Knights of the Blood (10 page)

Up close, the door to the house looked as if you could bounce cannon balls off it, and as Drummond pressed the polished brass bell, he could hear the distant sound of muffled chimes. After a few minutes, the door was opened by a thick—set Mexican woman wearing a maid’s uniform.

“May I help you?” she asked.

Drummond produced his badge. “I’m looking for a Mr. Lincoln Sprague,” he said.

The woman eyed him impassively. “Please wait here, senor,” she said, and closed the heavy oak door.

A few moments later the door was reopened, and Drummond was ushered in. The walls in the entryway were covered with blue and white tiles, and the floor was done in large terracotta slabs. A fountain dominated the center of the entry, its gentle splashing sound almost as cooling as the air—conditioning itself. The maid led Drummond past the fountain and into a small white—washed room with a high beamed ceiling. As he entered, a petite, well—dressed woman somewhere in her sixties stood up and extended her hand.

“How do you do? I’m Cecelia McBain.”

Drummond took her hand and introduced himself. “Captain John Drummond, ma’am. I’m looking for Mr. Lincoln Sprague,” he began.

Mrs. McBain interrupted him. “Is Linc in any trouble, Mr. Drummond?”

“No, ma’am. I’d just like to talk to him, if I could.” Drummond found the woman’s concern somehow touching.

“If you give me your word that you won’t arrest him ... . “ Her voice trailed off, and she stared intently at Drummond.

“Scout’s honor, ma’am.” Drummond grinned and held up the first three fingers of his right hand.

“That’s fine, then. I’ll call him over now.” She picked up a telephone and turned to the maid who had reentered the room. “Two iced teas, Maria.” Then she dialed Lincoln Sprague’s extension.

Lincoln Sprague was tall, and well—built for a man in his seventies. He was dressed in a black threepiece suit with a crisp white shirt and black silk tie. When he entered the room, he looked past Drummond as if he wasn’t present and addressed himself only to Mrs, Mcbain.

“You called for me, Miss Cecelia?”

“Yes, Lincoln. This gentleman,” she gestured toward Drummond, “would like a few words with you. If you’ve no objection.”

Lincoln looked at Drummond for a long second before he replied. “No, Miss Cecelia, I’ve got no objections at all.”

“Very well, then. You may speak here, if you wish. Or if you’d prefer, you may take Mr. Drummond to the coach house.” Mrs. McBain stood and extended her hand to Drummond.

“It has been a pleasure meeting you. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” So saying, she turned and walked toward the door that Lincoln Sprague now held open for her. As she was leaving, Drummond heard her tell Maria to serve the iced tea in the coach house.

Drummond followed Lincoln back to the garage, and was impressed the moment he walked through the door. The garage contained three Rolls—Royce motor cars and a Bentley. All were in immaculate condition, and all were at least thirty years old,

“This is quite a collection, Mr. Sprague. Do you drive all of them?” Drummond was admiring a red Silver Wraith fitted with the most extravagant two—passenger convertible body he had ever seen.

“No, sir, I don’t.” Lincoln took a soft cloth from out of his pocket and wiped an errant smudge from the door handle of the dark blue limousine next to him. “Miss Cecelia drives the Bentley, and when he was alive, Mister Mac drove the two—seater. I drive the blue car, and in the evenings when the weather is fine, I take Miss Cecelia out in the tourer.”

Drummond looked at the tourer, a dark claret—colored Rolls—Royce convertible fitted with a small windshield between the front and rear seats. Lying on the pale gray leather of the rear seat was a mink wrap, casually tossed to the side in case the weather should turn chilly.

“Yup. We used to have some great times taking these cars up to the big house in Montecello.” Lincoln took a sip from his iced tea. “But you didn’t come here to look at the cars, sir. What can I do for you?”

Drummond set down his empty glass on a small desk in the corner of the garage. “Mr. Sprague, I’m hoping you can tell me something about a case your brother was working on in 1972.”

Over the next half hour, John Drummond explained the details of the case he was studying, in the hopes that he might gain some further information from Jackson Sprague’s brother. Despite Lincoln’s willingness to discuss his late brother’s career, he was unable to offer any insights into the murder case his brother had been working on nearly twenty years before.

Finally, it was time to go. As Drummond made to leave, he turned to Lincoln with a final question.

“Lincoln, does Mrs. McBain ever drive the RollsRoyces herself?”

“No, sir.” Lincoln Sprague smiled. “Miss Cecelia says that a lady or a gentlemen
drives
a Bentley, but is
driven
in a Rolls—Royce.” He laughed softly. “She’s right, too. You see all these people driving up and down in Beverly Hills in their Rolls—Royces–well, they might be rich, but not one of them’s a lady or a gentleman. Like Mister Mac used to say, ‘Any fool can make money, but only God can make a gentleman.’ He surely was a gentleman.”

“So are you, Linc.” Drummond pulled out his wallet, “Here’s my card. Call me if you remember anything. “

Walking past the red Rolls—Royce convertible, Drummond tried to imagine what it must have been like, cruising up Pacific Coast Highway toward Santa Barbara in the late 1940s with the top down, and Lincoln following behind with the luggage. “Wonderful” was the only adjective that came to mind.

* * *

Several days later, John Drummond was taking care of the routine paperwork that occupied most of his time in Homicide Division when a cadet officer escorted the tall black man with the visitor’s badge clipped to his immaculate black suit into his office.

“Visitor, Captain,” the cadet said.

Looking up, Drummond recognized the visitor at once.

“Mr. Sprague, what a pleasant surprise.’ Come on in and sit yourself down.”

“Thank you,” said Sprague, easing himself into the chair opposite Drummond’s desk.

“Coffee?” Drummond offered as he moved a stack of papers from in front of him.

“No, thanks, I can only stay a minute. I have something for you that might be useful. After you left the other afternoon, I went out to my son’s home. He’s a manager with Safeway Stores, lives out in North Hollywood. Anyhow, I keep a bunch of boxes of stuff in his garage, including some things of my brother’s.

Lincoln shifted in the uncomfortable chair. “Well, I went scratching through his stuff, and I found his notebooks–what he used to call his ‘Copcyclopedia’–and some official—looking papers in an old manila envelope, I brought them along, just in case you could use ‘em.”

“Well, that’s great, Mr. Sprague. Thank you very much. I really appreciate it. If there’s any way I can return the favor ...”

“There is, Captain.” Lincoln Sprague grinned. “You can haul all that stuff out of the trunk of my car. “

Sprague was parked in the underground lot behind Parker Center, and was waiting patiently next to a dark blue Mercedes when Drummond drove up in his BMW.

As Drummond got out of his car, Sprague opened the Mercedes’ trunk.

“I’m surprised, Mr. Sprague. I thought you’d be in one of the Rolls’,” said Drummond.

“No, sir. I prefer German engineering to Old World craftsmanship. Besides, my kids gave me this car for my sixty—fifth birthday. Now, how’s that for a present?” Lincoln Sprague smiled in pure delight.

“Unbeatable,” said Drummond as he shifted the two boxes from one car to another. “You sure must have a great family.”

“I do, indeed.” Lincoln carefully closed the trunk lid of his Mercedes, then turned back to Drummond.

“You know, it would mean a lot to me and my family if this could close the file on Kingfish’s case.” Lincoln put out his hand. “Good luck, Captain Drummond.”

The two men shook hands, then climbed into their cars and went their separate ways. Lincoln Sprague went back to the gentle elegance of old San Marino, and John Drummond returned to the tedium of the paperwork sitting on his desk. By end of the watch, at four o’clock, Drummond was able to put most of the forms in the “out” basket on his desk, switch off his computer, and knock off for the day.

He followed surface streets home, avoiding the mess that the Hollywood and Harbor Freeways were at that time of day, and was soon headed out Sunset Boulevard toward the beach, well ahead of the heavy rush hour traffic.

Half an hour later, he was stepping out of the shower in his beachfront condominium and climbing into a well—worn pair of Levi’s. He pulled a navy blue Lacoste shirt over his head and slipped on a pair of canvas deck shoes before heading into the kitchen to pour himself an iced tea. Then he turned on the stereo and sat down in front of Lincoln Sprague’s boxes.

It was nearly eleven when Drummond stopped to build a sandwich and pull a cold bottle of
Dos Equis
from the refrigerator. Returning to the paperwork covering his table, he carefully made room for the sandwich and beer before picking up the small spiralbound steno pad he had saved until last.

It was what he’d hoped he’d find. Not only had Jack Sprague carefully cataloged all of the murders, he had also listed his leads and, best of all, had written down his hunches–those invisible sixth—sense feelings that all policemen get when working on a case–no matter how trivial.

Drummond read with wonder and amazement. Sprague had not only been a good cop, he had been a damn good cop. From his notes, it was possible not only to reconstruct the case but to see who the prime suspect in the murders had been. Sprague had been able to interview this suspect twice, and had felt so strongly about the person’s guilt that he had gone to the DA’s office to swear out an arrest warrant.

Two days later, the shit had hit the fan. Sprague’s notebook gave the complete picture:

21 July: Went with file and partner to DA to collect warrant for arrest of suspect. Arrived office 1015 hrs and was asked to wait in DA’s lounge. 1242 hrs: Deputy DA asks Demitter and self to accompany him to office of District Attorney. 1255 hrs: DA tells us that case is closed, and hands us court order to deliver all files to his office by 1400 hrs or face arrest for contempt of court. Deputy DA accompanies us back to Parker Center, and all files are transferred to his custody in presence of Watch Commander at 1325 hrs. Code 7 at 1330 hrs. 1445 hrs: Called into Captain’s office and told to forget entire episode or could cost my badge. As I leave, Demitter called in, presumably for same warning. This is bullshit.

The rest of the notebook was blank, but it told Drummond all he needed to know. The reason for the dummy file was clear. For some reason, the City of Los Angeles had decided to cover up the murders of six young men, all between the ages of 16 to 24.

Drummond stared at the papers piled on the table in front of him. He had more than a class project to work on now. He had a twenty—year—old series of homicides to clear up.

Finishing the last of his beer, he decided that first thing in the morning he’d pay a call on the man named in the warrant: a Father Francis Freise.

DRUMMOND
pulled off the Harbor Freeway at Soto Street and drove the six blocks to Saint Agatha’s Catholic Church. The barrio–East L.A.–hadn’t come to life yet, but Drummond still was wary about leaving the BMW on the street, even in front of a church. Still, it couldn’t be helped. Parking the dark red sports car directly in front of the doors, he set the alarm and climbed the steps, only to find the doors locked. A small sign in Spanish gave the Mass times and indicated that anyone needing the priest should call at the rectory around the corner.

Drummond climbed back into his car and drove to the rectory, pulling the car onto the parched lawn, rather than risk leaving it on the street. His knock was answered by a young man in a tank top, basketball shorts, and sandals.

“Good morning. I’m looking for Father Francis Freise, and wonder if you might be able to help me,” Drummond said.

“Father Freise, huh?” the young man answered. “I don’t know, that’s well before my time here. Come on in and I’ll see what I can do for you. Oh, uh, I’m Father Tom Berringer,” he said sticking out his hand.

“John Drummond,” was the reply, as the two men briefly shook hands.

“Have a seat, Mr. Drummond, and I’ll see if the parish register has any information on Father Freise.”

The priest left the room and returned a few minutes later carrying a worn—out address book.

“Let’s see,” he said, thumbing through the pages. “Yeah, here it is.” He wrinkled his brow. “That’s funny. It says to forward all his mail to the archbishop. Huh. He left here about twenty years ago, and there’s no forwarding address.” He looked up at Drummond. “’Fraid that’s about it. Why are you looking for Father Freise, anyhow?–if you don’t mind my asking.”

“He and my dad went to school together, and he wanted me to try and track him down for a class reunion,” Drummond lied.

“Well, sorry I can’t help you. You might try the chancery office, though.” Father Tom started to stand up, then changed his mind. “Maybe Mrs. Gonzales would know. She used to take care of the priests here at Saint Agatha’s, back in the sixties and seventies.” He flipped through the address book again. “Yeah, here she is.” He picked up a note pad and pencil and scribbled out the address. “Lupe Gonzales. She lives out in Montebello.” He handed Drummond the piece of paper. “Maybe she can help you. Hope so.”

Both men stood and walked out onto the porch, where the BivIW had already attracted a swarm of fascinated young Chicano boys, who scattered as Drummond and the priest emerged.

“Wow, is that your Beemer?” Father Tom asked.

“Mine and the bank’s,” was Drummond’s reply.

“You know,” said Father Tom, “sometimes I almost wish I hadn’t decided to be a priest. I really love cars.”

Back on the freeway, Drummond drove as though on auto—pilot, his thoughts focused on the thus far elusive Father Francis Freise. He put his foot to the floor as he swung the BMW through the interchange and onto the Pasadena Freeway, and the red car shot forward, settling onto its springs as it hugged the gentle curve of the transition onramp. Ahead of him, Drummond saw a Porsche 928 sitting in the number three lane, moving along in the sparse Saturday morning traffic at a steady sixty. Holding the throttle to the floor, Drummond shot past him at nearly twice his speed and, with a deliberate push on the wheel, changed lanes to merge onto the Glendale Freeway. He lifted off slightly as the speedo needle touched 130, settling back to a solid one hundred miles per hour as the car sped up the Glendale Freeway and merged into the Foothill Freeway.

Traffic thickened, and Drummond slowed to a safer 55—60 miles per hour as he continued east, eventually making the transition to the 605 Freeway. Half an hour later, he was pulling into the last remaining A& W Root Beer stand in the San Gabriel Valley for a quick lunch. While he waited for his food to be brought to his car, Drummond stared at a faded Norman Rockwell print plastered against the wall of the drive—in.

A fresh—faced blonde in a car—hop’s uniform was offering a tray of chili—dogs and root beers to an all—American family in a maroon sedan. Judging by the kids’ crew—cuts, the father’s hat, and the mother’s gloves, Drummond figured that the poster had to date from the forties or early fifties. America, locked in a time capsule, and hidden behind a drive—in.

The chili—dog wasn’t the greatest, but the frosty mug of creamy root beer more than made up for it. Drummond turned on his headlights, signaling to the car—hop that he was through. A heavyset teenager sitting in the shade of the building by the kitchen carne over and sullenly took the tray from the side of the car. As she waddled back to the shade, Drummond reflected how different the reality had become in just two generations.

Drummond had a quick look in his Thomas Brothers Street Guide and verified the location of Lupe Gonzales’ street before pulling out of the A& W parking lot and heading back onto the freeway. Twenty—five minutes later, he was knocking on Mrs. Gonzales’ door.

The house was one of half a dozen Spanish—style houses on the street, with glaring white walls and reddish pink tiles on the roof. Unlike the others, it had a deep green lawn, with neatly trimmed shrubs flanking the large French—paned window. His knock was answered by Mrs. Gonzales, who allowed him in only after thoroughly scrutinizing his police ID.

“Do please sit down,” she said, her English only slightly softened by her Californio accent. “Now,
Capitan,
what can I do for you?”

“Well,” he began, “1 was hoping you could put me in touch with Father Francis Freise.”

“What makes you think I could do that?” she asked.

“Father Tom, over at Saint Agatha’s, thought you might know where Father Freise is.”

She stared at Drummond for a few moments before she next spoke. “Why do you want to contact Father Freise?”

Drummond thought about lying, telling her that he was helping out his father with a class reunion, but looking around the room he decided against it.

On every wall there hung a crucifix, with small votive candles set below them, and over the door at every window, garlands of garlic were strung, as though Mrs. Gonzales were trying to prevent some sort of evil spirit from entering her house.

“I need him to help me with a problem,” he said truthfully.

“You’re not going to arrest him?” she said. “No, not at all. I just need to speak with him, to talk with him about something that happened a long time ago.”

Mrs. Gonzales pulled a crucifix out from under a pillow on the couch next to her. “Kiss this,” she said, “and swear to God that you are telling me the truth.”

Drummond reached over and took the cross from her trembling hands. Gently he brought it to his lips and kissed it. “I swear to God,” he said. “That’s all I want to do.”

Mrs. Gonzales looked relieved, but obviously was still unsure whether she should trust Drummond.

“Okay,” she said at last. “Give me your address and I’ll pass it on to Father Freise.”

Drummond wrote his home phone number on the back of one of his cards and passed it over to Mrs. Gonzales, then rose to go.

“Thank you very much, ma’am,” he said before heading out the door and climbing into his car.

* * *

In the two weeks following his visit to Mrs. Gonzales, Drummond’s section of LAPD’s Homicide Division had processed nearly thirty cases–murders in which either the suspect had been apprehended or, if still at large, was at least known to the authorities. The LAPD prided itself on solving cases, and solving them quickly. Fewer than two percent of all homicides ever went unsolved.

Drummond finished reading the file in front of him–the straight—forward murder of a known prostitute. The suspect, currently in custody, was her pimp. From the arresting officers’ report, it would seem that the pimp had simply walked up to the girl on a street corner, pulled out a gun, and shot her three times in the stomach. Unfortunately for the pimp, one Arfons De La Rouix, two of the other “prostitutes” on the same corner were undercover cops, and. they effected an immediate and lawful arrest. The suspect, attempting to avoid capture, had tried to draw his pistol from the front waistband of his trousers, but in his haste the gun had discharged, causing what the two officers called a “grievous wound” to the pimp.

Drummond smiled ever so slightly to himself as he initialed the paperwork necessary to send the case on to the district attorney for prosecution. “Grievous wound” was a euphemistic understatement. According to the report from the hospital, Mr. Arfons De La Rouix was no longer equipped to partake of the service he had supplied to so many of his former customers. Drummond could only reflect that the universe sometimes did dispense its own kind of justice, regardless of what fate the courts might have handed out in this particular case.

Tossing the folder onto the growing pile in his out—tray, Drummond stretched and then got up from his desk and headed toward the coffee machine, raising a hand in greeting to Special Agent Sandy Morwood, a recent addition to the LAPD Homicide Division. Morwood worked for the United States Department of Justice, and was agent—in—charge of the program known in law enforcement circles as FLASH–Federal Legal Assistant in Solving Homicides. He had escaped from his federally—funded computer center and was pouring his own mid—morning cup of coffee when Drummond walked up.

“Hey, good morning, Cap’n.”

“How’s it going, Sandy?” Drummond replied.

“Not so bad. Anything exciting in the current crop of killings?” Sandy Morwood added creamer to his coffee and gave it a sloppy stir with a pencil.

“Nah. Same old stuff. Pimps killing hookers, drug deals gone bad, gang disputes. Nothing really exciting.” Drummond mopped up Morwood’s mess before setting his own cup down on the coffee table. “Anything exciting on FLASH?”

“Hmm, not really.” Morwood took a sip of his coffee. “One sort of interesting item from Canada, though. Seems some doctor was operating a private blood bank up in Vancouver. You know–special blood, AIDS—free, that sort of thing.” Morwood took another sip of coffee.

“Well, it seems that he got a little greedy and started taking a bit more blood from his patients than he should have done. Anyhow, one of them checked into a local hospital after collapsing in the street. Guess what?”

Drummond arched his eyebrows. “What?”

“The guy was nearly three pints low. This led to an investigation by the medical authorities, who got nowhere with the doctor, so they called in the police. The cops went out to this doctor’s blood bank, and found several hundred
gallons
of blood, but no doctor.

“Now, two days later, the police get a call about a dead body in a dumpster behind the blood bank.”

Morwood took another sip of coffee and wrinkled up his face. “Jeez, this is bad! Anyhow, the body in the dumpster
looks
like a suicide. Male caucasian, mid—thirties, well—dressed, wearing a lab coat and with both wrists slashed. ID on the body identifies the stiff as the doctor who ran the blood bank. Open and shut, right?”

“Sounds like it,” Drummond said.

“Sure. Everybody figures that the doctor climbed into the dumpster and cut his wrists rather than face the embarrassment of an official inquiry into his blood bank. Except it turns out that the guy in the dumpster isn’t the doctor, and get this–he didn’t die from slashing his wrists. It looks like he was drained dry by the doctor, and
then
dumped in the alley, and a few pints of blood were poured in the dumpster to make it look as if he’d bled to death.” Morwood dumped the remaining contents of his cup.

“Vancouver PD have put out an APB on FLASH, along with a composite drawing of the doctor. I’ll drop it by your office, if you’re interested. “

“Thanks,” said Drummond, setting down his own cup of now—tepid coffee. “I’d very much like to see that. “

“Okay, Cap’n. I’ll trade you for the report on the pimp who blew his dick off.”

Drummond nodded amiably at Morwood’s grin, but as the special agent returned to his office, Drummond was left with the chilling feeling that somehow the blood bank in Vancouver was inexplicably linked to a small Catholic church in East Los Angeles.

* * *

That evening when Drummond got home, a message was waiting for him on his answering machine.

“Hello, Mr. King? This is Father Freise calling from Angel of Mercy Sanitarium in Auburn, New Hampshire. It’s about your uncle. He’s taken a turn, and I think you’d better come out here right away.”
The machine beeped off.

Drummond played the message again, then went out onto the balcony and sat gazing out to sea for nearly an hour. Freise had called, told him where he was, and asked for a meeting. But why? Drummond tried to think of a dozen possibilities, but none of them made sense. And there had to be a reason that Freise had called him Mr. King and asked him to come to New Hampshire right away. After playing the tape for the final time, Drummond made a tuna salad sandwich, washed it down with a glass of milk, and turned in for the night.

The next morning, Drummond called Personnel and requested four days’ personal leave. He then called his travel agent and booked the next flight to New Hampshire.