Yet there is still some justice in the world, and Chessman is dead and where he belongs. But now this—the senator held the newsweekly up for the reporters to see; he had to catch himself from using the words he wanted to say—this magazine comes along and says that Chessman was a victim—he shouted the word out—of the death penalty! They say that capital punishment was the real killer and that Chessman, this sex fiend and kidnapper and robber and gunman and would-be killer, was just an innocent bystander caught up in the legal machinery—here the senator’s scorn was boundless—a hero, for God sake, who fought a valiant battle but lost simply because he lived at the wrong time.
“Well, I say he lived at the right time. This is the wrong time. When decent citizens have to lock their doors and bar their windows and keep loaded guns by the bedside. When a man can’t go to work without worrying about his family’s safety. When a woman can’t walk the street without fear of sexual assault. When the animals can kill with virtual impunity. Five people? Ten? A hundred? It doesn’t matter how many they kill. If they’re caught all they’ll get is a cozy stay in a men’s YMCA with television and free room and board for a few years. Then they’ll be back ready to kill again. And any time they can’t make it out here, any time they get bored or lonely, all they have to do is kill again and they’re back on free room and board at the country club. It’s better than working for a living! It’s even better than welfare! I’m amazed that more honest citizens aren’t killed by these criminals just so they can get back to the free life. What’s to stop them? Not society any longer. Not the courts any longer. And certainly not the fear of death. There is no more fear of death, except for their victims of course. But who speaks for them anymore? Who cares about them? They’re not news.”
He paused a moment to let that thought sink in to the newsmen.
“They’re just the little people. Unknown all their lives and forgotten as soon as they die. If anyone talks about them, they’re simply called the victim. But the killers, that’s something else! They don’t work or pay taxes or obey the law or live quiet lives of frustration. That’s not news. Instead they kill. That makes them special. Charles Manson will be remembered and written about a hundred years from now, just as Jack the Ripper is remembered a hundred years after his crimes. Everybody wants a little recognition. More things are done for sheer recognition than for money or sex, as far as I can see. But the only ones who get it are the killers. Who knows all the names of Manson’s victims? Or Jack the Ripper’s victims? Or Charles Starkweather’s victims? Or Caryl Chessman’s victims? Who cares? They were just people.”
The senator quickly drank from the water glass, looked at his audience.
“You want recognition? I mean real recognition? Your life story in all the papers, your face on television all over the country. Books written about you; what you eat, what you feel, what you think, what you don’t think. Maybe even a movie about you. Why not? They made movies about all the killers and maniacs I’ve mentioned, including Chessman. If that’s what you want, it’s easy. Just go out and kill some people. They don’t have to be presidents, they don’t have to be big shots. Just kill enough to make a big splash in the papers. Or kill only one or two in a novel way or a crazy way, anything to get the news media interested. You too can be famous. Chessman”—Stoner again held up Newstime magazine—”is famous. Thirteen years after his death they’re still writing about him. He was a kidnapper and sexual deviate, but he was a victim. He was fairly tried and convicted, but he was a victim. He was legally executed, but he was a victim. Meanwhile I don’t ever remember reading a word about his victims. You know, the real victims? They’re gone, forgotten. Nobody gave them a word of print. No well-known people spoke up for them. No movies were made about them. They were nothing, the little people of dull lives who never ran amok. One of them was a seventeen-year-old girl whom Chessman sexually brutalized. Two years later she was admitted to Camarillo as hopelessly insane. Perhaps she’s still there. But Caryl Chessman is a hero. Who says he’s a hero? The newspapers say it. The big shots say it. All those who rejoiced in the killing of capital punishment say it. All the pressure groups, the so-called peace fronts, the civil liberties organizations. To them he’s a hero-victim, the perfect existential man. Christ!”—he finished the water in the glass— “next they’ll be saying we’re really murderers for executing him!”
The senator mopped his forehead with a tiny hankerchief; his voice became soft.
“You may say that Chessman is gone, dead and buried, and can harm us no more. But I ask you, is that true? Can he no longer harm us? His malignancy is still with us, his evil kind are still among us. They are still robbing and raping and killing. Each year the number of such crimes grows. How many more innocent victims must be slaughtered before we end this madness? How many more lives must hang in the balance?”
The senator studied the faces of the reporters in front of him. They were a hard sonofabitchin’ lot to work on, reporters were; to get a flicker of interest from them was like drawing blood. But he had their interest now. And in his heart and soul Stoner knew that he would have them from now on.
“Right here in our own state there is a reincarnation of Caryl Chessman, skulking through the night, stalking his victims. A moral madman, a blood-crazed maniac capable of inflicting savage attack and ghastly death. Whom will he destroy before he is finally captured? Whom do the Chessmans seek out to ravage and kill? The helpless among us, our women. How many women will fall before this diabolic monster? Only God knows. I hope and pray none”—his face grew solemn—”but as I look around me I find it hard to believe that my hope will be realized, my prayers answered. Killers roam the streets at will, the courts turn them out, the prisons turn them loose. Who can fight such madness? How can we protect ourselves? How can our women be protected? I don’t have all the answers”—a self-deprecating smile—”but I do know one thing that will go a long way toward some kind of protection, some sense of safety. We must get rid of such vicious animals once and for all. Caryl Chessman was an animal!”— Stoner’s voice thundered now—”Vincent Mungo is an animal!”—the voice reverberated through the room—”He must be stopped now before it is too late. He must be caught and executed, no matter what legal steps are needed. Killed! Just as we would kill a mad dog. If not”—the senator paused for effect, lowered his voice almost to a whisper—”then I’m afraid innocent people are going to be slaughtered. If Vincent Mungo is allowed to return to a comfortable ward where he can plan his next escape and his next murders, then there is no hope for any of us. Then we may as well all lie down with beasts and let the jungle grow over our bones.”
After the press conference Senator Stoner met with Roger in his office. He was pleased, the conference had gone well. Roger agreed.
“Should make a good splash in the papers,” said Stoner, rubbing his hands together. “Might even make some of the evening editions.”
Roger was not so sure. “You’ll be lucky to get anything in the metro papers,” he said glumly. “But maybe they’ll hold it back for tomorrow.”
The senator stopped his rubbing. He eyed Roger suspiciously. “Why do you say that?”
“Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what, Roger?” he asked evenly.
“They found a memo that supposedly ties Nixon into I.T.T. in some antitrust settlements. The papers are full of it, all of them.”
Stoner swore loudly, a long reverberating string of words not normally intended for senatorial chambers.
By the morning of August 3 several dozen letters concerning the Chessman piece had been received at the Newstime office in Los Angeles, all addressed to the Editor. They were duly read by the two women who handled such matters, women who were insulated from further shock by years of service in reading crank letters, anonymous notes, obscene missiles, confessions, suggestions, threats, warnings, proposals and propositions. One reader, a grandmother, had devoted seventeen years to the effort and could tell at a glance into what cate
gory a letter fell, from smut to suicide. The other had kept up a running correspondence with an anonymous letter writer for some years, not an easy thing to do. It somehow involved a mysterious third person who acted as a mail drop.
Only two of the Chessman letters had been sent upstairs for further perusal, finally landing on Adam Kenton’s desk that morning. He showed them to Ding. One was from a Los Angeles librarian, who wrote that she had been attacked at the end of December 1947 in the exact area where Chessman was supposed to have operated. But her attacker had definitely not been Caryl Chessman; after twentyfive years she could still vividly remember the man’s face. It was not Chessman, and she was glad that he was at last receiving partial vindication. Having read his books, she believed he had been much too sensitive to abuse women sexually or any other way.
The other letter was anonymous. It was written on cheap notepaper in an obviously disguised hand, with letters slanting both ways and much covering-up of strokes. The crossing of the t’s was usually well over the letter, quick violent movements that suggested extreme anger. The whole vicious forward thrust of the writing indicated the same rage. Ding read rapidly, Kenton at his side:
Editor
I am Caryl Chessman’s son. you wrote good
about my father I thank you for that but
women not capital punishment is bad My
father knew that I miss him and never saw
him til now Write more about him.
The anonymous note was addressed: From Hell.
“What you think?” asked Kenton. “Crank?”
“Sounds like it.” Ding rubbed his ear. “Any chance Chessman had kids?”
“Not from my end but you tell me. You did the background.”
Ding shook his head. “No chance.” He picked on his ear lobe. “Unless from one of those sex jobs.”
“What sex jobs?” Kenton asked in feigned surprise. “He was impotent, remember?”
Ding grinned broadly. “I still think he was.” He stuck his finger in his ear. “Who knows? Maybe Lavery will get that ‘Son of Rapist’ spread after all.”
Both men laughed and soon forgot the two letters, which were routinely sent back to the files. Kenton had a story to write and Ding some people to see, and Caryl Chessman was the last thing on their minds.
As he climbed the stairs the only thing on his mind was getting his rent. Twice before he had been taken for half of it, but no more. A piece of ass was fine at the right time and he liked it as well as the next man. But money was money. So why was he wearing his new suit that made him look ten years younger? He laughed to himself. Okay, so maybe if she gave him a quick jump for twenty dollars he’d do it. Sure, what’s twenty dollars? But no more. He would get the other hundred dollars for the month’s rent or out she went. She was a nice kid with big tits but nobody was worth more than twenty dollars. He thought of the young girl’s breasts, big and firm, with bright red nipples that got rock hard when he sucked on them. Well, maybe thirty dollars, but that was tops. If she wanted more she could go whistle. It was hard enough making ends meet these days.
He climbed the third flight. Fifty-nine years old and paunchy, he owned three residential buildings in downtown Los Angeles near the skid-row area. With tax write-offs and some silent cost-cutting here and there he made a living. The hardest part was climbing all those stairs every month to collect the rents, He had a bad heart and the doctor had said to be careful. No strain, no sudden shocks. Yet he couldn’t trust the tenants to mail in their monthly checks to the small office he kept; most of them were not the stable, permanent type he wished he had, After a lifetime of business dealings he knew better than to expect miracles.
At the top he turned left and walked to the end of the small hallway. The girl had always been home this time of day, she should be home now. He knocked. Waited. Knocked again. Louder. He fumbled for his large set of keys. The only rule he had in his buildings was that he have a key to every apartment. Just in case. Whenever he found a lock changed without his knowledge the tenant was out at the end of the month. He kept a close eye on his property.
He quickly found the right key, the apartment number scratched on the head with a pin. It was his system. Turning the key, he slowly opened the door in case she was sleeping. The lock was a simple snap type. He thought of telling her to get a Sega! dead bolt, much safer, but decided against it. The hell with her.
The kitchen light was on. His eyes took a second to adjust from the darkened hallway. He saw the refrigerator next to the door, the stove, the sink. He looked into the room. In the center was the kitchen table, two chairs. There was something on the table. He walked toward it…
The man in the apartment underneath heard a loud thud. He looked up at his ceiling. It didn’t sound right to him. He worked the second shift in Los Angeles County General Hospital and he had heard bodies fall to the floor many times. He cautiously climbed the stairs, then continued into the hallway toward the open door. Inside he saw the man on the floor. It was the landlord. He knelt down, checked the eyes, the pulse. Up again, he looked around. On the table was something his mind couldn’t quite comprehend, something seemed out of place. He went over to the table. His eyes froze. Adrenaline shot through him. His brain stopped. Started. He backed away, out the door, down the stairs. In his apartment he picked up the receiver, dropped it, tried again.
The first cop to arrive was twentythree and still lived with his parents. He hadn’t seen much action yet and if he lived to be a hundred he would never again see anything like this. Though young he had been trained to note things exactly as they were. A white Caucasian male, mid-fifties, was dead on the floor, apparently of a heart attack. A woman’s breasts were on the kitchen table, one next to an empty cup and the other by a water glass. On one breast was a large letter V in black ink, on the other a large M. The apartment door was open, the light on. A black-and-white cat was perched on a cabinet. Its water dish was empty, so was the food saucer. There was an unpleasant odor in the kitchen.
The bedroom door was closed. Turning the knob he kicked it back, slowly, softly, not knowing what he would find. The odor now was horrible, overpowering. It suddenly sickened him; he gagged, withdrew for a moment to the sink, then returned and went into the room. He saw what had been the girl…
The ambulance attendants first removed the body of the landlord. By the time they returned, top police officials had arrived. The attendants were sent away. For the moment everything, including the girl’s body, would remain as found. They were taking no chances. The medical examiner had been called, the forensic section was on its way. A call was eventually made to the sheriff’s office.
The murder and mutilation of the young woman quickly caused a tremor in official circles throughout the state. Not so much because of the destruction of the body, dreadful though it had been, but because it had been done by Vincent Mungo. Of that there was no doubt. He was an escaped homicidal maniac who mutilated his victims in frenzied rage. He had been at large for almost a month, probably forging a new identity and means of survival for himself. Now he apparently felt safe enough to strike again. And he would continue killing until he was caught. There was no doubt about that either.
Sheriff Oates flew in by midafternoon. He saw the body at the coroner’s office. The apartment had been sealed, the cat removed, a policeman stationed at the building’s entrance to ward off the curious. Fingerprints had been taken at the scene but the sheriff knew they would lead nowhere. It was Mungo’s work. Anybody could have printed the initials but this was his work, Oates told himself savagely.
The body sickened him and he turned away. He thought of calling John Spanner in Hillside but changed his mind. Spanner had been right about the two old ladies and the handyman but this was different. So much for the idea about Mungo wanting to remain anonymous and losing himself in the crowd! Not any more. He had hit the big time and he would be captured by big-time police methods. What was needed now was professional teamwork. Spanner could go fish in th
e lake.
The sheriff decided to remain in Los Angeles for the moment. Mungo was around here somewhere and he would be here too. He wondered what kind of disguise his quarry had effected. Plastic surgery would be impossible without money or connections. That left only dyed hair or a wig and a beard and mustache. Maybe glasses. It would do for a while but not forever, Oates promised himself. Not nearly forever.
He glanced over the raw data for the uncompleted post-mortem report: breasts severed laterally—walls of abdomen laid open from breast downward to navel—several deep abdominal cavity incisions—membrane cut—renal arteries cut—liver and kidneys—.
Oates stopped reading. His eyes blurred, his hands shook. For all his bluster he was basically a shy man and one not given to violation of any kind.
“The son of a bitch,” he mumbled loudly. “The stinking son of a bitch.”
Police photographs had been taken of the body. The killer had not touched the girl’s eyes. A forensic technician took pictures of the eyes, following the theory that in violent deaths the last images were recorded on the retina of the eye. He intended to blow the pictures up; maybe the killer’s image could be seen.
In the sleazy neighborhood adjoining the city’s skid row, residents pranced and preened for the television cameras and newsmen who descended in droves on the area. They quickly learned of the girl’s murder but killings were almost as common as empty bottles in such places and caused no undue alarm. They did not yet know the details of the butchery, or that Vincent Mungo had been among them.
Also unknown to local residents, there would not be such excitement again until the Slasher came along more than a year later and began cutting throats from ear to ear. Before he was finished nine men would fall victim to his knife. Most of them would be drunks and drifters from skid row.
By Reason of Insanity Page 16
