been carrying their investigation along those lines, questioning burglars known to use violence and getting no results, until the intervention of Detective Underhill, who was then assigned to patrol duties.
In a formally signed statement to the press, Detective Underhill, 27, said: 'When I was working Wilshire Patrol earlier this year, my partner and I discovered the body of a young woman. She had been strangled. When the Cadwallader case made the papers, I noted similarities between the two deaths. I began an investigation of my own, and brought my evidence, which at this time I cannot discuss, to Lieutenant Dudley Smith. Lieutenant Smith headed the investigation, which led to the arrest of Edward Engels.'
Lieutenant Smith praised Underhill for his 'grand, splendid police work' and went on to say, 'We got Engels through dogged police work; long stakeouts at the many bars where he went looking for lonely women. His arrest is a victory for justice and a moral America.'
Links to More Victims Sought
In his rich brogue, the Irish-born L.A.P.D. lieutenant, 46, with 23 years on the force, continued: 'I believe the tragic Miss Cadwallader is just the tip of the iceberg. Engels is a known degenerate who has frequented bars catering to his kind in the Hollywood area for many years. We know for a fact that he picks up women in cocktail lounges and pays them to be beaten. I strongly believe Engels to be responsible for at least half a dozen strangulation killings of women over the past five years throughout Southern California. I hope to persuade the district attorney to launch a massive investigation along these lines.'
I couldn't think for my sudden anger. Hurriedly, I read through the front pages of the Santa Barbara paper. There was nothing new, they copied the
Dudley Smith, the fat-mouthed glory-monger, was pulling out all the stops in his monomania. I was covered, but he was out to hang fresh victims on the head of a one-time murderer.
I ran back to the hotel, bursting through the foyer and taking the stairs three at a time. The door to our room was open, and Lorna was sitting in an armchair, smoking contentedly and reading a Santa Barbara tourist brochure.
I flung the newspapers at her lap. 'Read these, Lorna,' I said.
She did, after giving me a long, concerned look. I watched her read. When she finished, she said, 'It's nothing I didn't expect.'
'What do you mean?'
'I knew Smith would milk it for all it was worth.'
'You don't know him, Lor. Not like I do. He'll try to pin everything from the Johnstown flood to World War II on Engels. He's out of his goddamned mind!'
Lorna smiled and took my hands. 'Freddy, did Eddie Engels kill Margaret Cadwallader?'
'Yes, but—'
'Be still. Then he's in custody where he belongs. And you put him there, not Dudley Smith. If you're worried about Smith starting some insane, far-flung investigation that would involve you, forget about it. The D.A. would never authorize it.'
I calmed down, slightly. 'Are you sure?'
'Yes. He would never spend the money. He believes in letting sleeping dogs lie. You think Engels is innocent of those other killings?'
'Yes. He killed Cadwallader, and that's it.'
Lorna took my face in her hands and kissed it several times, softly. 'You are beginning to care about justice, darling,' she said, 'and it's a wonderful thing to see.'
'I'm not sure of that.'
'I am. Did you read the story on the twelfth page of the
'No.'
'Good. Then I'll read it to you.' Lorna put out her cigarette and cleared her throat. 'The title is 'Hailing a True-Life Hero,' and the subtitle is 'Policeman Is a One-Man Crimestopper Wave!' Here we go: 'Detective Frederick U. Underhill, twenty-seven, is the youngest officer to achieve that rank in the history of the Los Angeles Police Department. He is not your average cop. He is a 1946 graduate of Loyola College who didn't want to be a college man. He fought tenaciously to enter the service during World War II, petitioning the draft board several times to let him enlist, despite his punctured eardrum. He was refused, and made the most of his college years, graduating magna cum laude with a degree in history. Detective Underhill is an orphan, and possessed the highest grade point average ever achieved at the St. Brendan's Home for Children. Monsignor John Kelly, principal of St. Brendan's High School, where Underhill attended, said, 'Fred's recent successes as a police officer don't surprise me at all. He was a hard-working, devout boy who I knew was destined for great things.'
''But what things! Underhill has said, 'I have never wanted to be anything but a cop. It's the only life I have ever considered.'
''And we, the citizens of Los Angeles, are the lucky benefactors of Fred Underhill's boyhood decision to seek the selfless life of a police officer. Item: while working as a patrolman in the Wilshire Division, Fred Underhill had more felony arrests to his credit than any officer at the station. Item: Fred Underhill had one of the highest academic averages ever to come out of the Police Academy. Item: Captain William Beckworth, Underhill's former watch commander at Wilshire, called him, 'The greatest natural policeman I have ever encountered.' Heady praise indeed, but backed up by fact: in February of this year, Officer Fred Underhill shot and killed the two armed robbers who had just robbed a market. His partner died in the shootout. Now the cracking of the baffling Margaret Cadwallader case, both within one year.
''The Korean War rages on. Overseas we are at a standstill with the communist enemy. On the home front, the war against crime wages on. It is a war that will regrettably always be with us. Thank God men like Detective Fred Underhill will always be with us.''
Lorna finished with a flourish and swooned in a parody of lovestruck awe. 'Well, Officer Fred?' she said.
'They forgot to say I was tall, handsome, intelligent, and charming. That would have been the truth. However, they opted for horseshit—it reads better. They couldn't very well have said that I was an atheist draft dodger and, before you, a pussy-chaser on the prowl . . .'
'Freddy!'
'It's the truth. Oh, shit, Lorna, I'm so goddamned tired of this thing.'
'Are you really, dear?'
'Yes.'
'Then will you do me two favors?'
'Name them.'
'Don't mention the case for the rest of the weekend.'
'Okay. And?'
'And make love to me.'
'Double okay.' I reached for Lorna, and we fell laughing onto the bed.
Sometime later, we called room service for two trout dinners that arrived on a linen-covered pushcart, delivered by a bellboy who rapped discreetly on the door and called out softly, 'Supper, folks!'
After eating, Lorna lit a cigarette and eyed me with warmth and much humor. Somehow it brought forth in me a huge rush of curiosity, and I said, 'Turnabout, Lorna?'
'Turnabout?'
'Right. You wanted to know about the missing hours in my life . . .'
'All right, darling, turnabout. After the accident, much self-pity: feeling trapped, a saintly dead mother, a fat sister, a buffoon for a father, and all the goddamned operations—and false hopes and speculations and guilt and self-hatred and anger. And the detachment. That was the worst of all. Knowing I was not of this time and place—or any time and place. Then learning to walk all over again, and feeling joyous until the doctor told me I could never have children. Then awful, awful bitterness and the little lessons in acceptance.'
'What do you mean, Lor?'
'I mean never knowing when my bad leg would go out completely, and I'd fall on my ass. It always seemed
