Cassiletti stuttered a nervous answer. "A little old lady who didn't drive much?"
"Good, good. Now take it a step further."
Cassiletti flipped frantically through his notes.
"She went through the Depression, right?" Mace took over again. "Probably didn't trust banks. Did you see a bank book?"
"No, sir."
"She probably paid her bills with cash. She collected Social Security that means she got her
check yesterday like Digger. Where did she cash it? Did she cash it? Whe1·e's the money? Her mailbox was empty which means that yesterdays mail was picked up."
"So the motive was robbery right?" Cassiletti had an adolescent girl's habit of making every statement into a question.
"Probably Acting on that assumption, we have more questions. How did the killer know the old lady had money?"
"Maybe he figured like you. That it was the time of the month that she'd be getting her check?"
"Take it a step further"
"He knew her?"
"Now you're talking. Let's start ringing some doorbells."
The investigation hadn't proceeded much further. None of the neighbors had been home. The building was occupied mostly by singles who worked during the day No one even knew the old lady's name. The detectives found a store within walking distance that cashed checks. If the old lady had cashed her check there on Thursday it would have been deposited in the store's bank account on Thursday aftemoon. By the time the detectives located the bank, it was already after three on Friday so the bank was closed. The day's deposits would be unavailable till Monday when the bank opened or the owner of the store returned.
On Friday night, Mace tracked down the owner through a relative whom he found by going through the phone book, exhibiting the tenacity that had earned him the nickname "the hound dog." The relative knew where the man went for the weekend, and Mace convinced the relative that it was urgent that he speak to him before the trail got too cold.
Mace finally got a hold of the store owner at a cabin in Big Bear and learned that the woman had not cashed her check at his store as she usually did. Possibly because the man had closed early to get a jump on the weekend traffic.
There were no prints found on the drivers license, the purse, or the riffled drawers. His investigation had reached the proverbial cul de sac.
Now, sitting at his desk, Mace turned the bags over. "What are you trying to tell me?" he asked out loud.
"Talking to yourself? That's a bad sign. Don't tell that shrink."
Mace looked up to see the face of Ernie Potts. Mace covered his eyes with his hand and asked in mock alarm, "God, have you gotten balder? The glare is killing me."
"What you got there?" Ernie asked, ignoring the insult and pointing to the evidence bags.
"Something, I don't know what." Mace pulled a matchbook out of his pocket. Holding the pack in his left hand, he lit match after match, blowing it out and letting it drop on the blotter in front of him.
"Good work on Sunday" Ernie said, watching the matches drop to the desktop. "Next time give me a call. You're making me look bad."
"Wouldn't want to do that."
"It's my case now. I'd hate to write you up for interfering with an investigation."
"Seems like your investigation needed a little interference?
"Don't cross me, buddy"
"You gonna tell your big brother on me?" Mace kept his shoulders loose. Ernie had the advantage of being upright, but his two years with RHD had left its mark. He had put on weight, gotten out of shape.
"My brother has nothing to do with this."
"But him being the commissioner hasn't hurt you, either."
Ernie smiled; he wasn't easily ruffled. "You just be a good boy from now on, and pass on any new information relating to the Ballona case."
If he patted him on the head, Mace decided, he was going to deck him.
Still smiling, Ernie said, "Lighten up, bunkie. I just stopped by to say you did good."
Mace smiled back, letting the moment pass. He shrugged modestly and said, "It was just one of those hunch things, luck realIy" He turned his attention back to his matches. On the fifth match, Mace spotted what had been nagging at him. He picked up the matchbook again, this time holding it in his right hand and tearing the matches loose with his left. There it was. The bottom of the matches torn using his right hand had flat bottom edges and the tear in the cardboard angled in on the left. The matches torn using his left hand were ripped on the bottom right. The match in his evidence bag, shiny side up, was ripped on the bottom right. He felt a familiar twist of excitement.
"Hound dog's on the scent again," Ernie said.
"You see it?"
"Sure, the guy's left-handed."
Mace stared at Ernie. "You saw that? Bullshit. You saw me using my left hand. Listen, I want to take a ride, check something out. I got a new gun I'm breaking in. Want to go with us? We can dazzle the rookie with our combined brilliance."
Ernie adjusted his thick glasses and straightened his bow tie. Mace knew Ernie liked to believe that the necktie was his trademark. He was a legend in his own mind. The RHD was going to his head. It wasn't like the guy needed any help in believing in his own greatness.
"Yeah, I'll ride along," Ernie said. "If you needed my help, you should've just asked."
"Cassiletti," Mace yelled to his trainee across the bullpen. "l want you to meet someone."
They took an official vehicle, a dark green Polaris with lights in the back window and a diamond-circled E in the license plate. Mace drove, Ernie rode shotgun, Cassiletti shifted anxiously in the back seat.
First they drove over to the Glenwood Garden Apartments. Mace cruised in ever-widening circles until he found a little mom-and-pop operation a few blocks away. It was a small market that sold a smattering of basics: cereal, coffee, cake mixes, canned food, liquor, and cigarettes. Mace parked the vehicle and told Cassiletti to wait for them.
The owner of the market was sitting on a stool behind his counter, judiciously placing himself between the pint bottles and his customers. The racks of cigarettes were within easy reach over his head. His stool swiveled, allowing him access to everything he needed without ever having to leave his cash register or the pistol that Mace knew he kept beneath the counter.
The detective knew the store well. It had been robbed four times in the last year. He entered the store and greeted the owner.
"Morning, Mr. Dunkley Any trouble lately?"
"Nah, it's been quiet." The man shrugged his shoulders. "It's still early"
"You still cash checks here?"
"lf they buy something," Dunkley said. "They gotta have proper ID, of course."
"Of course they do," Ernie agreed in a theatrical voice. Mace shot him a look.
"Dunkley's okay" Mace told Ernie. "He's just trying to make a living." Mace turned back to the store owner. "You remember an old lady who came in here Thursday?"
"We had a lot of old ladies on Thursday."
Mace showed Dunkley a picture of the woman.
Dunkley studied it for a moment. "I can't be sure. Maybe she was in here."
"You sell many Viceroys?" Mace asked.
"Not too many"
‘You got any regulars around here that buy them?"
"Four or five."
"You think you can give me any names?"
"My delivery boy for starters, he smokes Viceroys."
"Is he here?"
"Yeah, he's in the back, putting away stock."
"Mind if I have a word with him?"
Dunkley shrugged again. "G0 ahead."
The two detectives pushed aside the rubber flaps that separated the market from the storage room. They found the kid unpacking cans of refried beans into a shopping cart. The kid was a surfer type with long blond tangles of sun-bleached hair and deeply chapped lips. The boy reached with his left hand. Ernie nodded to Mace. Mace went back out to the car and told Cassiletti that he had a suspect.
&
nbsp; Cassiletti was a dark-haired, light-skinned Italian. A giant of a man, six feet three inches tall and weighing in at 240. He had thick black eyebrows that came together in a widow's peak at the bridge of his nose, making him appear somewhat sinister. When he opened his mouth, the illusion was shattered. People's first reaction was usually to stifle a smile. Tony Cassiletti had a pronounced lisp and an unfortunate high-pitched giggle that bubbled out of him when he was nervous or unsure of himself. In Mace's limited experience with the man, that was most of the time.
"Don't open your mouth," he told him now. "Just follow our lead."
"Sure, Sarge."
"Just drive us to the station and look menacing? Mace went back into the store. The boy now
worked in the narrow aisles, stacking the cans of beans on the shelves. Ernie stood further down the aisle and studied the recipes on a box of Bisquick.
"Son?"
The kid looked up. Mace flipped out his shield and noted that the veins in the kid's neck bulged suddenly Ernie smiled and drew a thumb across his throat behind the kid's back.
"Would you come with me?"
"What's this about?" The kid blinked repeatedly as he spoke.
"I have some questions for you. Come on."
Mace led the way the boy trailed, and Ernie fell in behind, sandwiching the kid between them. The boy raised his hands high in the air in a dramatic gesture meant to convey the words, "I've been framed." But it was too early for words, he hadn't been accused of anything. Instead he shook his head from side to side, sighed, and rolled his eyes up in his head. He opened his mouth and muttered something about "police harassment."
They had reached the sidewalk by then. Cassiletti took his cue and delivered a look that silenced the boy: They all piled into the car.
The four drove in silence. The boy stared out the window of the sedan sullenly. Once or twice, he tried to speak, but Mace stopped him with a finger to his lips and pointed at Cassiletti. Ernie did the same. They pulled into the station parking lot and headed for the back entrance. A four-inch-thick steel door guarded the driveway leading to the bowels of the police station. Cassiletti pushed the button of a remote control and the door rose with a shudder. The boy's forehead glistened now with a fine sheen of perspiration. They exited the car. Mace took the boy's arm and led him to an interrogation room. He sat the boy down and left him alone for ten minutes.
"Cassiletti," Mace said, "observe and learn."
When he returned, he was holding the bags of evidence from his desk. He gestured to the door like an usher and said to Ernie, "Maestro?"
"Hey, let's give him a lie detector test," Ernie said. Cassiletti's face had a baffled look, something that was quickly becoming his trademark.
Mace shook his head. "God, I haven't pulled that one since . . ." But Ernie was already gone, collecting copying paper and writing "TRUE" and "FALSE" on alternate sheets in big block letters.
"I'm ready" he said finally and the three men entered the interrogation room. Cassiletti stood by the door, wearing his best "I'm gonna eat you for lunch, punk" expression and obediently silent.
"Kid, I'm going to level with you." Mace put a foot up on the seat of the wooden chair between the kid's legs and leaned into his face. "I think you beat and robbed the old lady I think she let you in because you had a delivery for her, maybe she left something at the store." He held up the bag holding the filter. "I've called a judge to get a warrant for a saliva sample from you. It should be coming in any second. When we get a match, it's going to put you at the murder scene. Do you want to tell me what happened?"
The boy licked his lips and shot his eyes around the room.
"You got the right to remain silent, but that ain't gonna help you. You know that right? I'm offering you a chance to cooperate. You got the right to remain silent, the right to an attorney What do you think an attorney is going to say when he sees this evidence? Hes gonna tell you to deal. Why should we deal if you don't cooperate? If you cannot afford an attorney one will be provided for you. What kind of mouthpiece do you think you're gonna get for free? Do you understand all these rights?"
The kid nodded.
Mace handed the kid a Miranda form. "Sign here."
Ernie loaded his papers face down into the feed tray of the copy machine in the corner.
"Bring him over here," he ordered.
Mace graced the sweating kid with a sympathetic look.
"Put your hand on the lie detector," Ernie said, pointing at the Xerox machine.
The kid did as instructed.
"Just answer yes or no," Ernie said. "Do you work at Dunkley's Market?"
"Yes."
Ernie hit the copy button and the machine spit out a paper that said, "TRUE."
"Have you ever committed a felony?" Ernie asked.
"No."
This time the machine spewed forth a sheet that said, "FALSE."
Ernie held up the accusing page. "Let's try that one again."
The next time the kid said, "Yes" in reply to the same question and the machine obliged with a page that said, "TRUE."
The kid dissolved into tears. "I didn't go there to kill her. She had all that money and wasn't going to give me a tip. I used my own car to bring her back her ID. She should have given me something."
Mace turned to Cassiletti and flashed a victory grin. The boy went on to explain in vivid detail what had happened. It always amazed Mace how these guys would talk, burying themselves. Thank God the bad guys were so dumb. He turned on the tape recorder and had the kid repeat his statement for the record.
Cassiletti caught up to Mace in the hallway after they had turned the kid over to be processed.
"How did you get a judge to act on the evidence so quickly?"
"I didn't."
"Is that fair, what you did?"
"Where did you get this kid?" Ernie asked.
Cassiletti started to say something in response, but obviously thought better of starting a verbal duel where he was so plainly outgunned. Ernie raised an amused eyebrow.
Mace took pity and explained, "It's called reasonable deception, kid."
"You gotta know when to hold 'em," Ernie said. Mace groaned, anticipating the next line. Ernie didn't disappoint him. "And know when to fold 'em." Ernie shook his head and laughed. "Fair, he wants to be fair."
After Ernie left to go back to whatever important thing he did at the RHD, Mace pulled out his Ballona file. The girl still needed a name. The deputy coroner had yet to come up with anything. The fingerprints of every missing girl were reported in January had been checked against the impressions they had. They were now able to restrict their search to Caucasian females five foot three to five foot six, 114 to 130 pounds, between the ages of fourteen and twenty-five. The question still remained of whether he was dealing with two victims or three. Because the body fluids of the second arm and now the legs had been so contaminated by salt water, Carol assured him that enzyme tests and PGM subtyping were impossible. Body hairs were also inconclusive.
Mace scanned the list of missing persons. Of the many young women absent without leave, most were never reported; many were runaways, lost somewhere in a psychedelic haze. The families would hold off getting the police involved, hoping their child would return on her own. He noted a new name on the list: Victoria Glassen. There were no fingerprints supplied, just a photograph of a young girl in a high school graduation gown. She fit the physical parameters: female, Caucasian, nineteen years old, five foot four, 120 pounds. She was a sophomore at Loyola and had been last seen when she left her parents home in Westchester to go partying with unknown persons on January 29.
"Cassiletti, I've got a personal errand to do. I'll be back in about an hour."
"Sure, Sarge." Cassiletti hovered over Mace's desk. "Ernie said they used to call you 'Hound Dog'. What did you call him?"
"Putz." Mace stood up and pulled on his sports coat. "You want a nickname, too?"
"Uh, no?"
Mace shook his head and grabbed
the piece of paper with the Glassens' address on it. The Glassens' home was on a quiet street. Mrs. Glassen met him at the front door. The strain of last the few weeks showed on her face. He didn't tell her that he was with Homicide, no point in worrying her needlessly. She took him to Vicky's room and watched while he picked up her hairbrush by the bristles and dropped it in a paper bag. She didn't ask why when he asked for a pair of her shoes. If the fingerprints matched, he didn't want to have to return to the house and tell the parents that he had an arm for sure of their missing child, but was still working on the rest.
An hour later, he had his answer. Not only did her fingerprints match, but the balls and heels of the plaster of Paris feet cast from the legs recovered on Sunday fit perfectly into indentations worn into the inner soles on a pair of her loafers. That confirmed it. Three of the body parts belonged to one person: Victoria Glassen. The file had a name.
The parents supplied him with a list of Vicky's friends. The friends confirmed that the young
woman liked to take a walk on the wild side, and had a tendency to go off on binges. This explained why the family had waited a week before filling out a missing persons report.
Now he had a name, a face, and, after meeting the grieving parents, a sense of loss. But the case had become personal long before he knew her identity The fact that the victim was a young girl was always tragic; that tragedy was compounded by the brutal way in which she was killed. Every policeman going through. the academy at one time studies the case file on the infamous Black Dahlia murder, the homicide of aspiring actress Elizabeth Short. Her corpse was found nude, severed in half, with all the blood drained and the organs removed. Like all unsolved murders, even thirty years later, the case was still open.
St. John knew that the press could be counted on to further dramatize the situation. They would raise the girl's status to something akin to sainthood. He could see the headlines now: "BEAUTIFUL YOUNG GIRL BRUIALLY BUTCHERED," "MURDER MOST FOUL." They would print her picture and as many gory details as they could pump out of the press relations people. The detective who brought the criminal to justice would have his career made. Mace just wanted the scumbag caught. He wanted out of a city that could produce such a monster. He wanted the guy, and he wanted him to resist arrest. As requested, he passed this new information on to Parker Center.
No Human Involved - Barbara Seranella Page 7
