JO03 - Detour to Murder (13 page)

Who murdered Vera?

Haskell had menace in his eyes as he continued to rant. “I’m warning you, O’Brien. You don’t know who you’re screwing with. You just made one huge mistake—!”

But before any more could be said, the restroom door swung open and one of Haskell’s goons stuck his head in. “Sorry to bother you, Mr. Haskell. But the governor’s out here. Wants to take a piss.”

“Oh, for God’s sakes, you fuckin’ moron! Let him in!”

Sol and I turned to leave. We brushed by Reagan as he came through the door. Sol cranked his head toward Haskell and said to the governor: “It’s hard to believe that guy’s a war hero. The money must’ve changed him.”

Reagan gave Sol a perplexed look. “Yes, it did. Made him richer,” he said as he rushed to the urinal.

Over Bavaria, March 1944

Capt Raymond Haskell, squirming in the B-17 pilot seat, pinched his throat mike. “Watch it, Earl! Coming at you at nine o’clock,” he said to his waist gunner.

“I see the bastards!” Two black specks in the sky at the nine o’clock position relative to the gunner’s sights grew larger by the second. “They’re coming fast!” The clattering burst of the .50 caliber machine gun was Earl’s next statement.

S/Sgt Earl Lee Sims, the right waist gunner, swore wildly. He stood facing out the opening on the side of the plane, swiveling his machine gun from side to side, trying to get a bead on the enemy aircraft. He saw the popping flashes, like the rapid blinking of an incandescent eye, coming from the fighters as the Kraut pilots fired their guns, the hot lead zinging around him like angry mutant wasps. He fired another short burst, missing completely.

“God damn, three more at twelve o’clock, high!” another voice shouted urgently, his voice coming through the interphone.

“I’m on ’em,” Sgt. Al Mathis, the top ball-turret gunner responded.

“Two more at ten o’clock, low. You see ’em, Jake?”

The planes whizzed by at 350 miles per hour, firing their cannons, before vanishing beyond the horizon.

T/Sgt. Jake Shapiro, the gunner in the ball turret, which hung from the belly of the plane, hadn’t seen the two fighters coming at the B-17 from below. He was dead. His body had been shredded, cut to pieces by the exploding rounds of the 13 mm machine guns fired from the previous pair of ME-109G’s that had made a run at the bomber.

Capt. Raymond Haskell, pilot and commander of the Flying Fortress, oblivious to the chaos, steadfastly held his assigned course—82 degrees to the IP, then veer left to a heading of 312 and proceed fifteen miles directly to the target, the Messerschmitt factory at Augsburg.

“Heads up, men, we’re going toe-to-toe with those Nazi bastards. And for God and country we’re gonna send them all to hell.” “Toe-to-toe!” Haskell announced to the crew.

The other five planes in the lead squadron and the fourteen planes in the low and high squadrons behind him would follow his course. No snafus, or the mission would fail; all twenty bombers would miss the target. Each warplane carried 6,000 pounds of armor-piercing and incendiary bombs. If the mission was a success, they would level the enormous airplane plant and what was left of it would burn.

The heavy bomber shuddered and jerked violently to the right. Two more German fighters scored several direct hits, projectiles from their 200 mm cannons blowing out the B-17’s right outboard engine. The loose play in the rudder pedals and the uncontrollable gyration at the tail of the aircraft indicated the horizontal stabilizer had been severely damaged, as well. But the plane labored on incessantly. Several more ME-109 strikes hit home. Each one sent shockwaves through the plane, jolting it like a hard earthquake.

“I think the belly-gunner’s been hit. Jake’s not firing his guns,” the captain said. “Garcia,” he added, addressing the radio operator, “check it out. If he’s dead, take his position.”

“Roger, Cap.” T/Sgt. Alex Garcia left his radio table and made his way through the crawl space to where the belly turret was located. He almost puked when he opened the turret hatch and saw what remained of his crewmate.

Earl Lee Sims felt the bitter cold on his face as he peered out through the large gun opening on the side of the ship. He could see the gut-wrenching flames streaming from the blown out engine. His throat mike transmitted his voice: “Hey Cap, we’re on fire! The engine’s blazing and the wing is glowing red. We gotta turn back!”

The plane swung slowly to the left, back on course, a straight line to the initial point.

“Hook your chutes and prepare for flak. We’re at the IP,” the pilot announced, ignoring Earl’s warning. “Pilot to bombardier. You got the plane, Joe, it’s all yours,” he said, as he set the auto-pilot, linking it to the Norden bombsight. He then leaned back and removed his hands from the yoke.

They were now on the bombing run. The bombardier, 1
^st
Lt. Joseph Capuano, squirmed in his seat located in a plastic bubble at the nose of the plane, one level below the cockpit. From now until the completion of the bomb run he would, in essence, be flying the plane.

As the heavy bomber bounced and jerked from side to side, Capuano peered through the eyepiece of the bombsight, zeroing in on the target as the city’s buildings and roadways raced across his line of sight 20,000 feet below. By manipulating several knobs attached to the device he could control the heading and altitude of the big war bird. The auto-pilot held the airspeed.

Capuano took his responsibility seriously. Earl knew that the bombardier would feel a tinge of guilt when he thought about the civilians that had to die today because of the duty he performed. But so what? Earl also knew Capuano would not turn tail. He’d steer the plane directly over the Messerschmitt factory without hesitation. He would fly straight and level and would not deviate even one degree from his course until the bombs were away. There would be no evasive action. Capt Haskell demanded that they keep moving toward the target no matter what. The son-of-a-bitch would keep on going until they were blown out of the sky.

Earl gripped the twin handles of the Browning with both hands. His body shook and rattled from the recoil as he fired the gun haphazardly, until it ran out of ammo. If by a miracle they did get back, Earl swore he’d get even with Haskell somehow, somewhere, some dark night…

The German fighter planes now turned away and the crew suddenly became silent. The interphone chatter stopped as the nine men watched the hundreds of deadly puffs of black smoke fill the daytime sky. Anti-aircraft shells exploded in the midst of the formation.

Every few seconds a piece of shrapnel tore through the aircraft’s fuselage, ripping jagged holes in the thin aluminum skin. But the plane didn’t falter. It kept moving toward the target.

The noise was deafening. Earl could feel every vibration and every pounding beat generated by the remaining three engines in his bones. His ears were filled with the screech of tearing metal and his nostrils took in the acrid stench of burning aluminum.

With both hands covering his ears, Earl screamed in a terrified voice, “We gotta turn back! To hell with this bullshit.” But no one heard him, of course.

Scared out of his wits, he turned to grab his parachute.

Across the way he saw the left waist gunner, a guy named McKee, braced against his gun mount. Sgt. Bernie McKee stared at Earl with wide eyes. He clutched his torso with his hands, covering the place where his stomach should have been, his guts seeping through his fingers. The plane bounced in the turbulence and the gunner fell forward, dead.

Earl dropped to his knees. How much more could he take? The air quivered when another large chunk of hot metal blazed over his head and tore through the fuselage, blowing a basketball-sized hole in the side of the plane as it exited.

He closed his eyes tight, and as the bomber lumbered through the sky he could almost see the German ack-ack guns on the ground firing at the formation of bombers—shell after shell, endlessly exploding all around them.

He looked out again. “Oh God, there goes
Luscious Lady
,” he said into his throat mike.
Luscious Lady
, a bomber in the high squad, was named by the pilot, Bobby Buck, as a tribute to his lovely red-headed wife, Irene. They’d been married two days prior to his induction.

With her nose pointed down,
Luscious Lady
spun rapidly out of control heading toward the ground at a tremendous rate of speed. Pieces separated from the airplane and chucks of metal fluttered in the air. Most of the plane’s left wing was missing.

An urgent voice came through the interphone: “Look for chutes, everybody.”

“C’mon, Buck, bail out, goddammit! Get out of the goddamn plane,” someone else said.

“Anybody see any chutes?” Captain Haskell asked in a calm voice.

But none were visible. The
Lady
crashed and exploded with all hands on board. Nine more letters would go out tonight. Each signed by Col. Edmonson himself. He would write to the airmen’s loved ones back home, telling them how sorry he was for their loss and how courageous Johnny had been.

The floor under Earl bucked violently. He bounced and hit his head against one of protruding ribs securing the skin of the plane. His vision blurred, but for only a moment. Maybe he felt the pain, but maybe he didn’t care. He pulled his parachute pack from its storage position and snapped on both sides of it to the harness straps that clung to his body.

Standing on shaky legs, he hung on to his gun mount for support and vomited. The aircraft continued to bounce and jerk violently as it moved through the sky. An artillery shell exploded close by. The plane heaved, rolled on its side, then leveled out again and continued on its heading.

Wild thoughts raced through Earl’s mind. We’re gonna die. We’re all dead men up here. We’re on a suicide mission to Hell.

He looked toward the front of the plane, toward the crawl space leading to the radio compartment. He saw fire! At the same time he heard three short rings of the alarm bell. “Prepare to bail out.”

Earl knew he should wait for the one long bell that signified “Abandon the aircraft.” He knew he should stay with the plane and the crew until the last possible moment. He knew he should grab the fire extinguisher and fight the blaze coming from the radio compartment. But he couldn’t move.

He had to jump now.

Not a second to waste.

The plane is gonna blow up.

To hell with the crew. Earl didn’t know these guys, never partied with them at the base, and hardly spoke to the men at all. He was a replacement. This was only the second combat mission that he flew with this gang. He didn’t owe then a goddamn thing.

He didn’t like the officers, or the rest of the enlisted men, hardly knew their names. And he hated the commander—that rich bastard, Raymond Haskell, with his spit-polished manner and by-the-book attitude.

Everyone around the base kissed his ass. Like they thought that maybe Haskell would part with some of his old man’s dough. Like he’d give it up just for the asking. Sure he would…what a laugh. Earl doubted that the son-of-a-bitch would ever help a crewmate out until payday when he ran a little short. Haskell never gave Earl a damn thing.

Haskell had snubbed him when Earl shook his hand at their first meeting. He knew Haskell had grown up in the snooty Bel Air section of Los Angeles. When Earl mentioned that he was from a jerk-water town back east, Haskell just nodded once. He didn’t say anything but Earl could tell from the look in his eyes that Haskell thought he was scum.

Earl knew Haskell would never abort a mission. He wanted to be a hero. Goddamn him! He wanted more citations and he wanted more bullshit write-ups in Stars and Stripes highlighting the brave exploits of the courageous captain. Earl figured Haskell wanted to go home a frigging conqueror and wave his shiny metals under his fat old man’s nose, regardless of how many of his men had to die.

But the men and officers of the B-17 crew adored Haskell.

No, he was not going to die today, not for these assholes.

Fuck ’em. They’re all dead anyway.

“Toe-to-toe my ass,” he muttered under his breath.

He bailed out through the main entrance hatch.

C H A P T E R 
20

We left the Beverly Wilshire
in the wee hours of the morning. I wanted to take off right after the meeting with Haskell; so did Sol. But Rita was having the time of her life, so I decided to stay out of her way and let her enjoy the evening. I found a café in the hotel and drank coffee until it was finally time to leave.

All the way back to Downey, Rita glowed in dreamy-eyed serenity. She leaned her head on the seatback and hummed old Sinatra tunes. It began to get under my skin.

When I dropped her at the apartment she didn’t say goodnight, just more or less drifted to the front door and slipped in without looking back. He had that old black magic working and he had her under his spell.

I didn’t know why women found Sinatra so exciting. He was just a skinny lounge singer from Hoboken, New Jersey… okay, that wasn’t true. Sinatra was an iconic superstar, a man who had the rare ability of making music that lived in people’s hearts.

Was I jealous? Now, how absurd was that?

Jealous of Frank Sinatra?

Hell yes!

I hung around my apartment, sorting through bills and papers most of Saturday, only venturing out to grab a bite to eat. Sunday morning I thumbed through the
Times
, glancing at the sports page. Then I looked through the paper again, more carefully, on the off chance of finding news that our “law and order” governor had approved the release of a life-term murderer. No mention of it. I tossed the paper aside. Either his people were keeping Roberts’s release under wraps, as they said they would, or something had scotched the deal. Maybe the commutation of an old harmless guy like Roberts just wasn’t a big enough deal to attract the media’s attention. One thing for sure: I’d know by the end of the day if he was going to get his freedom or not. Now all I had to do was sit and wait. I planned to spend the day honing my skills at solitaire.

But I didn’t have to wait long. After I showered and shaved, preparing to head out for a late breakfast at Dolan’s Donuts, the phone rang.

“Mr. O’Brien,” the voice said. “I’m from the District Attorney’s Office. The governor has just signed your client’s order of commutation.”

I took a deep breath and sat on the chair next to the phone.

“Are you there?”

“I’m here,” I said.

“Roberts will be released tomorrow morning at ten o’clock, Pacific Standard Time. I believe you have his bus ticket.”

“That’s right.”

“Okay, here’s the drill. Tomorrow go to the east yard at the prison. Be there not later than 9:30 a.m. Park in the lot and walk to the guard booth. Tell them who you are. They’ll be expecting you. Go back and wait in your car. Park in view of the main sallyport. You’ll see him when he comes out. Then take him directly to the bus station. Is that clear?”

“Yes. But what about his clothes? He’ll need something to wear.”

“Taken care of. We’re sending dress-outs and a suitcase with an extra set of clothing to the prison today. Your guy is getting special treatment. Now it’s up to you. Don’t mess around. Get him to the bus station on time. Understand?”

“Yeah, I got it.”

“And remember, his commutation is provisional. If he’s spotted anywhere in California tomorrow after the bus pulls out of the station, he’ll be arrested and dragged back to his cell. Is that understood?”

“Hey, I already said I understand.”

I stood there for a few seconds holding the phone. The governor had actually signed the order. A wave of relief came over me. There were too many things that could have gone wrong and at times I wondered if Roberts would actually get his freedom.

Later in the day I called Sol and told him about Reagan signing the release documents. As I suspected, he already knew about it. He always knows what is going on in the halls of justice. It’s part of his business. Clients pay him a lot of money to get the inside track on the workings of government. Sol had a loose network of informants everywhere. He called them his spies. Sol was a merchant, his stock was information, and the spies provided the inventory. So it was no surprise that he knew about Reagan signing the papers before I did.

Monday morning, I took extra care dressing, shined my shoes and even wore a tie. After twenty-nine years in prison, I’d be the first person on the outside that Roberts would see at the moment of his freedom. I felt the occasion deserved some respect.

I took a couple of one hundred dollar bills from my now depleted household stash and folded them into my pocket. The finance company holding my car’s pink slip would have to wait a little longer than usual.

Just before heading out the door, I called my office. “Any new clients, Mabel?”

“Well, yes, but it’s no big deal. Two neighbors squabbling. One of them has a black eye, wants to press charges. Rita’s handling it. Fifty bucks, tops.”

“Well, I guess we aren’t going belly up, after all.”

“Don’t get cute.”

I told Mabel I’d be gone for several hours. But if anyone called for me, I’d be in the office sometime after the lunch.

“Before you hang up there’s something I have to say…”

That didn’t sound good. “What’s the matter, Mabel?”

“It’s Rita…”

“What about Rita?’

“She came in this morning toting a portable stereo player. She said the office needed a little background music—you know, like the big firms.”

“So?”

“Well, damn it. She only has one record, ‘Dream,’ by Frank Sinatra. She’s been playing it continuously all morning. I’m about to go batty!”

“Goodbye, Mabel.”

Notwithstanding the traffic on the 605 Freeway, I arrived at Chino with time to spare. This was the one day I couldn’t be late, so I left my apartment thirty minutes earlier than I normally would have when driving to prison. The guards were friendly and told me Roberts was being processed through right now and would be out shortly.

I waited by my car as instructed, and in about ten minutes Roberts walked through the sallyport carrying a battered suitcase. His clothes hung on him like the hide of a starving cow. Whoever picked out his wardrobe had a taste for the macabre. If he had a black cape he’d look like Bela Lugosi playing Dracula. Christ.

“He saw me and waved. “Howzit goin’, Jimmy?” Like we just bumped into each other at the supermarket.

“You look great, Al.”

“Yeah, terrific. It’s these fancy duds. They must’ve swiped them from some wino on Main Street. Some bum is running around buck naked this morning,” he said, looking down at his clothes. “Let’s get the hell outta here.”

I stowed his suitcase and we climbed in the car. In the 1968 ’Vette you had to work it around the seat to fit the luggage in place.

“I wish there were time for a getting-out-of-jail party, Al, but we only have an hour and a half to get you to the bus station.”

“This machine looks like it’ll get us there in time. What the hell do they call this contraption, anyway?”

“It’s a Corvette. They started making them in ’54. This one’s six years old.” I cranked the engine to life. “But it’ll get us there in time if I push it.”

On the drive to the Greyhound Terminal in downtown L.A., we talked mostly about the various changes that had occurred since 1945. He didn’t seem excited about jet passenger planes, but he was pissed about the Dodgers moving to L.A. and the Giants to San Francisco. I didn’t want to bring up the high cost of living these days.

We didn’t talk about his time in prison, or the circumstances that put him there. The case was closed. Roberts had his freedom. As curious as I was about a few of the facts that Sol and I had unearthed, why dredge up the past now? Discussing it would just make him more uncomfortable.

I still wondered about Sue. But whenever I’d mentioned her name before he turned stone cold. Why? I glanced to my right. Roberts stared straight ahead, a sad, silent, vacant stare. I wanted him to fill in the blanks. But I didn’t dare bring up her name.

Maybe he got a look at the 1945 movie magazine Mrs. Hathaway had found in the motel room where Vera had been murdered, the one with the photo of Sue Harvey and Francis Q. Jerome dining together at Ciro’s. That would’ve put him over the edge for sure. Hitchhiking all the way from New York to be with his fiancée, then finding out she was engaged to a movie actor. Of course, why didn’t I see it before? That could be the reason he clammed up whenever I brought up the subject. I thought for a moment about what must’ve gone through his mind when he saw that photo. And suddenly I felt like a fool. She had nothing to do with Roberts being arrested and sent to prison. I should have never mentioned it.

I pulled into the parking area of the new Greyhound terminal located on Seventh Street at eleven-ten, fifteen minutes to spare. The bus company recently moved into the new building from the old terminal at Sixth and Main Street, which back in the early fifties Greyhound had shared with the now defunct Pacific Electric Railway, Southern California’s rapid transit system.

A consortium made up of Standard Oil, General Motors, and Firestone Tire bought the electrical rail company in 1953, promising to improve the service. Instead, they tore out the tracks and dumped the Big Red Cars in the ocean halfway to Catalina. Now, miles of freeways crisscrossed the basin and Los Angeles had choked under a blanket of smog ever since.

We climbed out of the ’Vette. Roberts untangled his luggage from behind the seat and we stood looking at each other, not knowing exactly what to say.

Al seemed downhearted, but his attitude was to be expected. I wasn’t able to deliver what he really wanted: exoneration. But that wasn’t all of it. He hadn’t felt the effects of having his freedom yet, and he had serious doubts about the future. Anyone would. After being institutionalized for half his life it would take years, perhaps decades, before he could respond to his surroundings in what one would consider a normal manner.

“How long is the bus ride, Al?” I asked, making small talk.

He studied the ticket that I’d handed him earlier. “Almost three days. No big deal. There were times inside when I sat on the edge of my bunk and just stared at the wall for months on end. Only got up to eat and take a shit…” He looked at the sky. “Aw, screw that.”

We shook hands. “If there’s anything I can do for you, give me a buzz.” I doubted I could help him adjust to a new life, but somehow I knew he’d never call.

“Thanks Jimmy. I mean it. I owe you, man. I’ll never forget what you did for me.”

“Yeah, take care, Al.”

He started to walk toward the terminal entrance.

“Hey, wait up,” I said, reaching into my pocket for the small stake I’d promised to give Roberts to help him get a start. “Got something for you. It’s not much—”

He turned back to face me and saw the bills in my outstretched hand.

“Put it away, Jimmy. They gave me the money I earned while working at the prison. Even at ten cents an hour, after twenty-nine years it adds up. I’ll be okay, but thanks again.”

He walked the few short steps into the building and took one giant stride out of a life of misery.

I hoped.