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

by Bill Bernico

  The cop grabbed at the shoulder mic and pressed the button, connecting with the twelfth precinct. His request for back was acknowledged and he drew his service revolver again to help Eric cover the men. In less than five minutes another pair of patrolmen appeared and took the two men away in cuffs. Eric thanked his helper and they two men returned to the courtroom. The patrolman took up his position at the door again while Eric returned to his seat.

  Otto Stein looked back at Eric with a question on his face. Eric just smiled and gave Stein a sarcastic two finger salute. Stein turned back around and whispered something to his lawyer, who turned to look at Eric, who just smiled back at him.

  When court recessed at noon, Eric walked Peter Haley back out to the hall and the two men sat on one of the marble benches against the wall. “How does it look for our side?” Haley said.

  “Slam dunk,” Eric said. “I don’t think Stein will see daylight for a long time. And those two goons of his will be joining him before this whole thing is over.”

  “I’ll be glad when it’s all over and I can get back to a normal life, whatever that is,” Haley said.

  “Shouldn’t take more than another hour once we get back from lunch,” Eric said. “Knight will put you on the stand last so that your testimony will be the last thing the jurors hear before they convene. I don’t imagine it’ll take them long to convict Stein.”

  “I hope I can say what I have to say,” Haley said. “I’m more afraid of speaking in public than I am of Stein getting at me. Well, maybe that’s a bit of an exaggeration, but man, I really hate being the center of attention.”

  “You’ll do fine,” Eric assured him.

  The two men left the courthouse and enjoyed a leisurely lunch before returning at one-thirty. Court reconvened and the bailiff announced that the prosecution’s next witness would be Peter Haley and gestured him to step forward. Haley stepped up to the bailiff and was sworn in before he took his seat in the witness chair.

  After twenty minutes of testimony Eric could see from where he was sitting how much Haley was sweating and fidgeting in his seat. The damaging testimony had already been given and Eric could see by the look on the juror’s faces that Stein would be found guilty.

  Knight returned to the spot behind his table and looked down at the papers before him before continuing his line of questioning with Haley. “Mr. Haley,” Knight said. “I understand that because of this brutal attack on you that you’ve since suffered lasting side effects to the blow to your head. Could you tell the court a little about your medical condition since this attack?”

  Haley looked up at Knight and was about to speak when his eyes glazed over and he stared blankly out into the gallery. Eric recalled what Elliott had told him about Haley’s epileptic episode at the cabin and knew that Haley was having another seizure.

  “Mr. Haley,” Knight repeated, “Please tell the court about your medical condition since this attack.”

  Haley still said nothing and the judge now leaned toward Haley and said, “Please answer the question, Mr. Haley.”

  Haley remained still and blank. Knight returned to his table and Eric caught his attention. He stepped over to him and whispered in his ear, telling him of Haley’s epilepsy, which Knight obviously knew nothing about. Knight turned back toward the judge and stepped forward. “Your honor,” he said. “It has come to my attention that Mr. Haley…” The words weren’t even out of his mouth when Peter Haley fell sideways off the chair and convulsed on the floor next to the witness stand. The jurors watched in horror as Peter Haley lay there, looking like an electrical shock was running through his body.

  A minute later the seizure had subsided and Haley opened his eyes, looking at his surroundings. He slowly got up off the floor, brushed off his pants and sat again in the witness chair. A trickle of blood ran down the corner of his mouth onto his white shirt collar.

  The judge leaned toward Haley again and asked, “Are you all right now, Mr. Haley?”

  Knight retrieved his handkerchief and handed it to Haley, pointing at Haley’s mouth and chin. Haley dabbed at the blood and tried to hand the cloth back to Knight. “You keep it,” Knight insisted and then turned back to the judge. “As I was about to say, your honor, it has come to my attention that Mr. Haley has suffered bouts of epilepsy as a result of this horrendous blow to the head that Mr. Stein inflicted on him.” Knight turned toward the jury now. “You may convict Mr. Stein and sentence him to prison, but it is Mr. Haley who will be a prisoner in his own body for the rest of his life.”

  Knight excused Haley, who returned to his seat at the prosecution’s table. Both sides rested and the judge charged the jury to retire and try to reach a unanimous verdict. The jury rose, but instead of retiring to the jury room, formed a huddle and a few seconds later the jury foreman stood upright and faced the judge. “Your honor,” the foreman said. “There’s no need for us to retire to the jury room. We are all in agreement with our decisions. We find the defendant, Otto Stein, guilty as charged.”

  The courtroom exploded in a wave of conversation as reporters tried to leave. The judge banged his gavel several time before he restored order. Everyone in the gallery returned to their seats and remained quiet. The judge turned to the jury and said, “The court wishes to thank you all for your service in this case. You are all dismissed.” He banged his gavel again and turned to Stein.

  Stein’s lawyer stood and yelled, “Objection, your honor.”

  The judge banged his gavel again. “You’re too late for any more objections, Mr. Porter,” he said. “And I find myself in much the same situation as the jury in this case. It has become so very apparent that your client holds no value for human life and I find that appalling. There will be no need to reconvene at a later date for sentencing. I am prepared to pass sentence now.”

  Porter tried to voice another objection but was shot down again by the judge. “Mr. Porter,” the judge said. “It is your right to file an appeal in this case, but for now, you will sit there and not interrupt me again or you will find yourself in contempt of court. Do you understand?”

  Porter humbly nodded his head and sat again.

  The judge continued. “The defendant will please stand.”

  Stein stood and stared at the judge.

  “It is the sentence of this court,” the judge began, “That you be remanded to the custody of the county jail until which time you will be transferred to the facilities at San Quentin to begin your sentence of twenty years to life for your actions against Mr. Haley.” He banged his gavel one last time and said, “Court is dismissed,” and retired to his chambers.

  The court reporter picked up her recording machine and left through another door. The bailiff pulled Stein’s hands behind him and slapped a pair of cuffs on his wrists before leading him out a third door. Peter Haley shook the District Attorney’s hand and thanks him before turning to Eric.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant Anderson,” Haley said.

  “See,” Eric told him. “You did just fine up there on the stand.” Haley’s face flushed, remembering his seizure. Eric picked up on his uneasiness and added, “Don’t give that another thought. You’re not alone. There are millions of people who have what you have and they manage their everyday lives. You’ll do just fine, Peter.”

  Eric walked Haley back out into the hall, where a barrage of reporters waited, shoving microphones at him and peppering him with a dozen questions all at once. Haley held up one had in front of his face and tried to shove past them. Eric pushed several reporters out of his way and helped Haley get past them and back to the elevator. He rode with Haley back to the garage and over to Eric’s car again. Eric drove Haley back to his house to retrieve Haley’s luggage from the stay at the cabin and then offered to drive him home again.

  It was early the following morning when Eric stepped off the elevator on the third floor and walked the length of the hallway to Cooper and Son investigations. He knocked and let himself in to find Elliott and Matt at their desks. E
lliott had his feet up, reading the morning paper. Matt busied himself with something on his desktop computer. They both looked up when Eric came in.

  Elliott put the paper down and stood. “Eric,” he said, “Matt and I were just talking about you and Peter Haley. Looks like you both scored one for our side.”

  Eric helped himself to a cup of coffee and filled Cooper and his son in on what had happened with the two armed men in the courtroom and ending with Stein’s conviction. “All in all I’d have to say it was a great day for the good guys.”

  The three men were enjoying each other’s company and conversation when Eric’s cell phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said, looking at Elliott and flipping his phone open.

  Elliott saw something in Eric’s face that didn’t seem right and as soon as Eric got off the phone, he turned to Elliott and sighed. “That was Abby at the twelfth precinct. They just took a 9-1-1 call about some guy lying on the sidewalk in front of his house.” Eric paused. “It was Peter Haley. He’s dead. The M.E. said it was from a blood clot to his brain, probably as a result of his trauma. He doesn’t know why it took so long to manifest itself, but he figures something must have dislodged it early this morning. Haley never knew what hit him and was probably dead before he hit the pavement.”

  Elliott and Matt went blank. “All for nothing,” Matt said finally.

  Eric looked at Matt. “Not totally for nothing,” he said. “We got Stein and four of his men off the street. That’s got to account for something anyway.” Eric hung his head for a moment before staring out the window onto Hollywood Boulevard. He turned back around and said, “I’d better get moving,” and promptly left the office.

  Elliott turned to Matt. “Life is crazy that way,” he said. “You’re never sure from one day to the next how it’ll turn out.”

  “I guess there’s something to that,” Matt said. “Makes you appreciate every day you have and the people around you.”

  The two of them were silent for a moment before Elliott spoke. “We’ve got nothing going on today. Why don’t you take the rest of the day off and spend it with Chris? I can manage.”

  Matt walked over to his father and wrapped his arms around him, hanging on tight for a few seconds before releasing him and heading for the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Dad.”

  “And you give Chris a hug for me, will you?” Elliott said.

  “I will,” Matt said, and hurried off to spend some quality time with his girlfriend.

  125 - LOL

  It was just after ten p.m. on a Monday evening as the cross-town bus pulled up to the bus stop and opened its doors. The old lady in the blue dress and white shawl stepped down onto the sidewalk, carrying the brown paper shopping bag with the thin twisted handles. The doors closed again and the bus pulled back out into traffic as the old lady continued west on Hollywood Boulevard, shuffling in small, deliberate steps. She turned south on Argyle Avenue and continued at her snail’s pace toward Sunset Avenue. It had taken her nearly fifteen minutes to make it to the first intersection at the corner of Argyle and Selma. She checked the dainty watch on her wrist as she stepped into the intersection. Her timing was perfect. The neighborhood was deserted and she was alone on the street. Her weeks of surveillance and note taking was about to pay off.

  The silver Jaguar stopped just short of the thick white line at the intersection and waited as the old woman carried her shopping bag toward the opposite curb. It seemed to take this old lady forever just to make two feet of progress and the Jaguar’s driver was growing steadily impatient. He tried revving his engine, but the little old lady didn’t even look up. She just kept staring at the pavement in front of her black low-heel pumps and kept walking.

  The Jaguar’s driver sighed and swore under his breath before laying on his horn. Now the little old lady stopped in her tracks and turned toward the silver sports car, glaring at the driver. He honked again, trying to get her to move from in front of his vehicle. She set her bag down on the pavement, bent over and reached into it. When her hand came out of the shopping bag, the driver could see that she was gripping the pearl handle of a Colt .44 magnum revolver with a suppressor on the end. She assumed the shooter’s stance, leveled the barrel of the gun at the driver’s face and pulled the trigger just once, making a perfect round hole in the windshield. The slug tore through the glass and entered the driver’s face just below his left eye. A split-second later the back of the driver’s head exploded onto the head rest behind him and he slumped forward, his body ending up lying across the horn.

  The horn blared continually as the old woman set the handgun back in her bag, grabbed the handles and calmly continued across the intersection. She continued south on Argyle, picking up her pace somewhat. She made it to the corner of Sunset Avenue in a fraction of the time it had taken her to travel the first block. She waited for less than a minute before the first bus stopped and she stepped up into it, deposited her fare and took her seat. By the time the neighbors had come out to see who was blowing that annoying horn, the old woman was three blocks away, smiling wryly to herself.

  Near the corner of Sunset and Highland, the old woman stood and pulled the overhead cord, listening as the bell dinged, signaling to the driver to stop. She stood in the rear stairwell and exited the bus, walking south on Highland. She walked to the ladies’ room at the rear of the service station and locked the door behind her. She slipped out of the blue dress and stuffed it into the shopping bag, pulling out a floral print dress to take its place. She also stepped out of the comfortable pair of black low heel pumps and slipped into a pair of black, square-heel sensible shoes. When she’d finished changing, she picked up her shopping bag again and left the service station rest room, walking back toward Las Palmas Avenue and heading south at a slower pace than before.

  She walked past the first three houses and then turned up the walk toward the fourth. She fished a key ring from her pocket and let herself in through the front door, closing and locking it behind her. She set her shopping bag down just inside the door, pulled down the shades over her front windows and turned on the overhead light.

  She walked down the hall to her bedroom and pulled the gray wig from her head, laying it on the bed. Her red tresses tumbled down to her shoulders as she finger-combed them and shook them loose. She pulled the shawl from her shoulders, unzipped the flowery dress and stepped out of it, laying it next to the wig before sitting on the edge of the bed to get out of the black shoes. Once she was in her stocking feet, she unstrapped the padded appliance from her midsection that appeared to add thirty pounds to her frame. It felt good to be able to breathe normally again.

  Next she stepped into her bathroom and stood looking in the mirror at her wrinkled face. She opened the medicine cabinet and pulled out a jar of cold cream, wiping it across her face with a tissue. The pale coloring and the wrinkles disappeared with the final wipes as she tossed the used tissues in the trash can beneath her sink. At last she recognized the face she’d grown to know over these past thirty-one years. Now this was the real Claire Addison, not that old woman who went by the name of Beatrice O’Malley. Beatrice was the old woman that everyone in this neighborhood had come to know and love. If they only knew that Beatrice’s alter ego, Claire, was in reality, an assassin for hire, they’d never look at her again, let alone offer to help her with her yard work.

  Clair flopped down in her easy chair and turned on the television, flipping through the channels until she found the station with the evening news. It was probably too soon to expect to see any coverage about her most recent hit, but it would no doubt make the morning news.

  It had been a long three and a half weeks since she’d been hired to kill Albert Swan and she never liked to rush any of her jobs. Swan had been her eleventh hit in two years and she was beginning to gain quite a reputation in her field. Claire figured she’d lasted this long without detection only because of her strict rules for accepting an assignment. She would never agree to any face to face meeting with any potential e
mployer, opting instead to communicate through an anonymous post office box. If that employer got arrested or questioned, Claire figured they couldn’t tell what they didn’t know and she’d make sure it stayed like that.

  Claire had a single sandwich and a glass of milk before she retired for the night. In the morning she would dress as Beatrice O’Malley again before leaving the house. No one ever saw Claire come or go from this house and as far as any of the neighbors knew, only Beatrice lived here.

  Claire slipped beneath the covers and was asleep within minutes. She had no conscience at all when it came to dispatching her victims and could sleep like a baby after a hit. She awoke in the morning feeling like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She liked the thrill of the hunt and the kill itself, but found it physically and mentally draining afterwards and would not accept another assignment from anyone for at least a month, giving her time to unwind and regroup.

  Tomorrow she would take the city bus downtown to the post office and check her rented box. She only dealt in cash and insisted that payment be made in all one hundred dollar bills, banded and wrapped in plain brown paper. After every job Clair, that is, Beatrice would abandon the box and seek a different box in another post office. She’d never rent any boxes using the same name twice, either. She had as many disguises as she had assignments and after last night’s hit, her eleventh disguise would take its place among the other ten, in the fireplace.

  The morning news came on at six a.m. and again at eight-thirty. Claire slept through the earliest report but was up in time to catch the second broadcast. She made herself two pieces of toast and poured herself a cup of coffee before retreating to the living room to catch the newscast. She had just bitten into her first piece of toast when the morning anchor, a woman with perfect makeup and hair, looked into the camera.

  “Today’s top story,” the anchorwoman said, “Los Angeles businessman, Albert Swan, was found shot to death in his car at the corner of Argyle and Selma late last night. There were no eyewitnesses to the shooting but several neighbors reported hearing a car horn just before ten-thirty. Police still have no leads into the murder of the wealthy industrialist, but they are hopeful that someone will come forward with more information in the case.”