“How do you know that?”
“Mungo had a collection of Nazi stuff in his room at home. And he once painted swastikas in a Jewish cemetery. He wouldn’t get too close to anyone not white or Christian.”
“Anything else?”
“For the moment, no. Except that he’d be new to the city and would probably stay in a low hotel and use a mail drop somewhere.”
“Not much to go on,” said Grimes after a pause.
He was right but it was all Kenton had. A young white Christian man. Unless it turned out to be an old man. Or an Oriental. Or a woman. Or the man from Mars.
Grimes said he would see about getting some heat on the people who push the identification racket in the city. But he didn’t expect much. There were just too many retailers around, it was like sifting sand.
Kenton thanked him anyway. Sometimes sand had a way of sticking.
When he returned from lunch the second desk was installed against the wall in back of the door. And behind his desk, squarely between the window’s edge and the other wall, stood a small safe. The double-lock combination was typed on a card left on top of the safe. He wondered what Otto Klemp would say about such a breach of security. Which reminded him.
He called a number on Long Island and read off the ten names of those who knew about his assignment. He wanted a look at their income-tax returns. The last two years should do it.
The next call was in the city. This time he gave the names of the top dozen officers of the whole Newstime empire, starting with Mackenzie himself. What he wanted was a complete financial statement for each man—everything. Assets, holdings, trusts, shelters, offshore, the works. And dates for each. On the usual cash basis naturally. Payable on delivery, as soon as possible.
When he got through to John Perrone he told him that he needed $9,000 for expenses. Perrone didn’t want to hear it, didn’t want to know about it. All that kind of thing should be routed through Fred Grimes.
Kenton apologized.
“How’s it going?”
“It’s going.”
“Keep it up. We’re counting on you.”
Grimes was more interested but didn’t want to discuss it over the phone. Kenton assured him the recorder was off He didn’t use it inside the company, that would be counterproductive. Grimes said it was his own phone that worried him. Anyway, he’d be down in a while.
Five minutes later the second research assistant came by, an older man who smoked Chesterfields and had an amused glint in his eye. He had been gathering documents on Vincent Mungo’s life, starting with a copy of the birth certificate from Los Angeles County General Hospital. Kenton liked him right away and told him to use the other desk whenever he was in the office. He also gave him roughly the same talk given the young woman earlier. He was on a special assignment that could be a cover story on Mungo or might broaden out to include even more. He didn’t specify what “more” could mean, and the older man didn’t ask. He had sized Kenton up immediately as a professional, and in his own way he was a professional too. Very knowledgeable about a great many things, he was at the point in life where he no longer tried to change the world, but rather was content to watch it with a certain amount of detachment and even amusement. He was good at what he did and he carried his wisdom lightly. At least until he was asked a direct question.
“What do you think of Senator Stoner?”
“He’s an opportunist,” said the older man, “like most of them.”
“You don’t like him.”
The man shrugged. “No better or worse than others, I suppose. At least he talks up for what he believes.”
“Or says he believes.”
“In politics that’s the same thing. You believe whatever you talk up today. Tomorrow takes care of tomorrow.”
Kenton was developing a positive affection for the older man. Even cynics needed other believers.
“In the immortal words,” he began, “of Adolf Hitler—”
“Der vogel ist gefallen,” said the man who spoke five languages. “Lange leben die vogel.”
Both men laughed. Kenton knew very little German but he got the idea.
He told the researcher what he wanted. Everything on Stoner, good and bad. His background, his family, his friends, his business interests. Most especially his business interests. Ditto for a man named Don Solis, who gave Stoner’s campaign a big push with his revelation about Caryl Chessman’s guilt a while back.
“Find out who this Solis really is, and what he got out of it, if you can. He owns a diner in Fresno. You’ll come across him in the recent stuff on Stoner. Let me know what you dig up.”
The next hour was spent talking to Newstime reporters and stringers in California. To each he patiently explained what he was seeking. Any stories they might have heard about a boy who killed his mother. Going back as much as twentyfive years. Maybe it didn’t make the big papers, maybe it was just local gossip. But he wanted to know about it, and fast.
His reasoning was obvious, though he didn’t mention it. Within hours of Mungo’s escape from Willows the state borders had been closed, so to speak. That meant he couldn’t have got too far. Whoever he met had to be in California or Nevada, or Oregon at the farthest. But most probably right in California. Maybe even where he lived or grew up. Somebody somewhere must know or have heard of a boy like that.
He didn’t really trust Mel Brown’s computer.
At four o’clock Fred Grimes came down, apologizing for not wanting to talk on the phone but with Klemp around anything was possible. He gave Kenton the names of the top police and mayor’s aides, all with unlisted numbers. The sheet was put in the safe.
“About the nine thousand dollars. Care to say why you need it?”
Kenton frowned. “I’d rather not,” he said softly.
“Cash?”
“Mixed bills. No consecutive serial numbers. You know the routine.”
“It’ll be laundered, don’t worry. Tomorrow okay?”
“Fine.”
“If you need more just let me know. I can get it for you overnight.”
“Operating expenses?”
Grimes nodded. “Comes out of a nonprofit slush fund. The Committee to Save Freedom of the Press.”
“Sounds good anyway.”
“Every big combine has its own laundry service for wet cash, doesn’t matter what it’s called. Just that it works. Too many things going on now that can’t be recorded.”
“Including me.”
“This is nothing. Think of the oil companies or the drug manufacturers, what they must be spending under the table. Everybody knows what’s going on. It’s an open secret.”
Kenton lit a cigarette. “Ever get the feeling you’re working for the mob,” he asked absently, “instead of big business?”
“All the time,” said Grimes with a quick laugh. “They’re just the opposite side of the coin. The only real difference is we retire our people while they kill theirs.”
Thursday morning at 9:30 Otto Klemp was waiting for him with a few words of advice. “Don’t exceed your authority.” He wouldn’t say any more. Both men knew that for the moment Kenton had a blank check on the company, and short of firing everyone or burning down the building, he held unlimited power. But that power was just an illusion of course, and would instantly disappear if he reached too high.
“Whenever you step out of your class,” said Klemp, not unkindly, “you step down.”
Kenton wondered how much he knew.
The first ring broke into his thoughts and he grabbed for it. Mel Brown had the computer information for California. A total of ninety-seven known matricides in the past twentyfive years, excluding whole families killed and those individuals who killed themselves immediately afterward.
“Of the ninety-seven, sixty-eight are presently in prisons or mental hospitals, sixteen are known dead. Which leaves thirteen unaccounted for, but three of those are over fifty years old and two others are women. Of the eight remaining, two c
ouldn’t possibly be your man.”
“Why not?”
“One was blinded by his mother but he managed to get his hands round her rotten throat, I am happy to say. Acid of some kind. The other was released after losing both legs to diabetes.”
“So you got six left.”
“What next?”
“Find them. Where they are, what they’re doing. As quick as you can.”
“Will do.”
“Much obliged. And Mel—”
“Yeah?”
“I got Doris working on Caryl Chessman and a few other things. But more important right now, I need that list of everyone released or escaped from California mental hospitals of any kind in the past five years. See what you can do on that, would you?”
“Sure thing.”
For the rest of the day the phone hardly left his ear as he talked to the West, to contacts of his own and to names from the confidential sources. He needed information, anything they might know about Vincent Mungo or Caryl Chessman or a boy who had killed his mother. But he was still fishing in the dark. He didn’t know the right questions to ask yet or even the right people to call. It was all preliminary work, to get out as many lines as possible. But it was also frustrating. And if his theory was wrong it would all be useless.
He was morally certain that his quarry was not Mungo. But he could’ve missed the rest of it. His man needn’t have started with matricide; he could be killing now because he hadn’t killed his mother. Maybe she died giving birth, maybe she ran away when he was very young. He might have been in an institution with Mungo for other reasons, and just decided to kill women when Mungo escaped and he saw he could take over the identity. Maybe he’s plain crazy. Maybe he’s afraid of men and so he picks on women. There were a hundred ways to look at his insanity.
Thinking like that depressed him further and he tried to stop it. When he had a strong feeling about something it was usually right. Why should this be an exception? All the odds were with him.
Toward the end of the day he called Mel Brown to check an idea. Of the six men still open, was there any way to find out when they had killed their mothers? At what age?
Yes, it was possible. Assuming they were at least sixteen at the time. Younger than that the courts sealed the record though it was known to the doctors wherever they were placed. That way, if the boy ever got out there was no stigma attached for something done while still a child. The newspapers couldn’t mention it later on, for example. Or he couldn’t be denied his civil rights because of it. Did Kenton still want that information?
He did, though he believed the boy killed his mother when he was younger than sixteen. If he killed her at all, that is.
Friday morning he was in the office before nine o’clock. He got the phone on the second ring. It was Mel Brown.
“Don’t you people ever sleep up there?”
“Sleep? Say, how you think the mailman makes it through the rain and snow to keep his appointed rounds? We tell him what route to take to get there.”
Kenton had to laugh in spite of himself. “What have you got?” he asked after a moment.
Two of the six matricides were out of the picture. One had killed his mother when he was forty-three, the other at thirty-five. Of the four left, three were under thirty at the time and one under sixteen. The names were Morgan, Dufino, Terranova and Rivera. Rivera was the one under sixteen.
Also ready were the names of those released or escaped from California mental institutions in the past five years. There were a lot of them.
“Good. Match your four against them.”
“Already done.”
“And?”
“Two of the four were released over ten years ago. Rivera was one of them. Naturally their names don’t appear on the list. Does that let them out of your consideration?”
“They’re out.”
“The third was released four years ago. His name is on the list. But he’s now serving a prison sentence in Washington.”
“Is that confirmed?”
“It is.”
“So he’s out too.”
“The fourth escaped last year. Not heard from since. Disappeared completely.”
“What’s his name?”
“You’re not going to believe it.”
“Try me.”
“Louis Terranova.”
The name meant nothing. “So?”
“I forgot you writers don’t read,” said Brown with a touch of exasperation in his voice. “Terranova was the name of the man Caryl Chessman claimed was the real Red Light Bandit twentyfive years ago.”
“Good God!”
“That’s what I said. Could be just a coincidence, though. Lots of people with the name. Anyway, he’s forty-seven now. Which would’ve made him twenty-two in Chessman’s time. Killed his mother in 1950 when he was twentyfour. Been in the mental wards the last twenty-two years till his escape a year ago.”
“Where’d he crash out?”
“Lakeland. It’s down around—”
“I know it.”
“You want me to get a background on him?”
“Everything you can.”
“What about the figures on the matricides? You need them?”
Kenton sighed in disappointment. “No. Between the ones still in and those who’ve died or are too old or sick, there’s nothing left.”
“Except maybe Terranova.”
“You sure you got all of them for those years?”
“All the recorded ones, which may not be the same thing. Those who stood trial and were convicted and sent to prison, those who were found innocent by reason of insanity and sent to hospitals, those who were declared incompetent to stand trial and were put away. For these last, the information came from court sources rather than the state mental health agencies. Naturally, as with any unofficial count, something could slip through.”
“What about the kids under sixteen?”
“That’s a different story. There the court records themselves are sealed tight, so all information had to come originally from newspaper accounts at the time it happened. The papers wouldn’t print the kids’ names but they usually give the sex and age, and that can then be compared against the names of surviving children. Believe it or not, there are people who make a living doing such things for people like you.”
“Any chance of a killing like that missing the papers?”
Mel Brown shrugged in reflex on his end of the phone. “Anything’s possible. Especially in California.”
At 10:30 Doris brought the list of mental institutions in which Vincent Mungo had been placed during his life. There were five. Atascadero, Willows, Lakeland, Valley River and Tremont. Plus the psychiatric divisions of the Stockton and San Francisco General hospitals. All with dates of commitment and names of the doctors who attended him. Kenton saw that one of them was Lakeland, from which Louis Terranova had escaped the year before. He looked at the dates of Mungo’s stay at Lakeland. It included all of 1972.
Maybe he was getting lucky.
For the next half hour he talked into the dictaphone machine, bringing himself up to date. He took calls from Long Island and Manhattan. Long Island would be delivering at 12:30 P.M. The usual arrangement. Kenton had to think a moment—it was more than a year since he had used the service. Manhattan wanted to know where to deliver a package. He named the St. Moritz at nine o’clock that evening, Suite 1410.
Fred Grimes came in with $9,000 cash which Kenton put in the safe. He had met John Perrone in the hall upstairs. Maybe Kenton should give him a ring. Also, he had talked to some people about identity papers the fake Vincent Mungo might seek. Without a picture it was virtually impossible to watch for him. There were just too many men in New York buying phony sets of identification every day. The city was the center of the trade for the whole country plus everybody coming in from Europe. With nothing to go on, nothing could be done. Sorry.
Kenton took it in stride. There were other lines to throw out. One was the
mailing address. Assuming Mungo wanted a new identity, he would need somewhere to which things could be sent. He wouldn’t use wherever he was staying, most likely a cheap hotel or rooming house since none of the women he killed had much money. It would make him too conspicuous and might lead to suspicions. And he couldn’t rent a post office box because he’d have to give a home address, which had to be verified by the local mailman. His best bet would be a mail drop, of which there were many around the city. Mostly small stores and shops that took in mail for clients, who usually paid by the month. They would come in to pick up their mail inconspicuously, and then quickly disappear until their next visit. Mail drops were not normally places of social gathering, nor were the clients generally very friendly. It was the type of operation that might appeal to his prey, and Kenton carefully explained the idea to Grimes.
“What we need is just the names of those who signed up this week, that’s all, and the addresses they gave. Then we hire a dozen private detectives to check them out quickly. A look at them would be enough. We eliminate all but the young white males. Those we go after one by one. Can’t be that many in a given week.”
“Suppose he doesn’t sign up till next week? Or next month? Maybe he wants to rest a while.”
“No, his pattern is to do everything necessary as soon as possible. He’s imaginative and thorough and very practical. That’s what has kept him safe all this time and he knows it. There’d be no reason for him to change the pattern.” He glanced over the material on his desk. “I’ve been reading and writing about our man for weeks now and I’m beginning to get a glimmer of how he operates. If he decided to get a mail drop he’d do it right away. He always takes care of business first.”
“But how do we go about getting the names? They won’t give them to us.”
“Not to us, no. But to a city official.” Kenton flashed a smile. “That’s where you come in. Get somebody at City Hall to authorize a pickup of the names. Tell them we’re doing a story on mail drops. If they balk, refer them to Perrone. That should do it. But naturally I’d rather he didn’t get too involved.”
Grimes was dubious. “You think it’ll work?”
By Reason of Insanity Page 38
