Across town for the drop-off: San Francisco Police Department, Detective Division HQ. Bud pinned on his badge, walked in.
Homicide on floor three--arrows painted on the wall pointed him up. Creaky stairs, a huge squad bay. Nightwatch lull: two men up by the coffee.
They walked over. The younger guy pointed to his shield. 'L.A., huh? Help you with something?'
Bud held his ID out. 'You've got an old 187, like one a pal of mine on the L.A. Sheriff's caught. He asked me to check out your case file.'
'Well, the captain's not here now. Maybe you should try in the morning.'
The older man checked his ID. 'You're the guy that's bugs on prostie jobs. The captain said you keep calling up and you're a royal pain in the keester. What's the matter, you got another one?'
'Yeah, Lynette Ellen Kendrick, L.A. County last week. Come on, ten minutes with the file and I'm out of your hair.'
The young guy: 'Hey, catch the drift? The captain wanted you to see the file, he woulda sent you an invitation.'
The old guy: 'The captain's a jack-off. What's our victim's name and DOD?'
'Chrissie Virginia Renfro, July 16, '56.'
'Well then, I'll tell you what you do. You hit the records room around the corner, find your 1956 unsolved cabinet and go to the R's. You don't take anything out and you skedaddle before junior here has a migraine. Got it?'
'Got it.'
o o o
Autopsy pictures: orifice rips, facial close-ups--pulp, no real face, ring fragments embedded in cheekbones. Wide-angle shots: the body, found at Chrissie's pad--a dive across from the St. Francis Hotel.
Pervert shakedown reports--local deviates brought in, questioned, released for lack of evidence. Foot fuckers, sadist pimps, Chrissie's pimp himself--in the Frisco City Jail when Chrissie was snuffed. Panty sniffers, rape-o's, Chrissie's regular johns--all alibied up, no names that crossed to the other case files he'd read.
Canvassing reports: local yokels, guests at the St. Francis. Six loser sheets, a grabber.
7/16/56: a St. Francis bellhop told detectives he caught Spade Cooley's late show at the hotel's Lariat Room, then saw Chrissie Virginia Renfro, weaving--'maybe on hop'--walk into her building.
Grabber--Bud sat still, worked it up.
Grab Lynette Ellen Kendrick, DOD L.A. County last week. Grab an unrelated snitch--Lamar Hinton stooling everything in sight. Grabs: Dwight Gilette--Kathy Janeway's ex-pimp----supplied whores for Spade Cooley's parties. Spade was an opium smoker, a 'degenerate dope fiend.' Spade was in L.A., playing the El Rancho Klub on the Strip-a mile from Lynette Kenthick's pad.
First glitch: Spade couldn't have a jacket, no way to check his blood type--he rode in Sheriff Biscailuz' volunteer posse--P.R. stuff--nobody with a yellow sheet allowed.
Keep grabbing, check the M.E.'s report, 'Bloodstream Contents.' Page 2, a scorcher--'undigested foodstuffs, semen, a heavily narcotizing amount of food-dispersed opium further verified by tar residue in teeth.'
Bud threw his arms up-like he could reach through the roof and haul down the moon. He banged the ceiling, came back to earth thinking--this was not a solo job, he was hiding out from Exley, Dudley just didn't care. He saw a phone, hit the ceiling, came down with a partner:
Ellis Loew--sex murders made him drool.
He grabbed the phone.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
Hilda Lefferts tapped a mugshot. 'There, that's Susan Nancy's beau. Will you take me home now?'
Bingo--a pudgy hardcase type, a real Duke Cathcart lookalike. Dean NMI Van Gelder, W.M., DOB 3/4/21. 5'8?', 178 lbs., blue eyes, brown hair. One armed-robbery bounce--6/42-- ten to twenty, released from Folsom 6/52, full minimum sentence topped--no parole. No further arrests--chalk it up to Bud White's theory--Van Gelder got it at the Nite Owl.
Hilda said, 'That's it--_Dean_. Susan Nancy called him 'Dean,' but he said, 'No, get used to calling me 'Duke.'''
Jack said, 'You sure?'
'Yes, I'm sure. Six hours of looking at these awful pictures and you ask me if I'm sure? If I wanted to lie I would have pointed somebody out hours ago. _Please_, Officer. First you fmd a body under my house, next you subject me to these pictures. Now will you please take me home?'
Jack shook his head no. Work it: Who? to Van Gelder to Cathcart to the Nite Owl. One parlay made sense-- the Englekling brothers to Cathcart to a brush with Mickey Cohen--in stir back in '53. He picked up the phone, dialed 0.
'Operator.'
'Operator, this is a police emergency. I need to be put through to somebody in administration at McNeil Federal Penitentiary, Puget Sound, Washington.'
'I see. And your name?'
'Sergeant Vincennes, Los Angeles Police Department. Tell them I'm on a homicide investigation.'
'I see. Circuits to Wasington State have been--'
'Shit. I'm at MAdison 60042. Will you--'
'I'll try your call now, sir.'
Jack hung up. Forty seconds by the wall clock--_bbring brinng_.
'Vincennes.'
'Deputy Warden Cahill at McNeil. This pertains to a homicide?'
Hilda Lefferts was pouting--Jack turned away from her. 'Yeah, and all I need's one answer. Got a pencil?'
'Of course.'
'Okay. I need to know if a white male named Dean Van Gelder, that's two separate words on the last name, visited an inmate at McNeil say from February through April 1953. All I need's a yes or no and the names of any inmates he visited.'
A sigh. 'All right, please hold. This may take a while.'
Jack held counting minutes--Cahill came back on at twelve plus. 'That's a positive. Dean Van Gelder, DOB 3/4/2 1, visited inmate David Goldman on three occasions: 3/27/53, 4/1/53 and 4/3/53. Goldman was at McNeil on tax charges. Perhaps you've heard--'
Work in Davey G.--Mickey Cohen's man. Work in Van Gelder's last visit--two weeks before the Nite Owl, the same time the Englekling brothers lubed Mickey--the meet where they spilled the smut plan. The prison man kept babbling--Jack hung up on him. The Nite Owl case started to shake.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
Ed drove Lynn Bracken home, a last shot before having her arrested. She protested, then went along: her day of truth dope, counterdope and browbeating showed--she looked frazzled, exhausted. Call her smart, strong and chemically fortified; she gave up nothing but Pierce Patchett crumbs--however she managed it. Patchett knew a whitewash wouldn't wash; Lynn funneled out her call girl tale--and Patchett had to have lawyers waiting in case that crumb went to indictments. Reopening day one was pure insane: Dudley Smith up in Gaitsville while his hot dogs shook down Darktown; Vincennes' body under the house and his ID on Dean Van Gelder--Davey Goldman's McNeil visitor pre--Nite Owl. Bud White for a runner, then his _Whisper_ leak breaking--he was a fool to trust him for a second. All of that he could take: he was a professional detective used to dealing with chaos.
But the Atherton case and his father circuiting in was something else. Now he felt suspended, one simple instinct running him: the Nite Owl had a life past any detective's volition--and the will to make its horror known whether he was there to probe evidence or not, whether he was capable of forming plans or just hanging on for the ride.
He had a plan to work Bracken and Patchett.
Lynn blew smoke rings out the window. 'Down two blocks and turn left. You can stop there, I'm right near the corner.'
