Without siblings, either younger or older than he, he had no role models, no easily accessible playmates. He was lonely much of the time. In school he tried, perhaps too hard, to make friends. He wasn’t one of the crowd. Though he was rather good looking with his wavy dark hair, and athletic looking body, he had little luck with girls his age, mostly because he lacked self-confidence, and he was awkward, not knowing what to say, and when to say it.
He was out of school and nineteen when he met the woman who would become his wife.
Annie had come to Florida from the north, Massachusetts to be exact. Her father was a Navy Captain attached to a small naval base near Boston. She came south to visit her brother, also a Navy man, stationed at Jacksonville. She and Ivan met at a local dance. He was just different enough from the aggressive boys she had dated in her previous environs that she was interested.
Ivan, for some reason, could talk to this diminutive blonde girl, without feeling self-conscious. Perhaps it was because she knew how to draw him out of his shell.
They were married exactly six months after they met. Their union did not produce an heir, though they both tried very hard in the bedroom.
Not having any particular skill to sell to an employer, he became a salesman, though not a very good one. It wasn’t long before the marriage felt the strain of poverty, and finally broke when Ivan discovered gambling.
The parting of Annie and Ivan was not contentious. They both went their separate ways, wishing the other well. It was 1941.
Ivan didn’t have much time to dwell on his misfortune, for soon the country was embroiled in a fight to the death with the Japanese Empire and Nazi Germany. The Marines were happy to indulge his need to separate himself from the area, and he traveled by troop train to the Marine Corps Recruit Depot in San Diego, California. His time in the service brought him out of his shyness. Unfortunately, it also gave him a chronic limp, courtesy of a Jap bullet on Makin Island.
He became a private detective after the war. It was a position he was suited for, having served time in Naval Intelligence while recuperating from his wound.
All the years Ivan had been deprived of a mother’s love ate at him, and he harbored a deep feeling of dislike toward the woman he thought was dead. He wished he could see her just once, and confront her about the loneliness she had left him to deal with. It wouldn’t be until 1950 that he would learn the truth, and actually encounter the woman who had left him behind all those years before. Their meeting was brief, but he had actually come away with an understanding of why she had left him, and he no longer harbored any resentment.
Ivan had a concussion from his encounter on the highway with the man he could only assume was the killer who had set him up to take the fall for Jack Carey’s death. The cold-blooded son of a bitch had even stopped to admire his handiwork. Ivan saw him just before he passed out.
The killer must have seen him at the Carey woman’s home, and surmised that he had found something incriminating.
He was right about that. The picture on the mantelpiece explained a lot. It was a photo of three men in deputy sheriff’s uniforms. On one side was Jack Carey. Ivan didn’t recognize the man on the other end, but in the middle, with his arms encircling the shoulders of the other two, was the man he knew as Rusty Ingalls, from Chicago!
After the accommodating nurse brought him the phone from across the room on another bedstand, he dialed zero, and asked the operator to connect him to the local FBI office. He didn’t trust the police or sheriff under the circumstances.
He was in luck. Angelo Rodrigues answered the phone. Ivan related what he had found at the Carey home, and that the photograph must still be in the wrecked automobile. Angelo said he would check on it, and then come to the hospital.
When Angelo showed up in the room Ivan occupied it was nearly two in the afternoon.
“What took you so long?” Ivan asked.
“They’d already hauled your car to the junkyard. I had to go way back out to El Cajon to find it.”
“And did you?”
“Yes. Here’s the picture.” He handed it to Ivan.
The bedridden man pointed to the deputy in the right of the photo. “We need to find out who this is. He could lead us to our killer.”
“That’s easy. It’s Jay Sommersby. I met him on a case I was working on a while back.”
“Can you put a tail on him?”
“I can do better than that. I can do it myself.”
“Great. Take me with you.”
“You know I can’t do that. You’re too banged up to travel.”
“I’m feeling much better. My headache’s gone, thanks to some killer medication, and with my arm in a cast I can’t do any harm to that.”
Angelo thought about it for about a minute. The final consideration was the fact the whole mess was about Ivan Dunn. No one else would go to prison if they didn‘t solve the case. The man in the bed had the only really vested interest.
Time was a’wastin’. In the end the young FBI agent couldn’t come up with a strong argument for keeping Ivan from accompanying him. He had no doubt the ex-private investigator would find a way to follow, even without his assistance. After all was said and done he helped Ivan find his clothes.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Tom Embree had just started his shift out of Chula Vista when he spotted it. He was on one-o-one heading south toward San Ysidro and the border at Tijuana. There were always speeders on that stretch of road, anxious to sample the vices that awaited south of the border crossing.
It didn’t seem like real police work to the young patrolman, but it had to be done. There were businesses and residences lining the highway, and people who had to get to the other side for one reason or another. They needed protection from the fast cars and distracted drivers.
He had just come up on the Sandoval Motel on the right side of the highway. Being trained to keep a watchful eye on everything around him, he noticed an old Ford sedan near the end of the parking lot. He could see damage to its right front fender. He kept going, then turned off on the next side street, made a loop, and parked about a half-block away. He exited his patrol car and walked up to where the car sat. When he was close enough he could clearly see that the light on the damaged side was missing.
Sure now that this was the vehicle they sought, he retreated back to his vehicle and put in a call to his dispatcher. He was in good position to keep an eye on the other car, so he just sat there and waited for backup.
It was ironic this would happen on his last shift. He’d turned in his notice a few days earlier. The reason was spelled out on a piece of stationery on the seat next to him. It only had one word on it.‘Come.’
He’d sent a letter to Japan, to the address provided him by Angelo Rodrigues. It was the young Portuguese’ urging that convinced him to write to Kim. He needed to find out if she felt the same as he, that they belonged together. Her answer, though cryptic, was enough. He’d booked passage on Pan Am to Tokyo, leaving on the next Friday.
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Harry Shields heard the call on his car radio. He had come to San Diego to visit Ivan Dunn in the hospital. When he discovered his friend was missing, he wasn’t sure what to do next. He had no idea what had happened. All he could do was go out to La Jolla and see if Ivan was there. When he heard the broadcast he turned around and headed south. Maybe this was the break they had hoped for. Traffic was fairly heavy, but it was Friday afternoon, and that was usual, especially going toward the border. He’d be lucky to make it by dark. The end of February the Sun still disappeared off the Pacific horizon before six p.m.
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Isaac Red Imhoff waited impatiently for his quarry to arrive. It would all be over soon. Dunn was dead, and Sommersby was as good as dead. All he would have to do afterward is pick up Linda Carey and head to Mexico. It had been a long siege since the oil field, and fleeing to Chicago, only to be shot and wounded. It was all because of that damn private dick. Well, he’d finally taken ca
re of him. Good riddance. And Jack Carey shouldn’t have shot his mouth off, right here in this same motel. He would still be alive. But then, if he were, it would be harder to convince the woman to come with him. If she balked at the idea, he was ready to pick her up bodily and take her anyway. A man needs a woman to keep him warm at night. He sat there by the door and waited. Soon the fly would come into the spider’s trap.
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When Jay Sommersby reached the motel he had a lot on his mind. He wasn’t going to give Imhoff a chance to get him. When he reached the door of 334 it would be all over. He had heard the radio call. It would play right into his hands. He would arrive before any police could respond. He couldn’t help it if the fugitive resisted and he had to blast him. He would be a hero, maybe even get a promotion. With all this going through his mind, he failed to notice the patrol car of Tom Embree.
He went inside the building and took the stairs, as quietly as he could, until he was standing outside the room he wanted. No one else was around. He knocked on the door, shotgun at the ready.
------
Officer Tom Embree saw the uniformed cop park and go into the motel. He was just about to follow when the car of Angelo Rodrigues pulled up. He went to meet the FBI man, and was surprised to see Ivan in the car with him. He had been told his father-in-law was alive, but it was still a shock to see him out of the hospital. He told the two of them what he had just seen.
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Sommersby watched as the doorknob of 334 slowly turned. The floor shook with the blast, as he unloaded both barrels at the still closed door. He listened as he heard a thud on the other side of the barrier. Pushing the door open while still holding the now useless shotgun he saw a paunchy, balding man on the floor just a few feet away. He obviously wasn’t Red Imhoff.
Perplexed, he turned slightly away from the still body. At that instant the door of 331 across the hall opened and there stood Imhoff, a revolver in his hand.
“Bad choice Jay. Sorry.” Then he pulled the trigger. Once again the hallway resonated with the sound of gunfire. Mortally wounded, the man who was once his friend staggered against the door of 334 and fell lifeless on top of the innocent bystander he himself had killed.
Hearing voices near the top of the stairs on his floor, Imhoff raced upward to the next floor, using the fire escape at the other end of the hall. He would have gone down toward the street, but just then the parking lot was filled with the sound of sirens. He decided to continue on to the roof, thinking maybe he could hide there. If there was to be a shootout his adversaries would have to come into the open, while he could hide behind a barrier.
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The San Diego Daily Journal reporter Vince Allison heard the police radio alert. He routinely monitored that frequency so as to not miss anything important. He’d been doing it for a long time, and most of the police and sheriff’s deputies were more than just acquaintances. He’d had to do stories where these brave men were lost, and it tore at him. But it was his job, and he did it with more compassion than most.
When he pulled into the motel parking lot, he saw many police, shielded behind their vehicles, guns drawn. He also noticed a man on the flat roof of the four story building. It appeared as if he was behind an air conditioning unit, or something of the sort. He was facing away from the police below.
Ivan, Angelo, and Tom came off the stairwell on the third floor just in time to see Imhoff go out the window onto the fire escape. They quickly followed, after realizing they couldn’t help the two on the floor of room 334. Ivan had no weapon, so he trailed the other two.
As they reached the level of the flat tarpapered roof, Angelo tried to peek over, without exposing himself. That immediately drew gunfire from somewhere on the roof. Their assailant fired two shots in rapid succession. Fortunately the FBI agent was able to duck back down before being hit.
“Okay, let’s assume he fired only one shot in the hallway below, so that’s three.” Ivan looked toward Tom Embree. “How many bullets does a standard police weapon hold?”
“Mine takes six, but we’re not sure what gun he has. He could have as many as eight, and he could have more firearms than we know.”
“Well that doesn’t help us much does it?”
“Sorry. It’s the best I can do,” Tom answered.
“That’s all right, kid.” Damn he didn’t mean to use that term. He hoped his son-in-law wasn’t offended. “Why don’t you go back down and see if there’s another way onto the roof. Maybe we can catch him in a cross-fire.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Tom replied, as he moved back down the ladder to the floor below.
“Give it up Imhoff. There’s no way you can get off this roof.” Angelo yelled.
“That’ll be the day,” Imhoff screamed back.
“Keep talking, and give Tom time to get into position,” Ivan whispered.
“Look, it’s suicide if you keep fighting. You’re too young to die. The whole police force and the sheriff’s people are down in the parking lot, just waiting to take you out. Give yourself up now and I can promise no one will hurt you.”
No answer. Ivan peeked over the edge of the structure. He didn’t like what he saw. Imhoff was positioned to fire on anyone coming up the stairs to the roof. Tom would be a sitting duck.
Just then Tom made an appearance in the doorway. The killer pointed his gun at him.
Ivan had to act quickly. He stood up in plain view, yelling “IMHOFF!”
Red Imhoff was shocked. “Dunn? You’re dead!”
Tom didn’t have a clear shot, but as it turned out it didn’t matter. Their target was so stunned by the appearance of his nemesis that he stepped back. It was only one step, but there was no roof there. He got off one shot at Ivan Dunn before tumbling over and down toward the parking lot below. He had revolvers in each hand and began firing at all the blue and khaki uniforms, as if that might slow his descent. He was riddled with return fire until he lay unmoving on the concrete of the motel parking lot. The blood from his cracked skull spread slowly outward, touching the shoes of a policeman who’d nearly been hit by the falling body.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Vincent Allison of the San Diego Daily Journal was an eye-witness to the proceedings that resulted in the demise of Isaac ‘Red’ Imhoff. He felt as if he’d had a ground-floor seat to the drama from the beginning, remembering that he had talked to Ivan Dunn early when the ex-marine war hero turned private investigator and recently retired, moved to America’s Greatest City, as the reporter liked to call it. Allison had a gut feeling Dunn was being framed for the murder of Jack Carey. That’s the way it had played out, but with some scary moments.
He wrote about the shootout, and the final result. It had gotten a dangerous killer off the street.
It bothered him that, when Imhoff had sprayed the motel parking lot with gunfire, not one officer was hit.
When the coroner’s report of the death was released, it was puzzling too. It listed Imhoff’s demise as being caused by blunt trauma from the fall. There was no mention of the dozens of bullet holes in the body. Allison rationalized that it would be better for law enforcement if the frenzied shooting was played down.
FBI man Angelo Rodrigues received a citation for his service jacket commending his bravery in the line of fire. Thomas Embree was also mentioned, though he had resigned from the Chula Vista police force. Word was he was on his way to the Orient.
Being a civilian, Ivan Dunn received little attention, though a formal letter of apology was sent to his home. It was signed by the mayor of San Diego, the Chief of Police, and various officials of the Sheriff’s department.
The real shocker didn’t turn up right away. Detectives couldn’t figure out why no one other than the killer was hurt from the debacle on the roof and its aftermath. The funeral director who prepared the body for burial found a receipt in the pocket of the deceased. It was for ammunition.
The receipt led them to a gun shop not far from where the shootout took plac
e. The sign out front proclaimed GUNS’N’THINGS. The proprietor was named Artie Lang, according to the same sign. He was behind the counter helping a customer, when two detectives walked in
He scowled at the well dressed men, realizing they were cops. There was no love lost between people in his profession and law enforcement. If you believed what they dished out, people who sold guns were the real criminals.
His customer must have realized they were cops too, for he quickly retreated.
“I guess I have to talk to you guys. What do you want?”
The older of the two detectives opened the conversation, “Are you Mister Lang?”
“That I am. What can I do for you two fine upstanding gentlemen?” It became obvious right away that this would be a hostile interview.
“Did you sell guns and ammunition to this man?” The younger detective flashed a picture they had retrieved from when Imhoff was with the Sheriff’s department.
“I didn’t know he was a cop.” He spit out that last word. “I didn’t sell him no guns, just ammo. He came in here with a shotgun, rifle and three pistols. I figured he intended to start a war.”
“Tell us about it.”
“I see what you’re getting at. You want to know about them bullets.”
“Right.”
“Well, this crumb came into my shop all demanding, and I didn’t like him from the start. So I asked him if he wanted me to load his pieces. He said sure. I think he was lazy. I took the guns in the back room and loaded every one of them with blanks. There might have been a live round in one that I left there, but otherwise they were all harmless. Am I in trouble for that? I charged him the right price.”
“Just the opposite, Mister Lang. You’ve saved countless lives with your trick. You might even get a parade.” The older man was kidding, but the gun dealer would certainly receive some slack from now on.
Shadow of a Killer: the Dark Side of Paradise Page 14
