a third man said from somewhere in the dark behind the other two. The first two men spread out and made room for the M.E. and his little black bag. Dan looked at the M.E. and then gestured with his chin toward Burns. “Jack Walsh, this is officer Jerry Burns.”
Walsh nodded to Burns and then directed his attention to the shiny object that appeared to be lying on the victim’s chest. He slipped into a pair of gloves and nudged the object. It held fast. It looked to be around five inches long and half an inch thick and wide. Another shaft two inches high rose from the middle of the shaft that lay lengthwise. Walsh gently grabbed the top of the upright shaft with his thumb and forefinger and wiggled. It still held tight. He wrapped his hand around the shaft and pulled upward. The shaft that emerged from the chest cavity was probably five inches long, ending in a sharp point. It looked like a crude, homemade dagger. He turned it in his hand and four engraved letters shone under the light of Dan’s flash.
“Shine your flash over here,” Walsh said, pointing to the handle of the dagger.
“Someone’s initials?” Dan said.
“I don’t think so,” Walsh replied. “Not unless the killer’s name is Irving Nelson Richard Ivanovich.”
Dan looked puzzled. “What’s it say?”
Walsh took a closer look and announced, “I-N-R-I. It’s a crucifix.”
“You sure?” Dan said.
“Unmistakable,” Walsh said. “Looks like someone took a crucifix and sharpened one end to fashion a dagger out of it.”
“What’s the I-N-R-I mean?” Burns asked.
Walsh turned to the young officer. “It stands for ‘Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews.’”
“Huh?” Burns said, thoroughly puzzled. “How’d you get that out of those initials?”
Walsh looked at Dan in somewhat disbelief before looking back at Burns. “Well, back in the day the letter I and the letter J were interchangeable somewhat. And the R stands for Rex, which loosely translates to King. So look at it again. I - Jesus, N -Nazareth, R - Rex or King, I - Jews. Jesus of Nazareth, King of the Jews. Oh it’s a crucifix, all right.”
Burns looked on in amazement. “How do you know all of this stuff? And how long have you been storing it in your noggin just waiting to work it into a conversation?”
Walsh ignored the question and pulled a plastic bag from his pocket and deposited the weapon into it. He labeled it and slipped it into his black bag. The first two other men returned to the ambulance and came back into the alley rolling a gurney into place near the body. They lifted the victim onto the gurney and wheeled him back to the ambulance waiting at the street.
Dan motioned to Burns. “Get some crime scene tape out of the cruiser and tape off this whole area. We don’t want anyone else wandering through here before the lab boys get a chance to go over it.”
Burns nodded acknowledgement. “Got it.” He returned to their cruiser and came back with the large roll of yellow tape and began cordoning off the alley. When he’d finished, he walked up to Jack again and asked, “You think that was real gold?”
“What?” Dan said.
“The crucifix dagger thing,” he said. “You think it was real gold?”
“I don’t know,” Dan said. “Anything’s possible, especially with a weird killing like this one. There are all kinds of nuts out there. Maybe someone had a hardon for bible thumpers. Who knows? Walsh can tell us more after he’s had a chance to examine the murder weapon.”
Hollister turned to Burns. “I’ll want that report on my desk before the end of the shift tomorrow.”
“Yes sir,” Burns said.
Dan shined his flashlight around the ground and up the walls of the alley, looking for anything that might lead him in the right direction to finding out more about this bizarre killing. A few minutes later two lab techs showed up with their crime scene kits and portable lighting. That was Dan’s cue to get back on patrol. He and Burns left the scene and drove back to the precinct.
It was nearly three o’clock the next afternoon before Jack Walsh got back to Dan with his findings. Dan and Officer Burns stood around the autopsy table as Walsh put the finishing touches on his report. He laid it down and turned back to Dan. “It was a crucifix, all right,” he began. “The end had been sharpened on a grinding wheel until it had a long, sharp point on it. The killer used it like a dagger and thrust it into Kowalski’s heart.”
“Kowalski?” Dan said.
“The victim,” Jack said. “Peter Kowalski, age fifty-six, brown hair, turning gray, blue eyes, five foot ten, one-eighty.” Walsh handed Jack the victim’s wallet, open to the driver’s license window.
Dan studied the information on the license before turning back to Burns. “Let’s go.”
“Where we goin’?” Burns said.
“We can start with the address on Kowalski’s license,” Dan said to Burns before turning once again to Walsh. “Thanks again.”
Burns paused at the door and turned back to Walsh. “Was it real gold?”
“How’s that?” Walsh asked, preoccupied with the body.
; “The crucifix,” Burns explained. “Was it real gold?”
Walsh picked up the sharpened crucifix and looked back at Burns. “Plating. Cheap plating at that.”
“Thanks,” Burns said, following Dan out the door and back to the cruiser.
Dan slid behind the wheel as Burns slid in beside him, wallet in hand.
“Read me that address again,” Hollister said, looking down at the wallet in Burns’ hand.
Burns held the wallet up to eye level and read, “Sixty-seven fifty-five Yucca Avenue, apartment four, Hollywood.”
Dan pulled away from the curb and headed north on Highland toward Hollywood. As he passed Hollywood Boulevard, Burns announced, “That’s Yucca on the right.”
Dan rounded the corner and pulled the cruiser to a stop at the curb. Burns followed him up the sidewalk between two buildings. Apartment four was on the second floor and the two cops took the stairs two at a time. Dan stopped at apartment four, rang the doorbell and stepped to one side. No answer. He banged on the door with his fist. Still no answer. He tried the doorknob. It turned easily and the door opened.
Dan drew his service revolver and stepped inside, Burns close behind. The drapes were drawn and the lights were out. It was difficult to see anything past the front room. Dan flipped on the wall switch and the ceiling light illuminated. There on a shelf next to a floor console radio Dan spotted a framed picture of two people—a man and a woman. He recognized the man as Peter Kowalski but had no idea who the woman was.
Burns edged toward the kitchen slowly. He turned on the light to reveal an empty room. He moved down the hall, looked into the bathroom and moved on to one of the two bedrooms. Both rooms were also empty.
“Clear here,” Burns said, returning to the front room and holstering his revolver.
Dan holstered his weapon as well, grabbed the frame, slipped the picture of the couple out and returned the frame to the shelf. “Let’s go,” he told Burns.
“Hey sergeant,” Burns said pointing, “Look at this.”
On the east wall of the front room hung a painting depicting Jesus standing among a flock of sheep. He was holding one of the critters in his arms. To the left of the portrait hung a larger crucifix, also bearing the initials INRI across the top. On the coffee table Dan spotted a handful of leaflets. He picked two of them up and handed one to Burns. Across the top of the handout Dan read, ‘Have you heard the word of God today?’
