Copp In Shock, A Joe Copp Thriller (Joe Copp Private Eye Series) (6 page)

What kind of guilt, what fearful truth could I be hiding from even my own mind?

Had I crossed the threshold into every good cop's worst nightmare?

And what have I been trying to hide, even from myself?

My God, what could I be guilty of here on this darkest side of paradise!

CHAPTER NINE

CHief
Terry had
returned to the police department only moments ahead of me. The Morgan girl's body had been transported to the county morgue and Terry was in a foul mood. That is understandable; it's a rotten task under the best of circumstances, the very worst in a small town like this where no death is impersonal—where, indeed, every death is intensely personal. A homicide is particularly ugly and shattering because it touches the darkest fear of the human heart. It is the personification of evil and confusion when it strikes this close to home.

The Chief crankily told me, "I could have saved you a trip. There was a message from Janice waiting for me when I got back. She decided to drive into L.A., said she needed some time to settle her mind anyway. I'm not surprised. She always had a fear of flying, especially in these smaller private jobs. What did you pick up out there?"

I replied, "Not a hell of a lot. One of the workers told me that Sanford took off while we were still there—which we already knew, of course—and that Janice had left just after us, which I guess also is old information now. So, what is your sensing on all this?"

The Chief replied, "Why don't you ask me something simple? I put out an APB on Harley while I was waiting for the coroner. So there is a periodic surveillance on his other homes. I don't expect him to show up there, but at least we're covering the bases. Does that meet with your approval?"

I said, "Fuck it. Since when have you sought my approval?"

The guy chuckled at me and said, "Fuck you, too."

I chuckled with him. We were both drawing blanks and we knew it. Poor bastard, I couldn't blame him. His town was caving in around him
_;
two more homicides and he'd be out of a job. I asked him, "How much longer 'til your retirement?"

The Chief said, "Retirement, hell. Two more homicides and I'll be out of a job."

I told him, "You just read my mind, pal."

He said, "If I was a drinking man, I'd have a snort right now. Maybe I'll have one anyway."

I said, "Maybe we could classify it as justifiable therapy."

He uncorked a "short dog" of Jack Daniels from his file drawer and said, "Justifiable or not, fuck it. Let's do it."

It was a very short bottle, maybe one good snort for each of us. Drinking man or not, this guy punched it in a single gulp.
 
I did the same and immediately regretted it. We both grimaced appropriately and shivered with the expanding burn from the Tennessee sour mash.

I've been for hire, been on fire, been in deep and in the dark, even been on ice, and for days I'd been in shock, but that snort capped it all and released the tensions that had put us both on edge. We had become pals again. Whatever your feelings about "the devil's brew," and all its reputed evils, both of us needed that. We would find later that we were going to need much more than that bottle had to offer us.

i went with
the Chief to look in on Arthur Douglas, the officer who had been shot earlier. The hospital waiting room was loaded with family and friends anxiously awaiting further word on the officer's condition. They all came to instant attention as we arrived, as though Chief Terry's presence would make it better. A woman of about fifty with wet eyes rose quickly to greet the Chief. He hugged her warmly, gently patted her on the back, and said, "God, I'm sorry, Jean. Have you heard anything?"

She told him, "They just brought Art back from surgery. The doctor thinks he's going to be okay, but his condition is guarded. They let me in to see him for a couple of minutes, but he hasn't come around yet. Who could have done this, John?"

The Chief replied, "Don't worry, we're working on that." He motioned me over and introduced me. "This is Joe
Copp
, he's been working with me on this. Joe is a special investigator from Los Angeles, an old hand at this sort of thing."

A youth of about twenty with an insincere handshake, maybe a bit still wet behind the ears, rudely asked me, "What does L.A. have to do with this?"

I told him, "Maybe nothing. I just happened to be in the area investigating another matter. What do you think happened?"

The kid looked sharp. It turned out he was a cousin of the wounded officer. He said, "Seems obvious to me what happened. From what I heard, Art was shot by that big-deal developer, Harley Sanford. What more do you need to know? That bastard isn't going to get away with this, is he?"

I said, "I wish it were that easy, but things are often not what they seem to be. The Chief is on top of it. You've got a..."

The kid jumped right up my frame, and maybe he had a right to. He snorted, "Aw, bullshit. You guys all say that but nothing ever really gets changed. If that guy gets away with this..."

Jean Douglas hurried into that breach and shushed her nephew with a soft reprimand. She told him, "The police are doing all they can."

This chief was able to speak for himself. He told the kid, "Sit down and behave yourself, Danny. This isn't the time for this."

Nothing is more disheartening than distraught loved ones demanding justice before the facts are in. But the kid had something. With Officer Douglas unable to contribute to the investigation and with Cindy Morgan silenced forever, we were back to square one.

Justice is not always a quick fix. As frustrating as it may sometimes be, frontier justice is a thing of the past. Modern police work is an endless round of legalities and technicalities, which often seem to do as much to frustrate justice as to serve it. Every cop recognizes the limitations of the system and any good cop knows that he has to operate within those limitations. I could sympathize with the families of victims such as Arthur Douglas. It all seems so cold and impersonal to the layman who is not familiar with all the nuances of the criminal justice system. It is frustrating for all of us, sure, and especially for the average cop who is charged with the preservation of our civilization. None of us who care want the cop to be above the law. But we should understand that he is working for all of us, in an uncertain and hazardous arena. As the last line between civilization and savagery, our cops must be supported. The alternative is chaos.

I went into the intensive care unit with the Chief. Douglas was heavily sedated and we both knew that there was nothing we could learn from him at this time, but it was more than a perfunctory call as neither of us had found the opportunity to examine the physical evidence.

This guy looked like death. He had been hit in both shoulders and took another slug in the upper chest, narrowly missing the heart. The surgeons must have had a hell of a time with this one. Tubes and hoses were strung all over the guy and several machines quietly monitored his tenuous hold on life. I was pleased to find that the chief had seen fit to order preservation of all of the physical evidence that had accompanied the officer in the ambulance. All of it had been professionally bagged and cataloged and was waiting for us in a corner of the room.

It would not seem logical that the man had been shot out of the blue for no reason. Drive-by shootings may be commonplace in my neck of the woods but I doubt that things could have gotten that bad in this small mountain community. And drive-by shootings are rarely, if ever, committed anywhere by respected citizens.

None of the eyewitnesses had actually identified Harley Sanford as the shooter—there was only a
tenative
I.D. of the car itself.

So... it followed that this daring attempted murder in broad daylight, directly outside the police station, in full view of numerous witnesses, was either an irrational random act or a calculated attack by a desperate man with everything to win and nothing to lose. I had to read it that way. So if Sanford had been the shooter, then what had driven him to risk it all? Had he really rolled the dice for keeps?

We went into the nurses' lounge and found a quiet place to go through the evidence. The Chief opened the bag and together we examined Officer Douglas's belongings. The contents revealed a man of precise organization who carefully arranged his working routines. Among other things we found were an expensive watch, a wallet with several credit cards and a little bit of cash, a police academy ring, address book, a pack of cigarettes neatly drilled dead center by a bullet, a lighter, a bloody shirt punctured by three bullets, two large-caliber, distorted slugs—one of the slugs was never recovered. It was notable that his gun had not been fired.

This was routine stuff except for the final item in the pocket of his bloodstained shirt. It was a note passed to Douglas by the police dispatcher, time-stamped at 12:45
p.m
. the day of the shooting:
Art—I'm worried. It's urgent that you meet me at the Chart House as soon as you start your shift. Cindy Morgan.

      
I told the Chief, "This could be pay dirt. Why do you think she sent an urgent message to one of your officers? How well did she know this guy?"

      
He said, "Hell, this is a small town, Joe. She's been living in Mammoth for at least five years and she has worked all over town. Christ, I don't know if they had anything going. Cops do get around..."

      
I said, "And so did Cindy. Do you know that she was seeing Sanford on a regular basis?"

      
He replied, "Yeah, everybody in town was whispering about them."

      
I asked, "Do you think Mrs. Sanford knew about it?"

      
"Well, she's no dummy."

      
"So what do you think we had going here? Looks to me like a lot of inner connections."

      
I was going through Douglas's address book. He was one of these guys who flags significant phone numbers. There was a flag on Janice Sanford, one on Cindy Morgan, and a double on Martha Kaufman, with both home and gallery emphasized.

      
But the biggest jolt of all...
Douglas had flagged my home address and telephone number in Los Angeles!

      
What the hell?

      
Something ominous was rumbling through my head, an expanding realization that I was embroiled in a web of intrigue and murder, extending from the Eastern Sierra halfway across the state to the metropolis of Los Angeles. The only connection I knew for sure was my marriage to Martha Kaufman—and I couldn't even remember that.

But what did I really know about any of these people? Could they be connected to my own shooting in L.A?

Was it possible that all these people had died because I had not!

CHAPTER TEN

i showed Chief
Terry the notation with my listing in Douglas's address book and asked him, "What do you know about this?"

The Chief gave me a puzzled look as he replied, "I don't know why he would have you in his book except that he had known Martha since they were kids. He probably knew that Martha had become involved with you, so maybe he just wanted to get your pedigree. I don't see anything sinister about that."

I said, "Yeah, but look at it, John. You've been a cop long enough to know that a series of killings does not exist in a vacuum. Shortly after Martha and I were married, somebody killed Martha and tried to kill me. I would call that a connection. To compound it, now, I have been back in town less than a day and already there have been two more shootings. I have to call that also a connection. Haven't you noticed the progression in Douglas's list? Is Janice Sanford the next victim?"

The Chief growled, "That's a hell of a stretch, isn't it? If you start suspecting everyone who knows all the victims, you have to include most of the people in my town."

I replied, "Who's talking about suspects? This is a

victim list. Douglas is a victim himself, not a suspect."

"Sure, but it's his list that is setting you off. Looks to me like you're trying to connect my officer with a string of killings."

I told him, "No, you've got your ass in this, John. It reads to me like maybe your cop was onto something. That could be why someone tried to take him out."

The Chief said, "Sorry... I was emoting, not thinking. You may be right there, Joe."

I said, "Yeah. Just how friendly were Douglas and Martha? You're a sensitive guy, and I appreciate that, but you've been a bit less than candid with me in regard to Martha. So stop being sensitive. What have you not told me about those two?"

The Chief gave me an embarrassed smile. "It didn't seem to be either pertinent or appropriate to talk about that. Look, Joe, Martha was a full-grown woman and certainly too young to be a widow forever. I'm sure you know that she had been dating before she met you. I was not intentionally being less than candid—I just did not see any relevance."

The Chief had buttoned up the evidence bag and we were preparing to get out of there when a disturbance outside the nurses' lounge attracted our attention. A youthful voice yelled, "Get down! Get down!"

We flew into the corridor to investigate the ruckus. Two men carrying sawed-off shotguns had invaded the waiting room and were moving swiftly toward the Intensive Care Unit. People were scattering in panic as though they had been ordered to hit the floor and were complying with all possible haste. The gunmen were professionals; there was no hesitation or confusion as they swept through the waiting area and unerringly along the hallway leading to the I.C.U.

They spotted us the moment we emerged and they were tracking down on us instantly. The Chief and I moved together almost like a team and hit the deck beneath a narrow ledge as two quick rounds exploded from both shotguns and shattered a window directly behind us. The shooters were experts and were not playing for effect. These were automatics and were limited only by the agility of the shooter. Two of them were laying down on us with murderous intent and the only thing that saved our day was the Chief's big .357 Magnum, which was bracketing them instantly with return fire. I yelled at him, "Toss me the bag!"

There were no standing targets out there. These guys were firing on the run. The Chief had already anticipated my play. He tossed me holster and all from the evidence bag and snarled, "You got it, bud!"

And just in time. I caught it on the slide and executed a perfect pirouette worthy of the
Bolshoi
Ballet and came up firing at the precise moment that two other deadly blasts shattered the doorway I had just vacated. After that stunt, I would recommend a twirl or two of police training with the
Bolshoi
; that one undoubtedly saved my life.

We were a pretty good team, each selecting his own target with calm precision and withering accuracy. The Chief cried, "These turkeys are ours, bud."

That much was obvious, and they knew it. They had already broken for a quick retreat. They did not make it. In a running firefight, the advantage is with the cooler hand. These two had made the mistake of trying to run and fight at the same time. I am proud to say that John Terry is a very cool hand under fire. His man took two big hits from the .357 that blasted him through a glass wall of the building onto the sidewalk outside. My target caught it at a dead run and was catapulted into a death slide that came to rest inside the waiting room.

The first one
off the floor was Douglas's young cousin, Danny. He yelled, "Is everyone okay?" A sharp kid who wasn't wet behind the ears anymore. He ran toward me as I cautiously approached the fallen body of the gunman I had taken down.

I warned the kid, "Careful there, careful, let's be sure this one is out of it."

But there was no cautioning this kid. I believe he would have attacked the dead body if I had not intervened. I firmly pushed him away and confirmed that the gunman was no longer a threat. The Chief had gone through the shattered window to verify his hit. Jean Douglas and other family members rose on shaky feet and were trying to get themselves together. Several of the women were weeping while others were nervously chattering about their close call.

A number of hospital workers were beginning to come forward and take charge of their hospital again. They were running from room to room, reasserting their control, professionally reassuring and calming frightened patients. A young doctor, who may have been an intern, was checking vital signs of the assailants. I could have told him with no medical training whatever that there would be no vital signs to record here.

The Chief vaulted over the window sash and back into the room, then quickly verified the condition of my man. He snorted, "Jesus! I think I'm flashing back to Vietnam!"

I told him, "Pal, I always want you on my side. That was a sweet shoot."

He replied, "Ditto double, bud. Obviously your rep is not all hype. Were you in 'Nam?"

I said, "No, I missed that one."

The Chief said, "Too bad. I've got to go check on Douglas." He disappeared into I.C.U. and returned momentarily and assured me, "It's all okay back there."

There were a lot of shocked and frightened faces in evidence but, thank God, no one else had been hurt, and that was amazing as the place looked like a war zone. There were holes in the walls, broken window glass littered the floor, and various pieces of medical equipment lay in disarray. You're normally not counting at a time like this, but there must have been at least a dozen shots fired all together from the shotguns; I remembered watching one guy coolly reloading at some point during this. It was a daring hit in every way, comparable to any big-city assassination attempt by the Mob.

There was already a response from two police agencies. A Mono County sheriff's car swooped in from one end while a city police car screeched through from the opposite side. These guys came in with guns drawn and prepared for whatever. They both seemed a bit disappointed to discover that the action had ended without them. Chief Terry called them over and updated them on the situation. Both officers then assisted in the interviewing of witnesses while Terry and I tried to get a make on the assassins.

These guys were real pros. There were no
I.D.'s
on the bodies and no hint as to their origins except for a General Motors automobile key found on one of them. Terry sent an officer outside to look for their car. It was instant pay dirt. A rented Chevy Caprice with the engine running was found parked illegally in a handicapped zone directly opposite the hospital entrance. We later discovered that the car had been stolen from a rental lot in Lake Tahoe.

I told the Chief, "I don't think these guys came gunning for you or me. Obviously they came to finish the job on Douglas."

"Obviously, yeah. So solve it for me, Joe."

I replied, "Screw you, pal, it's your town and your dirty laundry. Who was gunning for me in L.A.? Who killed Martha? Who needed Cindy and Douglas silenced? Who had the money to finance all of that? You've been telling me what a stand-up guy Sanford is, so where the hell is he now and who else do you know that could afford to finance all of this?"

The Chief said, "I love your simple fucking questions, Joe."

I said, "So why don't you give me a simple fucking answer, pal. Is Sanford bankrolling all this crap?—and is it conceivable that he would even have his own daughter hit?"

"Jesus, Joe, don't lay that on me. I can't get a handle on this kind of insanity. There's no logic. Why would Harley Sanford have his own daughter murdered?"

"For that matter, why have his lover murdered in his own car in a very incriminating manner? If you're going to kill someone and hope to cover it up, you don't do it the way this guy did it. This is a nutty case, but there is a logic at work here somewhere. We need to look closer at the Arthur Douglas connection. Let's go to his place."

Terry replied, "Just let me clear up a couple of important matters. I want a brief word with the Douglas family and I need to order an around-the-clock guard on his room."

"Good idea. I'll meet you outside. Could we grab a bite to eat along the way? I haven't eaten anything really since I hit town this morning. How about The Chart House?"

The Chief said, "Christ, you think of eating at a time like this?—oh, I think I know what you have in mind. Okay, right. I'll meet you in a minute."

I was happy to have a moment outside. The Chief was right, I really wasn't in that much of a mood for food at a time like this, but the connection between Douglas and Cindy was bothering the hell out of me. Something was cooking inside my skull and I needed to let it gestate.

Also I had to admit that the hunger pangs had begun working at me, despite the carnage, and for some odd reason a shooting like this always made me hungry. Maybe it was a defense mechanism having something to do with a release of tension in a time of stress. A lot of cops I have known developed weight problems, so maybe that has something to do with it.

      
Also, although it may sound paradoxical, it seemed that the stress was beginning to clear my head and I was feeling more like the old Joe again.

      
Yeah, the old Joe again, except that it felt like I was trying to claw myself out of the ninth ring of Hell. Even so, it was preferable to the confusion I had been experiencing the last twenty-four hours.

      
So welcome home, sucker.

      
Maybe you'll even be a cop again.