The Madman Theory (8 page)

Collins returned to Fresno, arriving late in the evening. He drove directly home—it was a new three-bedroom split-level in Morningside Park, which Collins had bought because he disliked apartments.

Lorna, his wife of two months, mixed highballs while Collins called headquarters. Rod Easley had gone home; the officer on duty knew of no important developments. Collins hung up and gave his attention to the fried chicken and country gravy on his bride's menu. He praised them lavishly, having learned his lesson early. The chicken tasted like fried mortarboard, the gravy like unhardened plaster of Paris. It was the appropriate ending to a bad day.

5

On Thursday, June 18, Inspector Collins arrived at headquarters to find Sergeant Easley already at work with license registrations. Collins sat down to help and by noon the job was almost complete. Of the cars which had entered the park during the period under scrutiny, four appeared suspicious.

First was the '62 Dodge registered to Nathan Wingate of Redondo Beach, with license registration LKK—3220. Nathan Wingate claimed that neither he nor his car had ever entered the General Grant National Park. Either Wingate lied, or the ranger had made a mistake noting down the license number, or the license had been faked. The car had entered the park early Wednesday morning—at the extreme edge of the critical period. Collins was not inclined to attach too much significance to this one.

Next came a '63 Oldsmobile with license EKY–14, regstered to Edgar Hoglund of Bakersfield, already listed on the bulletin as stolen. The car had disappeared from Hoglund's driveway during the night of Thursday, June 11, and had entered the park Friday. Bakersfield was a long distance from San Jose; the possibility of connection with the Genneman murder seemed remote.

Third was a '54 Plymouth coupé, license KEX–52, registered to Steven Ricks of Fresno. He lived at 982A Mulberry Street, a cottage to the rear of 982 Mulberry, the residence of James and Lillian White. According to James White, Steve Ricks had set off alone on the morning of Friday the 12th, his destination unannounced. Neither Mr. nor Mrs. White considered Steve Ricks the type of man to go on a solitary camping trip. They were also uncertain when Steve Ricks had returned. He definitely had not reported for work Monday morning at the Sunset Nursery, his place of employment.

The fourth car on the list was a '64 Chevrolet convertible, license AL9–G76, registered to Don Allen Batlow of Chowchilla—in Easley's opinion the most promising lead to date. Batlow had not been at home; his wife had answered the telephone. Easley had identified himself and asked about her husband's whereabouts the previous weekend. Mrs. Batlow—in a voice like an overblown oboe—expressed distrust and disapproval, and had refused to answer questions. She suggested that Easley make his inquiries of Mr. Batlow himself; she had supplied his business telephone and demanded to be told the reason for the call. Easley told her that the car driven by her husband possibly had been involved in an accident in Kings Canyon National Park.

“Impossible,” Mrs. Batlow had said briskly. “Neither my husband nor his car was anywhere near that area.”

“Exactly where did your husband spend the weekend?”

“If you must know, he attended a convention in Los Angeles.”

Easley had hung up and tried to call Batlow at his business address. But Mr. Batlow was out; he was not expected back until after lunch.

Collins went to his office. Almost immediately his telephone rang. The switchboard operator said, “Mr. Don Batlow calling. He wants the officer who called his wife in regard to Kings Canyon.”

“I'll talk to him.”

“Go ahead, sir,” said the operator, and a man spoke. “Hello? Who am I talking to?”

“Inspector Omar Collins.”

“You called my wife an hour or so ago?”

“Sergeant Easley did, on my instructions.”

“May I ask why?”

“Certainly. We wanted to know why you told her you were headed for Los Angeles and instead went on a pack-trip into the mountains.”

“Pack-trip? I never went on any pack-trip. Where did you hear that?”

“What were you doing in Kings Canyon National Park?”

“'Isn't that my private affair?”

“I'll explain the situation, Mr. Batlow. Your car is one of several which we think might have been involved in an accident. We want to find out for sure. If you don't satisfy us that you're not involved, you'll probably be subpoenaed as a witness.”

“Woof,” said Batlow.

Collins waited.

“Well,” said Batlow in a reasonable voice, “I assure you I wasn't in any accident.”

Collins made a sound of polite skepticism.

“That doesn't do it, eh?”

“Hardly.”

“What do you want to know?”

“What you were doing in Kings Canyon National Park, whom you went with, whom you met.”

Batlow chuckled feebly. “I didn't meet anybody. I went there because I didn't
want
to meet anybody.” He hesitated. “Can I trust you not to blab this all over the lot?”

“That all depends.”

“Well, I wouldn't want it to get back to my wife, if you know what I mean.”

“We're not concerned with your private life, Mr. Batlow, unless it ties in with our investigation.”

“I assure you it doesn't. The facts are these—they won't get back to Chowchilla?”

“Just what are the facts?”

“Well—I took a lady friend into the mountains over the weekend. We stayed at General Grant Lodge.”

“Her name?”

“Surely, Inspector, you don't need that information?”

“What name did you use at the lodge?”

“Mr. and Mrs. John Barton.”

“That's probably all we'll need. If not, we'll let you know.”

“For heaven's sake—for my sake—don't call me at home!”

Collins made a note beside Batlow's name on the list:
Mr. and Mrs. John Barton, General Grant Lodge
.

What else was there?

Nathan Wingate of Redondo Beach.

The car stolen from Edgar Hoglund of Bakersfield.

Steven Ricks of 982A Mulberry Street, Fresno.

Mulberry Street held a row of small frame houses, each with its parched lawn and television aerial. 982 Mulberry had a pair of small orange trees and a neat white picket fence as well. A cracked concrete walk led past the house to a small cottage, apparently converted from an old garage. This was 982A, the residence of Steven Ricks.

Collins rapped at the door. No one responded, and he tried the knob the door opened. He poked his head inside and saw a combination living room and bedroom. In an alcove was a kitchen; another door, open, showed a bathroom. The room smelled of long-used sheets and unwashed clothes. An electric guitar and an amplifier sat on the floor; beside the studio couch stood a cheap-looking TV-radio-and-record-player, stacked with records. On one wall hung a pair of oil paintings, each depicting a horse looking over a fence; another wall displayed two dozen or so photographs of various hillbilly bands, guitarists, and vocalists.

Collins sensed that the room had gone unoccupied for several days.

He shut the door and walked back toward the street. On the rear porch of 982 Mulberry stood a frail old man, seventy-five or so, wearing brown corduroy trousers and a blue cotton shirt. He had been watching Collins' every move; and now, as Collins came toward him, he retreated to the door of his house.

Collins displayed his badge. “I'm trying to locate Mr. Ricks. Have you see him in the last day or so?”

“What you want with Ricks? What's he done?”

“Nothing, so far as I know,” said Collins. “I just want some information from him.”

“Such as what?” The old man's eyes glittered. “I know a bit of what's goin' on myself. Don't never think I don't.”

“Do you know if he was in the mountains last week, or over the weekend?”

“That I couldn't tell you.”

“Do you know where Ricks is now?”

“No. He keeps pretty hard hours—plays in a orchestra, comes home drunk. All kinds of goin's-on back there.” The old man looked feebly defiant. “Long as he pays his rent I can't help what kind of life he leads.”

“Where does he work?”

“Sunset Nursery. That's about ten blocks north.”

“And he also plays in an orchestra?”

“Correct. But don't ask me which or where or why, because I don't know one note from another. My sister used to play the organ and I had to sit under the bench and push the pumps. That's a long time back.”

“Do you know any of Mr. Ricks' friends or relatives?”

“I just don't know the man that well. What kind of trouble's he in?”

“I didn't say he was,” said Collins. “By the way, do you know if he owns a shotgun?”

“I've never seen one. Hunted out of season, huh?”

“If he shows up, will you have him give me a call? And perhaps you'd call me yourself.”

“I guess I can do that. I'll keep my eyes open. What was your name again?”

Collins supplied his name and phone number and departed.

He drove back to headquarters in a gloomy mood. The murder of Earl Genneman was fading rapidly into murk.

In a macabre way, the news he received on his return to headquarters gave him satisfaction.

Sergeant Easley greeted him with, “This Steve Ricks we've been looking for?”

“What about him?”

“We're not going to find him. Alive that is.”

Collins waited.

“All the way to Tucson,” said Rod Easley. “Aboard the Santa Fe. The railroad police found him in a boxcar. He was in bad shape: head busted in, teeth knocked out, hands cut off. Somebody didn't want him identified.”

“How was he identified?”

“He had money in his shoe. A hundred dollar bill and a check for thirty-two bucks. The check was on a Fresno bank. They called to find if we had a missing Steve Ricks.”

“Sure enough we did,” said Collins. He actually rubbed his hands.

6

Steve Ricks had been dead approximately two days, according to the Tucson police doctor—since sometime between 6 p.m. and midnight Tuesday. Railroad records indicated that the boxcar carrying his body had left the Fresno yard at 10:20 that night.

Ricks had been killed by blows of a hammer or similar implement. His hands had been crudely hacked off, possibly by an axe or hatchet. The murderer had emptied Ricks' pockets and broken his teeth further to prevent identification. But he had not thought to remove Ricks' shoes, and his grisly attempt had gone for naught. The check from the shoe instructed the Bank of America at Fresno to pay $32 to the order of Steve Ricks. It was signed “J. K. Mansfield,” a name not to be found in the local telephone directory.

The murder having been committed within the jurisdiction of the Fresno police, Tucson was returning the body to Fresno. Tucson and Fresno would share the freight cost. The Atcheson, Topeka and Santa Fé Railroad would bear alone whatever expense it had incurred in transporting the body to Tucson.

Collins returned at once to 982A Mulberry Street with a photographer and a fingerprint man. He inspected Ricks' effects but found very little: a handful of photographs portraying Ricks in navy blues, Ricks playing guitar with a country band identified as Pete Silliman and His Arkansas Stompers, Ricks with his arm around a ferret-faced blond woman, and others of a similar nature. The photos showed him to have been a man of average height, overweight, with a cheerful face, a snub nose, and sandy hair combed in sweeps and waves. Collins estimated his age at thirty. There were several letters from a Mrs. Beulah Ricks in Bledsoe, Texas, apparently the man's mother, containing nothing which seemed pertinent.

Of one thing Collins was certain: the deaths of Earl Genneman and Steve Ricks were connected. To believe otherwise would be to stretch coincidence. Both killings were characterised by savagery, a ruthless lack of squeamishness.

A thought startled Collins, and he cursed himself for the oversight—even Captain Bigelow would have seen it. A stroke of luck that he had remembered in time, rather than try to explain the lapse to Bigelow later! Steven Ricks' shoes. Collins already had glanced through the scanty wardrobe: a cheap blue suit, a pair of tan slacks and a brown plaid sports jacket, five or six sports shirts, some neckties, some underwear and socks, two pairs or cowboy boots, a pair of pointed black dress shoes, a pair of tan suede loafers, and heavy work-boots. With care Collins wrapped the boots in newspaper and took them out to his car.

The Sunset Nursery was a sprawling emporium selling everything from potted orchids to garden tractors, firewood, flagstones and cement. Collins talked first to the owner, then to a man named Sam Delucci, the warehouse manager, and then to Ricks' fellow-employees. He learned that Ricks was older than he had thought, nearer forty than thirty. His job had consisted of loading and unloading trucks, delivering orders of sand, fertiliser, rock, peat moss and the like to customers' cars in the parking lot. He had worked cheerfully if without any great enthusiasm. His pay had been a dollar and ninety cents an hour. He had been a braggart, with a talented imagination. About a third of his talk had dealt with the big money he had won at Las Vegas or playing the horses, the remaining two thirds celebrated his triumphs on the bandstand and in the bedroom. He had often spoken of plans to organise an all-star band for the purpose of recording his songs, of which he claimed to have composed more than a hundred. Some of these, according to Ricks, had been pirated into smash hits by competitors. He had played on weekends at the Clover Club, on Morgan and J Streets, an establishment he undiscourageably urged his fellow-employees to patronize.

On the morning of Friday, June 12, Ricks had telephoned in to report himself sick with stomach cramps, nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea. “He laid it on thick,” Delucci, the warehouse manager, said. “Steve wouldn't just say he was sick and hang up; he had to make like he had bubonic plague mixed with a broken leg and falling hair. He sang one pitiful song, that guy did. I even felt sorry for him. I told him to go to bed, take some asprin, and come to work when he felt better. I should have known.”