The Patrolman - 4 (2/2)

The Lincoln threaded up the slopes, navigating the hairpin curves of Canyon Drive. The road leveled out. Homes clustered on the dry, brown foothills. Expensive places. Nobody rich enough to buy property overlooking them. Soon, Lacey and Carruthers ran out of houses to look at and hit a dirt road shrouded by oak trees. A set of yellow blockades with “Crime Scene” on and a lone patrolman blocked the way. They pulled in behind the Shiny Nose brigade: neighbors, dog walkers, and two reporters. A man and a woman.

Lacey knew her. She was the reporter who ran the story on him for the Tribune. She got him kicked off the force - Veronica Welles. Like him, she’d aged. The big doe eyes and large freckled cheeks bore the shadow of wrinkles. Still, quite beautiful. But Lacey couldn’t stand her. His eyes glazed over before she got a word out.  

‘That’s a face I didn’t expect to see again.’

‘No thanks to you,' Lacey said.

The man with her lifted his camera.

Carruthers stuck a finger in his face before he could get the shot. ‘Watch it, Marlon. You shove that thing in my face again, and you’ll be the one eating it.’

‘Watcha doin’, Georgie?' Welles said. 'You working with cops on the pad now? Admitting you're still as crooked as they come? Tell you what - give us an exclusive when you're done, and maybe we'll keep Jake Lacey here off the front page. Sound fair?’

‘You need a story first,’ Carruthers said. ‘If you ain’t got one, there’s nothing for me to comment on. Come on, rookie.’

Lacey tipped his fedora. ‘Mrs. Welles.’

‘It’s miss actually.’

‘Figured as much.' Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Veronica Welles’ cheeks flush a nasty shade of red. He resisted a grin and walked away.

Carruthers said something to the officer by the blockades. They both headed down the dirt road. Tire tracks curved off to the left and they followed them Before long, Lacey saw a clearing with a cluster of official vehicles. Two black-and-whites and the coroner’s wagon. The victim was lying there somewhere. It was an attempt to shield the body from view. Lacey wondered what kind of state it was in. He thought about the neighbor who'd discovered it and made a note to check in with her later.

Two officers stood on either side of the body. As they neared, they saw the lead coroner working around it. It looked like he was examining her fingernails. The coroner needed space to work, so they gave him some breathing room. After all, the body wasn’t going anywhere. Another officer pushed himself off a radio car when Lacey and Carruthers approached.

‘Been waiting on you, Georgie. You working this solo?’

‘This is my new partner, Lacey.’

‘Pleasure.’

He didn’t feel like talking. This was his first major case, and he knew they'd be watching his every move. Some, Carruthers included, wanted him to fail.

‘What you got here?’

The officer turned so Carruthers could see the items spread out on the trunk. Lacey moved in for a closer look. There wasn’t much light under the trees, but he could see these were from the body: a clutch bag, a tube of lipstick, and a purse.  

Carruthers went through the items. Picking up each one, looking for distinguishing marks before setting it down again. The lipstick was a deep Doraldina crimson. He popped open the clutch and found face powder. Both were common brands. Nothing special. California, the department-store state. The most of everything, the best of nothing. Carruthers moved on to the purse.

That’s where he got something.

Inside was $5 and a driver’s license under the name Juanita Figueroa-Villa. He showed it to Lacey. The license would expire in May 1944. So she’d either passed her driver’s test a couple of weeks back or renewed it. Ruling out suicide. The license gave the victim’s age as 23. Lacey remembered someone saying, ‘Nobody likes you when you’re 23.' It had been true for him - was it for Juanita? Her address read 2475 Glendower Place, Los Feliz. She wasn’t just anybody; she came from money. Houses in those hills were the Californian-Spanish types everyone wanted in the ‘20s. The cheapest ones fetched $30,000 at least. Juanita Figueroa-Vila was rich. That meant she had a husband or family. Either way, someone out there would miss her, and that someone could afford to call the police. It was a matter of time.

Carruthers passed around some Big Chiefs. They lit up. A mentholated haze formed over them. ‘Give us the rundown, Sam.’

‘Happy to,’ the officer said. ‘As you can see, it ain’t easy to get here without wheels. Hollywoodland right? Even the mailman drives. So the victim was either driven or took a ride here. The locals are the rich kind, don’t like noise. The house there belongs to the woman who called it in.' He pointed through the trees. 'Said she saw a shape off the path.’

Lacey walked over to the dirt road for a better view of the house. It was modest compared to the other homes on Canyon Drive. A bungalow with a pointed roof at the center. There was a single porthole near the top, likely the main bedroom window. The trees weren’t thick. From there, the lady might’ve seen what happened - or heard enough to investigate.

‘We got here around six-thirty and found the girl. Didn’t see nobody lurking around, no drifters.’

‘Drifters?’ Lacey asked, heading back.

‘They come round here sometimes, there've been complaints before. Something about a hobo missing half his face.’

Carruthers huffed smoke. ‘Knock on any doors?’

‘Not yet. We wanted to secure the perimeter first and wait for you to get here. My partner spoke with the neighbor. Look, here comes Biggs now.’

The name didn’t disappoint. Biggs was a large man in a white coat. His belly hung over his belt. The guy looked like John Wayne’s heftier cousin. He went around shaking hands. Nice enough, a man who dealt in facts. No speculation. Straight as a die. He made quick of the pleasantries and led them to the body.

Juanita Figueroa-Villa’s black hair framed her fair skin. Her mouth was slightly open, lips drawn back in a grimace. Lying on her front, arms twisted over her head like she’d been reaching for her neck in a final, futile attempt. Her left hand clenched. Insect bites covered her arms. Rigor mortis had begun its slow march. Her stiff legs were outstretched. She wore a short, frilly red number with a belt. Draped over her lower half was a double-breasted, zoot suit jacket. It looked like a date-rape gone bad. The coat was the guy's way of saying sorry for making a mess of her. A tightly-knotted nylon stocking looped around her neck.

‘Found this near the body,’ Biggs said, holding something out.

Carruthers took it, examined it, and passed it to Lacey.

A yellow matchbook with a red rooster on the front. Inside, the same logo again with bold letters: “MADRE JALISCO’S, 6536 HOLLYWOOD BLVD., LOS ANGELES, CA.” A telepathic jolt passed between Lacey and Carruthers. He pocketed it, making another mental note to pay the bar a visit.

‘Lay it out for us, Biggs,’ Carruthers said. ‘This is Lacey’s first homicide.’

‘No problem. I won’t insult your intelligence, Georgie. This is stuff you’ve seen, but I’ll spell it out for your partner. The victim didn’t walk – no cuts or bruises on her feet to suggest she schlepped here. She either took a ride or was brought here. I’ve sent a patrolman to look for abandoned vehicles, but nothing stood out on my way in.’

Biggs squatted by the body, holding up her right hand. ‘Blood and dirt under her fingernails - she was strangled here. Small bruise on her wrist, from the killer tearing off her watch. I’ll check for fibers back at the lab. Death took place between 2 and 5:00 this morning. The nylon stocking around her neck isn’t her size, so she didn’t bring it. No immediate signs of semen or bruising, but I’ll confirm that. Baffling why the killer left his coat. There’s enough foliage here to cover her up properly.’

‘The guy panicked?’ Carruthers said.

‘Perhaps, but this feels wrong. He made a mess, sure, but I don’t think he’d bother with decency - especially when he’s left her out on show. Catch my drift?’

‘In Technicolor,’ Lacey said.

Biggs eyed him. So did Carruthers.

‘Mind if I take a closer look? I might've spotted something.’

‘Be my guest,’ Biggs said. ‘But don’t move her. The photo-car’s not here yet.’   

He crouched beside the body. Biggs didn’t move, eyeballing him. Lacey placed the back of his hand on her left shoulder. Her skin was cold and clammy but dry. He felt under her armpit, careful not to disturb her. ‘The guy killed her sometime after four o’clock. The National Weather Service said the rain let up around then. Her face and arms are wet, hence the bites. Look, the top of her is bone-dry.’ He tapped her left hand. ‘And she’s holding something.’

Biggs got to his feet in a flash. ‘I didn’t spot that.’

‘You wouldn’t,’ Lacey said, wiping his hands with a pocket square. ‘You’re not left-handed. When you pointed out the bruise, you said the killer stole her watch. Most left-handers wear their watch on their other wrist. Especially if they’re used to clerical work. Her left hand was her strongest - and the only one clenched in a fist. Wanna bet she got something off the killer?’

Carruthers pulled a face.

‘Allow me,’ Biggs said, rushing over. ‘We don’t want to break her fingers if we can help it.’ He went to work massaging the hand. Starting slow, then applying some pressure. He started to flex and bend the thumb back, before working his way through the rest of the fingers. After 10 minutes of solid effort, he pried the hand open enough to reveal the object inside. Using a Scheaffer fountain pen, he lifted out a house key dangling from a piece of string.

It was worthless. Nothing interesting or distinctive. No number. No markings except the stamp of the Yale & Towne Manufacturing Co. It could fit any house in Los Angeles or America for all it mattered.

Biggs shrugged, a little embarrassed. ‘Thanks for the assist, kid.’ He stuck a hand out.

Lacey hesitated, knowing where his hands had been. He couldn’t bring himself to shake it.

‘Come on,’ Carruthers said, already setting off in the direction of the neighbor’s house. Lacey followed, his shirt sticking to his back.

The neighbor came to the door, and Carruthers spoke with her. She mentioned hearing noises early that morning - maybe a car engine. Then a scream. After that, the nasty hobo who’d been lurking around here fled down the path. That’s when she went out to investigate.

Lacey listened, but couldn’t focus. He needed to get out of these clothes and into a hot shower. The back of his neck itched where his collar sat. Like ants scrabbling out of his hair and running down his spine. He was losing it.

The woman retreated into her house.

Lacey and Carruthers headed back to the car.

‘She seem familiar to you?’

‘Sure.’ Lacey said, concentrating on the path in front of him. He closed his eyes. Clenching and unclenching his jaw. Feeling the gravel shift under his feet. ‘It was Clara Bow.’

‘The movie star? You sure?’

‘Same eyes, dark eyeliner. It’s her.’

They slipped out from the shadowy grip of the oak trees. The lone patrolman was still slouched against the blockades. The road stretched toward their ride. The nosy neighbors had scattered. A dog crapped in the street. The photographer was loading his kit into a cab.

But where was Veronica Welles?

Right on cue, Welles stormed in from the left, face flushed, teeth bared, fists clenched. She landed one on Carruthers’ chin before Lacey got her arm in a lock.

‘You son-of-a-bitch.’

Carruthers dusted off his hat. ‘Hey, what’s the matter, Vee?’

‘I saw you. I saw it. You told that officer to slash my tires.’

‘I did no such thing,’ Carruthers said. ‘Take it on the arches before I haul your ass down the station.’

Welles put up a fight. But he had her arm pinned at a near 180-degree angle. If she gave it anymore, her arm would break. He felt her go slack and released it.

Welles spat in the dirt. ‘You rats. You’ll be sorry. You’re both goin’ in my story.’

She turned on her heel and trudged back the way she came. The patrolman finally noticed the commotion and started over. Welles shoved past him. When she made solid ground, she sashayed over to the cab, slid inside, and slammed the door. From the rear window, Veronica Welles flipped them the bird. The cab disappeared downhill, kicking up dust.    

 

© J. A. Stapleton 2025 - Image Source: Wikimedia Commons