A long, rectangular interior. On the right: a string of tables, four chairs per. The side wall mural-papered: winking owls perched on street signs. A checkered linoleum floor; to the left a counter–a dozen stools. A service runway behind it, the kitchen in back, fronted by a cook’s station: fryers, spatulas on hooks, a platform for laying down plates. At front left: a cash register.
Open, empty–coins on the floor mat beside it.
Three tables in disarray: food spilled, plates dumped; napkin containers, broken dishes on the floor. Drag marks leading back to the kitchen; one high-heeled pump by an upended chair.
Ed walked into the kitchen. Half-fried food, broken dishes, pans on the floor. A wall safe under the cook’s counter–open, spiffing coins. Crisscrossed drag marks connecting with the other drag marks, dark black heel smudges ending at the door of a walk-in food locker.
Ajar, the cord out of the socket–no cool air as a preservative. Ed opened it.
Bodies–a blood-soaked pile on the floor. Brains, blood and buckshot on the walls. Blood two feet deep collecting in a drainage trough. Dozens of shotgun shells floating in blood.
NEGRO YOUTHS DRIVING PURPLE ’48-’50 MERC COUPE SEENDISCHARGING SHOTGUNS INTO AIR IN GRIFFITH PARK HILLS SEVERAL TIMES OVER PAST TWO WEEKS.
Ed gagged, tried for a body count.
No discernible faces. Maybe five people dead for the cash register and safe take and what they had on them– “Holy shit fuck.”
A rookie type–pale, almost green. Ed said, “How many men outside?”
“I . . . I dunno. Lots.”
“Don’t get sick, just get everybody together to start canvassing. We need to know if a certain type of car was seen around here tonight.”
“S-s-sir, there’s this Detective Bureau man wants to see you.”
Ed walked out. Dawn up: fresh light on a mob scene. Patrolmen held back reporters; rubberneckers swarmed. Horns blasted; motorcycles ran interference: meat wagons cut off by the crowd. Ed looked for high brass; newsmen shouting questions stampeded him.
Pushed off the sidewalk, pinned to a patrol car. Flashbulbs pop pop pop–he turned so his bruises wouldn’t show. Strong hands grabbed him. “Go home, lad. I’ve been given the command here.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The first all-Bureau call-in in history-every downtown-based detective standing ready. The chief’s briefing room jammed to the rafters.
Thad Green, Dudley Smith by a floor mike; the men facing them, itchy to go. Bud looked for Ed Exley–a chance to scope out his wounds. No Exley–scotch a rumor he caught the Nite Owl squeal.
Smith grabbed the mike. “Lads, you all know why we’re here. ‘Nite Owl Massacre’ hyperbole aside, this is a heinous crime that requires a hard and swift resolution. The press and public will demand it, and since we already have solid leads, we will give it to them.
“There were six people dead in that locker–three men and three women. I have spoken to the Nite Owl’s owner, and he told me that three of the dead are likely Patty Chesimard and Donna DeLuca, female Caucasians, the late-shift waitress and cash register girl, and Gilbert Escobar, male Mexican, the cook and dishwasher. The three other victims–two men, one woman– were almost certainly customers. The cash register and safe were empty and the victims’ pockets and handbags were picked clean, which means that robbery was obviously the motive. SID is doing the forensic now–so far they have nothing but rubber glove prints on the cash register and food locker door. No time of death on the victims, but the scant number of customers and another lead we have indicates 3:00 A.M. as the time of the killings. A total of forty-five spent 12-gauge Remington shotgun shells were found in the locker. This indicates three men with five-shot-capacity pumps, all of them reloading twice. I do not have to tell you how gratuitous forty of those rounds were, lads. We are dealing with stark raving mad beasts here.”
Bud looked around. Still no Exley, a hundred men jotting notes. Jack Vincennes in a corner, no notebook. Thad Green took over.
“No blood tracks leading outside. We were hoping for footprints to run eliminations against, but we didn’t find any, and Ray Pinker from SID says the forensic will take at least fortyeight hours. The coroner says IDs on the customer victims will be extremely difficult because of the condition of the bodies. But we do have one very hot lead.