The Madman Theory (12 page)

8

The case was heating up. The morning papers covered each of the murders, though making no connection between them. The killing of Earl Genneman inspired the most detailed coverage:

MOUNTAIN MURDERER

STILL AT LARGE

Police Comb Wilderness

for Shotgun Maniac

ran the headline. Below appeared the usual garbled account of developments to date, with a map of the Copper Creek Trail and a statement from Detective Captain Bigelow.

Steve Ricks was given a box at the bottom of the page with what Collins considered an over-optimistic head:

PROBE SLAYING OF FOLK GUITARIST;

POLICE CLOSE TO HAMMER KILLER

The story dealt with the finding of the body, a short interview with Mrs. Ramon Menendez, and a statement from Sergeant Rod Easley. Collins was not mentioned in either of the stories, a fact he noted with a cynical grunt.

He went to Bigelow's office for a conference. Today being Saturday, Bigelow was anxious to get to the golf course. Collins also had the weekend off, but he was more interested in his scheme for extracting information from Molly Wilkerson before she either collected her hush-money or was killed. He explained his plan and was gratified to see Bigelow grin. “Clever. It may work, Omar. It's certainly worth a try.”

At least Bigelow wasn't one to veto an idea simply because of its unorthodoxy. Or maybe, thought Collins unkindly, he didn't know the difference.

“Phelps called from the park,” said Bigelow. “His men have made what he calls ‘an informal search'; they've checked trails within a thirty-mile radius of Persimmon Lake and found not a damn thing.”

“Steve Ricks is the key to the entire affair,” said Collins. “If we find who killed him and why, we'll crack the Genneman case. At least that's my opinion.”

Bigelow nodded wisely. “Has Easley turned up anything?”

“Not much. The landlord paid no attention to Ricks; the neighbors never noticed him except when he practised his guitar. Easley covered neighborhood service stations but nobody claims to have known him.”

“What about Sullivan and Kerner in the park?”

“Nobody so far remembers Ricks or his car. They'll need another day or so to finish.”

“And the service station where Ricks used to work?”

“Easley's looking for it. I'll mention it to him again.”

Collins returned to his office.

Earl Genneman had been killed by a shotgun blast a day and a half's hike into the wilderness. Steve Ricks had hiked the same trail, either independently or following the Genneman party, and on his return to Fresno had been killed. From these events a multitude of theories could be formulated, with insufficient facts to prove anything. Was there another woman in Genneman's life? His wife appeared to think not; his stepdaughter had also scouted the possibility. Interesting situation with Jean. Almost as if Genneman's death had been a signal, or had removed a barrier, she and Buck James were back on friendly terms. Had the offer of a managership in Wisconsin been contingent upon Buck's staying away from Jean? A device to get him out of the way?

Nothing was impossible. Collins drummed on the desk, and reached for the telephone directory. He made a list of establishments which rented camping equipment. Then, procuring a photograph of Ricks from Easley's desk, he left.

On his third try, at Bain's Sporting Goods, Collins struck pay dirt. The clerk both remembered Rick's face and, after considerable rummaging, found a record of the transaction. Collins examined the slip with interest. It was dated June 12, Friday, the day before Ricks had entered the National Park. There was no notation as to when the equipment had been returned, but the clerk explained that none was usually made.

“What time Friday did he come in?” asked Collins.

The clerk shook his head. “I don't remember.”

“The slip has a number. Would that tell you anything?”

“Maybe so.” The clerk went back to the files, checked slips dated Friday, June 12, noted the lowest number and the highest number extrapolated, “I'd say—just a guess—that he came in about ten o'clock.”

Collins studied the receipt. It noted only a pack-frame and a sleeping bag, and Ricks had paid in advance for one week.

“He also got some dehydrated food,” said the clerk. “I forget just what it was. Seems like it wasn't very much, but I don't rightly remember.”

“Did he say where he was going?”

“He might have. I didn't pay particular attention; I see twenty people a day like him.”

Collins continued to study the slip; there was a set of numbers at the top. “This must be the number of his driver's license.”

“Yes. That's how we keep our customers honest. We don't lose much gear.”

“Think back a bit. Did Ricks say anything at all about this trip? If he was to meet someone, or where he expected to go?”

The clerk shook his head. “I simply don't remember a thing he said. I don't believe he had much to say. Just wanted some gear for a few days in the mountains.”

“Was anyone with him when he came into the store?”

The clerk started to speak, stopped. Then he said, “No but now that I think of it, he parked in that loading zone across the street. Parking's real tight around here, and he seemed nervous that he was going to get a ticket. Anyway he kept looking over his shoulder all the time he was in the shop.”

“Anyone in his car?”

“I didn't notice. I remember, though, the car was a new Ford Galaxie. My father has one just like it, the same color and everything.”

“What color?”

“Off-white, sandy-white, desert tan, whatever they call it. Some fancy name.”

“Well, well. You didn't by any chance notice the license number?”

“Lord, no.”

“Did Ricks talk to anyone else while he was in here?”

“No, sir. But don't put too much store by what I'm telling you. I paid the man no attention; he was just another customer. I'm surprised I even recognised his picture.”

Collins returned to headquarters, where he found Sergeant Easley, who reported no success after a morning spent checking service stations. Collins told Easley what he had learned at Bain's Sporting Goods. “What puzzles me,” he said, “is the new white Ford Steve was driving.”

“Pretty hard to confuse with a green '54 Plymouth,” said Easley. “What should I do next? Nothing is working out for me.”

“Where's that list we drew up?”

Easley produced the list. Collins studied it. “Point one: landlord and neighbors. Nothing there. Two: Ricks' car. We've got that, we know where he bought it. Three: service station where he got his gas. Nothing on this yet. Four: Sullivan and Kerner can't find any trace of Ricks in the park. Scratch this one. Five: the Clover Club. I want to try again, there may be more there. Six: the check for thirty-two dollars. Jake Mansfield; that we know. Seven, the murder weapon. Pretty hopeless. Eight: where did Steve get loaded aboard the boxcar? You might look into that. Find where access to the yard is easiest. It's probably not far from where his car was found. Nine: the camping equipment. That's taken care of. Ten: Ricks' family. Bigelow has contacted them; we can let this go for a while. Eleven: bank accounts, debts. The hundred-dollar bill. You might go down to the Sunset Nursery, ask around there some more. Somebody might remember something. Twelve: the shotgun.”

“The landlord says Steve never owned a shotgun,” said Easley.

“Nothing looks very hot. Try the Sunset Nursery, then see if you can figure where he got loaded aboard the boxcar. Ask around the neighborhood, look in the ditch for Steve's hands.”

Easley left for the Sunset Nursery; a short time later Collins set out for San Jose.

He arrived a few minutes past five. At the main Western Union office he hired a messenger, to whom he gave explicit instructions. Then, with an hour or two to kill, he drove past Genneman Laboratories, Incorporated: a row of glass and concrete structures surrounded by gardens, a much more imposing plant than Collins had expected; Genneman must have been several times a millionaire. But who profited by his death? Not Opal, who had had everything and appeared to mourn her husband deeply. Not the children, who were neither better nor worse off than before. The fact, thought Collins, was that Genneman's death seemed to help no one. If the inquiry into Steve Ricks trickled out, he'd set an accountant to looking over the Westco books and inventory. Not impossible Bob Vega, Buck James, Red Kershaw, or all three had been finagling with the stock.

Collins filled up at a Mexican restaurant, then drove south along Latham Avenue through the gathering dusk. Ahead he saw a big square sign in red tubes and yellow bulbs:

S
MOKY
J
OE
'
S

D
OWN
H
OME
C
ABARET

Collins parked, looked up and down, crossed to the phone booth near the entrance, made his preparations. Then he went into the bar, took a seat in a dim corner, and settled himself to watch and wait.

He spotted Molly Wilkerson working tables at the far side of the cabaret. She wore a skin-tight black skirt and a white jersey blouse split down the front. Her bleached hair soared high. Collins watched with the intensity of a cat at a mouse-hole. Molly certainly knew her way around the customers. Those who impressed her as big spenders she served with dainty little flourishes and a view down the split blouse. Those whom she took to be cheap Johns received quick processing: drinks slapped down, money collected, the dime tip pocketed, and off again with a flirt of her tail.

The orchestra took an intermission. One of the guitarists came into the bar: a man of thirty-five with bony features, sea-blue eyes, pale hair, and an expression of untroubled innocence. Collins signaled; he approached. “I wonder if you know Steve Ricks,” Collins asked. “I understand he played here a few times.”

“Sure I know Steve. Nice fella.”

“When was he around last?”

“Best part of a month. He give me a tip on a horse; I didn't bet. The horse paid 15 to 1. I just about like to die.”

“Would that have been two weeks ago?”

“Yeah. Just about two weeks.”

“Did Steve play with the band that night?”

The guitarist tilted his blond head back in an easy laugh. “No, Steve was busy bending his elbow and making out with the girls. His friend was drunk. I never saw a man so drunk.”

“Oh? Who was the friend? Incidentally, have a drink.”

“I never say no. Bourbon and soda. Who was Steve's friend? That I don't know.”

“What did he look like?”

“I hardly noticed him. Man, was he smashed. A stretcher case. I seen drunks and I seen drunks. They all look alike.”

The guitarist talked on, describing drunks he had known, their particular and peculiar habits. Collins learned no more about Ricks. The guitarist returned to the stand.

Collins watched the time carefully. At five minutes to nine he went outside to the phone booth to get his apparatus going. Then he returned to his place at the bar.

At nine o'clock the Western Union messenger entered. He went up to a waitress, was directed to Molly, and handed her a letter.

Molly went to the side of the room and opened the letter. She withdrew a five dollar bill, at which she stared in surprise. Then she read the letter. Collins knew the contents: he had written it himself:

D
EAR
M
OLLY

This five will have to do; I can't go any more at just this time, being strapped and with many expenses. But I definitely want you to keep my name out of things. I understand the cops are going to crack down hard and talk about an accessory-to-murder rap. Don't pay any attention. They may rave and threaten, but don't let it worry you; they can't do anything. I know I got a good friend in you, and that you wouldn't let a friend in for trouble. I'm flying over to Honolulu for a week or two; it's something I've promised a certain somebody a long time, which is why I'm strapped. You know how it is. Incidentally, if you ever call me again, use the pay phone; they may tap your line trying to learn my name.

Collins watched with a faint grin as Molly read the letter. When she had finished, she turned an unbelieving look at the five dollar bill and re-read the letter. Her sharp chin thrust forward. For a moment she stood by the wall in thought, then she turned and marched through the bar, passing not six feet from Collins. Her teeth were glittering in a grimace of anger.

Molly marched out to the phone booth.

Collins rose and went to the door. The woman had her back turned. He walked over to his car.

Molly dialed a number, waited impatiently, then spoke with vehemence. She hung up, flung open the door, and strode back inside the cabaret.

Collins waited five minutes, in case she thought of another phone call. Then he strolled over to the booth. From underneath the shelf he detached the small tape-recorder he had stuck there, switched it off, and took it back to his car.

He rewound the tape and listened to the playback. First he heard the scrape and rattle of Molly's entry into the booth, the thud of the doors closing. Coins clinked; the double gong of the ten-cent register sounded, followed by a series of clicks.

After a pause came the faint rasp of a voice. Molly spoke: “Look here. This is you-know-who.” The other voice rasped in query.

“It's Molly, if you've got to have it in black and white. I just got your letter and, boy, you couldn't be more wrong! If you think you can give me a measly five-buck payoff to cover up for you, my friend, you are so far off base I could die.”

The voice rasped in wonderment. Molly warmed to her subject. “The nerve, five bucks, while you go merrily off to Honolulu with some floozie, and my feet hurting so I can hardly stand it jumping these tables. I'm telling you, bud, that crummy five-spot isn't even a teaser. It's an
insult
. What do you take me for, some stupid little jerk?”