By Reason of Insanity (52 page)

On his desk was the report from the Los Angeles police concerning the death of Harry Owens, shot twice by an accomplice named Don Solis during the robbery of an armored car in Highland Park on February 22, 1952. Solis and three others were soon caught, one man escaped. Owens left a wife and three-year-old son.

Spanner felt sorry for the boy. Lost his father at three, killed his mother at ten. Spent the rest of his young life in a mental home, and then was horribly murdered. Not much of a life at all. He wondered what had happened to the boy in those seven years he was with his mother before he—

The lieutenant stopped, went back over his thought. He killed his mother. A woman. And now the unknown maniac was killing— women.

No, it couldn’t be!

It was just another crazy coincidence. Life was full of them and he really must stop looking for connections all the time. Lots of men kill women. Always been like that, probably always will be. Almost like a sport at times. That was the way men looked at women, wasn’t it? As sport? To be plundered one way or another. And then dumped.

Sure, just a coincidence. Bishop killed a woman at age ten and was put away for fifteen years where there were no women, at least none available. As soon as he was out, women were again killed. But they were being killed all the years he was inside too. And besides, he was dead.

Just a coincidence.

Against his will, a doubt began to creep back into the lieutenant’s mind.

SEVERAL HUNDRED miles to the south Johnny Messick finally tooled his car into the driveway at six o’clock. It had been a tough day and this Friday evening promised no relief. For most of it he would be in the downtown San Diego bar he owned with a partner. But at least he had a few hours to rest first, and that would be enough to get his juices flowing again. He wasn’t a youngster any longer.

Inside the house he turned on some lights. Dory wasn’t home yet, so he had a little time. With a penknife he slit open the envelope Don Solis had given him that morning and took out the sheets of paper. After fixing himself a drink he sat down and began reading.

Messick was comfortable in San Diego and had his hand in a half dozen things, most of them outside the law. He did some fencing of stolen goods, some gambling and prostitution, a little smuggling. Nothing big, nothing flashy. Just when an opportunity arose. He was too small to be bothered by the mob and too well known to be harassed by police. Neither greedy nor stupid, he paid off whatever was needed and spread the money around locally to civic and charity groups. All he wanted was a living.

He owned a car and a boat and a small house on a nice street. For six months he had been living with one of his dancers at the bar. Before her there had been others. He had a little money in the bank and a piece of land in Mexico, small and remote, that no one knew about. It was an easy existence, though some days were harder than others, and Messick had no intention of losing any of it.

He folded the sheets and stuffed them back in the envelope, many things now clear to him. When he was released from prison in 1960 he went home to San Diego. Three weeks later a lawyer handed him a certified check for ten thousand dollars, a gift from an anonymous donor. He had used it for operating money to get himself started. For thirteen years he hadn’t known who sent him the money. Carl Hansun. The man who got away. The one who had made it big, and in Idaho of all places. What the hell was in Idaho?

Hansun had sent him the ten grand, and Don too. Then forgot about them. But not really. When he needed something he reminded Solis of the debt. Which meant that he, Messick, was into him the same way and one day would have to pay off Years meant nothing to those people. A favor was payable on demand. Or else.

The letter was still in his hand. He could give it to Carl and cancel the debt. But that would mean a bullet in the head for Don Solis, and probably the same for him. They were the only two who knew the connection between Idaho and the California robbery. He had a feeling that his best protection was in keeping quiet.

Only one thing bothered him. Hansun knew where he was and could get to him any time. Still, the man hadn’t made a move in all those years. So he was safe as long as he played dumb.

Messick went over to the steel desk and put the letter in the small built-in strongbox, then walked slowly into the bedroom to rest up for the long night ahead.

AT EXACTLY 7:15 P.M. Roger Tompkins left Senator Stoner’s offices in the state capital, a slim briefcase under his arm. Inside were copies of some papers, and in two cases the originals, that might prove interesting to certain well-placed enemies. Roger was taking no chances; he intended to secrete the papers should they ever be needed. Of late the senator had been acting a bit aloof, as though he would not have much further use for some people around him. With his new-found prominence his eyes were growing bigger by the week, as was his self-image. Roger had no intentions of being left behind. He was very good at what he did and he expected to remind Stoner of that, as forcefully as necessary. The papers were simple insurance.

In truth it was he who had started the senator on his road to fame. Vincent Mungo had been his idea; tying Mungo to Caryl Chessman was his idea too. Even working out the logistics of the campaign came under his direction. Stoner would still be an obscure state politician were it not for him, and Roger would not let him forget that.

At twenty-six, he had vaulting ambition of his own, and he expected to ride Stoner as long as needed. Meanwhile he was getting his name known in the East and in Washington, D.C., where it counted. When it was time to leave, he would be the one to do the leaving.

The senator was not the only one moving up.

BY SUNDAY evening when he returned home from his favorite fishing spot, John Spanner had resolved his doubts about the Willows maniac. The fact that Thomas Bishop as a boy had killed his mother really had nothing to do with someone who went around destroying women. The whole psychology was different.

Besides, Vincent Mungo was a much better suspect in just about every way. He had been virtually raised by women, with no men around for balance except a weak father at times. His mother deserted him by dying. His grandmother and aunts betrayed him by committing him, probably for life. Girls found him ugly and never had anything to do with him. He apparently believed, probably was told, that he was the son of Caryl Chessman, a product of rape. His moods of violence had been rapidly escalating, according to records. His sadism was well known, as were his admiration of strength and disgust at any weakness.

On Bishop’s side was only the fact of his mother’s death when he was ten years old. Someone obviously different from the youth of twentyfive who had been quite friendly and helpful in his recent institutional life except for several outbursts. He had no connection to Chessman. His father had been a drifter, killed in a robbery attempt in 1952. His mother had been a housewife. He was not known to have been a sadist or even cruel-minded.

Maybe Oates was right on this one. Don’t look for the loose threads. Go for the preponderance of evidence, for the obvious. Then why didn’t the sheriff or Amos Finch think it was Mungo anymore? Because he just wasn’t smart enough to last this long.

But was Bishop? According to his records he was just another plodding under-achiever showing little imagination or drive. Pretty much the opposite of any brilliance, and hardly someone to outwit the authorities of a whole country.

On paper, especially with the Chessman connection, it would have to be Mungo all the way.

And if not Mungo, then, as the others believed, somebody completely unknown. God help them all!

Spanner had already decided that over the Christmas holidays he would go back to Colorado for a week or so and look into buying some land. It might be time he retired.

Sixteen

BY MONDAY, October 22, Chess Man, variously known as the Willows maniac, the California Creeper, Jack Ripper and the subject of the Ripper Reference, had been in New York for a whole week but no one was celebrating, except perhaps the rest of the country. Nor was he yet the object of the biggest manhunt in New York City’s history. That would come shortly.

Bishop spent part of that Monday in the main public library reading out-of-town newspapers from neighboring communities in northern New Jersey and Long Island. Quickly he weeded out those that contained no obituaries. Further elimination, based on the average weekly number of death notices and the information given in each, narrowed his choices to three. Of these, two were in Long Island and the third right across the Hudson River. On the basis of accessibility he chose the nearest. The
Jersey Journal
covered the various communities of Hudson County, one of which was Jersey City where the newspaper was headquartered.

In the general reference section he looked up Jersey City in
Webster’s New Geographical Dictionary
. It was a port town and the county seat. Population was over a quarter million. A railroad center, it also was noted for the manufacture of chemicals, paper products, locomotives, clothing and toys.

Bishop read the entry several times, skipping over the early history going back to 1630 and the Indians. The place seemed perfect for his needs. A quarter of a million people! Too big for everyone to be known. A county seat with all the records readily available. And a transportation center with people moving around causing confusion. He’d be just someone else trying to survive. It was perfect.

He got the paper’s address from the Jersey City phone directory.

At a nearby newsstand he bought a copy of the
Jersey Journal
which he read over coffee in a donut shop. From a bus dispatcher he learned the fastest way to Jersey City was by underground train from 33rd Street and Sixth Avenue. He walked down to find the station beneath a giant department store. The man in the change booth told him the trip took twenty minutes, through several stops and a tunnel under the river. To Bishop it sounded simple enough as his devious mind planned the next move.

On the street again he went to a telephone-answering service he had found listed in a show-business weekly. It was in the midtown area and its rates were advertised as the very cheapest around. He paid for three months in advance and was given a handful of cards with the service number and name, as well as another number for his own use. In return he gave the name Jay Cooper and the mail-drop address on Lafayette Street.

Bishop wanted no telephone where he lived, nothing official to link him to the place. Especially nothing originating in the past week or two. Authorities might go through all recent utility orders when he didn’t turn up in their search of city hotels and rooming houses. For the moment at least he was fully insulated from prying eyes, and thus safe.

His electricity and gas were part of one set of meters for the entire commercial building, so there was no record of him. The bill was paid each month by the owner. Since the building and area were not zoned for residential purposes, he was not listed as living there. Again no record. The Soho apartment had been a lucky break and he was quick to see its advantages.

Yet he needed a phone number for his photographic pursuits, just as he needed a mail drop for identification purposes. He had to be able to get in touch with prospective models, and they with him. Which was why he had bought a copy of the show-business newspaper. He found no photography models listed but he did find the telephone-answering service.

His last stops of the day were the offices of two local papers read by many young New Yorkers who followed freelance careers. In each he ran a brief classified advertisement for photography models to pose for distress-type pictures for detective magazines. Only those females eighteen and over would be considered. At the bottom was the numberofhis service.

The idea had come from a television documentary about a California rapist and murderer who lured his victims with talk of payment for modeling assignments. Before his capture a half dozen women had died in his studio. Bishop planned to do even better.

Home again, he spent the evening reading about Jersey City in a newspaper and New York in books. After a while he couldn’t tell them apart.

AT 10:30 AM. that same Monday Adam Kenton was in Martin Dunlop’s office explaining his need for the list of those who knew why he had been brought to New York.

It was really very simple. His curiosity had been aroused as to why he had been chosen for such an assignment. The job was extraordinary, to say the least, and required a high degree of tact as well as investigative skill. Since they evidently agreed on him, it indicated a certain confidence. He merely wanted to know who had such confidence in him. It would tell how he stood with the company.

Dunlop was satisfied for the most part. He told Kenton it was John Perrone who had singled him out as the best man for the job. He, Dunlop, had agreed. The others went along with the selection, which indicated nothing but simple acquiescence for the moment. Of course his success in the search would dispel any doubts some may have held as to the choice. Naturally he would also find his position in the company appreciably improved.

Kenton thanked him for his vote of trust and promised to do his best. He already had some leads that looked good. Dunlop reminded him that time was always short on a thing like this.

Afterward Dunlop called in his aide. He wanted Kenton watched by someone outside the organization. A private agency would do. Also everything in the man’s past that could be used against him if necessary. And a tap on his office phones.

Where was he staying in town?

Henderson said the company rooms at the St. Moritz.

He was told to see what could be done about a tap there too.

Back in his own office, Kenton returned a half dozen calls from California. Nothing yet about a boy who killed his mother but didn’t make the newspapers. Or even anyone who tried and was put away. On Vincent Mungo the only new information was an unsubstantiated report that his father had committed suicide because of homosexual urges that had become uncontrollable. That, and a rumor about a Berkeley criminologist who didn’t think Mungo was the killer. Kenton wanted to know more, including the man’s name if he existed.