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

by Bill Bernico

  “Thanks, Dean,” Clay said. “You just go on doing whatever it was you were doing before I bothered you. I’ll be quiet as a mouse. You won’t even know I’m here.”

  Clay slid his chair back, further away from Dean’s desk so he could shuffle through the file without disturbing Dean. Clay checked the autopsy report and the initial report from the murder scene. He looked at a very short arrest record for Conrad Watson. There were only two entries, one for driving under the influence and another for a domestic disturbance. He dismissed these as inconsequential and kept looking for something, anything that might point him in another direction. Clay found notes about Watson’s neighbors, several of whom had made formal statements to the police regarding the domestic disturbance complaint. They all said about the same thing, that Watson had been yelling at his wife and that they could hear the sounds of things being smashed or broken in the house.

  One statement stood out from the others. It was from a neighbor named Louis Ahren, who lived just one door to the west of the Watsons. When interviewed by police about the Watsons, Mr. Ahern had been quoted as saying that he thought that if the Watsons weren’t separated, that he was sure one of them would end up dead. Clay set this form aside and kept searching.

  Further into the file Clay found a handwritten note that said simply, ‘Ahern lying?’ and was underlined twice. He pulled this note out of the folder and set it on top of the other form he’d set aside. The rest of the folder yielded nothing Clay could use. He closed the folder and laid it back on Dean’s desk.

  “Finished with this?” Dean said, picking up the folder.

  “Just about,” Clay said, holding up the two pieces of paper. “I just had a question or two regarding these two items.” He handed the report to Dean and said, “In this interview it say that the Watson’s neighbor, Louis Ahern said something about hoping the Watsons would be separated otherwise one of them might end up dead. Did you ask him what he meant by that, or did he offer anything else besides that statement?”

  “You got everything I got out of the guy,” Dean said. “I guess he was just saying that those two would have been better off apart. At least that’s what I got out of it. Anything else?”

  Clay held up Dean’s handwritten two-word note and waited for an explanation.

  Dean took the note and read it again and then looked at Clay. “This looks like it was a note to myself,” he said. “I think I wrote that because at the time, it felt like Ahern wasn’t being totally candid with me. I don’t know, but it felt like he was holding something back.”

  “Would you have any objections if I went over there and talked to him?” Clay said.

  Dean dropped the note back into the folder and returned the folder to the file cabinet. “You think he’s going to tell you anything that he wouldn’t tell me?” Dean said.

  Clay shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m just grasping at straws. It might be something and then again it might lead nowhere, but I won’t know for sure unless I try.”

  “Sure,” Dean said. “Just make sure I get any information that you get from him.”

  “That’s a given,” Clay said.

  “Go,” Dean said, waving his four fingers underhand, like a mother telling her child to go outside and play. Dean’s phone rang just then.

  Dean held his index finger up to Clay and picked up his phone. “Hollister,” he said.

  “Dean,” Eric answered, “It’s Eric. Do you have the file on victim number five in this Rooftop Sniper case? It’s not here with the rest of them.”

  “Yes, I have it,” Dean said. “I pulled it out yesterday when Mrs. Watson stopped by. Do you need it?”

  “I’m laying them all out over here in room 128,” Eric said. “I need the file to continue analyzing the bunch of them. All right if I stop in and get it?”

  “Never mind,” Dean said. “Clay Cooper is here in my office. He was just coming by that way on his way out. He’ll drop it off in a minute or so.” Dean pulled the mouthpiece away from his mouth but didn’t cover it with his hand when he said, “Won’t you, Clay?”

  Clay sighed. “Sure,” he said. “Where am I taking it?”

  “To room 128, right down the hall,” Dean said to Clay and then put the phone’s mouthpiece back to his mouth. “You’ll have it in a minute or so, Eric.”

  “Perfect,” Eric said. “I’ll leave a space for it.”

  Dean pulled the folder back out of his file cabinet and handed it to Clay. Clay got up, took the folder from Dean and hurried out of the office, closing the door behind him.

  Detective Sergeant Eric Anderson sat in the empty office with five file folders laid out on the table. He had all of the victim folders except for Conrad Watson, which Dean still had after Mrs. Watson’s visit to his office the day before. Eric had spread them all out on a wooden six foot table. There was an identical table against the opposite wall. Eric dragged it alongside the first table, making a twelve foot work area for himself. He laid out the five folders on the far end of the first table and opened each one, pulling out the information sheet on each victim and laying them on the second table.

  Victim number one was a fifty-one year old man from Hollywood named Thomas Powers. At this point, Eric was interested in just the victims’ names. He pulled the information sheet out of victim number two’s folder and laid it next to the first one. This victim’s name was Matthew Nolan, 38, a car salesman from Burbank. Victim number three was a forty-two year old man from Pasadena by the name of James Kincaid. Number four was another man from Hollywood, a thirty-three year old lumber mill owner named Edward Bartlett.

  Eric grabbed the next folder and noticed that it was labeled as number six. He left a space for number five and laid the file on victim number six, labeled Steven Collins, 40, from West Hollywood at the end of the others. The newest file, file number seven from tonight, was still being filled with information from the various departments who hadn’t completed their initial investigations yet.

  Clay found room 128 and knocked.

  “It’s open,” Eric shouted from inside.

  Clay stepped in and handed Eric the Watson folder.

  “Thanks, Clay,” Eric said, opening the folder and withdrawing the information sheet out. He laid it between sheets four and six and then stood back to take in the entire collection.

  “What are you doing?” Clay said.

  “Huh? Oh this,” Eric said, pointing at the sheets. “I was talking with Lieutenant Hollister about the data we’d collected on all the sniper victims and there didn’t seem to be any connection at all. I just thought I’d lay them out, side by side and see if anything jumps out at me.”

  “You’re only looking at the single information sheets?” Clay said.

  “It’s a place to start,” Eric said. “If this doesn’t pan out, I’ll try comparing the crime scene photos or the witness statements. Something’s got to pop.”

  “Mind if I have a look?” Clay said.

  Eric stood aside and waved with his arm across the table top. “Be my guest,” he said.

  Clay stood alongside Eric and glanced down at the collection of victim sheets. He spoke softly, almost to himself, as he read the headings on each sheet. “Thomas Powers, Matthew Nolan, James Kincaid,” he said softly and then stopped. “Kincaid?”

  “You catch something?” Eric said.

  “Just the Kincaid name,” Clay said. “You don’t hear that one too often.” He continued mumbling the other victims’ names as he scanned each document. “Bartlett, Watson and Collins.” He looked at Eric. “Are these in the order that the victims were killed?”

  “Yes,” Eric explained. “The first one, Powers, was killed early last year and the last one, or I should say the second to last one, number six, was killed five weeks ago. I don’t have folder number seven yet. That would be tonight’s victim and they’re not finished processing it yet. I don’t even know the last victim’s name.” Then he remembered the slip of paper Dean had given him at the latest mu
rder scene. “Wait a minute,” Eric said. “Maybe I do.” He unfolded the paper and laid it at the end of the table, after victim number six’s sheet.

  Clay looked at the paper and his eyes got wide.

  “What is it, Clay?” Eric said.

  “This last victim’s name,” Clay said. “Joseph Moran.”

  “What about it?” Eric said.

  “Joe Moran,” Clay said. “Terrible Joe Moran.”

  “Huh?” Eric said. “What was so terrible about this victim?”

  “Not the victim,” Clay explained. “The movie. Terrible Joe Moran was the title of Cagney’s last movie ever. Have you ever seen it?”

  Eric shook his head. “When did it come out?”

  “It was never in the theaters,” Clay said. “It was a television movie that was shown, oh, I’d say around 1985 or 1986, I think. No wait, it couldn’t have been 1986. Cagney died that year. Must have been earlier.”

  “Okay,” Eric said. “So Cagney did a TV movie back in the early eighties. No chance I’d have seen it. I was probably only six or seven back then. Anyway, what’s so special about this movie?”

  “Not so much the movie,” Clay said, “but the fact that victim number seven’s name was Joe Moran, same as the character Cagney played in that movie.”

  “Coincidence?” Eric said.

  “All by itself, yes,” Clay said, “but something seemed familiar about these other names when I first saw them but I couldn’t put my finger on it. But have a look for yourself.” Clay pointed to the first victim’s sheet. “Thomas Powers,” he said. “Tom Powers was the name of Cagney’s character in Public Enemy, an early gangster picture he did around 1930 or so.”

  Eric picked up sheet number one and looked at the name. “What are you, some kind of movie trivia buff or something?” he said.

  “Not only a movie trivia buff,” Clay said, “but Cagney was my all-time favorite actor. I’ll bet I’ve seen everything he ever did.”

  Eric picked up sheet number two. “What about this one, Matthew Nolan?” he said.

  “Matt Nolan,” Clay said. “That was the name of a Cagney character in a movie called Taxi, also from the thirties. And look here, at victim number three.” He handed Eric the third sheet. “James Kincaid. Remember I paused on that one, remarking how unusual that name was? Well, Jim Kincaid was another Cagney character from The Oklahoma Kid, and that in itself was unusual for Cagney because he almost never did western pictures.”

  “We’d better bring all this to Dean’s office,” Eric said.

  “In a minute,” Clay said. “But let’s go in there armed with the facts. Take a look at victim number four, Edward Bartlett. Eddie Bartlett was Cagney’s character in The Roaring Twenties.” He handed sheet number four to Eric and continued with his analysis. “Victim number six shared the same name as a character Cagney played in a movie called, The Bride Came C.O.D. In that movie, Cagney played a guy named Steve Collins.”

  “What about victim number five?” Eric said.

  “I’ll get back to that one in a minute,” Clay said. “Tonight’s victim, victim number seven was Joe Moran.”

  “That’s terrible,” Eric said.

  “Just the Cagney character,” Clay said. “Not the victim.”

  “What are you talking about?” Eric said.

  “I thought you were talking about the movie, Terrible Joe Moran,” Clay said. “And you said, oh never mind. Let’s get this stuff back to Dean’s office and fill him in.”

  “Wait a minute,” Eric said. “You forgot about victim number five, the one you passed over.”

  “Oh, right,” Clay said. “Number five was just a plain, old name with no connection at all to any Cagney movie. Don’t you see? That means that number five, Conrad Watson, wasn’t the Rooftop Sniper’s victim at all. Someone else killed him and tried to make it look like it was just another killing in this serial killer’s rampage. But the copycat killer couldn’t have known about the Cagney connection and that’s what will trip him up. Now we can go see Dean.”

  Once we laid it all out for Dean, it was evident that Watson’s file didn’t belong in with the other six. Dean wrote a note on the file folder and left it out on his desk.

  “You can tell Olivia Watson that the L.A.P.D. will be taking a closer look into her husband’s death,” Dean said, “now that we know what we know about the other six victims.”

  “She’ll be relieved to hear that,” Clay said. “Now all we’ve got to do is find Watson’s real killer.”

  Clay thought he’d follow up on Louis Ahern and stopped by the Ahern home on his way back to the office. A middle-aged woman answered the door on the second ring.

  “Yes?” she said. “May I help you?”

  “This is the Ahern residence, isn’t it?” Clay said.

  “Yes it is,” the woman said. “I’m Mrs. Ahern. What do you want?”

  I held my I.D. and shield up so that Mrs. Ahern could get a good look at it. “My name is Clay Cooper,” Clay said. “I’m working with the Los Angeles Police on a matter that your husband may know something about. Is he at home?”

  “Louis?” she said. “He’s out at the moment, but I expect him home shortly. Would you care to wait for him inside?”

  “If it’s not too much trouble,” Clay said.

  “No trouble at all,” Mrs. Ahern said, opening the door wide enough to allow me to pass.

  Clay sat on the sofa and Mrs. Ahern asked if him if he wanted something to drink. He declined but asked her, “While I’m waiting for Mr. Ahern, I wonder if I might ask you about the Watsons next door.”

  Mrs. Ahern sat on a stiff-back chair, next to an end table with a phone on it. “What would you like to know, Mr. Cooper?” she said.

  “How long have you and the Watsons been neighbors?” Clay said.

  She thought for a moment and then offered, “Oh, about eight or nine years. They moved in a year after we did.”

  “And in all that time,” Clay said, “have you ever heard loud arguments of fights coming from next door?”

  “Oh my, no,” she said. “You sometimes couldn’t even tell that anyone lived there,” she said. “They were quiet and kept pretty much to themselves.”

  Clay was about to ask the woman another question when the front door opened and Louis Ahern stepped inside. Mrs. Ahern and Clay both got to their feet. Mrs. Ahern gestured toward Clay and said, “Dear, this is Mr. Cooper. He was asking about the Watsons next door.”

  I extended my hand and Louis Ahern reluctantly took it and shook it just once before releasing it. “I don’t know what you think we can tell you about The Watsons,” Louis said. “They kept to themselves and we only exchanged greeting when we passed each other outside every now and then.” He walked past Clay and sat in an overstuffed chair on the other side of the room.

  Clay’s eyes followed Louis to the chair and then shifted to a wooden three-place gun rack above and to the left of Mr. Ahern’s head. Clay hadn’t noticed it before, but now he took a good look at the one and only rifle on the rack. It had a scope mounted on top of the barrel.

  “Are you a hunter, Mr. Ahern?” Clay said, pointing with his chin toward the gun rack.

  “I used to be,” Ahern said. “Don’t have much time for it anymore.”

  “That’s a Winchester, isn’t it?” Clay said.

  Ahern nodded. “Uh huh.”

  “Looks like a .44 caliber,” Clay said, knowing full well that it wasn’t. “I’ll bet you’ve taken some good sized deer down with it in your day.”

  Ahern relaxed a little and offered, “Actually, it a .30-30 and no, I’ve never shot at a deer with it. I used to go to Wyoming and hunt antelope, of course that was many years ago.”

  Clay moved on with his questions. “Did you know Mr. Watson personally?” he asked.

  Ahern shook his head. “Like I said, just to pass him on the sidewalk or to say hi to in the yard. We didn’t hang out together, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  Clay stood and tur
ned to Mrs. Ahern. “Do you remember the last time you saw Mr. Watson?”

  The woman looked upward, as if thinking and then offered, “Must have been a couple of months ago, at least. Yeah, I remember, it was two days before that sniper got him. What a tragic thing that must have been for Mrs. Watson.”

  “Yes, it was,” Clay said, standing now. “Thank you again for your hospitality, Mrs. Ahern.” He turned to Louis. “You, too, Mr. Ahern. Have a good day.”

  Clay let himself out of the house, closing the door behind him. Once outside, he reached for his notepad and jotted down ‘.30-30 and Wyoming’ and closed the booklet. He’d share this information with Dean tomorrow. This afternoon he just wanted to grab something to eat and get back to the office.

  On his way back to the office, Clay pulled into the drive-thru lane at one of the burger joints on Sunset Boulevard. He got a double hamburger and a large soft drink and then pulled back into traffic. By the time he got to the office, he’d finished the burger. He carried what was left of his soft drink up to the office and opened his door.

  “Where have you been?” I said as Dad came into the office.

  Clay held up his soft drink cup. “Getting something to eat, why?”

  “When we finished up with Andy,” Gloria said, “We looked for you at Lieutenant Hollister’s office. You weren’t there and neither was Dean. Where’d you go?”

  “Oh,” Clay said, “Dean had sent me down the hall to some room where Sergeant Anderson had laid out all the folders for each of the Sniper victims.”

  “And?” I said.

  “Wait ‘til you hear,” Clay said.

  “Hear what?” Gloria said, coming out from behind her desk now.

  “I found a connection to all the victims except one,” Clay said, smiling wryly.

  “Watson?” I said.

  “Watson,” Clay said.

  “What was the connection between the other six victims?” Gloria said.

  “Cagney,” Clay said. “James Cagney.”