By 4:20 Kenton was hurrying into police headquarters on Centre Street, late for a meeting with a deputy chief If the cops got to Chessman before he did, he wanted first crack at the story. That way, his assignment wouldn’t seem a total failure to the big shots at Newstime. It was worth ten thousand to him. What the cops did with the money was their business.
Upstairs he outlined his plan to the official. He just wanted to help out somehow so he could be credited with assisting the police. He was doing a cover story and it would lend a certain authenticity. Which would in turn give the story strong reader appeal. For this he was ready to pay ten thousand cash. Perhaps for the retirement fund.
The deputy chief said he would think about it. There were ways an investigative reporter could help the police, especially if he had vital information. It would be his duty to report whatever he knew to the authorities, who might want him around at the capture.
Just what he had been thinking, said Kenton with a smile.
On the way home he reviewed the meeting. He had struck the right balance of public service and professional interest. He wanted nothing illegal, merely a little preferential treatment for which someone’s retirement fund would come to benefit.
Naturally he said nothing about the Ripper Reference. Or his ideas on the identity of the Chess Man. It was all just insurance anyway. He still hoped to beat everyone to the killer. At least he had one big advantage. He knew who it wasn’t.
SIX HOURS earlier in the same building, though on a different floor, top police brass had met to discuss Vincent Mungo. A special homicide task force was set up, with thirty detectives assigned to the search under a deputy inspector. The command post was to be the i3th Precinct on East 21st Street. Special patrols and stakeouts would be conducted and all leads pursued. Men had already been visiting the city’s lesser hotels and rooming houses, showing pictures of Mungo with and without a full beard. Other men distributed photographs to restaurants and supermarkets. Mungo had to sleep and eat. He would be caught. He also apparently had to kill. Surveillance would be increased in areas where prostitutes walked the streets. He might be captured in the act, preferably beforehand but streetwalkers were always expendable. The main thing was to get the maniac.
The police brass was confident. They had his face and description and M.O. He was a stranger to New York, with little money and no friends. Where could he go? How could he hide? And he was a madman besides—a nut, irrational. How could he stack up against 27,000 of New York’s finest? Someone suggested that if he stuck to preying on local prostitutes he wouldn’t last long at all. They were the toughest in the world.
The meeting ended on a note of assurance. It was just a matter of time and he’d be in their hands. Probably only days, maybe even hours.
BISHOP’S TRAIN pulled into Jersey City’s Journal Square shortly before ten on Tuesday morning. He walked up some steps to the street and found the building that housed the local newspaper. Inside, he pretended to be a journalism major in college who wanted to do a class report on the Jersey Journal in the period after the Second World War. Would he be able to look at some back issues? Say between 1945 and 1950?
The clerk was most helpful. All back issues were now on microfilm, one year to a roll. At that time the paper was called the Jersey Observer. Any serious reader could certainly review whatever rolls were needed, and even have blowups made of desired pages. Yes, indeed.
Where would he find them?
The public library. The entire microfilm collection could be seen at the main library on Jersey Avenue. The paper kept actual copies around only for the past few years.
Didn’t it have its own set of microfilm?
Yes, but that was just for internal use.
Bishop put on his most innocent expression, his friendliest face. His eyes shone, his smile sparkled. He was all charm and manners.
Could he possibly look at the paper’s film for just an hour? One hour, no more. He was from New York and didn’t know his way around the city. He’d be very quiet and no one would even realize he was there. It would be such a great help to him.
The clerk, a kindly man, knew he should say no. Company policy forbade any reader use of the set. But the boy seemed so helpless, so bewildered. Reminded him of his own youth. He too had often been flustered.
He led the helpless youth to a room in the rear of the building. The microfilm was on a shelf, boxed and dated. He pulled out the years 1945 to 1950 and showed the young man how to operate the viewer, cautioning him to roll each film back to the beginning after he had finished.
“One hour, mind you, and no more,” he said on the way out. The door clicked softly and Bishop turned to 1945.
An hour and forty minutes later he found it. Thomas Wayne Brewster, three, died at the Medical Center on September 1, 1949. The only child of Mary Brewster and the late Andrew T. Brewster, killed two years earlier in an auto accident. Interment in Holy Name Cemetery, Jersey City, on September 4.
It was perfect. Three years old. Only child. Father dead. Mother probably remarried, maybe moved away. No one to remember him. Three years old meant he had almost certainly been born in the city. Now only the birth date was needed.
Another half hour and he stepped from a bus on West Side Avenue. A brisk walk brought him into the Catholic cemetery. Once inside the gates he quickly saw the futility of searching among the headstones. There were thousands of graves, endless rows of plot and stone seemingly stretching to the horizon. He went into the groundkeeper’s office.
Could he be directed to the grave of Thomas Wayne Brewster, buried on September 4, 1949? He had known the family years earlier but had never before visited the cemetery. Now he was in the area and would like to pay his respects to the deceased.
The records book was opened for that time, the name and date checked. Brewster. 1949. September 4.
Within ten minutes he was standing over the grave. The headstone had two wreaths carved on it and in the center a figure of the Blessed Virgin Mary. Underneath, two names had been chiseled into the smooth surface. The father, Andrew T. Brewster, born 1918, died 1947. The son, Thomas W. Brewster, born 1946, died 1949.
His trip had been for nothing. There was no birth date.
On the return to Journal Square he thought of several ways to learn the child’s correct date of birth but rejected each as too dangerous. He couldn’t afford to draw attention to himself or even be asked for identification. Certainly not at the moment.
An idea finally came that might work with no risk to him. Infants usually were born in hospitals, and hospitals kept records. It was just a question of finding the right one and pressing the right button for the information that he wanted.
The telephone book listed eight hospitals for the city but only one was all maternity and it was part of the city system. Assuming his parents didn’t have much money, the boy could have been born there. Poor people had their babies in city hospitals. He had been born in one, or so he had read in a newspaper months back. Vincent Mungo too.
He called Margaret Hague Maternity from a closed booth. He was Father Foley of St. John’s on the Boulevard, asking about the birth of one of his parishioners years ago. He had been sent a mass card from relatives now living in another state. The mass was due to be said that very week. But he needed the birth date of the deceased. Yes, that’s right. It would be most helpful, thank you.
He gave the name and year and waited patiently. Several minutes later he got his answer. No one with the name of Brewster was listed for 1946. Was he sure it was Margaret Hague? Not positive, no. What about the baptismal certificate, wouldn’t that have the date? Yes, but with the church expansion program everything was misplaced or in transit. He just thought this might be faster. Thanks anyway for the help.
Bishop closed his eyes for a moment. He had to think quickly on that one.
The answer was the same at the Jersey City Medical Center. On the third call he got lucky. Christ Hospital on Palisade Avenue had a 1946 record of Tho
mas Wayne Brewster. Mother was Mary, father Andrew. Religion was Roman Catholic. The baby weighed eight pounds, eleven ounces.
Date of birth: May 3.
Father Foley thanked the woman and hung up.
At Christ Hospital the middle-aged clerk returned the file to its proper drawer. She was a bit surprised that the parents were Catholic. Now, of course, everything was opening up but that was almost thirty years ago. She didn’t think there were too many Negro Catholic families at that time.
At a nearby post office Thomas Wayne Brewster purchased a fivedollar money order and sent in his request for a birth certificate to the Registrar of Vital Statistics in Jersey City. He had been born on May 3, 1946. The certificate should be sent to him at 654 Bergen Avenue. The address was that of the local YMCA where he had just rented a room, paying for one month in advance.
Back in New York Bishop bought a pair of eyeglasses with heavy brown frames. The lenses were almost clear glass but wearing them gave him a different look. He also bought some hair coloring. He intended to lighten his hair that night. His beard was nearly full. With eyeglasses, sandy hair and a beard he would not really look like Thomas Bishop anymore, just in case they somehow discovered he was not Vincent Mungo. Which, of course, they would never do. He was too clever for them, for any of them.
DON SOLIS called Boise, Idaho, about the time Bishop was returning to New York. It was still morning in California. He had tried the day before but Hansun was out. Now he again asked for Carl Pandel. This time he gave his name instead of saying “a friend.”
Soon a very surprised Carl Hansun was on the line. He listened carefully as Solis gave him the number of a pay phone in Fresno. He was to call there in exactly ten minutes from a safe phone of his own.
Ten minutes later Solis picked up the receiver in a Fresno pay booth. He did most of the talking. There was a letter that would be given to authorities if anything happened to him. In the letter was all the information on Hansun, going back to 1952, including the new name and location. This was not blackmail. He wanted only to be left alone. He had done the job and had been paid off. Nothing further was owed either way. If he wasn’t bothered, the letter would never be seen. His brother was dead and all he wanted now was a quiet life. He would not talk to anybody about the Chessman thing with Stoner. Or anything else. As long as he was left alone.
He hung up after telling Hansun to call off his bloodhounds.
SENATOR STONER had a million things to do on Tuesday evening before he left for the East. And of course he wanted to be home with his family on his final night. Which was why he had a last matinee with his mistress in the afternoon. It was delicious as always. Afterward he told her they were through. He had other plans which did not include her. He was sorry.
He put three bills on the table by the bed. One hundred dollars for each year.
She was expecting it, knowing the senator. He was always predictable. Lately he had been going through all the motions of a male in flight. His new fame was giving him a big head and even bigger ideas. She wouldn’t, couldn’t, stand in his way of course. But it would cost him something to be rid of her.
She asked him to listen to some tapes. Then she told him what she wanted.
Fifty thousand dollars.
She had quite a few tapes.
He could buy all of them, and he would get his money’s worth. She would hold none back. There were no duplicates. Once she got the money, he would never see her again or hear from her. She was not dumb enough to squeeze him, not with the people the senator knew.
Just fifty thousand and he’d be rid of her forever.
If not, she’d give the tapes to his political enemies and to the newspapers. The San Francisco Chronicle would love to hear them, not to mention The New York Times or the Washington Post. Some of the things he had done along the way, the deals, the people, would make interesting reading to authorities as well as the public. Then there were his many comments on the politicians and plain folks, the growers, the laborers, the small businessmen who put him in office. He really did like to talk.
It was either the money or his career, if not his freedom.
She wanted the money before he left on his trip.
IN LOS ANGELES a Republican district leader sent a mailgram to Washington, D.C., before he left his office that afternoon. It went to the congressman from his district. A friend of his in the state penal system had been called by a Newstime reporter in New York, who said he was writing a cover story on Vincent Mungo for the magazine. But the odd thing was that the reporter seemed interested only in Caryl Chessman, who had been executed in a Republican national administration. The district leader wondered if there was anything in it. Especially in view of the total animosity displayed by Newstime, normally a Republican-oriented magazine, toward the Nixon administration.
WEDNESDAY PROMISED to be a busy day for Kenton and he got to the office a bit early. By nine o’clock he was hearing from Mel Brown. Apparently Carl Pandel was white, Christian and twenty-six years old. His wife had committed suicide two years earlier, which put him in the rest home for five months. Then a year with his parents in Idaho. His father was big in construction among other things.
Young, white, Christian and crazy. Good so far. “Did he kill his mother too?”
“His mother is very much alive. Sorry about that.”
So he didn’t kill her. But he wanted to all those years. Then he drove his wife nuts to where she killed herself. Or maybe he killed her and made it look like suicide.
“Where’s he now?” Kenton asked.
“Right here.”
“What?”
Brown chuckled. “He’s in New York. But—” He paused for effect. “He’s been here for months.”
Down but not out. “When did he get here?”
“July.”
“When in July?”
Brown didn’t know.
“Find out the day he arrived. And how. Also where he lives and what he does for money. If the old man’s that rich, maybe the kid doesn’t work.”
“What’s your idea?”
“He could’ve come here, then gone back on a bus or coach train where there’s no record. And slowly made his way east again.”
“Too complicated for a nut.”
“Who says he’s nuts?”
“Even half.”
“Let’s find out.”
He got Fred Grimes on the fourth ring. They might have a lead. He wanted the best detective outfit in New York, and their best man checking on Carl Pandel. Mel Brown would have an address in a little while. Another dozen should be ready for the mail-drop names when they came in. How was that going?
“Only started yesterday,” said Grimes, “and there’s a lot of drops. Even just Manhattan.”
“When do you think?”
Grimes thought a moment. “Probably Friday. That should do it.”
“Let me know.”
For the rest of the morning, between bouts with the telephone, Kenton listened to George Homer talk of Senator Stoner and Don Solis. Stoner held stock in a half dozen blue chips, perhaps fifty thousand dollars total. He owned two homes, in Sacramento and Beaumont, Washington. Some land in northern California and Idaho worth possibly another forty thousand. All on the surface. Underneath, no one knew for sure. There was talk of deals but that was standard for most politicians. He was a rank opportunist obviously, and probably much more. The trouble was proving it.
His mistress was more interesting, at least for the moment. A model, twentyfive, two years’ college. Had a brain to go with the body. Been with Stoner three years but not exclusively, though he might not know that. Apparently he paid for her apartment. Not known what other arrangement they had.
What was interesting about her?
A while ago she spent over a thousand dollars for recording equipment. Voice-actuated equipment. She had the heavy stuff placed in a closet, hidden out of sight.
Where was the other end?
The bed.
Kenton had to admit that raised some possibilities. Now what about Don Solis?
Solis killed an accomplice in a payroll robbery in Los Angeles in 1952, a man named Harry Owens. In San Quentin, Solis knew Chessman since they both were on death row. That was the basis for the story he gave the papers about Chessman confessing his guilt.
After a few years Solis switched from death row to life and finally parole. When he got back to Fresno he opened a diner with his brother, who had been in on the robbery. Where the money came from was a mystery; Solis had none. The robbery money had all been recovered except for the one who got away. About a hundred thousand. Now Solis owned a bigger diner and was doing all right. He was not in the rackets that anyone knew about.
Was the money a payoff for something Solis did? Or was the Chessman story a payoff for the money? That would let Stoner out. The money was five years before the story.
Kenton told Homer to check out a rumor about Mungo’s father being a latent homosexual. Also he was to call all the criminologists at the University of California in Berkeley until he found one who didn’t think Mungo was the killer. He should also look further into Stoner’s business affairs, especially the land he owned. When did he get it? From whom? And he should read all the material on Chessman, in case Kenton had missed anything.
At 12:30 P.M. New York time the information agency in California called about possible rape victims who had borne children in 1948. Only one woman who reportedly said Caryl Chessman might have been her attacker gave birth during that year. The infant was a girl.
Dead end.
The killer was a boy.
CARL HANSUN was worried. He lit a Camel and took a deep drag into his one good lung, which sent him into a paroxysm of coughing. It was all the fault of that dumb son of a bitch Soils. Talking to him like that. And how did he know the new name? Only one way. He got the license number from the car that day and traced it back to the company registration. Who owned the company? Carl Pandel. Same first name. Not so dumb at all.
By Reason of Insanity Page 42
