Believed Violent (11 page)

Beigler put his head around the door.

“Excuse me, Chief . . .”

Terrell got to his feet.

“Okay, doctor, you can leave all this to us. There’s just one thing . . . please don’t talk to the press. Washington is coming into the picture and this could be a Top Secret thing.”

“Yes . . . yes, of course. I understand.”

Leaving the doctor sipping his coffee and trying to steady his shaking hands, Terrell joined Beigler in the corridor.

“Doc is doing a Sherlock Holmes act,” Beigler said, a resigned note in his voice. “You’d better talk to him.”

Terrell followed Beigler up the stairs. They entered Paul Forrester’s room where Detective Fred Hess of the Homicide Squad was sitting on the bed, writing in his notebook and Dr. Lowis, the M.O. was watching two ambulance attendants get Fred Lewis’s body on to a stretcher.

Lowis, a short, fat man had Terrell’s respect. They had worked together for a long time and Terrell valued Lowis’s work and his opinions.

“You got something, doc?” he asked as the two men carried the stretcher out.

“I guess so,” Lowis returned. “This is supposed to be the murder weapon.” He pointed to the leg of a chair, lying on a strip of plastic on the table. “There are blood and brains on it. At first sight, it is obviously the murder weapon, but I can’t see how it can be. The man’s skull was smashed. The weapon that inflicted such an injury must have been something like a loaded cosh . . . even a steel bar. To have hit a man that hard would have broken the chair leg.”

Terrell looked at Hess, a thickset man with a round face and granite hard eyes.

“You got anything, Fred?”

“Doc’s right. I go along with his theory. And another thing . . . there are no prints on the chair leg. Whoever handled it wore gloves.”

Terrell pulled at his thick nose while he thought.

“Why should Forrester have worn gloves?” he asked eventually. “Did he own a pair of gloves?”

“I asked,” Hess said. “No . . . he had no gloves.”

“Could he have wiped the chair clean of prints?”

“Why should he? Anyway, the chair leg hasn’t been wiped. There are blood smears right up the leg.”

Again Terrell paused to think, then he said, “Any of his clothes missing?”

“A blue tropical suit, a shirt, underwear, socks and shoes. I got Mason to check the closet.”

Terrell looked at the broken chair lying on its side in the corner of the room.

“No prints there?”

“No.”

“Okay . . . take the chair. We’ll experiment with it. Let’s see how the other legs stand up to a real heavy blow.”

While Hess was instructing one of his men to take care of the chair, Terrell joined Beigler in the hall below.

“Anything, Joe?”

“Nothing much. I’ve talked to the gate-man. He was asleep, but he thinks he heard a car start up during the night. He won’t swear to it, and he didn’t look at the time.”

“A car? What would a car be doing up here in the night? It’s a cul-de-sac.”

“He won’t swear to it.”

“It’s important, Joe. If he did hear a car, then it looks as if Forrester had outside help. It’s going to make the hunt for him much more tricky.”

“Doc thinks Lewis was killed around two o’clock. That would give Forrester a two hour start. If he had a car, the road blocks are now so much waste of time.”

“Could be he had outside help. The murder weapon bothers me. Lewis’s skull was cracked open. How did Forrester get hold of a weapon that could inflict such an injury and why did he try to make us believe the injury was caused by the chair leg?”

The noise of a droning helicopter made both men look at each other, then they moved to the front door and walked out into the grey light of the dawn.

“Williams has been quick,” Terrell said as both men watched a low flying helicopter with U.S. Army markings, sweeping around the mansion. “I have an idea this is also a waste of time. If Forrester had a car, then he is miles away by now.”

Beigler said, “Do we put out a five State alarm, Chief?”

“I’ll have to ask Williams. I’ll get back to headquarters. If we send out an alarm, the press will pick it up. It’ll make headlines around the world. Forrester is important. Keep digging, Joe. We want every lead we can find.”

Terrell arrived back at headquarters soon after six a.m. He went to his office, called for coffee and then for Max Jacoby.

“Anything?” he asked as the young detective came in.

“Routine stuff, sir,” Jacoby said. “A woman found dead. She worked at the Go-Go Club. She left the bar drunk and fell into the harbour.”

“Don’t bother me with that. Give it to Lepski,” Terrell said impatiently. “Anything on Forrester?”

“No, sir.”

The telephone bell began to ring and Terrell waved Jacoby away. He picked up the receiver.

“This is Mervin Warren, calling from Washington,” a voice told him. “I’ll be down by midday. I’m sending Jesse Hamilton from the C.I.A. ahead of me. He should be with you pretty soon. Have you any news for me?”

Terrell knew Mervin Warren only by reputation. He knew he was the head of Rocket Research and very V.I.P. He had also heard he was a good man to deal with. He instilled a little deference into his voice as he told Warren of Dr. Lowis’s theory about the murder weapon and added the gate-man had thought he had heard a car.

“Williams of the F.B.I, has started an overhead search, sir,” Terrell went on. “There are two helicopters right now searching the desert. We have road blocks set up.”

“I don’t have to tell you,” Warren said, his voice anxious, “that Forrester is important . . . top priority. We have to find him.”

“Yes, I understand. How about the press?”

“We must use the press. Hamilton is bringing with him photographs of Forrester. I want them printed on the front page of every newspaper. From what you tell me it is remotely possible that he has been kidnapped. The Russian and the Chinese Governments would give a lot to get him in their hands. We’ve got to find him fast.” He paused, then went on, “Let Hamilton handle the press. Don’t allow any of your men to give out with information. This must be handled right. The press must only be allowed censored information and Hamilton knows what to tell them. Have a car for me at the airport. I’ll be on the 589 flight,” and he hung up.

Terrell brooded for some minutes, then he pulled a big pad towards him and began to make notes.

Detective 2nd Grade Tom Lepski was regarded by his colleagues as a bit of a hellion, always kicking against discipline, but first class in his job once he got his teeth into a case. He was a tall wiry man, tough, with a lined sun-tanned face and clear ice-blue eyes, and he was ambitious.

He reached headquarters, after the emergency call had gone out, soon after six o’clock. He was in a vile temper as he had piomised his wife he would take her down to the beach for the day, this being his day off duty, and now he found himself back on duty again. He had left his wife also in a vile temper.

If he had been assigned to the search for Forrester, he wouldn’t have minded so much as he was sure the press would very soon get on to the case, and every detective engaged in the search would sooner or later see a photograph of himself in the papers. His wife liked nothing better than to see a photograph of her husband’s lean features in her local paper. This gave her tremendous kudos with her neighbours, and besides. Lepski himself was a publicity hunter.

When Jacoby, looking worn and heavy eyed, handed Lepski the report on the finding of Drena French’s body and told him the Chief had said he was to take care of the investigation, Lepski nearly exploded.

“You mean you dragged me out of my bed just to check on the death of some goddam whore?” he snarled.

Jacoby liked and admired Lepski. He kept his face straight as he said, “If you’ve got a beef, Tom, take it up with the Chief. I’m only acting on orders.”

Lepski snorted.

“And all the dead-weights, all the pin-heads on this Force are looking for Forrester . . . right?”

“All the dead-weights and all the pin-heads,” Jacoby said, shaking his head. “Detective 2nd Grade Lepski has been picked for the plum job. My congratulations.”

“There are times when I think the Chief should retire,” Lepski said in disgust. “He at least needs his head examined.” He folded the report and stuffed it into his hip pocket. “And take that smug look off your face!”

As Jacoby regarded him with a dead-pan expression, Lepski snorted and stamped out of the Detectives’ room.

He drove fast to the waterfront. By the time he had reached the harbour, he had forgotten his grievance and had become the alert, quizzing cop that he was.

He found two patrolmen standing over a body covered with a rubber sheet, bored expressions on their faces. Mike O’Shane a vast Irish cop, knew the waterfront like the back of his hand. The other cop, Dick Lawson, was less experienced and younger. He had been patrolling with O’Shane now for the past six months. It was to O’Shane that Lepski turned for information.

“That her?” he said and lifted aside the rubber sheet. He stared down at Drena’s dead face. His experienced eyes told him that she had died before she could have drowned. The ragged wound across the side of her face was lethal. He grunted, then said to Lawson, “Get the wagon and get her to the morgue.”

At this hour the harbour was still deserted and the three men had the place to themselves.

“Someone hit her, Mike?” Lepski asked.

“I don’t think so. Look here . . .” O’Shane led him to the edge of the harbour and pointed to a dinghy. “I reckon she fell off the harbour and caught her head against the dinghy . . . you can see the blood smear.”

Lepski regarded the blood marks on the white prow of the dinghy and grunted. He took hold of O’Shane’s arm.

“Come over to the car and let’s smoke,” he said. “Dick can handle her.”

The big Irishman followed Lepski to his car and got into the passenger’s seat. Lepski got into the driving seat. When he was sure Patrolman Lawson had gone over to a distant telephone booth to call the ambulance, he took a half pint bottle of whisky from his glove compartment and offered it to O’Shane whose small eyes widened. He needed no second invitation. He took a long, generous drink, sighed, wiped the neck of the bottle with his sleeve and handed it back to Lepski.

“Fine whisky,” he said.

Lepski didn’t take a drink himself. He returned the bottle to the glove compartment, offered a cigarette and took one himself. Both men lit up.

“What can you tell me about her, Mike?”

“She’s Drena French: works at the Go-Go Club. Been there the past eighteen months. She has a room at 187, Anchor Street. I’ve never had trouble with her. I guess she must have been a little high and wandered off the harbour and fell in. She drank a lot.”

Lepski sighed. A hell of a dull case to get landed with, he thought, but he knew from long experience that a death like this was not always so easily explained.

“Did she have a boy-friend?”

“Yeah . . . he turned up at the club pretty near every night. Nice guy . . . I heard he works for the Harrison Wentworth Nut house . . . he’s a male nurse.”

Lepski stiffened, turned in his seat to stare at O’Shane.

“He’s a male nurse at the Harrison Wentworth?” he repeated. “You sure?”

“So I heard.”

“Do you know his name?”

“Lewis? Could be . . . yeah, Lewis.”

Lepski picked up the telephone receiver in his car. He got through to Jacoby. “Max . . . what’s the name of the male nurse who got knocked off at the Nut house?”

“I thought you were supposed to be working on that woman in the harbour,” Jacoby said.

“You heard me!” Lepski bawled. What’s his name?”

“Fred Lewis.”

Lepski replaced the receiver. He sat for some moments, staring into space while O’Shane regarded him curiously, then Lepski said, “Who were her friends, Mike?”

“Friends? Well, a girl like her doesn’t have friends. She got on all right with O’Brien . . . he runs the Club. A couple of times when she and I chewed the rag together, she mentioned the barman Tin-Tin Washington. He’s a Jamaican. She seemed to think a lot of him . . . not a bad guy . . . never in trouble, but friends . . .” O’Shane shook his head.

“This Jamaican . . . know where I can find him?”

“Sure. He has a room right over there.” O’Shane pointed a thick finger. “In that house.”

There came a wail of a siren and an ambulance appeared. It pulled up by Lawson and two interns scrambled out.

“Okay, Mike you take over,” Lepski said. “Get her to the morgue. I’ll be over in a while. Tell Lawson to guard that dinghy. It’s not to be moved.”

“Thanks for the drink,” O’Shane said. That’s set me up. Okay, I’ll handle it,” and leaving the car, he went over with heavy, plodding feet to the ambulance.

Lepski picked up the telephone receiver. When he got Jacoby he said, “I want a photographer down here, Max. You got any spare Homicide men around? I want them too.”

“There’s Macklin . . . the rest are up at the Nut house. “What’s cooking, Tom?”

“Send Macklin and a photographer pronto,” Lepski said and hung up.

He left the car and walked to the building indicated by O’Shane. It was a typical, cheap lodging house that infested the harbour district. The old, dirty-looking man, dozing behind the desk, started awake as Lepski walked in. He recognized Lepski and his bleary old eyes became alarmed.

“Hello there, Captain,” he said, his voice anxious. “You ain’t looking for trouble?”

“Have you got trouble?” Lepski asked. Before he had become a detective, he had had a stint on the waterfront in uniform and knew most of the “oldies’ and they knew him.

“No, Captain . . . everything is as peaceful as a sleeping babe.”

“Yeah . . . a two-headed monster . . . I know.”

The old man smirked uneasily

“No trouble, Captain . . . I swear it.”

“Where do I find Tin-Tin Washington?”

“You wouldn’t want him, Captain,” the old man said, his eyes bulging. “The most peaceful . . .”

“Cut it out!” Lepski barked in his cop voice. “Where do I find him?”

“Top floor . . . the door facing the stairs. He’s been sleeping for the past three hours.”