Eureka (39 page)

“That's correct.”

“How long have you been investigating Mrs. Wilensky's homicide?”

Templeton interrupted. “Mr. Schyler, I think I made it clear that the details of Mrs. Wilensky's death were immaterial to this procedure.”

“Yes, you did, sir, and I assure you this line of questioning is apropos to the matter at hand.”

“Alright,” Templeton said. “But I caution you, proceed with care.”

“Of course.”

He repeated the question.

“Ten days,” I said.

“Now, Sergeant, in the course of your investigation, did it become necessary to check into Mrs. Wilensky's background. By that, I mean to determine such things as date and place of birth, et cetera?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And please tell this tribunal what you learned about her personal history.”

“We couldn't establish anything prior to 1924.”

“No date of birth?”

“No, sir.”

“Place of birth?”

“No, sir.”

“Where she worked previously?”

“Sir, as far as we can determine, Mrs. Wilensky had no personal history prior to moving to L.A. in 1924.”

“In short,” Schyler said, “Mrs. Wilensky did not exist prior to 1924.”

“That is correct.”

“Is that a normal situation, Sergeant?”

“No.”

“And what conclusions, if any, did you draw from that?”

“That she changed her name prior to moving here.”

“And have you drawn any conclusions from these facts.”

“Not yet,” I said.

“So yours is a continuing investigation?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Oh yes, one other question. When did Mrs. Wilensky die?”

“May 25, about 7:30 p.m.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.” He turned to the tribunal.

“Any questions, gentlemen?” Schyler asked the tribunal.

Schyler had played it smart. Now it was up to the tribunal to ask the key question. The three men huddled together for a moment, then Templeton asked me, “Just for the record, Sergeant, what were the circumstances surrounding Mrs. Wilensky's death?”

“She was murdered, sir, and it was made to appear as an accident.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. You are excused.”

I returned to my seat in the first pew.

“I call Harvey Craddock,” Schyler said.

The big guard was a little befuddled at first. He held the hat over his gun and sneaked it back into its holster, then left his hat, and went to be sworn in.

“Mr. Craddock, where are you employed?”

“Wesco State Prison. I am captain of the guard.”

“So you know my client, Mr. Riker.”

“Oh yes, for the last six years.”

“Has Mr. Riker ever discussed the Wilma Thompson murder case with you, Captain?”

“Only every other day or so.”

“And what did he say?”

“He'd just go over the whole night, picking out things he said proved he was set up.”

“Did you believe him?”

“Nobody believed him.”

“Would you consider him a dangerous prisoner?”

“Well, he's what we call a firecracker. Got a short fuse. Light 'em and they blow up in your face.”

“And how many times did he blow up, Captain?”

Craddock paused for a few seconds before he answered.

“None.”

“Ever create a scene, argue with other prisoners?”

“No, sir.”

“In fact, he was the librarian, correct?”

“That is correct. Read four newspapers a day and could quote some of the stories almost word for word. Has an amazing memory.”

“Even taught some of the other inmates to read and write, did he not?”

“Yes, sir, about six of them as I recall.”

Templeton cut in.

“Mr. Schyler, is this testimony pertinent to anything?”

“Well, sir, my client here has been accused of a vicious crime. I think it is pertinent that he never gave any of the wardens in the prisons where he served time—San Quentin, Folsom, and Wesco—any problem. In fact, he was a model prisoner, helped other cons, was an avid reader.”

“You made your point, counselor.”

“Yes, sir,” Schyler said. He dismissed Craddock, went to his table, took a swig of water, and dabbed his lips with his handkerchief. Then he turned to the tribunal and said:

“Gentlemen, it is the opinion of Wilma Thompson's dentist and the coroner of this county that the woman known as Verna Hicks Wilensky was, in reality, Wilma Thompson. Think about that, gentlemen. You have heard from the investigating officer in the case of Mrs. Wilensky's murder that she appeared here in L.A. in 1924, more than a year after my client's conviction for murdering Wilma Thompson, and that he and his investigators cannot establish any trace of her prior to 1924. She had to come from somewhere, gentlemen. I would suggest that Wilma Thompson was not murdered in 1922, a non-crime for which my client, Arnold Riker, has served nineteen years' hard time in state prisons. I would also suggest, gentlemen, that the probability of Miss Thompson and Mrs. Wilensky
not
being the same person is infinitesimal. Think about it: two women of the same size with the same bridgework, the same scars, the same surgery to the nose; and, finally, the opinion of two expert witnesses that the two women are the same person. And possibly the most profound evidence of all—Miss Thompson's body never was recovered.

“Mr. Riker does not fit the usual profile of a cold-blooded killer. In nineteen years, he never created a disturbance. He taught fellow prisoners to read and write. Ran the library. His character, therefore, is not in contention. I therefore argue that Mr. Riker is absolutely and undeniably not guilty of murder, manslaughter, or anything else, and thus should be released immediately from incarceration. We appeal to you to determine that Mr. Riker may walk out of this courtroom today a free man. Thank you.”

The tribunal excused itself and went into an anteroom.

“What happens now?” I asked Cannon.

“They'll make their decision, call the governor, and make a recommendation. If the gov agrees, they'll come back in and announce that decision. If he doesn't agree, then Riker will have to sue the state and go through a retrial.”

I went outside for a smoke. The first person I saw was the last person I wanted to see. Jim Pennington.He came across the hallway.

“Thanks a lot, pal,” he said. “I was supposed to have the inside on this story, or did you forget that?”

“I couldn't stop Schyler from handing out the story that there would be a hearing, but the judge issued a gag order relating to the evidence.”

“He told everybody you were partners.”

“That'll be the damn day.”

“You could have tipped me. Maybe Schyler would've given me an exclusive.”

“You know he doesn't work that way, Jimmy. He gives it to everybody at the same time. He doesn't want to offend anybody, not even the scandal sheets.”

“So how do you think it's going to work out?”

“He's got a tough jury. Templeton, Levy, and Butcher.”

“Evasive. What's the evidence? You know Spring 'em. How many times has he bragged about evidence that fizzles in the home stretch? Have you guys really got something?”

“I'm not in bed with Schyler, damn it. I produced the evidence.”

“Why share it with him?”

“His client gave me the tip.”

“
Riker!
You believed something
Riker
said? Hell, he's been peddling bullshit for all those years.”

“It's not bullshit, Jimmy. I hate to say it, but I think Riker's going to walk.”

“What the hell has Schyler got?”

I hesitated. But any minute now the tribunal would come back and everybody would know anyway.

“Dental records,” I said.

“Dental records?”

“Think about it. As soon as the hearing's over, I'll give you my side of the story exclusively. I'm sure Schyler will have copies of all the evidence for the press.”

Moriarity stuck his head out of the room.

“They're coming back in, Zeke.”

“Is this on the level?” Pennington said.

“Yep,” I said, and returned to the council room.

The three wise men trooped into the room and took their seats. Templeton rapped the gavel.

“Gentlemen, it is the unanimous opinion of this panel that Mr. Riker was falsely imprisoned. The governor has accepted this verdict and has signed an executive order that exonerates Mr. Riker and vacates the verdict of the jury in his trial. Mr. Riker, you are released from custody.”

Bang!
went the gavel.

And Riker walked out of the room a free man.

CHAPTER 35

I sat in the first row and watched Riker swagger into the hallway, where he was immediately surrounded by reporters, photographers, and radio newscasters, all shouting questions at him as flashbulbs popped in his face. Behind him, wearing a Cheshire-cat smile, Schyler stood with his hands folded in front of him, watching the chaos and occasionally fielding a legal question. Bones, too, joined the madness, to explain how and why the tribunal had reached its decision. The three political appointees responsible for the madness scurried out a door in the front of the room and vanished.

I decided to follow them. I had nothing to say to the press. Bones, Riker, and Schyler would say enough. And now I had an open homicide on my hands that I didn't want to talk with the press about. In less than an hour, Riker's nineteen years behind bars had come to an abrupt end, and the verdict of the original jury had been thrown out on the testimony of a dentist, a coroner, and a cop. What had started as the simple investigation of an accidental death had escalated into a sensational murder case with lies, a frame-up, and vengeance at its heart, and political undertones stretching to the halls of the state lawmakers and the governor's mansion. All because the victim had too much money in her savings account and no early personal history—and her killer didn't know squat about electricity.

So I had a lot on my mind, not the least of which was Brodie Culhane. I had grown to like him in spite of myself, and yet there was an aura of corruption about him. Perhaps it was his way of brushing off the murder of Wilma Thompson Hicks Wilensky as if it were none of his concern. Perhaps it was the almost casual way he regarded Eddie Woods's murder of Fontonio. Now, more than ever, all roads led back to Culhane, San Pietro, and the events that had begun so many years ago in Eureka and culminated in Wilma's death. There was one character in the scenario who stood out in my mind, and I went to the hospital to talk it out with my partner.

Ski was half asleep when I entered the room.

“Feel like having a visitor?” I said.

“Hey, partner. What happened?”

“Riker walked.”

“Well, that's no big surprise.”

“Something still bothers me about this,” I said. “I can't put my finger on it. It's just out of reach.”

“About Riker?”

“Maybe. Hell, Schyler made him sound like Einstein. Son of a bitch read four papers a day and memorized every line. Taught other cons how to read and write. A real Boy Scout.”

“Don't let it get you down. You did what you had to. Was Culhane there?”

I shook my head. “I'm sure the boys in Sacramento are already busy trying to figure the best way to bring him down. They know they can handle either Osterfelt or Bellini if they get elected. They've got a string on both of them. But if Culhane wins, they got a maverick on their hands. He'll get rid of all the department heads, guys who've been there forever, break up the political machine . . . he'll drive them all nuts. Life isn't a cat, Ski, it never lands on its feet. Culhane is going down and Riker walks.”

“And we still got a homicide on our hands,” Ski said. “Probably what's bugging you has something to do with that. Right now, Culhane had the most to gain by her death.”

“I got my eye on Eddie Woods. He's the logical hit man and he knew about Wilma Thompson. He knew who she was. Hell, he sent one of the checks.”

“I wouldn't take him on alone.”

“Well, you sure as hell aren't gonna crawl out of bed and help me. This is nothing but a hunch, Ski. I can't put the arm on him with a bunch of guesswork.”

“Walk cautiously.”

“I'll keep in touch.”

“I'll be thinking. Hell, I got nothin' better to do.”

I went by the Olympic but Woods's office was closed up tighter than a miser's fist. I called Central and had the man on duty get Woods's unlisted phone number and address.

The house was in the Hollywood hills, a few blocks off Sunset Boulevard. It sat back from the street, behind a clump of trees and shrubs, a nice, one-story brick-and-redwood ranch. I drove up the driveway, which branched off at one end of the house toward a two-story attached garage, the other leg circling in front of the place.

Next door, a woman in a cotton dress was using an old-fashioned watering can to treat a cluster of thirsty lilies and carnations.

“I think they're probably on their boat,” she said as I got out of the car. “I haven't seen them since day before yesterday.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I'll just take a look around.”

She didn't seem too satisfied with the answer and watched as I knocked on the front door and peered through a living room window. I looked through the garage window, too. Two cars.

Bristles started tickling the back of my neck.

I went around to the back and checked the door to a screened-in porch. It was open.

Then I saw the hole.

A nice, clean, round hole about the size of a .32 slug in the glass panel of the back door.

The circle was bordered by streaks of amber. The color blood makes when it dries.

I looked through the window. A hallway led to what appeared to be the living room. To my left was the kitchen, connecting to the garage. To my right, what looked like a studio room, with a pair of legs in checkered pants on the floor leading into it.

Then the sweet smell of death eked through the bullet hole.

My heart was beating in my ears as I took out a pair of lock needles and jimmied the door open. The smell almost knocked me down. I covered my nose and mouth with a handkerchief and walked cautiously into the house.

Eddie Woods was lying on his side, one arm thrown back, the other trapped under his body. His eyes were half open, staring at the wall. His face was the color of dried putty. His light blue shirt was soaked in dried blood but the two bullet holes in his chest were obvious. He had bled out on an Oriental rug.

Across the room, his wife lay facedown on the floor, her cheek against the other end of the rug. She was a tiny woman, five-one or five-two, and dark-haired. She might have been pretty at one time. One arm was reaching toward a telephone on an end table. Her brown eyes were wide open and frozen in an expression of pure terror. A scream had died in her gaping mouth.

Two bullets in the back.

“Aw, damn it,” I said half aloud, and then let it all out. “GOD DAMN IT!”

I waited while Bones did the ABCs. Dead thirty-six to forty-eight hours. A .32 did the trick. All four hits were insurance shots. The killer had cut a square out of a side window with a glass cutter, and opened the window.

“My guess is, Woods and his wife came in through the garage door and walked through the kitchen,” Bones said. “The killer was waiting in the hallway. He popped Woods first, then the wife, who was trying to get to the phone.”

“Came in and waited, like he did for Verna Wilensky.”

“Yeah, a very patient killer. We'll dust the place for prints and I've got people checking the neighborhood. Got any ideas?”

“My idea is lying on the floor,” I said.

I left the investigation in the hands of Bones and two capable homicide dicks who were on duty, and headed away from the scene, my mind in a knot. I was a block away when the radiophone squawked on the dashboard. I snatched it up. It was Ski.

“I been trying to raise you,” he said. There was excitement in his voice.

“Eddie Woods and his wife are dead,” I said, and quickly gave him the necessary details.

“It fits,” he said excitedly.

“What do you mean?”

“You got me thinking,” he said. “All I got to do is lie up here, eat my pudding, and think.”

“And?”

“Something you said about Riker reading four newspapers a day and remembering every line.”

“Yeah?”

“So if he's such a genius, how come he missed that picture of Verna the first time it ran—last April?”

It took only a few seconds for me to see where he was headed.

“Keep talking.”

“Well, if he read it in April, how come he didn't get wacky about it until he saw it last Saturday?”

“Ski, you're a genius.”

I thought back to what the captain of the guard, Craddock, had said about visitors.

“One of the last visitors Riker had was an ex-con he bunked with for six months,” I said.

“What's his name?”

“Uh . . . Dahlmus. Henry Dahlmus. He did four years on a two-to-five for manslaughter.”

“ Is he on parole?'

“Yep. Six months ago.”

“Don't forget, pard, we got a fingerprint. If this Dahlmus was tried in Los Angeles County, we might have his prints in our own files.”

“I'm heading back to the records department,” I said.

Pulling the card on Dahlmus took fifteen minutes. The picture showed a short, chunky man with thick lips and a brush cut. I was more interested in the prints. The technician in the print department slipped the print we lifted at Wilensky's house on one side of the comparative microscope, and one by one fed Dahlmus's prints in the other side. After six tries, the tech looked at me and smiled. “Want to see something pretty?”

I looked in the scope. He had a match. No doubt about it.

Dahlmus was our killer.

I called Ski and gave him the news, but told him to keep it quiet until it broke in the newspapers. I owed Jimmy Pen that much.

I had the photo department run off a dozen copies of Dahlmus's mug shot and quickly typed out a physical description. Then I called Moriarity and ran the whole story by him. I had never heard Moriarity chortle before. It was nearly 4:00 p.m.

“We need Dahlmus alive,” I said. “He's the only one can tie the can on Riker's ass. Riker paid Dahlmus to kill Wilma and Eddie Woods. Revenge for framing him. And he raises a scandal Culhane can't ditch and ruins his hopes for governor.”

“Let's call the newsies and get this story in the late editions and on the radio,” he said. “Do you want to do the honors?”

“I've got an obligation to Jimmy the Pen,” I said. “I want to give it to him and sit on it until he has an exclusive. When he breaks it, everybody will run with it.”

“How much do we give them?”

“That there's an APB out for Dahlmus. That we have a positive identification from a print found in Verna Wilensky's house. That we're also looking for Riker, who's wanted for questioning. Let's leave Mendosa out of it for the time being, although my guess is, Riker's headed for Mendosa, if he isn't there already.”

“Okay, give it to Pennington,” Moriarity said. “It's a helluva story, Zee. Riker walks away a free man at noon, and by four he's on the run for complicity in killing the same person he didn't kill the first time, plus two others.”

We hung up and I called Pennington at the
Times
. I caught him as he was walking out the door.

“How'd you like an update on the Riker story?” I asked.

“Gonna to be hard to top the one I got already,” he said.

“Everybody's got that story. This one's a banner above the fold.”

“I'm all ears.”

“How about this for a headline: Henry Dahlmus, Former Riker Cellmate, Sought for Murder of Wilma Thompson. Riker to Be Questioned. And a side story: Dahlmus Also a Suspect in the Murder of Private Detective Eddie Woods and Wife.”

Pennington almost jumped through the phone.

“I'll come over and give you the details along with his mug shot,” I said. “Can you make the final? I want to spread his picture all over town.”

“I'll get the desk to hold the first pressrun. We can replate the front page with a banner head and run this story as a box.”

“I'm on my way,” I said.

Before I left, I called Millicent and gave her a quick version of what was happening.

“It's gonna be a busy night,” I said.

“I'll wait up,” she answered.