by Stuart Woods
“Of course not. I just asked her to describe any jewelry that Susie wore; told them the police forgot to ask.”
“How about the dentist?”
“He made full mouth impressions, even though he was only doing a couple of caps. Thorough guy.”
“Thanks, Bart. Can you send the photos over? Call the dentist and tell him I’m sending a messenger for the impressions and to wrap them up good. And get somebody to walk the photos over here, will you?”
“Sure thing. Be sure and let me know if an ID is made; we need to get out ahead of this story.”
“Sure.” Tom hung up and called Ben Morrison.
“Lieutenant Morrison.”
“It’s Tom. Susan Stafford wore a ring like the one you described. It will have her initials and the initials of another girl, name unknown, engraved inside. Her dentist also has full mouth impressions, and I’m sending them and the photos to you by messenger; you’ll have them in less than an hour.”
“That’s great news, Tom. Thank you.”
“Ben, I’d like to be the first to know if you make the ID, and our publicity guy would like to know about it before you make an announcement to the press.”
“Of course, Tom. I’ll get back to you, but it might be late; the body is at the sheriff’s office on ice.”
“I’ll wait for your call.” Tom hung up and called Rick Barron.
“Hello?”
“Rick, it’s Tom. A body has been found, and it was wearing a ring like one her mother said Susan wore. We’re sending photos and dental molds from the studio dentist to Ben Morrison, and we may have a confirmed ID sometime tonight.”
“Where was the body found?”
“Way out on Mulholland at an illegal trash dump. Height, weight and hair color match Susan’s, but, of course, we need to know for sure.”
“Call me at home when you hear, Tom.”
“Will do. Shall I call Eddie?”
“I’ll take care of that.”
Tom hung up, ordered some dinner sent over from the studio commissary and settled in for the wait.
42
Tom Terry was asleep on the sofa in his office when the telephone rang. He checked his watch: twelve-fifteen A.M. He grabbed the phone. “Tom Terry.”
“It’s Ben, Tom.”
“What have you got?”
“It’s your girl; no doubt about it. The initials on the ring match, and the dental impressions made it final.”
“Have they got a cause of death?”
“Manual strangulation; no sign of a ligature. She was beaten around her head and body with some sort of instrument; not enough to kill her, though. There were defensive wounds, and her fingernails were all broken. She didn’t go easy. She was probably beaten unconscious, then strangled. The condition of the body confirms Sunday afternoon, more or less.”
“When will you make a public announcement?”
“Not until tomorrow morning, when it’s too late for the morning papers.”
“We appreciate that, Ben.”
“The body will be ready for release to a funeral parlor by midday.”
“I’ll see that’s dealt with.”
“I’m sorry we didn’t have a better outcome.”
“Me, too. Are you going to pick up the Harmon girl?”
“We don’t have enough evidence, I’m afraid. We went through her apartment thoroughly and found nothing, and we haven’t had a chance to talk to her again; she’s disappeared.”
“I think I know why. You said Susan fought for her life; I’ll bet Harmon has scratch marks and bruises on her arms and chest. When I talked with her, her face wasn’t obviously marked, but she had her hands stuffed in the pockets of her dungarees, and she was wearing a long-sleeved shirt. She’s not going to come out of hiding until she’s healed up. If you can find her quick, you might be able to nail her.”
“I’ll pass that up and see if we can get some more people on it.”
“I’ve got a couple of private guys working on her background. If they come up with a relative or a friend who might be hiding her, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks, Tom.”
Tom thanked him again and hung up. It was twelve-thirty now, and he didn’t see any point in ruining a lot of people’s sleep, so he locked up his office and went home.
Early the following morning, Rick got a call from Tom Terry.
“It’s confirmed, Rick. The body is Susan Stafford.”
“Tell me everything you know.”
Tom did. “The body will be ready for release from the county morgue around noon.”
“I’ll see to it. Thanks for your good work on this, Tom.”
“Sure.”
Rick hung up and made the call to Eddie Harris, telling him everything.
“Shit,” Eddie said. “I hate this.”
“We all do.”
“Have you told Vance?”
“I’ll call him now.”
“I’ll deal with the funeral parlor; you deal with him. Get him to stay at the ranch for a while, until the papers are tired of this.”
“I’ll try.”
Rick hung up and called the ranch. Mac Cooper answered. “Hi, Mac. It’s Rick Barron. How are you?”
“Pretty good. Vance isn’t, though. He’s a different boy.”
“Can I speak to him?”
“I’ll get him.”
Two minutes passed, then Vance picked up the phone. “Rick?”
“Yes, Vance. You sitting down?”
“I am now.”
“A body was found early yesterday morning at a makeshift garbage dump up on Mulholland. Late last night it was positively identified as Susie’s. She’s gone, Vance.”
Vance was quiet for a moment. “I’ve been getting ready for this, but I’m not.”
“I know how you feel; we all loved her.”
“Give me all the details.”
“There’s plenty of time for that later.”
“Give it to me now; I want to get this over with, and I can’t as long as I have questions in my mind.”
Rick told him everything Tom Terry had told him. “That’s it, that’s everything, and I’m told there’s not likely to be more.”
“Have you spoken to Susie’s parents?”
“Not yet.”
“I’d like to do that. I spoke with them once before, so they know me, and they know I was her friend. It would be better than having the publicity guy do it.”
“All right. I’ll give you the number.”
“I have it. Will you send the airplane back for me?”
“There won’t be an airplane available for a few days.”
“I’ll find one up here, then.”
“Vance, don’t come back just yet; there’s absolutely nothing you can do here. The body will likely be flown back to Georgia, and her parents will handle the funeral arrangements there.”
“I really feel that I should be there, Rick.”
“For what? Tell me what you want to do when you get here.”
Vance thought about that. “I guess you’re right; I can’t think of anything.”
“There’s going to be a big thing in the press, and you don’t want to be here for that. Get some rest, some fresh air and some exercise. Read that script I gave you. Read some books.”
“Rick, they’ve got a nice little movie theater in Jackson, and Ellie Cooper wants to show Bitter Creek to raise money for a local charity. Can you do that?”
“Of course. I’ll have a print to you the first of next week, so tell her to set a date.”
“She’ll be very grateful to you.”
“Call me if you need anything at all. And when you feel you’re ready to go back to work, just let me know, and I’ll send the airplane.”
“Thanks, Rick.”
Vance hung up, and, without waiting, placed the call to Susie’s parents. He got her mother on the phone and broke the news. He was surprised how calm Mrs. Stafford was.
“Vance, did
they tell you about the ring?”
“Yes, some sort of friendship ring.”
“A girl she used to live with in New York gave it to her; it meant something special.”
“She told me about that.”
“Did she tell you about Hank, too?”
“Yes, she did.”
“Susie was always like that. Boys came and went pretty quick; it was the girls who were the constant. She was just born that way, I guess.”
“She didn’t seem that way with me. I think we would have been married, eventually.”
“Maybe it’s better that you weren’t, Vance; I don’t think it would have lasted, not the way you would have wanted it to. The pull of the other side of her nature was too strong.”
“I suppose you could be right.”
“We saw the picture when it opened in Atlanta, and we thought you were just wonderful. Susie, too, of course, but then we’re prejudiced. You’re going to have a wonderful career, Vance. Remember Susie, but don’t let her memory be a burden to you. She wouldn’t have liked that.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Stafford.” He gave her his number in L.A. “Please call me if you ever need anything.”
“I don’t think we’ll need anything further. We’ve decided to have her body cremated in Los Angeles, probably tomorrow. A friend is arranging it.”
“I see. Please give my best to Mr. Stafford. The two of you brought up a wonderful daughter.” He hung up and went back to the breakfast table and told the Coopers everything.
“You need to get out of the house today, Vance,” Mac said.
“I thought I’d take a couple of horses and some grub and ride up to that line shack you told me about,” Vance said. “Maybe stay a few days.”
“Good idea, Vance.”
43
Tom Terry waited outside the building of the Screen Extras Guild, a blowup of a Milwaukee P.D. mug shot his only reference. It was a little after seven, and Harold Schmidt had not yet come out of the building. Tom began to wonder if the mug shot was a good enough likeness.
Then two men appeared at the entrance to the building and stood talking for a moment. One of them was the head of the extra’s union; the other, clearly, was Schmidt, dressed in a decent suit and a tie. They finished their brief conversation and parted in opposite directions, Schmidt walking toward where Tom was parked at the curb. Tom got out of the car.
“Hal?” he said as the man drew abreast of him.
Schmidt turned and looked at him, askance. “Were you speaking to me?”
“You’re Hal Schmidt, aren’t you?”
Schmidt looked at him narrowly, then knowingly. “Who wants to know.”
“My name’s Tom. I’m not a cop; I’m a friend of Louise Brecht.”
“Yeah? How is Lou?”
“I’d like to talk to you about that. Can I buy you a drink?”
Schmidt looked at his watch. “I guess so.”
“Hop in.”
The two men got into Tom’s car and pulled away from the curb. “There’s a decent joint down here around the corner,” Tom said.
“Nice car.”
“Thanks, but it’s not mine.”
“How do you know Louise?”
Tom parked the car near the saloon. “Let’s get that drink, and we’ll talk about that.” He led Schmidt inside, and the two men found a booth and both ordered bourbon. “Your health,” Tom said, raising his glass.
“Bottoms up. Now enlighten me.”
“You and Louise were fairly close for a while, back in Milwaukee, weren’t you?”
“Yeah, we were.”
“Were you two of one mind politically?”
“Lou didn’t have a political mind; she wanted to be in show business. And she made it, didn’t she? You see, I know who Lou is now.”
“I expected you would. If she wasn’t politically inclined, why did you sign her up for the party?”
“What party was that? Democratic? Republican?”
“We both know which party, Hal.”
“What makes you think I signed her up for anything?”
“Well, she didn’t sign herself up, but she got signed up, anyway. You were the only party member she knew.”
Schmidt smiled a little. “You’re a fed, aren’t you? You work for the committee.”
Tom shook his head. “Wrong. I told you. I’m a friend of Louise. Of the family, you might say.”
“Yeah, I saw something in a magazine, pretty picture: husband and a kid.”
“Two kids, now. They’re very happy.”
“I’m glad to hear it; Lou was always a good sort.”
“You bear her no ill will, then?”
“Why would I? She was always decent to me.”
“If that’s so, why would you try to get her involved in the party?”
“It’s not like it’s something dirty, you know; it’s a political movement with an idealistic agenda.”
“I know all about that, but you’ve already said Louise wasn’t political.”
“I guess I looked at it as doing her a favor. After the revolution, party membership would stand her in good stead.”
“I guess you know that, in Hollywood, party membership has turned out to be something of a problem for a lot of people, people who are mostly out of work these days, some of them facing prison.”
“Look, it’s not my fault or the party’s fault that the political system in this country screwed them.”
“Let’s not get into the rights and wrongs of what’s happened; my only concern is Louise. I don’t want any of these bad things to happen to her, especially since she’s a complete innocent in all this.”
“Nobody’s innocent; you’re on one side or the other.”
“Do you want to hurt her?”
“Of course not.”
“Do you want to help her?”
Schmidt shrugged. “Sure, but how do I do that?”
“By giving me some information.”
“What do you want to know?”
“First of all, you admit that you signed her up for the party, and without her knowledge or consent?”
“Now you sound like a lawyer.”
“Wrong again. The first thing I need from you is a written statement saying that you did this without her knowledge or consent.”
“You want me to admit, in writing, that I’m a party member? You’ve just told me what happens to party members in this town.”
“Hal, you’ve never made any secret of your party membership; why start now?”
“I’m being cautious.”
“I don’t want this statement so I can give it to the newspapers. I just want some protection for Louise, if it ever comes up.”
“What else do you want?”
“I need a little inside knowledge of how the party works.”
“You must have a screw loose, pal. I’m not here to be your political tutor.”
“You misunderstand; let me explain.”
“I’m listening.”
“When you signed up Louise, the party office in Milwaukee kept her membership card in their files; she never saw it.”
Schmidt shrugged. “Sometimes they do it that way.”
“Well, a few weeks ago, somebody here in L.A. sent her employers photostatic copies of two party membership cards: one belonged to a man who has since been exposed as a party member and blacklisted; the other had Louise’s name on it. Now, here’s the interesting part: the guy who’s been blacklisted was a member of the New York chapter or den or whatever you call it, and they kept his card on file. What I’m trying to get at is how two people from Milwaukee and New York—two different branches—have photostats of their membership cards turn up on the same desk at a movie studio in L.A.?”
Schmidt stared at Tom for a long time before he spoke. “That’s a very interesting question, Tom. You work for the studio in question, is that it? That’s why you drive such a nice car?”
“Yeah. I’m a regular capitalist tool.”
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Schmidt laughed.
“Look, I’m just a working stiff who’s trying to keep a friend—one who used to be your friend—from getting hurt.”
“Let me look into it. You got a phone number?”
Tom took out a notebook, wrote down his direct office number, tore it out and handed it to Schmidt. Schmidt tore the page in half and gave Tom his own number. “I’m there nights,” he said. “Don’t call me at the union office.”
“Okay. Look, I’m happy you’re willing to look into this, but don’t roil the waters, okay? Be discreet.”
Schmidt tossed off the rest of his drink and stood up. “Don’t worry; I want answers just as much as you do. I’ll call you, and thanks for the drink.”
“Thanks, Hal. Maybe I’ll be able to do you a favor one of these days.”
“I doubt it,” Schmidt said. He turned and walked out of the bar.
44
Vance Calder walked his struggling horse through the last yards of flank-deep snow, towing a pack mule. He pulled up in front of the little cabin, or perhaps shack would have been a better description. He dismounted and tried to open the front door, but snow prevented it from moving.
The handle of something protruded from the snow next to the door, and a few yanks revealed it to be the handle of a snow shovel. He used the tool to clear the area around the door, then got the door open and walked inside. He found a box of matches and lit a kerosene lantern hanging over a small table. The resulting light revealed the place to be more comfortable than he had imagined.
He went outside again and used the snow shovel to clear the doors of an attached shed. He led the animals inside, unsaddled them, rubbed them down, clearing the snow and ice from their hooves, then fed them and watered them from a pump. He closed the shed doors so the place would warm up from their heat, then returned to the cabin and began making himself comfortable. He got a fire going in the iron stove, using wood the previous occupant had chopped, and the one room began to warm up. He pumped some water and made coffee, setting the pot on the stove to boil when it got hot enough.
He opened the three-paned windows, pushed back the heavy wooden shutters, then closed the windows again. Now he had decent light. An hour later, when it was dark, he lit another lantern for light to read by.
