I started up the dirt road, and it was pretty dry and dusty. Off on both sides you could see the rows and rows of lettuce shining nice and green in the sun, and the pickers hunched over in there. Most of them looked like Mex's, but here and there was some college boys that are always around to pick in the spring and summer months.
Pretty soon I come over a rise and I could see a wide clearing. There was a big white house set back a ways, and down in front an area that was all paved off. On one side was a big corrugated-iron warehouse, the sun coming off the top of that iron roof near to blinding you, it was so bright. About six flatbeds, a couple of Jimmy pickups, and a big white Lincoln was sitting beside the warehouse.
All of them had JENSEN PRODUCE done up in these big gold and blue letters on the door.
I come down there onto the asphalt part. Just to my right was four long, flat buildings made of wood, but with corrugated roofs. I knew that was where the pickers put down.
I walked across to the big warehouse. Both of the doors in front was shut, but there was a smaller one to the left and it was standing wide open.
Just as I come up to that door, this woman come out, facing inside, and sure enough she banged right into me before I could get out of the way. I stumbled back and dropped the duffel.
She come around and looked at me. She said, "Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't see you there."
Well, she was about the most beautiful woman I ever saw in my whole life. She had this long, dark hair and green eyes with little gold flecks in them, and she was all brown and tan and her skin shined in the sun like she had oil rubbed on it. She had on a pair of white shorts and this white blouse with no sleeves. Her hands was in little fists on her hips, and she was smiling at me real nice and friendly. She said, "Well, I don't think I've seen you before."
I couldn't say nothing right then. I mean, I never been much good around the women anyway—I can't never think of nothing to talk to them about—and this one was so pretty she could've been in them Hollywood pictures.
My ears felt all funny and hot, with her looking right into my face like she was. But I couldn't just stand there, so I kind of coughed a little and bent down and picked up the duffel.
I said, "No, ma'am."
"I'm Mrs. Jensen. Is there something I can do for you?"
"Well, I heard you needed pickers."
"Yes, we do," she said. "The hot weather came on before we expected it. We have to harvest before the heat ruins the crop and we're awfully shorthanded."
I started to say something about being glad to help out, but just then this big good-looking fellow in a blue work shirt that had the sleeves rolled up and was unbuttoned down the front so you could see all the hair he had on his chest, he come out of the door. The woman turned and saw him and said, "Oh, this is Mr. Carbante. He's our foreman."
I said, "How are you, Mr. Carbante?"
"Okay," he said. "You looking for work?"
"Sure."
"Ever picked lettuce before?"
"No, sir. But I picked plenty of other things."
"Such as?"
"Well, citrus."
"Where?"
"Down in the Imperial Valley."
"What else?"
"Tomatoes. Grapes and apples and celery, too."
"All right," Mr. Carbante said. "You're on."
"I sure do thank you."
This Mrs. Jensen was still standing there with her hands on her hips. She looked at me. "I'm sorry again about that bump."
"Oh, it's nothing."
"Good luck."
"Thanks."
"I'll see you later, Gino," she said to Mr. Carbante.
"Okay, Mrs. Jensen."
When she was gone, around to the side, Mr. Carbante took me into the warehouse. They had a crisscross of conveyer belts in there, and packing bins lining one wall, and there was a lot of Mex women that was sorting out the lettuce heads and putting the good ones off on one belt to where they was trimmed and graded and packed, and putting the ones that wasn't any good off on another belt.
We went into a little office they had there, and Mr. Carbante give me a little book to keep track of how many crates I was to pick, and told me what they paid for each crate. Then he said what bunkhouse I was to sleep in and the bunk number and what time they give you supper and what time you had to be up and ready for work in the morning.
He just finished telling me all that when this old bird come into the office. He had a nice head of white hair and pink cheeks, and he stopped where we was and give me a smile. He must've been close to seventy, sure enough, but his eyes was bright and he looked to get around pretty good.
Mr. Carbante said, "This is Mr. Jensen. He's the owner."
"How do you do, Mr. Jensen?"
"Glad to know you, son. You going to work for us?"
"Yes, sir."
"Well, that's fine."
"Yes, sir."
"Did you want to see me, Mr. Jensen?" Mr. Carbante asked. "Have you seen Mrs. Jensen?"
"Not since breakfast."
"All right, Gino," Mr. Jensen said, and he went on out.
I said, "Mrs. Jensen was right here with you, Mr. Carbante."
"Never mind, boy."
"Yes, sir," I said. "Is that Mrs. Jensen's husband?"
Mr. Carbante's eyes got all narrow. "That's right. Why?"
"Well, nothing," I said, but I was wondering how come old Mr. Jensen was to have such a young wife. People sure do funny things sometimes, specially when they get old.
Mr. Carbante said, "You just mind your own business and pick your quota every day, and you'll get along fine here. You understand that, boy?"
"Sure, Mr. Carbante."
"Okay, then. You'll be down on the south side. There's a couple of Mex's out there who'll give you the hang of it."
Do you know how they pick lettuce?
The way you do it is, you have this long knife, real sharp, and you walk in along the rows, which are about two feet apart, and you clip off the heads in close to the ground and put them in these field crates you drag along with you. When you get a crate filled, you leave it in there between the rows and then a truck comes along and picks up the crates and takes them up to the warehouse.
Now, it don't sound like much, me telling it like that, but there's plenty of little tricks to it, all right.
These two men that Mr. Carbante had told me about give me some tips on how to tell which heads was to be cut, and how to tell which ones had been chewed up by the aphids, and which ones had got the mildew or been burnt by the sun. I took to watching this one big fellow, whose name was Haysoos. He was pretty near pure black from the sun, and had tiny little eyes and thick, bushy eyebrows. But he sure knew what he was doing in that lettuce, clipping away like nobody you ever saw.
After I watched him for a while, I got onto the knack of it and started right in myself. I had my shirt off out there, and it was plenty hot. I was burnt up pretty good from being down in the Imperial Valley, but down there you was working citrus and didn't have to pick right in under the sun like that.
Just as I got my first field crate filled up, who should come down the road but Mrs. Jensen and Mr. Carbante. They was just strolling along, side by side, her with this big floppy straw hat stuck up on her head. She was smiling, and every now and then she would wave to one of the pickers out in the lettuce. Every one of them was looking at her, sure enough.
She got up to where me and Haysoos was working and stopped and give me a nice smile. "Hello, there."
"Hello, Mrs. Jensen."
"How are you doing?"
"Just fine."
This Haysoos smiled at her with teeth that was all yellow and said something in Mex, but I guess she didn't hear him. She started off down the road again. Haysoos watched her. "Muy bonita, hey? Such a beautiful woman, a man's blood boils at the sight of such a beautiful woman."
"She sure is beautiful, all right," I said.
"She likes you, hey, amigo?"
"She's real nice an
d friendly."
"Haysoos she does not like. Not big ugly Haysoos."
"Oh, sure she likes you, Haysoos."
"Carbante is who she likes, hey? Carbante and a thousand others."
He turned away and started in to pick again. I didn't know what he'd meant, but I didn't want to say nothing so I just turned away too and went to work in my own row.
The next day I was pretty sore from the stooping over, but I'd had a nice sleep the night before and it didn't bother me too much. I'd got the hang of picking the lettuce now, and I was clipping along at a nice pace.
One of the trucks come around with sandwiches and milk for us at noontime, and we sat there on the side of the road to eat. Well, while we was eating, here come Mrs. Jensen down the road again.
She come right up there to where we was, smiling at everybody, and asked us if we all had enough to eat. Some of the college boys called out some things I didn't understand, and most everybody laughed, and Mrs. Jensen laughed right with them.
This Haysoos was sitting right near where I was. He kept watching Mrs. Jensen. "Everyone but Haysoos, hey?" he said.
"How was that?"
"A man's blood boils."
He sure said a lot of funny things, that Haysoos.
Saturday come around before you knew it and that was when we was to get paid. After supper we all went to the office in the big warehouse with the little books we had and old Mr. Jensen and Mr. Carbante totaled up the number of crates we had picked and give us our pay, all in cash money.
When we was all paid, old Mr. Jensen stood up and said that he was going off to Salinas for the next few days on business, and that Mr. Carbante was to be in charge and if we wanted anything we should see him. After that he went out and got into his big Lincoln and drove off down the road.
I went back to the bunks then, but most of the other pickers, they was going off into San Sinandro to drink in the bars. A couple of them asked me if I wanted to come along, but I said I wasn't much for the drinking.
I lay down on my bunk and started to read this movie magazine one of the college boys had. I sure like to read them movie magazines, all about the Hollywood people and the houses they have and the fine clothes and everything. Someday I'm going to have me all them things, too.
Well, I lay there and pretty soon it got dark outside. But it was awful hot in there and I got up and went out to get some air. It sure hadn't cooled down much.
I walked down by the other bunks and come around the south end of the second one, and I heard all this commotion inside. There was a window right there and I stopped by that and looked inside to see what it was all about.
There was this bunch of pickers in there, about six of them, and they was all pretty well oiled up. They had a couple of empty wine jugs lying around on the floor, and they was passing this other one around from one to another.
And who should be right there in the middle of all of them but Haysoos. He was sitting on one of the bunks, his eyes all glassed over. He got the jug and took a long one out of there, and passed it on to the next one. He wasn't whooping it up or nothing, like the rest of them was, but just sitting there on that bunk, kind of staring at the floor.
Well, while I watched, the rest of them started out the door and one had the wine jug. They called back to Haysoos, but he just sat there and didn't answer them at all. Then Haysoos was alone, and I heard the rest of them going off down the road singing some kind of Mex song.
Old Haysoos found another jug somewhere and had one you would hardly believe from it. He wiped off his mouth with the back of his hand and then stood up and wobbled around some. I could see his lips moving like he was talking to himself, but I couldn't hear none of it.
I got tired of watching him and went back to my bunk and lay down again, and it wasn't so hot anymore. Pretty soon I went to sleep.
I woke up right away when I heard the sirens.
I jumped off my bunk and run outside, and there was a lot of the other pickers there, too, just come back from San Sinandro. They was all running up toward the big white house.
I commenced to running up there with them, and I thought how it must be that the big white house had caught fire somehow and what a terrible thing that would be. But when I got up there, I saw that it wasn't fire engines that had made the sirens, but police cars. There was three of them there, and a big ambulance, and they all had these red lights going round and round on their tops. There was a couple of policemen, too, holding the pickers back and telling them not to come any closer.
I wedged in there, and the pickers that had been there for a while was talking pretty fast.
". . . right there in the bedroom."
"She had it coming."
"They both did."
"Yeah, but not that way."
"Who found them?"
"Somebody heard the screams."
"But they didn't get him?"
"Not yet."
"He must have gone through the fields."
"They've got the roads blocked."
"We'll get up a posse . . ."
I said to one of the college boys who had been talking, "What is it? What happened?"
"You don't know?"
I said, "I was sleeping. What is it?"
Just then the front door of the big white house opened and two fellows dressed in white and two policemen come out and they was carrying two stretchers. They had to pass by where I was to get to the ambulance, and I looked at the two sheet-covered stretchers and what was on them.
I just couldn't believe it at first, but the college boys was talking again, telling about it, and I knew it had to be true. I turned away, sick as anybody ever was.
The one college boy put his hand on my shoulder. "Come on," he said, "we're going after him—"
But I pulled away and run back to the bunks. I had to get away from there. I couldn't stay there no more.
You know what that crazy Haysoos had done?
He'd killed Mrs. Jensen and Mr. Carbante, that's what. He'd gone up to the big white house with that sharp, sharp lettuce knife of his and cut off both their heads.
I don't understand it, and I'm just so sick. A fine lady like Mrs. Jensen and a nice man like Mr. Carbante. Two of the swellest people you ever wanted to meet and know, and that crazy Haysoos had killed them both.
I just don't understand what could have made him do a terrible, terrible thing like that.
PROOF OF GUILT
I've been a city cop for thirty-two years now, and during that time I've heard of and been involved in some of the weirdest, most audacious crimes imaginable—on and off public record. But as far as I'm concerned, the murder of an attorney named Adam Chillingham is the damnedest case in my experience, if not in the entire annals of crime.
You think I'm exaggerating? Well, listen to the way it was.
My partner Jack Sherrard and I were in the Detective Squad Room one morning last summer when this call came in from a man named Charles Hearn. He said he was Adam Chillingham's law clerk, and that his employer had just been shot to death; he also said he had the killer trapped in the lawyer's private office.
It seemed like a fairly routine case at that point. Sherrard and I drove out to the Dawes Building, a skyscraper in a new business development on the city's south side, and rode the elevator up to Chillingham's suite of offices on the sixteenth floor. Hearn and a woman named Clarisse Tower, who told us she had been the dead man's secretary, were waiting in the anteroom with two uniformed patrolmen who had arrived minutes earlier.
According to Hearn, a man named George Dillon had made a ten-thirty appointment with Chillingham, had kept it punctually, and had been escorted by the attorney into the private office at that exact time. At ten-forty Hearn thought he heard a muffled explosion from inside the office, but he couldn't be sure because the walls were partially soundproofed.
Hearn got up from his desk in the anteroom and knocked on the door and there was no response; then he tried the knob and found that the do
or was locked from the inside. Miss Tower confirmed all this, although she said she hadn't heard any sound; her desk was farther away from the office door than was Hearn's.
A couple of minutes later the door had opened and George Dillon had looked out and calmly said that Chillingham had been murdered. He had not tried to leave the office after the announcement; instead, he'd seated himself in a chair near the desk and lighted a cigarette. Hearn satisfied himself that his employer was dead, made a hasty exit, but had the presence of mind to lock the door from the outside by the simple expediency of transferring the key from the inside to the outside—thus sealing Dillon in the office with the body. After which Hearn put in his call to Headquarters.
So Sherrard and I drew our guns, unlocked the door, and burst into the private office. This George Dillon was sitting in the chair across the desk, very casual, both his hands up in plain sight. He gave us a relieved look and said he was glad the police had arrived so quickly.
I went over and looked at the body, which was sprawled on the floor behind the desk; a pair of French windows were open in the wall just beyond, letting in a warm summer breeze. Chillingham had been shot once in the right side of the neck, with what appeared by the size of the wound to have been a small-caliber bullet; there was no exit wound, and there were no powder burns.
I straightened up, glanced around the office, and saw that the only door was the one that we had just come through. There was no balcony or ledge outside the open windows—just a sheer drop of sixteen stories to a parklike, well-landscaped lawn that stretched away for several hundred yards. The nearest building was a hundred yards distant, angled well to the right. Its roof was about on a level with Chillingham's office, it being a lower structure than the Dawes Building; not much of the roof was visible unless you peered out and around.
Sherrard and I then questioned George Dillon—and he claimed he hadn't killed Chillingham. He said the attorney had been standing at the open windows, leaning out a little, and that all of a sudden he had cried out and fallen down with the bullet in his neck Dillon said he'd taken a look out the windows, hadn't seen anything, checked that Chillingham was dead, then unlocked the door and summoned Hearn and Miss Tower.
Graveyard Plots Page 5
