Santy parks his car next to the bar. As he enters the darkness of the bar, he hears Thin Lizzy singing, “The Boys Are Back in Town.” It is on full blast. He notices two pool tables, a jukebox, sawdust on the floor, and a long bar. It is still early, only 5:00 PM, so the bar only has a few customers being served by one waitress and one bartender.
As the jukebox switches over to Merle Haggard singing, “Mama Tried,” Santy goes over to the bar.
The bartender says, “Can I help you?”
“I’d like a coke, please.”
“Comin’ up.”
As the bartender serves him his drink, Santy shows him his badge and says, “I’m here investigating the murder of a Steve Rogers. I understand he used to come here quite often. Can I ask you a few questions?”
“Sure.”
Santy shows him a picture of Steve Rogers and says, “Do you recognize this man?”
The bartender looks at a picture and says, “I definitely recognize him. That’s Steve Rogers, isn’t it? I read in the newspaper that he was murdered. He came in here every once in a while. He’d been here trying to collect signatures for that ballot proposition. The one about nuclear power. He didn’t like nuclear power much. Every time he came in, you knew he was going to talk someone’s head off about the power plants.”
“Sounds like he was really involved in the protest movenment.”
“He could get pretty overbearing about it and got into a few arguments with the customers about nuclear energy versus solar power. That sort of thing. He could be very passionate in his convictions.”
“Do you think that any of the arguments may have turned violent?”
“Not that I knew of.”
Santy pulls out a picture of Ivan Romanov that the police department has on file and asks the bartender, “Do you recognize him?”
“I’ve seen the stories about him on TV.”
“Was he here on Thursday night?”
“I can’t say for sure.”
The waitress overhears them talking and walks over. “I knew Steve. The last time I saw him, he was bragging that he had something about that power plant that would blow the lid off things,” she chimes in.
“Did he say what did he mean by that?”
“Something about it leaking radiation, I think. I tried giving him his bill and he talked with me for ten minutes about all that nuclear stuff. I couldn’t get away.”
“Interesting,” Santy says. “Do you remember if you saw him here last Thursday?”
“Yeah. He was here alright. He stayed until late. All his tirades against nuclear power plants were even tiring the guy he came with, who left him there, over in that booth. Steve struck up a conversation with another guy at the bar who offered to drive him home.”
“This guy who offered to drive him home, what did he look like?”
“Oh. It was that Ivan Romanov you were talking about.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, the guy had a dark beard and long hair, just like the guy they’ve been showing on TV who just escaped from jail.”
“Are you positive it was Ivan? This bar is pretty dark.”
“Oh, it was definitely that Hammer Killer guy.”
“How many times have you seen him here?”
“Just that one time.”
“Would you be willing to testify in court that you saw him leaving with Ivan?”
“Sure. Why not?”
Santy leaves his card and tells them to call him if they can think of anything else.
Chapter 20
Dusk has settled on Old Town Tustin as Santy walks across El Camino to “Kelly’s Men’s’ Shop”, his home-away-from-home. A place to enjoy a good cigar and some even better Irish whiskey. A drink or two won’t do him any harm, he thinks. Situated in almost the dead center of Old Town Tustin, Kelly’s is a warm, welcoming place; an oasis, in a fast paced world. Built in the nineteen thirties and situated on prime downtown property, it started out as a tuxedo shop for the well-to-do in town. Many generations wore tuxedos purchased from Kelly’s while they danced away the night across the street at the Knights of Pythias hall. It continues to sell and rent tuxedos; however, men’s fashions have recently taken a back seat to a newly constructed cigar shop. Both businesses are owned by the Kelly family, a storied, original Tustin family who arrived in town before the turn of the century. Hard working and friendly to all, there wasn’t a person in town who didn’t know the entire Kelly family personally or at least by sight.
Every Tuesday and Thursday evening, a regular group gathers out back of the cigar shop to sit, smoke and enjoy a few glasses of fine Irish whiskey. A well-worn oak table, surrounded by chairs of various origins, is situated under a graceful, age-old, oak tree. Twinkling white lights adorn many of the tree branches and give the table a warm, welcoming glow. The table and tree are surrounded by many eclectic artifacts: wooden Indians, Irish phone booths, tobacco paraphernalia, etc., that surround the Spanish-styled courtyard. You almost feel as if you’re in another, older, gentler time.
The usual crowd gathers at about 7:00. Each one pauses in the cigar shop to purchase a favorite smoke before heading outside. The group tonight consists of Greg Kelly, the proprietor of the cigar and tuxedo shop; Father John Sammon, a priest at St. Cecilia’s church; Walt Simmons, the barber from the Wooden Indian barber shop; Vernon Smith, the town’s only remaining blacksmith; retired judge Clint McAdams; and Phil Densmore, a local key maker and jack-of-all tradesman.
Santy is late this evening. He turns out to be the last one in the group to arrive, earning himself the distinction of being the “last man”. The “last man” always pays for the first round. Everyone cheers and jeers him as he steps outside into the courtyard.
“Thank you, Mr. Santy!” Father Sammon bellows out. “Oh and thank the Lord too for the fine Irish whiskey!”
Santy smiles, sits and lights his cigar. He relishes the first draw and watches as the smoke slowly trails upward, towards the twinkling lights in the oak tree.
“Always my pleasure, Father; always my pleasure,” Santy replies, laying down a ten on the table.
Greg Kelly, the proprietor, comes out carrying a tray full of whiskey glasses for everyone. He serves everyone at the table and finds an empty seat for himself next to Santy.
“To Ireland,” Greg toasts, holding his glass up. “To Ireland,” everyone retorts and all take a first sip of whiskey. The table goes quiet for perhaps the only time it will all night as everyone relishes the first taste of the evening.
“So, Detective, what news and excitement have you brought us tonight?” Greg asks, putting his glass down and lighting his cigar.
“Well, gentlemen, I’ve got me a new murder case.”
The table oohs and aahs and some raise their glasses in a toast to law enforcement.
“Seems that a young man was found dead in Irvine. He was murdered and we found him in a pile of compost. Not a very nice picture,” Santy offers.
“Dead in a compost pile? Well, I’ll be!” Walt says. “Maybe he forgot to get his wife flowers and then ‘bang!’ he ends up in compost, dead!” The group groans back at Walt.
“So what do you think, Detective?” Judge McAdams asks, drawing on his cigar. They all call him detective instead of his first name.
“I’m not sure, your honor. This one’s got me stumped actually. This poor guy had his head bashed in with what looks like a hammer and then shot a few times for good measure. Then he’s unceremoniously dumped in a compost pile. Doesn’t all fit together for me somehow.”
Father Sammon says, “You know, as Charles Schulz says, ‘life is like a ten-speed bicycle. Most of us have gears we never use’. I’m sure once you’ve spent some time with all your evidence, your other gears will kick in and you’ll find the ways and the means of solving this horrible crime.”
“What’s to fit?” Phil asks. “Seems like somebody really wanted this guy dead. Smashed in the skull and shot a few times. It’s pretty clear it was
premeditated. Find a guy with a bloody hammer and a gun missing a few bullets and you’ve got your guy, or gal,” Phil says.
“I wish it was a simple as that. From what I’ve learned about this guy, the victim doesn’t fit the crime. I mean he was a no nukes activist kind of guy. He spent his time protesting the building of the San Onofre power plant. ”
“Aw geez, one of those. Oh man.” Walt says. “I don’t get all this protesting about nuclear power. Come on; they probably were mad at Edison for inventing the light bulb, for God’s sake. Maybe the folks at the power plant had enough of his hijinks and got rid of him!” Walt says with his best Vincent Price imitation.
“I dunno. Nothing fits together right on this,” Santy says. “I do know that he was in a sort of love triangle with some girl at work, at The Register. He and someone else got into it a few times over some girl. To make things worse, the someone else was Ivan Romanov. Do you guys remember Ivan Romanov?”
“Wasn’t he that Hammer Killer guy who recently escaped from jail in Santa Ana?” Walt asks.
“Yes, the one in the same. If you look at the MO of both crimes you can easily say Ivan must have done this one. Same thing happened in his first murder case. He murdered his old girlfriend’s husband the same way. Hammer blows to the head and a few bullets to the chest. Plus, Ivan has escaped and is still on the run. Now having said all that, I’m still not convinced he’s the one that did this. There are just too many holes in the evidence. According to witnesses, Ivan and the victim were as close as brothers. Nobody thinks he could have killed him.”
“I can hear those other gears kicking in right now, Detective,” Father Sammon says, taking a sip of whiskey.
“Love can make people do bad things,” Vernon chimes in. “I remember, years ago, back in the forties, my neighbor was all wound up over this gal and could not eat or sleep. He found out that she was seeing this other guy and he just lost it. Man, his eyes bugged out and he started going on and on about how he’d like to kill this guy for messin’ with his girl. They weren’t even going together, but in his mind they were. That’s all it takes, I tell ya. If it’s in your mind, that’s all it takes!”
“So what happened to this guy, Vernon?” Greg asks.
“He killed himself. Dang it all. He killed himself. Couldn’t seem to stand the pain of not having that girl.”
“Have you spoken to the young man’s parents, Detective?” Father Sammon asks.
“Yes, I spoke with them on Sunday. They took it pretty hard and didn’t see it coming, as far as I can tell.”
“Sometimes the answer is slow in coming, Detective, but the Lord finds a way. I’m sure you’ll find the answers amongst all your clues. Sometimes it’s all right there in front of you. You’ve got to believe in the evidence, Detective. Believe in it and let it talk to you. I’m a big fan of faith, as you might know, and I put my trust in our Lord, who never lets me down. Believe in it, Detective; believe in your evidence.”
“Father, you know I can’t argue with you about faith, but what about evidence that shouldn’t be believed? I mean, what if the evidence is wrong?” Judge McAdams says.
“I’m sure the Lord will find a way to clear the thing up for him. Greg, how about a wee bit more of that lovely Irish whisky over here?”
“Absolutely, Father. Coming right up.”
Greg gets up and walks back to the cigar shop to rustle up another bottle.
“Have you talked to this girl—the one in the triangle?” Phil asks.
“No, can’t seem to find her. It’s like she’s fallen off the face of the earth. Everyone’s talking about her, but no one knows where she’s gone. I’m following up on some leads, but so far I’ve still got nothing.”
“I’ll bet your answers are with her. The mystery woman,” Phil says.
“Ain’t all women a mystery?” Walt answers back.
“Maybe to you, Walt. The rest of us seem to have figured them out. Maybe you need a lesson in ‘amore’, Walt. Give us a kiss,” Phil says as he leans over the table, puckering his lips.
“Aw what do you know about love, Phil? How many times you been married? Twice, maybe three times?” Walt says.
“That doesn’t matter. That just means I’m discerning,” Phil says.
“You mean divorcing!” Greg answers back as he returns with a new bottle. He passes it around the table, topping everyone off. “Your exes divorced you!”
Everyone at the table has a good laugh and a long draw on their cigars. The group grows quiet and all stare up into the light of the tree.
“I think the one piece that’s missing in your case is the woman. Something about her is out there and is yet to be found. You find that and it will all come together,” Judge McAdams says. “This reminds me of one of those ‘mob’ hits from so long ago. I remember a case, back in the sixties, where a man was found in the bottom of Irvine Lake, with cement shoes. No joke, he actually had cement shoes on when they pulled him up. He must have sank like a rock. This guy was a community leader, an accountant at a big bank, a family man with an impeccable record of community service and no one could figure out what got him at the bottom of the lake. He didn’t have any financial problems and didn’t have any enemies that the prosecution could locate. Finally, after several months of searching, they found a clue in, of all places, his shoes. The forensic guys happened to look in his shoes and they found, sewn into the lining of his loafers, account numbers for some really big accounts at his company. He apparently had been systematically draining the accounts of several of their largest depositors over the years and stashing the money in various other accounts. Unlucky for him, some of those accounts belonged to some, well, unsavory characters, some organized crime folks. Someone who worked for the bad guys finally figured out who was doing it and, to make a long story short, fit him for some new shoes. It was that little piece of evidence that put all the pieces together. Maybe you’ve got that right now and it’s just waiting to catch your eye, Detective.”
“Man, I sure hope so, judge. I sure hope so. I’d love for it to pop right out,” Santy says.
“I think you have to look at the bones of the thing, you know, the structure of it all.” Kelly says. “When I’m building a model, I look at every piece of wood, individually, before I put the glue to it. It’s gotta be perfect before I lock it down. I get so familiar with each piece that I can just about identify the pieces without the plans. I can build it in my sleep. That’s what you gotta do, Detective. Get to know everything you’ve got and take it apart again and again. You gotta be able to build it in your sleep!”
“Thanks, Greg. Who am I to argue with the man who offers me a glass of this? Have you guys ever thought about becoming detectives? You know there’s still time,” Santy says. “I’m sure I’ll see everything a bit better after a good night’s sleep,” Santy says, pulling his chair back to leave.
“Sure you don’t want a nightcap, Detective?” Greg asks.
“Naw, don’t want to pull myself over for a DUI, do I? Besides, I’ve got a good friend waiting for me at home and a romantic dinner ahead.”
Oohs and aahs ring out in the courtyard as Santy turns for the door. “Not what you think guys. I’ve got a date with a terrier and a bowl of kibble. Still, he’s always happy to see me, though. See you guys on Thursday.”
Santy heads towards the parking lot and hears Phil ask Greg, “How about just one more, Greg?”
Santy pulls out into the dark Tustin streets as the radio in his car crackles quietly with the voice of dispatch. The city is busy tonight, Santy thinks as he turns up Main Street passing all the old stately homes. He can’t shake the feeling that he has missed something in all the evidence. His mind keeps going back to “the woman”. Who was she and why is it bugging him so? He’s got to try and see if he can locate her. She holds the key to all this he thinks.
Chapter 21
Santy contacts one of Steve Roger’s old protesting friends from a phone number that Mr. England gave him. His nam
e was Larry Cramer. Larry had worked with Steve for almost three years at The Register and although not employed at The Register anymore, he was almost as rabid about protesting the power plant issue as Steve was. Santy calls him up and tells him that he’d like to meet and ask a few questions about Steve. Larry agrees and tells Santy that he’ll meet him at the Taco Bell in Laguna Beach.
Santy leaves from his office in Santa Ana and drives south, through Laguna Canyon. Driving through the canyon, he passes the Sawdust Festival where the hippies sell their sand candles, incense sticks and Indian tapestries. He drives by The Pageant of the Master’s where tableaus from famous paintings are recreated by actors who must hold their poses for a few minutes. How do they hold still for so long? Santy wonders. It is really a sight to see in Laguna on a summer night.
Laguna Canyon Road dead ends at the Pacific Ocean. He turns left on Pacific Coast Highway, and heads for the hippies’ favorite hangout, the local “Taco Bell”. He drives past “The Greeter”, an aging hippie who stands on his corner all day, waving at passing cars.
Across the street from the Taco Bell, he notices a “head shop” where the hippies like to go to buy their bongs and roach clips, while the law enforcement community looks the other way.
Larry Cramer has told Santy that he’ll be able to recognize him because he’ll be wearing a U.S. Post Office shirt. Santy buys a couple of tacos, a coke and finds an empty table outside. He searches the crowd of young people who are trying to “look older” and having “deep conversations” with each other. I remember those days, Santy thinks. Looking older will come soon enough. Youth is sure wasted on the young.
He sees a long haired man who looks to be in his mid-twenties wearing a post office shirt. He wonders if Larry Cramer had bought it from a thrift store. Santy waves at him over the crowd and he comes over and sits down. Larry lights a cigarette, and says, “So, you wanted to talk to me about Steve?”
The Tustin Chronicles: A Detective Santy Mystery Page 8
