The Madman Theory (20 page)

“All of us want to see these murders cleared up, and it might be just some trifle that would turn the trick. For instance, there's a mysterious white Ford Galaxie hardtop, license LKK-3220, in the picture. Does anyone have knowledge regarding this car?”

Myron Retwig spoke in a voice merely curious. “How does the car enter the case?”

Collins chose his words carefully. There was an extremely fine distinction between saying too little and too much. “I'll have to go into some background to answer. The police naturally are forced to work methodically. We have to comb the ground for every bit of information. We're pluggers. Sooner or later we consider every possible angle to a case—maybe a few impossible ones.

“You people have noticed that, when you enter the park, you receive a receipt for your fee on which is noted your license number. We made a list of such numbers and checked every car which entered the park during the week previous to the murder. One of these cars was registered to a Nathan Wingate of Redondo Beach, who denied ever setting foot in the park. Another was registered to Steve Ricks of Fresno. Steve Ricks was killed on the night of Tuesday, June 16, and his body flung into a boxcar. We identified him without too much trouble; we have a few tricks of the trade we don't talk about too much. Right, Captain?”

“Right,” said Bigelow.

“Naturally we investigated Steve Ricks to a fare-thee-well. We know more about Ricks than his own mother. We found that on Friday, June 12, he drove a white Ford, license LKK-3220. Evidently this particular car is involved in the murder, which is why I asked my question. Is that clear, Mr. Retwig?”

“Quite clear, thank you.”

“We traced Ricks to San Jose and certain of his hangouts, notably a place called Smoky Joe's Down Home Cabaret, on Latham Avenue. Some of you people may know it. At Smoky Joe's, Ricks met Mr. Kershaw here, through one of Mr. Kershaw's ex-wives. Now the story becomes blurred. Apparently Ricks was hired for two hundred dollars—a hundred down, a hundred later—to help play a trick on someone in the camping party. So much Steve confided to a friend. Unfortunately, he did not name the person who hired him to play the trick. In any event we can definitely rule out Ricks as the murderer of Mr. Genneman—even though Ricks was the man who came behind you gentlemen on the trail. This is absolutely definite; we have ironclad proof of it.

“So this is about where we stand. Someone—either Steve Ricks or the murderer—drove a rented white Ford with faked plates up into General Grant Park on Wednesday, June 10. I personally feel that it was the murderer. Since he described Persimmon Lake to Ricks, we know that he was familiar with the country, at least as far as Lomax Falls. Why he should have made a previous trip up the trail is a puzzle: perhaps to scout out a good place for an ambush.

“I'm likewise perplexed by the ease with which he made his escape. I've got a notion he slid down the mountainside, gun and all. The next few days I'm tied up in court on another case, but early next week I hope to make a careful inspection of the whole area, including the valley below. Maybe I'll find some traces … Well, we'll see what we see.”

Collins again paused for breath. Was he laying it on too thick? He went on, to avoid placing undue emphasis on the shotgun. “As to motive, we're in the dark. We simply don't know who had it in for Mr. Genneman, or why. As of now we seem to have come to a dead end. Unless we can find some evidence at the scene of the crime we may have to go back to the theory of a maniac—and nobody wants that, especially the rangers. Well, that's my report. If any of you have any ideas, I'd be happy to hear them.”

Earl Junior formed a short word with his mouth, which Collins chose to ignore. “Anybody have any questions?”

No one had any questions.

“In that case,” said Collins, “the party's over. In a week or two I hope to have more news for you. Good night.”

Collins and Bigelow went out to their car and stared back to Fresno. “Well?” asked Collins. “What do you think? Did I lay it on too thick?”

“I wouldn't say so. If you'd been any less explicit, the message might not have come through.”

“That was my feeling. Well, we'll see.”

At two o'clock the following afternoon, Collins answered his telephone to hear the even voice of Lieutenant Loveridge. “We've got action up here. Just about what you predicted.”

Collins drew a deep breath. “I was afraid I'd muffed it. What's going on?”

“Subject is proceeding east, driving a black Corvair rented from Hertz. License BR9–019.”

“Got it. Keep well back. Better lose contact than get the suspect wise.”

“We're using three unmarked cars,” said Loveridge. “Traffic's heavy; there won't be any foul-up. They'll keep in touch by radio, and I'll keep your office posted.”

Collins notified Bigelow, then telephoned Park Superintendent Phelps. “Inspector Omar Collins here, Superintendent. We've got action I'm on my way to the airport. I'll meet you at Cedar Grove as arranged.”

“Very well, Inspector. Glad to hear the news.”

Collins went into Bigelow's office. “I'm on my way.”

“Have a joy ride. I'll take care of this end.”

Half an hour later Collins and Sergeants Easley and Kerner arrived at the airport. Collins carried the shotgun, with cords and clothespins still attached, in a case. They climbed into the helicopter, which rose and swept off toward the east.

Over the foothills they flew, up toward the forested bulwarks of the Sierra, then along the great canyon of the Kings River, to alight at Cedar Grove.

Superintendent Phelps met the helicopter as he had on the previous occasion. Collins went to the telephone and called headquarters. Bigelow informed him that the black Corvair had reached Highway 99 and was proceeding south.

“We'll wait here till he turns east on 180,” said Collins, “just to make sure it's no false alarm. When you get the word, call me at this number.”

“Right. It should be about an hour.”

“Make sure everybody's careful. One mistake and the whole set-up collapses.”

“I'll pass the word.”

Collins went outside and sat down on a bench, where he was joined by Phelps. “What's the situation now?”

“It's like a funeral procession,” said Collins. “There's a black Corvair in the lead and a dozen police cars behind. I hope they keep away from the suspect's rearview mirror.” “Why so many?” asked Phelps. “Isn't one enough?”

“They keep changing places, passing and dropping back. It's a good idea unless something goes wrong. In which case I've had a helicopter ride.”

Forty-five minutes passed. The telephone inside the cabin rang. Collins sprang to his feet. The ranger within answered and conversed for several minutes. The call evidently was not the one Collins was expecting.

Another five minutes passed before the telephone rang again. This time the call was for Collins. “Get going,” said Bigelow. “It's definite. One black Corvair turning east on Highway 180.”

“Better hold back the tails. There's not much traffic, and it must be one highly suspicious driver in that Corvair.”

“That's my thought, too,” said Bigelow. “Good luck, Omar.”

“It's past the luck stage—I hope.” Collins went outside. “Let's get moving.”

The helicopter rose, swung east to the road's-end, then north above the Copper Creek Trail. Suggs Meadow passed below, and Dutchman's Pass, and Persimmon Lake. Ahead, Lomax Falls made a soft white line down the gray of the hillside. Into the meadow dropped the helicopter.

Collins and Phelps climbed out, then Kerner and Easley with sleeping gear and equipment bags.

An hour later the helicopter took off with Collins and Phelps in it. Collins had posted Easley and Kerner at what he considered optimum vantage; then, dangling in a bosun's chair, he had taken the shotgun back down to the clump of pines in which he had found it.

The helicopter returned to Cedar Grove. Collins called Bigelow. “I'm back. Any developments?”

“Nothing out of line. The Corvair has entered the park. I'd say you got back just in time. Is the helicopter out of sight?”

“It's in a meadow a hundred yards from the road. It can't be seen. I don't think it would register, anyway.”

“Maybe not. But we can't be too careful.”

“Right. Well, there's nothing to do now but wait. I'm going up to road's-end and see what happens. I'll call again as soon as there's action.”

In a ranger pick-up, Collins and Phelps drove to the parking area at the end of the road. They got out and walked back among the trees, where they could see and not be seen. The time was now four thirty—late afternoon.

Twenty minutes passed. Then a black Corvair sedan came quietly up the road. It turned into the parking oval, made a slow circuit, then another, as if the driver were uncertain.

“Suspicious,” muttered Collins. “Every car's being checked.”

The black Corvair made a third swing and finally parked. The occupant alighted, rummaged in the back seat, slipped on a light pack, stepped out in the open, made a furtive inspection of the area, and set out up the trail.

Collins and Phelps watched the figure disappear among the trees. “There goes a killer,” said Collins softly. “At large. Just like a wild animal. Ever seen one before?”

“No,” said Phelps. “It's a peculiar sensation.”

Collins nodded. “Well, there's nothing to do now but wait. At the earliest the payoff will be tomorrow night. More likely the morning after that. We may as well relax.”

Collins spent the night at Phelps' cottage on the bank of the Kings River. For dinner he was served delicious trout, with lemon butter and new potatoes. After dinner he played Monopoly with Phelps, Mrs. Phelps, and their three teenage children. Afterward, at the children's urging, he recounted some of his exploits as a police officer. At midnight they all went to bed.

In the morning he ate a breakfast of hotcakes and bacon and eggs, thinking of Easley and Kerner, who would be making do with cold corned beef and dried apples—they would hardly dare light a fire. Collins chuckled and accepted another mug of coffee.

During the day he paid another visit to road's-end, to make sure that the black Corvair was still there. He was of two minds about keeping watch all night. Phelps dissuaded him. “It's a day's hike in, and something less than a day's hike out, not to mention a rough two hours or so at Lomax Meadow. Add one sleeping period, and it works out to tomorrow morning at the earliest.”

“You're probably right,” said Collins, “but I don't want to miss the boat now. Not that it would make any difference in the long run, if Kerner and Easley function as they're supposed to.”

“I'll have one of my men up here tomorrow morning at, say, six o'clock. He can keep an eye on things till we arrive. There's no problem, because we can always call ahead to stop the car at the park entrance.”

“That sounds good to me,” said Collins. “Although I hate to impose on your hospitality.”

“Don't mention it. The kids are thrilled.”

The day passed, and the night. At eight the next morning, after breakfast, they drove back to road's-end. The black Corvair was there. “Nothing moving,” said the ranger whom Phelps had assigned to watch the car.

“It won't be long,” said Phelps. “You'd better stick with us.”

Nine o'clock passed, ten o'clock …

Down the trail came a gaunt figure, stumbling with fatigue, but with an expression of satisfaction on his face. He went to the Corvair, opened the back door, threw in his pack, started to open the front door.

Collins came up beside him. “Hello, Buck. What are you doing here?”

Buck James jerked around, jaw sagging. He forced a grin. “It's the inspector. I might ask the same of you.”

“I asked you first.”

“Oh, I had a few days free. I thought I'd visit old scenes, and all that. Just curiosity, you might say.”

Collins snapped a handcuff on James' left wrist. James jerked back only to bump into Phelps, who seized his right arm and held it while Collins snapped on the other handcuff.

The young man looked at his bonds in injured innocence. “What's the meaning of this? Can't a man take a hike without being loaded with gyves?”

“You're something in the nature of a special case,” said Collins. “You're under arrest. The charge—murder of Earl Genneman, Steve Ricks and Molly Wilkerson.”

Buck James swallowed. “You're not serious?”

“Do you think I got up this morning at six o'clock for fun? Before we start back to Fresno, I better look you over. A man of your talents might be concealing an A-bomb or something.”

But Buck carried nothing but a hunting knife. Collins appropriated it.

Buck's voice broke slightly. “You make these fantastic charges, without rhyme or reason. Without proof.”

“I think the photographs of you climbing down the hill after that shotgun will convince most jurors. What did you do with it, bury it? We'll dig it up. Into the car with you. Where are the keys?”

“On the floor under the mat.” Buck James thoughtfully climbed into the back seat. Collins got in beside him. Phelps drove.

“This is fantastic,” said Buck. “How in the world could I shoot Earl? I was the last in line; the shot came from the trees.”

“I'll tell you how you could shoot Earl. All you needed was some strong cord, two clothespins, a shotgun, and a boulder weighing fifty pounds or so. I've found all but the boulder.

“You drove up here early Wednesday, hiked in until you found a place where your scheme would work. One clothespin held the other open, with the jaws clamping the trigger and trigger guard. You wanted to give Earl both barrels, so you connected the triggers and locked them together. Then you led one line to the trail and arranged it so you could give it a quick yank. This yank would snap off the first clothespin; the second clothespin would jerk the trigger; Earl would have his head blown off. Another line ran back and over the slope, where it was tied to the boulder. The gun was supported on a branch, maybe weighted down. When it went off, it shot apart a cord holding the boulder, which pulled the gun and the rest down the mountain. And all you'd had to do was give your string that one yank when Earl stepped into range.”