by Bill Bernico
“First of all,” Scott said, “The handwriting is very narrow and cramped. And the writing samples display extremely strong pressure as he wrote. And notice the wide spaces between the words. His writing tends to slant slightly to the left, even though the person who wrote these notes is right-handed.”
“How do you know that?” Dean said. When he saw the look he got from Scott, he added, “Of course you would know that. Never mind. Go on.”
Scott picked up the first note and pointed to its content. “Notice here how he tried to cover the whole piece of paper, even though there were only twelve words altogether. Another thing is the endings of some of his letters, like the ‘y’ at the end of ‘why’. See how he added that little flourish at the end? And one last thing, at the end of the sentence, he had added seven exclamation points and underlined the last word, ‘you’. Now, by themselves, these characteristics wouldn’t mean much, but finding all of these quirks in the same, short note is a definite indicator of schizophrenia.”
“A whack job,” Dean said. “I knew it had to be something like that.”
“Whack job isn’t exactly the way I’d have phrased it,” Scott said. “He’s most likely highly intelligent, bordering on genius. These kinds of people tend to see others as inferior and not worthy of the space he perceives that they are taking up on this earth. But yes, this guy does have serious mental problems. He most likely has problems with authority figures, problems with taking orders from anybody, authority figure or not. If and when you find him you may also find out that he had been disciplined in the past for hurting little animals. He may also have been a chronic bed-wetter and he may have been caught starting fires. These behavior patterns are found in many serial killers.”
“Well, wouldn’t people around him have noticed quirks like the ones you’ve described?” Dean said.
“Not necessarily,” Scott said. “In fact, once he’s caught and exposed as a serial killer, his neighbors and friends, if he has any, will be surprised to find out what kind of person he really was. And his schizophrenia may have manifested itself in several personalities, which he would be able to switch at will. In Ted Bundy’s case he was able to lure young women to his aid with a fake cast. Sometimes he’d pose as a police officer or security guard. Other times he simply introduced himself to women who might be interested in handsome, charming men. He could change his appearance almost at will.”
“What else should I be looking for, Scott?” Dean said.
“Don’t expect to find black, Hispanic or Oriental victims,” Scott said. “Serial killers tend to prey on women and children of their own race. Prostitutes and hitchhikers are their preferable prey of choice.”
“Thanks, Scott,” Dean said. “You’ve helped a lot.”
“Any time,” Scott said, rising from Dean’s chair and walking toward the door. “Can I ask a favor?”
“Sure,” Dean said. “What can I do for you?”
“When you catch this guy,” Scott said, “and you have him behind the one-way mirror in the interrogation room, could I get a look at him and see how close I came with my description?”
“No problem,” Dean said. “You’ll be the first guy I call.”
“Thanks, Dean,” Scott said and walked out of Dean’s office.
TUESDAY, August 4, 1992
This time the note came inside a small package addressed to Dean Hollister at the twelfth precinct. The package was perhaps three inches long by two inches wide and an inch thick. It came wrapped in plain brown paper with cellophane tape holding the paper closed. Dean had left instructions with the mail department that if anything else came addressed to him that no one was to handle it. Instead they were supposed to call Dean immediately, and that’s just what they did.
Dean hurried down to the mailroom where he met Mike Burnett sorting mail. Mike stood back and just pointed at the package. Dan retrieved his penknife from his pocket, opened it and slipped the blade into one of the package’s folds and lifted it to eye level. He looked at Burnett and told him to call the crime lab and have them come to the mailroom right away.
Harv Preston and his crew of two arrived with their black bags and tools and chemicals. Preston used a pair of tongs to take the package from the tip of Dean’s knife. He set it down on one of the mail benches and carefully opened the tape on both ends. Harv unfolded the brown paper and set it aside. Inside he found a small white box with a lid on it, similar to a box you might find containing a wristwatch. It didn’t. When they opened it, they saw a human finger, cut off between the second and third knuckle joint. It looked pale white in contrast to the bright red nail polish that covered the nail. The meat from the severed end was beginning to turn brown.
Preston plucked the finger out of the box with a smaller set of tongs and placed it on the bench, examining it with his magnifying glass. As he examined the finger, his assistants dusted the brown wrapping paper and the white box for prints.
Dean looked on with interest as Preston turned the finger over and examined the underside.
“Anything?” Dean said.
“Like what?” Preston said, looking back at Dean.
“Like whether or not the owner of that finger was alive or dead when someone cut it off,” Dean said.
“That would be Andy Reynolds’ job,” Preston said. “Our job is to examine and gather evidence. Forensics is the M.E.’s department.” Harv went back to the box and pulled out a folded piece of paper and unfolded it with two sets of tongs. Once it was spread out, he stepped back so Dean could read it.
It was a lot longer note than the others. The note started out, “She’s a woman who needs your help. If you don’t do what I say you’re gonna lose that girl. You won’t see me, but I’ve been watching you. I see you brought in that private eye, Cooper to interpret my notes. Tell him to hurry or you can run for your life. As for my payment, we can work it out. Further instructions will follow. If you don’t follow them, I’m sure Cooper can tell you which album comes next.”
Eighty words this time. He was stepping up his game and Dean needed to call Clay in as soon as possible. Dean picked up the tongs and lifted the note off the counter. He took it over to the photocopy machine and ran two copies, giving the original back to Harv Preston. Dean folded the two copies and stuck them in his shirt pocket.
“Catalog all this,” Dean told Preston. “And leave the report on my desk when you’re finished. I’ll be back later.”
Dean stopped at the front desk and dialed Clay’s number. When Clay answered, Dean told him to stay put and that he’d be there in ten minutes or less. Dean hung up and drove to Cooper Investigations on Hollywood and Cahuenga. Once inside, Dean got right to the business at hand and retrieved the folded notes in his pocket. He handed one to Clay and followed along on the other.
“This note came in a box along with a woman’s severed finger,” Dean said. “As you can see, our suspect is getting a lot wordier now, and he’s stepped up his killing game to include mutilation. What can you tell me about the contents of this note?”
As soon as I looked at it I could pick out several Beatle song titles. “Well,” I said, “for starters, ‘She’s A Woman,” is from the Beatles ‘65 and it’s the only reference from that particular album. Then he jumps to the Help! album with two more references—’Help!’ and ‘You’re Gonna Lose That Girl’. And then there’s one title from Rubber Soul in this note—’Run For Your Life’.”
“Is that it?” Dean said.
“No,” I said. “It’s this last song title referenced in this note that has me worried. ‘We Can Work It Out’.
“It sounds hopeful,” Dean said. “What’s got you worried about it?”
“It’s a song from the Butcher Album,” I said. “And I have a feeling that a single finger is not all this woman will be missing if we don’t find him soon. Did Andy Reynolds tell you whether this finger was cut off post mortem or while she was alive?”
“I haven’t heard back from Andy yet,” Dean said. “
I’d like to be able to work on the assumption that she’s still alive, but at this point I just don’t know.”
“You want to call Andy from here?” I said. “He might have the answer by now.”
“Good idea,” Dean said, reaching for my desk phone. He dialed the medical examiner’s office and got Andy Reynolds on the third ring.
“Reynolds,” Andy said.
“Andy,” Dean said. “It’s Sergeant Hollister. Were you able to determine whether or not the girl was alive when she lost that finger.”
“Yes, I was,” Andy said. “She was alive and the finger was amputated not more than six hours ago.”
“I don’t suppose it could still be reattached,” Dean said.
“I’m afraid not,” Andy said. “Even if you found her right now, too much time has passed since the amputation. The finger is dead. Let’s hope she’s not.”
“Did you print the finger?” Dean said.
“I did that just did that a minute ago and sent the print upstairs,” Andy said. “I might have a match soon if she’s in the system.”
“Thanks, Andy,” Dean said and hung up my phone.
“You heard that,” Dean said.
“Yeah,” I said. “Our only hope is to find her before he starts mimicking the Butcher Album cover. Those decapitated baby dolls and all that red meat could be what’s in store for her if we don’t. Let’s get over to the precinct and see if we can’t light a fire under the lab boys and find out that poor girl’s identity.”
Dean and I drove back to the twelfth precinct and walked straight up to the fingerprint lab on the second floor. Wayne Walker was busy sending out the single fingerprint to outlying agencies hoping for a hit. Dean walked up behind Wayne and laid his hand on Wayne’s shoulder. Wayne, too absorbed in his work to notice our approach, jumped in his chair.
“Geezum crites,” Wayne said. “Don’t sneak up on a guy, for crying out loud. You’re gonna give me a heart attack one of these days.”
Dean raised both palms and spread his hands. “Sorry, Wayne,” he said. “I thought you saw us coming.”
Wayne still had his hand over his heart, waiting for the pulse to slow down.
“You’ve met Clay Cooper before, haven’t you?” Dean said, gesturing toward me.
“Sure,” Wayne said. “Last year on the Murphy case, remember?”
“Oh yeah,” I said, remembering how helpful Wayne and his team had been in solving the disappearance of a society woman from a case I’d been asked to handle.
“You get any hits on that fingerprint the M.E. sent up here?” Dean said.
“Still waiting,” Wayne said. “I expect to…”
The phone rang on Wayne’s desk and he picked it up. “Fingerprint lab, Wayne Walker. Uh huh. When was that? Yeah, where’d you find it? Okay, thanks, Sam. I owe you one.” Wayne hung up the phone.
“Sounds like someone found something,” Dean said.
“You bet they did,” Wayne said. “That was the fingerprint lab at the ninth precinct up in Oakland. They found a match on our print. It belongs to Anita Thompson. She had a record up there for prostitution. After her last bust, she left town and came down here to ply her trade on our streets. That was eighteen months ago.”
I looked at Wayne. “Can I use your phone book?” I said.
“Sure,” Wayne said and handed me the phonebook from the shelf above his desk.
I flipped it open to the T’s and turned page after page until I came to Thompson. There were three columns of Thompsons in the Hollywood area, none of them Anita. But there were two A. Thompsons listed, and that usually meant they were single women who thought they could disguise that fact with just an initial instead of their first name. It never worked, though. Everyone already knows this fact, so why not print the whole first name? I jotted down the two A. Thompsons, their addresses and phone numbers on my notepad and handed Wayne the phone book again.
“Thanks,” I said. “Mind if I use your phone?”
“Be my guest,” Wayne said, sliding the desk phone within my reach.
I dialed the first A. Thompson and waited as the phone rang four times. I was about to hang up when a woman answered out of breath.
“Hello,” she said.
“Is this the Thompson residence?” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “Who’s this?”
“My name is Clay Cooper,” I said. “I’m working with the Los Angeles police department on a missing person case and that person’s name is Thompson. Is your first name Anita?”
“No,” the woman said. “It’s Alice, why?”
“Thank you, Alice,” I said. “Sorry to have bothered you,” and hung up.
“One down,” Dean said.
I dialed the second number and let it ring at least a dozen times before I hung up and redialed, just in case I dialed the wrong number. Again it rang a dozen times before I hung up. I shook my head at Dean.
“Gotta run, Wayne,” Dean said and then turned to me. “Let’s go, Clay.”
Dean and I got into Dean’s cruiser and drove to the address of the second A. Thompson. She lived in the Silver Lake district just off Colorado Boulevard. It took us twenty minutes to make it to her house. Dean parked at the curb and we slid out of the car and walked up the walk to the Thompson house. Dean and I stood on either side of the front door and Dean wrapped on it. No one answered. He knocked again with the same results.
“Around the back,” Dean said.
We each went in different directions around the house. As we rounded the corner we could see a pair of legs leaping over the back yard fence. Dean pointed to the back door. “Check inside. I’m going after him.”
Dean ran toward the back fence and hurled himself over it while I cautiously opened the back door and stepped inside the Thompson house. All the lights were off, but it was still daylight outside and light filtered in through the windows. The kitchen was empty as was the dining room. I found a hallway and noticed four doors, two on either side. The first door on the left lead to a bathroom—an empty bathroom. The first door on the right was obviously a bedroom but that was also empty, save for the furniture. That left two doors at the end of the hall.
The one on the right yielded another empty bedroom and empty closet. The last closed room on the left looked like it had once been a bedroom that had been converted to someone’s den or sewing room. I checked every inch of that room and again came up empty. I walked back out to the hall and then back to the kitchen. Beside the door to the back yard there was one more door across from it. I opened it and peered in. A stairway led down to a dark basement. I flipped light switch on and slowly descended to the bottom of the stairs.
The basement was partitioned off with one part housing the gas furnace and water heater. Another room proved to be a coal hold that was no longer in use. The last room in the back of the basement had a closed door separating it from the rest of the space. I drew my .38 and slowly opened the door. It was dark inside and I reached around to the right and found a light switch. I flipped it on and saw her tied to a table.
She was naked, except for the gag tied around her mouth. Her feet were tied at the foot of the table with white clothesline rope. Her hands were tied at her sides with the same kind of rope. Under her right hand I spotted a pool of coagulated blood that had turned black and noticed that her right index finger was missing. When she saw me with a gun, her eyes got wide with terror and she flailed about on the table, trying to free herself. She tried screaming, but the gag prevented any sound from escaping the tiny room. I holstered my gun and slipped out of my coat, laying it across her body. I looked at her and held both hands up, shaking my head and gently talking to her.
“Easy now,” I said. “You’re safe. I’m with the police.”
I untied the gag from behind her head and pulled it free. She flexed her mouth and ran her tongue around its perimeter.
“I’ll call for an ambulance,” I said. “The police will be here any minute now. Are you Anita Thompson?”
I said as I untied her feet and hands.
She nodded, pulling my coat up over her naked body.
“Do you know the man who did this to you?” I said.
Anita Thompson shook her head and began crying.
“Let’s go upstairs,” I said. “I have to call for the ambulance and get you to a hospital.”
I helped her up the basement steps and she immediately ran toward one of the bedrooms. When she emerged a minute later she was wearing a full-length blue terrycloth bathrobe. She handed me my coat and said, “Thank you,” in a small, weak voice.
I looked out the kitchen window to see Dean walking back into the back yard. He had a man with him. The man’s hands were cuffed behind him and Dean was pulling him by the elbow toward the house.
I opened the back door and yelled out to Dean. “In here, Dean,” I said.
Dean pulled his prisoner into the house and forced him down onto one of the kitchen chairs. When Anita saw him, she screamed and ran at him, beating him about the head and shoulders before Dean pulled her off him.
“You filthy animal,” Anita screamed at him, holding up her right hand. “Look what you did to me.” She got one more fist into the man’s face before I pulled her back again.
“Hold her, Dean,” I said. “I have to call an ambulance.”
“Call the precinct, too,” Dean said. “And then give me the phone, will you?”
After I was sure an ambulance was on its way, I dialed the twelfth precinct and then handed the phone to Dean. He handed the girl over to me.
“This is Sergeant Hollister,” Dean said into the phone. “I need a crime scene crew here immediately.” He gave them the address. “And send the photog along with them. I’m gonna want pictures of this whole scene.
“Yes sir,” the desk sergeant said before hanging up.
“They’re on their way,” Dean said. He looked at the girl and said, “Maybe you’d better sit down until they get here.”
The girl looked like she was going to comply, but quickly took one step forward and kicked the prisoner in his face. His head snapped back, she smiled and then sat down.
