came out to meet us as we parked behind the patrol car. He was Officer Ward King, he told us, and his partner was Howell Garrett.
“What’ve we got?” I asked after the introductions. King ran the essentials as we headed toward the front door:
“Verna Wilensky. Mid to late forties. Lived alone-her husband was killed in a 126 four years ago. Lived here about sixteen years, owns the house. The woman next door found her. Garrett’s talking to her and her husband now.”
“Good enough,” I said. “Keep them on tap, we’ll want to talk to them, too. Any idea how long she’s been dead?”
“No, sir, but judging from conditions in there, my guess is since last night.” Agassi checked his watch. It was 7:18. He sighed with resignation.
The sickening, sweet smell of death tickled my nose as we entered the house. King took a small jar of Mentholatum from his pocket and handed it to me.
“You may need this,” he said. I dipped a dab from the jar with my index finger and spread it under my nose.
Ski did the same, saying, “Jesus, I hate this.”
“I know you do,” I said gently. After three years together, there wasn’t a lot we didn’t know about each other.
The house was neat as a Marine barracks, nicely appointed with expensive furniture. There were framed prints by the Masters on the walls. A leather sofa, with two easy chairs facing it, dominated the center of the room. A large etagere that looked like an antique commanded one wall and the floor was covered with a Turkish rug. In one corner was a large, cathedral-style, ebony Magnavox with a Stendhal turntable attached to it. I didn’t know much about furniture but I knew record players. The Stendhal was the best turntable made, with a price tag that would scare John Rockefeller.
Two windows were open, their chintz curtains fluttering in the breeze.
“I opened the windows to air the place out,” King explained. “It’s back this way.” He clicked on his flashlight and led the two of us through a bedroom with a large canopied bed to the bathroom.
I suddenly said, “Chester Weatherspoon.”
“Huh?” Agassi said.
“I just remembered the name of a guy who killed himself out here a few years ago,” I said.
“Terrific,” Agassi said, and rolled his eyes at King.
“You’ll need this, Sergeant,” King said, and handed me the torch. “The fuse is blown but I didn’t want to touch anything until you got here.”
“Good procedure,” I said. “How about Bones?”
“On his way.”
It was a large bathroom, about eight by eight. King’s torch picked out the details of the room. Facing us: a large old-fashioned tub with legs that looked like the paws of a gryphon, a window behind it with a dark shade pulled down. To our right: the sink, imbedded in a large counter covered with jars of creams, expensive brands, not the kind you find in Woolworth’s, a sterling silver comb and brush, a bottle of Chanel No. 5, a pair of clip-on earrings, a tube of toothpaste, a small hand-painted jar filled with bobby pins. Above the sink: the medicine cabinet, with a shelf between sink and chest. The side of the shelf near the tub was wrenched away from the wall and slanted toward the floor. To the left: the toilet, with a bathrobe carefully folded on it and a pair of slippers beside it, a door that I assumed led to a closet, and a full-length mirror. A small stool squatted beside the tub. On the stool: a candlestick holder almost obscured under the melted remains of a taper, a drinking glass with a half inch of clear fluid in the bottom, a pack of Chesterfields, a leather-and-chrome Ronson cigarette lighter, an ashtray. A couple of movie magazines lay on the floor beside the stool.
The stench was much stronger than in the foyer. Ski took out his handkerchief and held it over his nose.
“Why don’t you go in the living room, check out the desk,” I said. “Get a line on survivors. We’re going to have to notify somebody about this.”
“Thanks,” Agassi said, and hurriedly left the room.
Then to business.
Verna Wilensky looked to be about five-three or five-four and heavy for her size, one-fifty, maybe one-sixty pounds. Her dark hair was cut in a pageboy. Her eyes were open and her face was beginning to bloat. She was lying on her left side, her right arm bent at the elbow and trapped under her body, her left arm floating half submerged like a water-soaked tree branch. Both hands were tight-fisted. Her knees were doubled up as if she were sitting sideways in the tub. Her face was underwater. The radio lay against her left shoulder. There appeared to be scorch marks on her shoulder and a dark bruise on her right temple just above her ear.
“I hate it when they die alone,” King said.
“Everybody dies alone,” I answered. “Get used to it.”
We heard the siren of the meat wagon as we walked back outside, and a moment later it pulled into the driveway behind the DeSoto. The coroner, Jerry Wietz, fondly known as Bones, got out and stepped over the small fence as he walked across the lawn to the porch. He was about six feet tall and skinny as a scarecrow, with short- cropped white hair and jet-black eyebrows over brown eyes.
“Hi, Zeke,” he said, offering me a stick of Juicy Fruit gum. “What’ve we got?”
“Widow named Verna Wilensky. Mid forties. Dead in the bathtub. Her radio’s in the tub with her. Next-door neighbor tagged her about half an hour ago.”
I didn’t offer any more information or make any suppositions. I knew Bones liked to work from scratch.
“Well, let’s take a peek,” the coroner said. I led him and his photographer to the scene, offering him King’s torch.
“The radio’s still plugged in,” he said.
Bones turned to King and said, “The fuse box is probably in the kitchen, son. If you don’t find a spare thereabouts, use a penny. Got a penny?”
“Yes, sir.”
King left. Bones unplugged the radio and draped the cord over a corner of the sink counter. He turned his chin up an inch or two and sniffed the air, then aimed the light into the tub, slowly swept the length of the body with the light, reached in, and touched her throat.
“Happened last night,” he said.
A minute later, the lights came on. He gave me the flashlight, walked slowly around the entire inner periphery of the room, his eyes checking everything, and said to his cameraman: “Wide-shot from the door, close-up of the shelf where it’s pulled out from the wall there, full on the tub, two snaps of the body from feet and head, a full of her, and a tight on her head and shoulder. Also a close-up of the stool.”
He picked up the glass with his index and middle fingers, took a whiff.
“Gin drinker,” he said, and put it back.
“I’m gonna have a chat with the neighbor while you’re doing your work,” I said.
I gave King his flashlight and went next door.
Garrett, a beefy cop who talked in a half-whisper, filled me in on the details. According to the neighbors, Loretta and Jimmy Clark, Verna Wilensky was their best friend. She had come home, as usual, at 5:30 p.m. the night before. They had chatted for a minute or two, then Wilensky had decided to mow the lawn. When darkness crept up on her, she went inside. The DeSoto was in the driveway when Clark and her husband left for work that morning, which was normal. When they got home and the car was still in the same place and the yard still half- mown, Mrs. Clark had gone over to check on her. The front door was unlocked, as were most front doors in the neighborhood, and her nose led her the rest of the way.
“Good enough,” I said. “I’ll take it from here.”
Loretta Clark was a wisp of a woman, her hair cut in a bob. Her blue eyes were red from crying and she clutched a lace handkerchief in her hand like she was afraid it would fly away. Jimmy Clark was a slab of a man, with stooped shoulders, very little hair, a bulge for a stomach, and eyes fading with age. She did most of the talking.
“How long has Mrs. Wilensky lived here?” I asked, after expressing my condolences.
“We moved here in ’27,” she said.
