I looked over Harry’s shoulder. Three mug shots of a showstopper brunette were taped to the page, with three-closeup face photos of the corpse at 39th and Norton affixed next to them. The slashed-mouth smile jumped out at me; Captain Jack said, “The mugs are from the Santa Barbara PD. They popped the Short girl in September ’43 for underaged drinking, sent her home to her mother in Massachusetts. Boston PD contacted her an hour ago. She’s flying out to ID the stiff tomorrow. The Boston cops are doing a background check back east, and all Bureau days off are cancelled. Anybody complains, I point to those pictures. What did Doc Newbarr say, Russ?”
Millard said, “Tortured for two days. Cause of death the mouth wound or the head bashing. No rape. Internal organs removed. Dead six to eight hours before the body was dumped in the lot. What else have we got on her?”
Tierney checked some papers on his desk. “Except for the juvie roust, no other record. Four sisters, parents divorced, worked in the Camp Cooke PX during the war. The father’s here in LA. What’s next?”
I was the only one who blinked when the big boss asked number two for advice. Millard said, “I want to recanvass Leimert Park with the mugs. Me, Harry and two other men. Then I want to go to University Station, read reports and answer calls. Has Loew given the press a look at the mugs?”
Tierney nodded. “Yeah, and Bevo Means told me the father sold the _Times and_ the _Herald_ some old portrait pictures of the girl. She’ll be front page on the evening editions.”
Millard barked, “Damn,” the only word of profanity anyone ever heard him use. Seething, he said, “They’ll be coming out of the woodwork to greet her. Has the father been questioned?”
Tierney shook his head and consulted some memo slips. “Cleo Short, 1020½ South Kingsley, Wilshire District. I had an officer call him and tell him to stay put, that we’d be sending some men by to talk to him. Russ, you think the strange-o’s will fall in love with this one?”
“How many confessions so far?”
“Eighteen.”
“Double that by morning, more if Loew got the press excited with his purple prose.”
“I would say I got them motivated, Lieutenant. And I would say my prose fit the crime.”
Ellis Loew was standing in the doorway, Fritz Vogel and Bill Koenig behind him. Millard locked eyes with the radio ham. “Too much publicity is a hindrance, Ellis. If you were a policeman you’d know that.”
Loew flushed and reached for his Phi Beta Kappa key. “I’m a ranking civilian-police liaison officer, specially deputized by the City of Los Angeles.”
Millard smiled. “You’re a civilian, counselor.”
Loew bristled, then turned to Tierney. “Captain, have you sent men to talk to the victim’s father?”
Captain Jack said, “Not yet, Ellis. Soon.”
“How about Vogel and Koenig? They’ll get us what we need to know.”
Tierney looked up at Millard. The lieutenant gave an almost imperceptible head shake; Captain Jack said, “Aah, Ellis, in big homicide jobs the whip assigns the men. Aah, Russ, who do you think should go?”
Millard scrutinized Cavanaugh and Smith, me trying to look inconspicuous and Lee yawning, slouched against the wall. He said, “Bleichert, Blanchard, you bad pennies question Miss Short’s father. Bring your report to University Station tomorrow morning.”
Loew’s hands jerked his Phi Beta key clean off its chain; it fell to the floor. Bill Koenig squeezed in the doorway and picked it up; Loew about-faced into the hall. Vogel glared at Millard, then followed him. Harry Sears, breathing Old Grand Dad, said, “He sends a few niggers to the gas chamber and it goes to his head.”
Vern Smith said, “The niggers must have confessed.”
Dick Cavanaugh said, “With Fritzie and Bill they all confess.”
Russ Millard said, “Shit-brained, grandstanding son of a bitch.”
o o o
We took separate cars to the Wilshire District, rendezvousing in front of 1020½ South Kingsley at dusk. It was a garage apartment, shack sized, at the rear of a big Victorian house. Lights were burning inside; Lee, yawning, said, “Good guy–bad guy,” and rang the buzzer.