by Bill Bernico
“Elliott?” Dean said.
“Dean,” I said. “I found it.”
“Where are you?” Dean said.
I looked up at the street signs on the corner and said, “Corner of Kingsley and Fountain. The car’s here now, so you’d better get over here right away. I’ll keep an eye on it until you get here.”
“I’m on my way,” Dean said. “I’m near Lexington and Sycamore. Give me ten minutes.”
Dean made it in eight minutes and parked directly across the street from my car. He walked over and leaned down at my window. “That it?” he said, gesturing toward the Buick behind us. It was parked in front of a house where a lady stood on the porch sweeping.
“That’s it,” I said.
“Let’s go,” Dean said.
We walked up to the car, made a note of the license number and then turned to the lady on the porch.
Dean showed the woman his badge and I.D. and then said, “Police officer, ma’am. Can you tell me who owns that Buick parked at the curb?”
“Yes,” the woman said. “That belongs to my husband’s bookkeeper.”
“And where is your husband’s office?” Dean said.
“He’s a building contractor, the woman explained. “His office is in the basement around the back. She pointed with the broom handle.
“Would you take us there?” Dean said.
“Follow me,” the woman said, and led us to the back door leading to the basement. Her husband was sitting at his desk and another man was sitting in the chair on the other side of the desk. I looked at him. He was a very handsome young man, maybe middle twenties, black suit, red tie, black horn-rimmed glasses, very professional looking, very articulate. My first thought was that this couldn’t be the guy. He didn’t fit the mental profile I’d created of a man who would do something like this. But then again, Ted Bundy didn’t look like a serial killer, either, so you never knew.
Dean asked the man to identify himself.
“Martin Bowman,” the man answered. “Why?”
“Are you the owner of that Buick parked out at the curb?” Dean said.
“Yes,” Bowman said. “That’s my car.”
“Can I talk to you outside for minute?” Dean said, showing Bowman his badge.
Bowman never asked why Dean wanted to talk to him about or what the matter was. He simply said, “Okay,” just as calmly as if he were agreeing to a refill of his coffee cup.
We walked Bowman outside and Dean stopped him on the sidewalk leading to the front of the house. “We’d like to talk to you downtown.”
Bowman agreed and Dean called for another squad to meet us at the location. One of the responding officers drove Bowman’s car down to the police station. Dean told Bowman to turn around and put his hands behind his back. Bowman did as he was told without a fuss. Dean snapped his cuffs on Bowman’s wrists and helped him sit in the back seat of his car. Dean drove him back to the station, while I followed them in my car.
When we got to the station, Dean led Bowman to an interrogation room, removed the cuffs and re-cuffed one hand to the metal table. “I’ll be right back,” Dean told Bowman. “Just relax.”
Dean made a call to Mary Stoltz and asked her to bring Sandy in for a lineup identification. Mary agreed and arrived at the station twenty minutes later with her daughter. When they got there, Dean asked them both to come with him to the police garage and take a look at the Buick we’d impounded. Sandy took a quick look at the exterior and then leaned down at the passenger side front window. She straightened up quickly once she saw the round hole in the dashboard and the dirty fuzzy dice dangling from the rear view mirror.
She looked at Dean and nodded. “This is the car, I’m sure.” Sandy returned to her mother’s side.
Dean placed his hand on Sandy’s shoulder and softly said, “Sandy, I know this may be a little difficult, but I’d like you to look at several men in a lineup and tell me if you see the man who took you.”
Sandy recoiled and grabbed her mother’s arm.
“It’s all right, Sandy,” Dean said. “They’ll be standing behind a one-way mirror. You can see them, but they won’t be able to see you. I’ll be right beside you the whole time. What do you say? Will you do this for me?”
Sandy looked up at her mother. Mary nodded and Sandy turned back to Dean. “Okay,” she said.
Dean had Sandy and Mary wait in the lobby while he rounded up six other men for the lineup. Some of the men were police officers in civilian clothes and two of the men were other prisoners recently brought it for other offences. Once all seven men were standing on the other side of the one-way glass, Dean called Sandy and her mother into the darkened room to have a look.
“Take your time,” Dean said. “Have a good look at…”
Dean hadn’t even finished his sentence when Sandy pointed to Bowman and said, “That’s him. That’s the man who grabbed me.” She stepped back and held on to her mother’s arm again.
“Are you sure?” Dean said. “No possibility you could be mistaken?”
“No, he’s definitely the one,” Sand said.
Dean led Mary and Sandy out of the room and back to the lobby and asked them to wait.
Dean and I took Bowman into the interrogation room and told him that he had been positively identified.
Bowman said nothing, but instead just sat calmly looking into the large mirror on the wall. I stood in the corner of the room while Dean sat across from Bowman. Dean asked the usual question and got the usual answers. It turned out that Bowman was married and had children of his own. Dean also found out that Bowman had made other abduction attempts in the Hollywood area as well as in Burbank and Pasadena. Bowman stated that in all three cities, he would be walking down the sidewalk and if a woman walked past, he would reach out and grab her by the breast. He told Dean it was an impulse that he couldn’t control.
Bowman admitted that during one attempt to grab a girl at knifepoint, that her boyfriend pulled the girl behind him, shielded her and wouldn’t let Bowman take her. The boyfriend said, “You’re going to have to kill me first,” so Bowman left without taking this girl.
I had question of my own that I wanted to ask Bowman. I stepped up to the table and tapped Dean on the shoulder. “May I?” I said, gesturing toward Bowman.
Dean got out of the chair and took a break while I sat opposite the prisoner. “I’m curious,” I said. “You’re a married man with kids of your own. Didn’t you stop to think how the girls’ parents would feel? Didn’t you think how you’d feel if someone took your daughter and did what you did to this girl? Don’t you have a conscience?”
Bowman removed his thick, horn-rimmed glasses and set them on the table. He looked into my eyes and blinked. “Usually, when I take my glasses off,” Bowman said, “I can’t see a thing. But sometimes when I would be driving around to my clients, all of a sudden I would start to get this terrible headache. At those times, when I’d take my glasses off, I could I could see just as clear as ever without the glasses. I didn’t need them. Those would be the times when these urges to attack women would come up on me. I tried to resist the urges when that happened, but eventually the urge would win and I would attempt to abduct someone or try to grab or molest someone.”
“Can you see fine without your glasses now?” I said.
“Perfectly,” Bowman said, turning to look at Dean, who was standing in the corner.
“And are those urges coming back to you as we speak?” I said.
Dean left his position in the corner and stepped up to the table. He looked at Bowman and asked, “Well?”
Bowman just smiled like the Mona Lisa and looked away from us. Dean tapped my shoulder and tossed his head toward the door. I followed him out of the interrogation room.
“Sounds like some sort of a brain tumor, from what he’s describing,” Dean said. “He’ll probably beat this rap with a good attorney and a doctor’s report.”
I nodded. “But from what he’s describing, it sounds li
ke the tumor is already pretty far along,” I said. “He might beat the rap, but I don’t think he’ll last long enough to appreciate what little life he probably has left.”
Dean agreed and then sighed. “I have to go and see the captain,” he said. “Thanks for your help, Elliott. I owe you one.”
“You buy me dinner and a movie and we’ll call it even,” I said.
Dean smiled. “Just don’t expect a good night kiss at the door,” he said and walked down the hall to Captain Rogers’ office.
51 - Revenge Never Expires
I remember the day that my son, Elliott came to me and told me that he wanted to be a private eye like his grandfather and most of all, like me. He took me by surprise, somewhat, but then again he was the third generation in a family of private eyes. My dad, Matt Cooper, had joined the Chicago police force in the mid-thirties. He only spent a few years there and then in the early forties he’d moved out to Southern California and joined the Los Angeles Police Department. After three years he left there to start his own private investigations business.
I joined him in 1971, shortly before I’d finished college. All I’d ever talked about was becoming a lawyer and when college graduation was less than a year away, I’d dropped this bombshell and caught dad off guard. He wasn’t sure if he should try to persuade me to stick with law, or just remind me about all the downsides of being a private detective. Dad did know, however, that I was headstrong and that I’d do whatever I wanted, no matter what he said. Dad objected at first, but changed his opinion after we’d worked together that first year.
Elliott had approached me a dozen years ago, saying that he’d like to continue our family tradition and join me in the business. I couldn’t very well object since that was the same way I got into this business with my dad.
I’d turned sixty-two earlier this year and thoughts of retirement floated in and out of my consciousness. I didn’t really have many hobbies and often wondered just how long it would take me to get bored once I pulled the plug. I knew one thing for sure—I wasn’t going to make any hasty decisions that I’d regret later.
Elliott was already in the office when I got there this morning. He was a bit of a perfectionist, more so than me, and always came in a few minutes early to map out his day. I’m the type that liked to come in at exactly eight o’clock and get right down to whatever needed doing. We worked well off each other.
We weren’t open for business ten minutes when our office door opened and Lieutenant Dean Hollister walked in without knocking, as was his habit. Dean was a year younger than me and we’d grown up together. Dean’s father, Dan had been a policeman most of his life and was my father’s superior during his years with the Los Angeles Police. Over the years they’d formed a friendship that endured more than three decades, until Dan’s death in 1980.
Elliott and I both had our feet up on the desk, each of us reading a different section of that morning’s paper.
“No, don’t get up,” Dean said, sliding a spare chair over to my desk and plopping himself down in it. “It’s only me, not a paying client or anything.”
I ignored him and continued reading for a few more seconds before folding the paper and laying it on my desk. “Slumming today, Dean?” I said.
Dean shook his head. “Nope, just thought I’d drop around and shoot the shit for a few minutes. Where’s Gloria today?”
Elliott looked at his watch. “She’ll be in at ten this morning,” he said. “She’s downtown picking up a fan.”
“Why don’t you two cheapskates just break down and at least get a window air conditioner,” Dean said. “I know you’d never spring for central air.”
“A fan was good enough for Dad,” I said.
“Yeah, well your dad was tight with a buck too,” Dean said.
“Anything particular on your mind today?” I said.
“Let me ask you something, Clay,” Dean said. “Had your dad ever mentioned a cop named Bud Evans?”
“Bud Evans,” I said, trying to recall. “Doesn’t ring any bells, should it?”
“What about Carroll Evans? Dean said.
“Was that his wife?” I said.
“No,” Dean explained. “Carroll was Bud’s real first name.”
“I guess I can see why he went with Bud,” I said. “Now that you mention it, I do remember dad saying something about a rookie that was constantly getting razzed about his name. He wasn’t very old, either, was he?”
“Twenty-four,” Dean said. “He’d joined the department back in ‘45, right after the war, and he even worked with my dad off and on for that first year. The only reason I remember the guy was because of his name. It’s kind of hard to forget a guy named Carroll.”
“A Boy Named Sue,” I said.
“Huh?” Elliott said, finally joining in the conversation.
“A Boy Named Sue,” I said. “It was an old Johnny Cash song from the early seventies. It was about a boy whose father named him Sue in order to make him tough because he knew he was going to desert the family.”
“Boy they just don’t write sentimental songs like that anymore, do they?” Elliott said.
I held my index finger up to Elliott and then turned my attention back to Dean. “So, what about this Carroll, Bud Evans?” I said.
“He’s dead,” Dean said.
“Well, I would think so,” I said. “Hell, if he was twenty-four back in ‘45, he’d have to be in his nineties.”
“Just,” Dean said.
“Just what?” I said.
“He was just ninety,” Dean explained. “He turned ninety not three weeks ago.”
“And now he’s dead,” Elliott said. “Cut down in his prime with his best years still ahead of him. Is there a point to all this?”
I gave Elliott the look that said he was being rude and he leaned back in his chair and made an exaggerated motion of closing his mouth.
“So they sent you out to solicit donations for flowers for this ex-cop?” I said, reaching for my wallet. “Well, put me down for five bucks.”
Dean waved me off. “Nothing like that,” he said. “I was just going around to people who might have known him. What I’m collecting, actually, are anecdotes that some of us at the station can use during his service. No one at the station is anywhere near this guy’s age. Hell, most of the people who knew Bud died years ago, so we all agreed to say a little something on his behalf.”
“Anecdote,” I said. “Let me think. Well, the one and only time that dad ever worked with him was just before dad left the force to start this business. Dad told me that he and Bud were patrolling near Pasadena one night when they answered a call about a disturbance at a local bar.”
Dean pulled out his notepad and began writing. “Go on,” he said.
“Well,” I said, “Dad and Bud drove to the bar and the place was packed with people. The bartender pointed out some drunken troublemaker who was just itching for a fight. Dad and Bud each grabbed him by an arm and dragged him out of the tavern. All the people in the tavern ran to the front window to look out and watch.”
“Not so fast,” Dean said. “I don’t know shorthand.”
“Anyway,” I said, “They got him to the squad car and threw him in the back seat. Dad got in one side and closed the door and Bud walked around the other side, got in and closed his door. It took them a second or two to realize that all three of them were sitting in the back seat.”
“That’s funny,” Elliott said.
“The guy looked at Dad and Bud and asked who was driving,” I said. “And Dad said it wouldn’t have been so embarrassing, except that all the people in the tavern were watching out the window. They all got a big laugh out of it. Dad thought Bud was going to drive and Bud thought Dad was going to drive and all three of them ended up in the back seat.”
“Good one, Clay,” Dean said. “I can use that one. Got any others?”
“Let me think,” I said. “This one’s not really funny, but you still may be able to use it. Bud
had partnered with your dad’s regular partner one night. This was after Matt already had this business running for a few months. That would make it sometime in early 1947.”
Dean wrote a few words and paused.
“Dad told me that Bud and your dad had been investigating a murder case involving a woman in a bathtub,” I said. “Some twenty-three-year-old guy had apparently killed a woman with a hunting knife.”
Dean stopped writing.
“Can’t use it?” I said, pointing at Dean’s notebook.
“Sure,” Dean said. “I’m going to use it, but I don’t have to write it down. Dad told me that story more than once and it’s one that stays with you once you hear it.”
“Pretty eerie,” I said. “Let’s see if I can think of another one.”
“Hold on,” Elliott said, sitting up straight. “You start to tell a juicy story about a knifing and stop because you’ve both heard it already? “Well, I haven’t heard it. Come on, give.”
Dean shook his head. “You really don’t want to hear this one,” he said, “unless you’re into nightmares.”
“I’m sure I can handle it,” Elliott said. “What happened?”
“All right,” I said. “But don’t say you weren’t warned.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Elliott said, smugly.
“Well,” Dean said. “Dad was stuck answering the phone at the station one night because of an injury to his foot. That night Dad got a call at the front desk. On the other end of the phone was a hysterical woman. She was screaming that someone was breaking into her house through the back door. Over the phone Dad could hear the banging and breaking of the woman’s door. A squad was dispatched immediately but Dad heard the phone drop and he lost contact with the woman. Bud and Cliff Lewis, dad’s regular partner, were at the home within minutes. Cliff went up to the front door and Bud went around to the back to find the back door standing open, broken and splintered. Bud and Cliff walked in to the house on the first floor and began their search. They could hear what they thought was water running upstairs. It was a trickling sound like a faucet left on. They could hear the drip drip drip and the sound of water running down the drain.”
