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

by Bill Bernico

  “Well,” Dean said. “Not kids in general. One kid in particular—Emily Jacobs.”

  “What did she do?” I said.

  “Nothing I know of,” Dean said. “She’s missing. An hour ago I took a call from a woman who reported that her daughter was missing. I’m going to meet her this morning and wanted to know if you’d like to come along. You know, a fresh pair of eyes looking at this thing.”

  “Okay,” I said. “When did you want to go?”

  Dean got up from his chair and made an exaggerated motion of checking his wristwatch. “How about right now?”

  I walked with Dean out to the parking lot and rode with him in his radio car. He drove to the house he’d visited yesterday and led me up onto the porch. Dean rang the bell and stepped back.

  “Mrs. Jacobs?” Dean said, holding up his badge and ID, “My name is Hollister, Lieutenant Detective Dean Hollister from the juvenile division at the twelfth precinct.” He gestured to me. “This is Elliott Cooper. We’re here about your call. Can we talk?”

  The woman pushed the screen door open and waited as Dean and I stepped inside. She closed the door behind us and invited us into the kitchen. She instructed us to sit at the table while she busied herself pouring three cups of coffee. She set a cup in front of Dean and me and then sat opposite him with her own cup of coffee.

  Dean picked up the coffee cup and sipped. “Thanks,” he said, almost toasting here with his cup held up. “Mrs. Jacobs, according to my notes, you say that your daughter…” Dean looked over my notes for the daughter’s name but came up short.

  “Emily,” the woman said, filling in my missing information. “She’s just sixteen.” She sipped from her coffee and looked down at the table.

  Dean continued with the interview. “You stated that early yesterday afternoon Emily told you she was going to the corner drug store to buy feminine products,” he said. “Is that right?”

  “That’s right, Mr. Hollister,” she said. “It’s just up the street three blocks. Emily always goes there and it’s never taken her more than fifteen minutes to get there and come back. She was always very direct about those things.”

  “Go on,” Dean said.

  “Well,” she said, “I was busy with the laundry and hadn’t noticed whether or not she’d come back home and left again. She could have, but somehow I don’t think it happened that way.”

  Dean wrote notes in his notebook and looked up. “Why do you say that, Mrs. Jacobs?” he said.

  “Because when I went to the medicine cabinet in her bathroom, there was still no new box of, you know, feminine products on the shelf,” she said. “That’s where she always keeps them. It was several hours later and Emily had still not returned. It’s just not like her, Mr. Hollister.”

  “And what time was it that you said she left for the drugstore?” I said.

  She looked up at the wall clock. “It was about one-thirty, maybe quarter to two at the latest,” she said. “That’s almost twenty hours ago. I called all her friends and no one has seen her anywhere today. I’m a nervous wreck, Mr. Hollister.”

  “We’ll do everything we can to find her, Mrs. Jacobs,” Dean said. “Don’t you worry.” Before he closed his notebook, Dean took another sip of coffee and asked, “Mrs. Jacobs, does Emily have a steady boyfriend or someone that she sees on a regular basis?”

  The woman sat wringing her hands in her lap. “Just Chet” she said. “Chet McCauley. But Emily broke it off with him two weeks ago. Why do you ask?”

  “Do you know where he lives or know his phone number?” Dean said.

  “You think he might know where she is?” she said, her voice taking on a slight twinge of hope.

  “It’s happened before,” Dean said. “Girls take off with their boyfriends and forget to call home or just get so involved with what they’re doing, they just forget the time.”

  She gave Dean Chet McCauley’s address and we thanked her for the coffee and for her time. We left feeling a little apprehensive about Emily’s fate. Call it a gut feeling, but something didn’t feel right with this one.

  Dean took as much information as he could. He got Emily’s physical description as well as a recent picture of her from her mother. Mrs. Jacobs stated that Emily was last seen wearing a red jacket, blue jeans, blue gloves and black boots with fur around the tops. Dean made out a complaint and gave copies of it and the picture to all the other officers. The whole department became involved in looking for the girl. Several days passed and the girl still hadn’t returned on her own nor was she found by any of the patrolmen.

  The department and the other detectives continued with the investigation, questioning friends and acquaintances of hers. Dean and I talked briefly with Chet McCauley but Chet stated that he hadn’t seen Emily Jacobs for several weeks. Dean had to cut him loose but kept his address handy. We had a feeling we’d be talking to Chet again very soon.

  “I kept in touch with Mrs. Jacobs if for no other reason than to give her something to hope for while we continued to search for her daughter,” Dean said. “But it’s not looking so good for the kid.”

  “And the boyfriend doesn’t know anything?” I asked.

  “Doesn’t know or doesn’t want to say,” Dean said. “Suppose we go back and talk with the friends and neighbors again and see if we can rattle anyone’s cage.”

  On his way out of the office, Dean’s phone rang. It was Elmer Cartwright, the man hired to watch over the police impound yard. “Lieutenant,” Elmer said. “You’d better come down to the impound yard right away. There’s something here I think you should see.”

  “What is it?” Dean said.

  “It’s a dead body in one of the abandoned cars,” Elmer said, his voice a bit shaky.

  “I’m on my way,” Dean said and then turned to me. “We might have a break. Let’s go.”

  There was an area near town that resembled a big field alongside the railroad tracks and it had cyclone fencing all around it. The twelfth precinct used this area to store junked and abandoned vehicles that were found on the streets. Two little boys, probably eight or nine years old, who had gotten through a hole in the fence and were playing around in the old junked and abandoned cars. One car in particular that seemed to delight the boys was an old funeral hearse. The back door had been torn off and the two boys crawled inside.

  During their romp through the hearse, the boys stumbled upon the body of a young girl—Emily Jacobs. It was quite a traumatic experience for the two boys. They quickly ran home and reported to their parents what they’d found. Their parents called the twelfth precinct.

  Dean had the area cordoned off as a crime scene and two officers kept the curiosity seekers back while Dean and I peered inside the old hearse. We brushed away some of the leaves and debris that had blown in recently and made notes of what we had discovered.

  It was Emily Jacobs, no doubt about it. The red jacket and blue gloves were gone, but she was still wearing the black boots with the fur tops. Her blouse and jeans were nowhere in the immediate area, either. The cold had prevented any immediate decomposition and aside from the multiple stab wounds, she looked like she could be asleep. Unfortunately, this was the kind of sleep that she’d never wake up from.

  There were several stab wounds in the left side of her neck, her breast and abdominal area. Her hair was matted in clumps as though someone had grabbed it and held on tight or pulled viciously on it. Her hands also had several stab wounds through them, as though she had shielded herself in a useless attempt to stop the plunging knife blade.

  Dean called for backup and two other squad cars arrived within minutes. He instructed the officers to watch the area until the coroner got there to take the body away.

  “Cooper and I are going to back to the precinct,” Dean told one of the officers. “Tape this whole area off and don’t let anyone near here.”

  “Yes, sir,” the officer responded.

  “Let’s go, Elliott,” Dean said, walking back to his car. I followed and sl
id in next to him. We made it back to the precinct in fifteen minutes.

  En route, Dean had called into the precinct and asked for any information they might have on Chester McCauley, age seventeen. Chet McCauley had a vicious temper. It didn’t take much to uncover numerous police reports of how he and Emily had gotten into many arguments, resulting in Chet striking her with his fist. He was extremely jealous, following her wherever she went and questioning her every move. Chet became our prime suspect.

  Once the case had turned from a missing persons case to a murder case, Dean and I spent a lot more time interviewing Emily Jacobs’ friends. One of his first stops was at a house four doors east of the Jacobs house. It belonged to Elwood Franklin, whose daughter, Phyllis went to school with Emily Jacobs.

  Mrs. Franklin answered the door and invited Dean and me inside. We stayed in the front hallway while Mrs. Franklin called Phyllis down from her upstairs bedroom. Dean followed Mrs. Franklin into the kitchen for his interview while I sat in the front room for my interview with Phyllis.

  I withdrew my notebook and pencil and sat back on the sofa. I looked at Phyllis and said, “What can you tell me about Emily Jacobs?” I said.

  Phyllis was a redhead with bright green eyes and scattered freckles across the bridge of her nose. The makeup she wore made her look older than her sixteen years. She shook her head. “What is it you want to know?” she said.

  “Well,” I began, “How well did you know her?”

  Phyllis leaned forward. “About as well as anybody, I guess” she said. “We were in the same class at school and sometimes we double-dated.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Tell me about that,” I said. “Did she date Chet on those occasions?”

  “Sometimes,” she said. “But lately she told me she was breaking up with him. He was too weird.”

  “What do you mean, weird?” I said.

  “That’s not my description,” Phyllis said. “She called him that. She said he was too violent and the last time he hit her, he came over crying that he’d never do that again and that he loved her and all that garbage.”

  “What did she do?” I said.

  “She laughed at him, right there on her front porch, and told him to get lost,” Phyllis said. “She slammed the door in his face.”

  “And what did Chet do?” I said.

  “Nothing,” she said. “He just stepped off the porch and into that beater car of his and drove away.”

  “Did Emily see anyone else on a regular basis?” I said.

  “Oh,” she said offhandedly, “You mean…” She stopped when she realized that I had no idea what she meant. She hung her head.

  “What did you say?” I asked her. “You said something about you mean. Mean what? Who else was she seeing?”

  “Terry,” Phyllis said reluctantly.

  “Does Terry have a last name?” I said.

  “Minski,” Phyllis said. “Terry Minski.”

  “Do you know where he lives?” I asked.

  Phyllis almost chuckled but stopped herself.

  “Something funny about all this” I said.

  She straightened up noticeably. “Oh no,” she said. “There’s nothing funny at all. Emily was my friend and I’m sorry she’s gone.”

  “Then what about Terry?” I said. “What was so funny about him?”

  “Her,” she said.

  “What?” I said, confused.

  “Her,” she said. “Terry’s a girl.”

  My scalp raised and my ears shifted back when the idea finally sunk in. “Oh,” I said.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Emily went both ways, if you know what I mean.”

  I knew exactly what she meant but that still didn’t make the idea sit any better with me. I had dealt with lesbians on the job before and I knew that one of the most violent types of anger resulted from a thwarted love affair between two lesbians. I took down the information I thought I’d need and rose from the sofa just as Dean emerged from the kitchen with Mrs. Franklin right behind him. He gave me the nod. I extended my hand to both women and thanked them for their cooperation before Dean and I left.

  Back in the car, I turned to Dean and said, “Did you know that Emily Jacobs was, er, I mean…” I said.

  “I know,” Dean said. “I got the same story about McCauley from the mother. Apparently it was no big secret, although I doubt Mrs. Jacobs knew anything about Terry.”

  “I think you’re right,” I said. “I could have read her face the other day if that had been the case. If we don’t have to, let’s not say anything to her about this Terry girl.”

  Dean agreed. “Guess it’s back to the kid, Chet,” he said.

  I nodded and headed the car west on Santa Monica, toward the McCauley home. We got there in just under ten minutes. The McCauley’s were out of town and had left their car. Chet also had a car of his own. Since no murder weapon was found with the body and there was very little blood at the scene, we knew that the girl had to have been murdered elsewhere and dropped in the abandoned hearse.

  When we got there, Chet gave us permission to search both cars. A thorough search turned up nothing out of the ordinary—no blood or sign of a struggle. We had nothing further to ask Chet and decided to let him think he’d been eliminated as a suspect. We hoped it would throw him off his guard and we needed any break we could get.

  The murder weapon was missing and an extensive search of the area was made to try to locate it. We searched the flat roofs of the factory-type buildings in the area. The sewers in the area were checked in case the weapon had been thrown down a storm drain. Metal detectors were brought in. This effort, too, resulted in no additional information. Nothing more was found.

  With little or nothing to go on, we played a hunch and staked out the field where the hearse had been parked, thinking that the murderer might return to the scene of the crime. As we sat there one night we saw a car pull up on the other side of the tracks. A male emerged from the car and proceeded to walk toward the field. He was in the process of climbing the fence into the yard when we got out of the squad to chase him.

  “Halt,” I yelled, as Dean and I started after the man. Like a scared rabbit, the man ran back to his car and drove away before we could get close enough to him. It was dark and the car had been too far away for a positive identification.

  “Looks like we hit a nerve,” I said as Dean and I slowly walked back to the squad car to catch our breath and let our heart rates return to normal.

  The next day I returned to the Jacobs house without Dean. He was busy chasing down another lead. Mrs. Jacobs looked as weary worn as ever and had obviously been crying. It had been just four days since she’d laid her only daughter to rest at Forest Lawn Cemetery.

  “Mrs. Jacobs,” I began, “I just wanted to follow up on the conversation we had last time I was here. They told me at the station that you may have additional information for me.”

  “I may have,” she said. “I don’t know if it’s important or if it’s even anything at all.”

  “What is it, Mrs. Jacobs?” I said.

  She led me to the kitchen and pulled open the counter drawer. Several large knives and other utensils lay in the drawer. She looked up from it and remarked, “It was always right in here,” she said.

  “What was?” I said.

  “The carving knife,” she said. “The one with the deer antler handle. I always kept it right here and now that I think of it, I haven’t seen it for a couple of weeks. Just before Emily was… Before she went missing.”

  She described the knife and I made a note of it. Then she pulled the drawer open a little further and reached in. She withdrew a two-pronged carving fork.

  “The handle looked like this,” she said, handing me the fork. “It was a carving set we got for our anniversary last year.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Jacobs,” I said. “Do you mind if I keep this for a while? I’ll make sure you get it back when I’m finished with it.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Take it al
ong. I don’t care if I get it back or not.”

  “If I hear anything further I’ll let you know,” I said and held her hand. “I’m so sorry about Emily, Mrs. Jacobs.”

  As I returned to my car at the curb, Dean pulled up in a black and white with a uniformed officer behind the wheel.

  “What’s up?” I said.

  “The McCauley’s are home,” Dean said. “I thought you might want to get in on this one. They’re at the precinct now.”

  “I’m right behind you,” I said, starting my car and following the patrol car west.

  At our request, the McCauley’s had brought their son into the precinct for further interrogation. He denied all involvement, of course. We found a secluded room and Dean and I led the McCauley’s down the hall and closed the door behind us.

  Mr. McCauley spoke first. “Look,” he said, “We came down here of our own free will. Nobody dragged us down here, so let’s get one thing straight right off the bat. Chet had nothing to do with the Jacobs girl’s murder.”

  “Nobody’s accusing anybody,” I said. “We just need to tie up a few loose ends in our investigation and we appreciate your cooperation. You can call a lawyer if you’d like.”

  “What for?” McCauley snapped back. “We don’t need one. Only guilty people need a lawyer, so get on with your questions and let’s get this over with.”

  Dean and I asked the usual questions and got the usual responses or no responses at all. We knew we must be getting close to something, but what? After forty-five minutes, McCauley had had enough and took his wife and kid home with him. All we could do was watch as they walked out.

  However, Emily Jacobs’ older brother, Edward, filled us in on Chet’s activities immediately following her disappearance. We spoke with him at the place where he worked, a car dealership on the east side of town.

  “I’ll make this quick, Edward,” I said.

  “Eddie,” he corrected me.

  “All right, Eddie,” I said. “Your mother tells me you may be able to shed a little light on this boyfriend of Emily’s.”

  “Some boyfriend,” he said, sarcastically. “He’d one bad apple. I just know it. Something didn’t ring true from day one.”