It was always the same dream. I was at the warehouse with Fritz Vogel, beating Cecil Durkin to death. She watched, screaming that none of the drool cases killed her, promising to love me if I made Fritzie quit hitting Charlie Issler. I stopped, wanting the sex. Fritzie continued his carnage, and Betty wept for Charlie while I had her.
I always woke up grateful for daylight, especially when Kay was beside me.
On April 4, almost two and a half months after Lee’s disappearance, Kay got a letter on official LAPD stationery:
4/3/47
Dear Miss Lake-
This is to inform you that Leland C. Blanchard has been formally dismissed from the Los Angeles Police Department on grounds of moral turpitude, effective 3/15/47. You were the beneficiary of his Los Angeles City Credit Union account, and since Mr. Blanchard remains out of touch, we feel it is only fair to send you the existing balance.
Best wishes,
Leonard V. Strock,
Sergeant,
Personnel Division
A check for $14.11 was included. It made me killing mad, and I attacked the master file so I wouldn’t attack my new enemy– the bureaucracy that owned me.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Two days later the connection jumped up off the carbon and grabbed me by the balls.
It was my own FI report, filed on 1/17/47. Under “Marjorie Graham,” I had written: “M.G. stated E. Short used nickname variations of ‘Elizabeth’ according to the company she was with.”
Bingo.
I had heard Elizabeth Short called “Betty,” “Beth,” and once or twice “Betsy,” but only Charles Michael Issler, a pimp, referred to her as “Liz.” At the warehouse he had denied knowing her. I recalled that he didn’t impress me as a killer, but that I still found him hinky. When I’d thought about the warehouse before, it was Durkin and the stiff that came on strong; now I replayed it strictly for facts:
Fritzie had beat Issler half to death, ignoring the other three loonies;
He had stressed side issues, shouting: “Tell me what you know about the Dahlia’s missing days,” “Tell me what you know,” “Tell me what your girls told you.”
Issler had answered back, “I knew you at Ad Vice.”
I thought of Fritzie’s hands shaking earlier that night; I remembered him shouting at Lorna Martilkova: “You whored with the Dahlia, didn’t you, girlie? _Tell me where you were during her lost days_.” Then the finale hit: Fritzie and Johnny Vogel whispering on the ride out to the Valley.
“_I proved I’m not no nancy boy. Homos couldn’t do what I did_.”
“_Be still, damn you!_”
I ran out to the hall, fed the pay phone a nickel and dialed Russ Millard’s number at the Bureau.
“Central Homicide, Lieutenant Millard.”
“Russ, it’s Bucky.”
“Something wrong, bright penny? You sound shaky.”
“Russ, I think I’ve got something. I can’t tell you now, but I need two favors.”
“This is about Elizabeth?”
“Yes. Goddamnit, Russ–”
“Hush, and tell me.”
“I need you to get me the Ad Vice file for Charles Michael Issler. He’s got three pimping priors, so I know he’ll have one.”
“And?”
I dry swallowed. “I want you to check on Fritz Vogel’s and John Vogel’s whereabouts January tenth through fifteenth.”
“Are you telling me–”
“I’m telling you maybe. I’m telling you maybe real strong.”
There was a long silence, then: “Where are you?”
“The El Nido.”
“Stay there. I’ll call you back inside of half an hour.”
I hung up and waited, thinking of a sweet package of glory and revenge. Seventeen minutes later the phone rang; I pounced on it. “Russ, what–”
“The file’s missing. I checked the ‘I’s’ myself. They were all put back unevenly, so my guess is that it was snatched recently. On the other, Fritzie was on duty at the Bureau straight through those days, racking up overtime on old cases, and Johnny was on vacation leave, where I don’t know. Now, will you explain all this?”
I got an idea. “Not now. Meet me here tonight. _Late_. If I’m not here, wait for me.”
“Bucky–”
“Later, padre.”
o o o
I called in sick that afternoon; that night I committed two felony B & E’s.
My first victim was working swingwatch; I called Personnel Division and impersonated a city payroll clerk to get his home address and phone number. The catching officer kicked loose; at dusk I parked across the street and eyeballed the apartment house that John Vogel called home.
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