by Bill Bernico
Dean reached into the man’s inside coat pocket and withdrew a brown calfskin wallet. He opened it to the part that held the small cellophane windows and found the man’s driver’s license and read aloud. “Vernon Connelly,” Dean said. He read Connelly’s address and wrote it down in his notepad. “Well, Vern,” Dean said. “When backup gets here, we’re going to take a little ride to your house. What do you suppose we’ll find? Care to guess?”
Connelly said nothing, but stared off out the kitchen window.
A few minutes later the neighborhood was awash with revolving red lights. The neighborhood’s quiet was soon shattered by the sounds of four sirens approaching. The vehicles squealed to a halt in front of the Thompson house and their occupants hurried into the house.
The ambulance driver and his assistant helped Anita Thompson onto the stretcher and wheeled her out to the ambulance. They were gone before the rest of the police had entered the house. The police photographer stepped inside and looked at Dean.
“Downstairs,” Dean told him, pointing toward the basement door. Dean turned to me and said, “Let’s go.” Then he turned to two of the uniformed officers who had just arrived. “You’re coming with us.” Dean gestured toward the prisoner and told the last pair of officers, “Take him downtown and book him for kidnapping and torture for starters. When I get back I’ll have more charges to add to that.”
Dean and I drove to Connelly’s address on Figueroa Street a couple of miles southeast of the Thompson house. It was a small house, set back sixty or seventy feet from the street. The yard was overgrown with bushes and weeds and the grass had gone to seed. The house was in need of repair and a paint job. Several shutters hung by a single hinge. The houses on either side of this one had been kept up and this was surely the scourge of the neighborhood.
We stepped up onto the porch and knocked on the front door. There was no reply so Dean tried the knob. It was locked. He shaded his eyes and looked through the glass on the front door. He didn’t see anything or anybody.
Dean turned to me. “Did you hear that?” he said. “Sounded like someone calling for help.”
I cocked one ear toward the door and listened. “I don’t hear anything,” I said, and then I got it. “Yeah, you’re right,” I said. “Someone’s calling for help. You’d better break the door in.”
Dean leaned back and then threw all his weight into the door. The door jam splintered and gave way and the door flew open. Dean drew his .38 and I drew mine. We cautiously entered and each covered the area beside us. There was nothing out of the ordinary in the part of the house we could see from the entryway. Dean gestured with his gun and I walked down a hallway, checking doors.
I had checked three of the four rooms before ending up in what appeared to be a bedroom, but there was no bed. The room was empty of furniture and was instead decorated with posters, album covers, guitars, microphones and a full, dark pearl, four-piece Ludwig drum set. Stenciled on the bass drum head I could make out two words—The Beatles. The T in Beatles hung down further than the rest of the letters, just like the lettering on Ringo’s original Ludwig bass drum. I knew enough about guitars to recognize a Rickenbacker 325 in black with a gold pick guard. It was the most recognizable guitar in the world. It was the model John Lennon played on the Ed Sullivan show in February of 1964.
Dean walked through the dining room and ended up in the kitchen. They were both empty. He called out to me. “Anything?” He said.
“In here, Dean,” I yelled. “You gotta see this.”
Dan entered the bedroom and looked around at all the Beatle memorabilia on the walls, on the floor and even hanging from the ceiling. “What is all this?” Dean said.
“Any Beatle fan could tell you,” I said. “Just look at all this stuff. This guy must have spent thirty grand on all this Beatle stuff. Hell, that guitar alone could go for two grand.” I pointed to the three-quarter size Rickenbacker on a guitar stand. “And the one next to it. There’s another two grand. That’s the Rickenbacker 360 twelve string like George Harrison played.”
“What’s that one over on the other side of the drum set? Dean said. “It looks like a giant violin.”
“That’s a Hofner 5001 bass guitar like the one Paul McCartney played,” I said. “Just look at this whole setup. He’s got the three guitars and the drum set and some microphones all set up as if The Beatles had just left the stage. This guy’s definitely got a few screws loose.”
“That must be the Butcher Album,” Dean said, pointing to an album cover mounted in a frame and hanging on the wall. “I see what you mean about it being gross.”
“It’s gross,” I said, “But they’re worth a ton of money in that condition.”
The other three walls also sported album covers and framed gold record replicas. There were posters of each Beatle’s head as well as several group shots. On a small stand in the corner sat a Beatle lunchbox and thermos bottle. There were four Styrofoam wig stands, each with a Beatle wig on it. There was a bottle of Beatle bubble bath, Beatle wallpaper, Beatle toy plastic guitars and miniature plastic Beatle statues, all assembled and painted.
I turned to Dean. “You check the basement?” I said.
“It doesn’t have a basement,” Dean said. This house is sitting on a cement slab.
“What about the garage?” I said.
“Let’s go,” Dean said, opening the back door.
The back door opened out into a small yard. Alongside the house and set back twenty feet from the back yard sidewalk sat a single car garage. The house and the garage looked like they’d been built during the late thirties or early forties. They definitely looked pre-war. The double doors on the front of the garage would have swung out had they not been padlocked. We walked around to the service door. It had a glass panel in the upper portion. The glass had newspapers taped to it, preventing us from seeing in. Dean turned to me.
“I think this is where the cry for help was coming from,” Dean said.
“I do believe you’re right, Sergeant,” I said.
Dean tapped the glass with the barrel of his .38 and it broke, falling inside the garage. Dean cleared away the jagged shards and then reached in, unlocking the door. We stepped inside. The only illumination came from the open service door. I saw a string hanging from one of the rafters and pulled it. A single light bulb illuminated the small space and now we could see why the garage had been padlocked and papered shut.
There was no car in this garage, just some shelves with tools and some material. Upon closer examination, the material turned out to be a blue silk scarf with a knot in the middle of it. In the corner sat a large cardboard box with its flaps folded shut. I opened one of the flaps and looked inside. It contained women’s clothing. There were approximately four or five complete outfits, including shoes and purses.
“Looks like this is his trophy box,” I said.
Dean looked in the box. “I think we have all we need to fry this guy. Let’s go back into the house and call the crime lab to come over here when they’re finished at the Thompson house.”
*****
Three days later, I was just pulling up in the parking lot behind the twelfth precinct as Vernon Connelly sat in his holding cell. I knocked on Dean Hollister’s door and let myself in. Dean was sitting at his desk writing on one of the sheets on his yellow legal pad. He looked up when he saw me come in. He had a sly smile on his face.
“What’s with you?” I said. “Last time I saw that look on your face, you’d just gotten two free candy bars out of the machine down the hall.”
“You know, Clay,” Dean said. “This case has been satisfying for several reasons. First and foremost we took a killer off the streets. Secondly we saved Anita Thompson’s life, even though her typing skills may suffer with only nine fingers. And lastly, because of all this Beatle talk these past few weeks I’ve actually come to like their music. I mean, it’s all new to me and once I started listening to some of the albums, the tunes have come to grow on me. I hav
e to admit that I like about ninety percent of their songs.”
“Really,” I said. “Only ninety? Which ones don’t you like?”
Dean thought for a second and then offered, “A song like ‘Why Don’t We Do It In The Road’ is a real piece of crap,” Dean said. “They must have gotten so famous and sure of themselves that they probably wanted to see if they could pass off that little ditty and see if anyone thought it was great.”
“Let’s not forget some of the other forgettable, disposable tunes,” I said. “Tunes like ‘You Know My Name, Look Up The Number’. And there’s any of that Eastern shit George tried to pass off as real music. I’ll bet if you check most Beatle fans’ albums, the vinyl ones, not the CDs, that the grooves on those Harrison Eastern tunes will be like brand new from people constantly lifting the needle off them and advancing it to the next song.”
“Well,” Dean said. “I’m not only listening to their music, but I’ve been reading up on their history as a group and as individuals.”
“Oh?” I said. “And do you have a favorite Beatle?”
“I hate to admit it, but I do,” Dean said. “It’s Paul. I think his songs are just overall better than John’s.”
“How can you tell?” I said. “Their compositions are credited to Lennon AND McCartney. How would you know which one wrote which song?”
“You mean a Beatle trivia nut like yourself doesn’t know?” Dean said.
“Oh, I know,” I said. “I just wanted to see if you knew.”
Dean smiled, as if he had one over on me and then said, “With a few exceptions, the rule of thumb was that the main composer was usually the lead singer. That and this book I found at the library.”
He handed me the book. It was full of information about which Beatle wrote which song as well as the meaning behind some of the songs’ lyrics.
“You see,” Dean said. “Paul’s songs leaned more toward the love angle while John tended to write a little more in the abstract. They both wrote some terrific songs, but I just prefer Paul’s.”
“So what’s this letter you’re writing?” I said, pointing at the yellow legal pad.
Dean held up the pad. “You know,” he said. “With all the notes that Connelly sent us, taunting us with Beatle song titles every time he killed someone or kidnapped someone, I thought it would only be fitting if I taunted him right back with a note of my own. You know, to kind of rub his nose in it now that he’s been caught. Wanna read it?”
“Sure,” I said. “Let’s have a look at it.” I held the pad up and began reading:
“Do you want to know a secret, you animal? You ran here, there and everywhere but couldn’t elude us. It was your murderous actions that brought the two of us together. I want to tell you that with a little help from my friends we were able to stop you before you could kill again. If we hadn’t, well, tomorrow never knows. I’m so tired of chasing down vermin like you and now that you’re in custody I can definitely say it’s getting better around here. I thought your mother should know about your foul deeds so I sent her a letter, detailing your exploits. I only wish you had tried to resist arrest because in my opinion, happiness is a warm gun and I’d have loved to give the order for all my piggies to shoot you dead. And you wanna know something else? The idea of you rotting in hell don’t bother me at all. Every little thing you did is going to come out at your trial. And when the judge passes down the word, I’d personally love to write you a ticket to ride ol’ sparky and if they want me to pull the switch, I will. And if they don’t fry you, it’ll be a long, long, long time before you ever see the light of day again. You thought you could get away with murder, but you can’t do that on my watch. I feel fine about seeing you behind bars and if any more scumbags like you show their faces in my town, I’ll be back. I want you to think about that every day you sit behind bars. The end.”
Good night,
Sgt. Dean Hollister, L.A.P.D.
I finished reading Dean’s note and laughed out loud. “By George (and maybe even by Paul, John and Ringo) I think you’re getting the hang of this. Don’t you think you laid it on a little thick, though? I mean really, twenty-three song title references? And being the Beatle nut that this guy was, he’d have seen each reference even without the underlines.”
“But I might not remember them somewhere down the line,” Dean said. “I wrote this as much for me as I did for him.”
“Well,” I said, “you certainly covered all the bases.”
“You taught me how to do it,” Dean said. “I just wanted to make sure he got the message.”
“And you’re really going to give him this note?” I said.
Dean took another look at the note and then looked at me. He tore the paper from the legal pad, folded it twice and slipped it into his shirt pocket. “Maybe you’re right,” Dean said. “It might seem clever now, but maybe it wouldn’t look so good on my permanent record. I think I’ll just file it away and read it from time to time for my own personal enjoyment.”
“I think that’s a good idea,” I said. “You want to remain professional, even if only in the eyes of your superiors. You and I will still know the story behind the note and maybe that’s how it should remain.”
Dean smiled and slapped me on the back. “How about if we catch the eight-thirty showing of The Unforgiven?”
“Why not?” I said. “Might as well start collecting my month’s worth of free movies right away.”
“I haven’t forgotten,” Dean said.
“And the popcorn,” I said.
Dean rolled his eyes. “And the popcorn.”
“As for the show time,” I said, “How about if we catch the nine-ten show?”
Dean looked puzzled. “The nine-ten show?” Dean said. “I didn’t know they had one.”
“Sure,” I said. “It’s the one after nine-o-nine.”
41 - End Of An Era
Wednesday, July 17, 2002 – Hollywood, CA
“Happy birthday, Grandpa,” Elliott said, lighting the two candles on my cake. One candle was in the shape of a nine and the other was shaped like a one.
“If I’d have known I was going to live this long,” I told Elliott, “I’d have taken better care of myself.”
“What are you talking about, grandpa?” Elliott said. “You’re the healthiest ninety-one year old I know. In fact you’re the only ninety-one year old I know. Go on, blow out the candles.”
I blew the two candles out and rested. Even that much exertion tired me out these days. “That’s the down side of living this long,” I said. “All your friends and contemporaries are dead and as much as I enjoy talking with you and your dad, no one really understands me like another person from my era.”
“Did they have cars when you were born?” Elliott said, a sly smile playing on his face.
Elliott knew very well that cars predated me by at least eight years, at least the mass-produced ones that were manufactured by Ford, Buick and Oldsmobile. On the other hand, the year I was born there were still quite a few holdouts still getting around town with a horse and buggy. These people regarded the automobile as a passing fad that would never catch on.
“Of course they did,” I said. “They tell me I was born at home and when the doctor came to deliver me, he drove up in his brand new 1910 Chalmers Detroit touring sedan. Its body was bright red trimmed in brass and white with a black retractable top. I remember years later hearing my dad say that it had taken Doctor Chalmers more than six months to have his new car delivered from Detroit. He could have ordered a Ford or Buick or Oldsmobile and taken delivery in six weeks, but he insisted that his first new car had to be a Chalmers, since it bore his name. Doctor Chalmers had no other connection to the Detroit motor company aside from a similar name. I guess he wanted people to think that he did.”
“Didn’t they make a car with your name on it back then, grandpa?” Elliott said.
“I couldn’t have purchased an automobile with my name on it until I was thirty-five years old,” I to
ld Elliott. “There was a Cooper Company that started producing racing automobiles in England in 1946. And the popular Mini Cooper wouldn’t be available to the public until 1961, but it wasn’t really something I gave much thought to.”
“What did your dad drive?” Elliott said.
“My dad didn’t drive a car until I was sixteen,” I said. “Your great-grandfather, Nick bought himself a used 1925 Ford Model T two door sedan from one of his neighbors, who had just bought Ford’s new Model A. Dad was so proud of that car. I can remember taking rides in the country on Sunday afternoons.”
“What do you mean?” Elliott said. “You just took drives in the country for no reason? I mean, who does that? Gas wasn’t free back then was it?”
“Not quite free,” I said. “I imagine gas cost somewhere around fourteen or fifteen cents a gallon. I know that doesn’t sound like much today, but that was like a dollar eighty in today’s money.”
“Doesn’t sound too exciting,” Elliott said. “I mean just riding around with no particular place to go. How did you know when you were done?”
“You have to remember,” I said, “That there was no television, no Internet, no video games and radio was brand new. Not everyone had one.”
Elliott looked at his wristwatch. “Dad’ll be home any time now,” he said.
‘Dad’ was my son, Clay. I lived with him and Elliott in Clay’s house.
“When dad gets here,” Elliott said, “Would you ask him about the case we’re working on? I’m sure he’d love to tell you all about it. And he’s not the kind to just offer that sort of information. He says he always feels like he’s burdening people just to share his daily routine with them. But I know once he gets started, he likes talking about it.”
“Sure,” I said. “Did he ever tell you how he joined the business with me back in ‘71?”
“Only about a dozen times,” Elliott said. “He brings it up whenever he asks me about when I’m going to get married and have a son to keep the business going. For crying out loud, I’m only twenty-two. I have my whole life ahead of me yet and he’s got me married off already.”
