Fletch

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for 1st Thurs. p.m. BODY FOUND w/cuts: R. Sanders Fletcher

The nude body of a 15-year-old girl was discovered buried in the sand off Shoreside Blvd., The Beach, by police this morning.

The body was found encased in a sleeping bag in a shallow grave in the shade of the sea wall as the result of a tip from an anonymous caller.

The body has been identified as that of Roberta “Bobbi” Sanders, believed to be originally from Illinois.

It is expected that, in his report, coroner Alfred Wilson will estimate the time of death sometime late Sunday night or early Monday morning and the cause of death as an overdose of drugs.

According to a police spokesman, the sleeping bag is a popular brand and there is little expectation it can be traced to its owner.

The girl, abandoned at The Beach by a 30-year-old male traveling companion some months ago, had no known local address.

Her friends are not known to police.

She had no known means of support.

The anonymous caller this morning was described by police as “probably male.” It is reported by the receiving officer that an obvious attempt was made by the caller to muffle or disguise the voice.

The Beach police are making every effort to locate the girl’s family in Illinois.

It is believed her father is a dentist.

for 1st Thurs. p.m. (fp) POLICE CHIEF IMPLICATED Fletcher w/exhibits: 1) Montgomery affidavit; 2) Witherspoon affidavit; 3) Cummings’s handwritten note— enclosed, captioned w/cuts: Cummings, Witherspoon, Montgomery—u have in rack.

The News-Tribune delivered to the district attorney’s office this morning evidence implicating Chief of Police Graham Cummings in illegal drug trafficking in The Beach area.

The evidence includes: an affidavit signed by Charles Witherspoon, alias Vatsyayana, alias Fat Sam, who identifies himself in the affidavit as “the disseminator of [illegal] drugs in The Beach area,” an affidavit signed by Lewis Montgomery, who identifies himself in the affidavit as “the drug runner to Fat Sam,” and a handwritten note to “Sam” regarding drug-running problems signed “Cummings.”

These affidavits identify Chief Cummings as the source of illegal drugs in The Beach area.

The affidavits are dated with yesterday’s date.

This morning, The Beach police discovered the body of a 15-year-old girl, Roberta “Bobbi” Sanders, buried in a shallow grave near the main sea wall at The Beach, dead of a drug overdose. (See related story.)

The evidence implicating Cummings is the result of a special investigation by the News-Tribune beginning a month ago.

Both Witherspoon and Montgomery were placed in protective custody before noon today.

The arrest of Chief Cummings by federal narcotics agents is expected later today.

According to the affidavits, Cummings, 59, under the guise of establishing a home in Mexico preparatory to his retirement a year hence, has been smuggling drugs in from Mexico on a monthly basis for more than four years.

Street prices for these drugs have totaled as much as $75,000 a month.

Cummings’s personal car, which he used on his frequent trips to Mexico, is a late-model dark blue Chevrolet sedan, with plates front and back reading “Chief of Police.” The car is equipped with a police radio. A rotating, flashing light similar to those used on official police cars is on the roof of Cummings’s privately owned car. A high-powered Winchester rifle is slung beneath the dashboard.

It is unknown whether Cummings also wore his police uniform while going through customs.

It is known that his wife and teenage daughter frequently have made the trip with him.

Cummings has been a member of The Beach police force 19 years. Prior to his police career, he was a career non-commissioned officer in the U. S. Army.

Montgomery is the son of James Montgomery, superintendent of schools at The Beach.

According to the affidavits, town police regularly would pick up young Montgomery for “questioning.”

Once alone in the office of the chief of police, the transfer of drugs for cash would take place between Montgomery and Cummings.

Montgomery states the belief these transactions were completely unknown to other police officers.

Montgomery would transfer both drugs and money in a money belt concealed beneath a loose Hawaiian shirt.

Pretending to make a purchase of drugs from Witherspoon, Montgomery would in fact drop the drug-laden money belt in a place prearranged for Witherspoon to find it.

Although the widespread presence of illegal drugs in The Beach area was visible, the method of how the drugs came to be in the area was invisible.

An earlier drug-runner, a 19-year-old simply identified in the affidavits as “Jeff,” reportedly committed suicide four years ago.

The handwritten note allegedly from Cummings was written at the time of “Jeff’s” suicide. It refers to the problem of replacing “Jeff” as a drug-runner by Montgomery.

According to his own affidavit, Montgomery has been running drugs since the age of fourteen.

Originally, when it was time for another transfer, Montgomery would signal Cummings by leaving his bicycle chained to a parking meter visible through the window of the office of the chief of police. The bicycle had a distinct, purple banana seat and a high rear-view mirror.

Later, the signal that Montgomery wanted to be “picked up for questioning” so a transfer of money for drugs could take place would be his parking a flower-decorated Volkswagen minibus within sight of the police chief’s office window. The vehicle is registered to Witherspoon.

Witherspoon, 38, has been living apparently undisturbed by police in a lean-to on the beach for years.

He identifies himself as a former music teacher with the Denver, Colo., public school system.

In his affidavit, Witherspoon states that he and only he has been selling the drugs supplied by Cummings in The Beach area.

Both Witherspoon and Montgomery state they had no share in the profits from the illegal drug trade. Self-attested addicts, they profited only by having their own drug needs supplied free of charge by Cummings.

They both attest that they were forced to continue in this traffic by Chief Cummings, who threatened them with evidence in his possession that they had been involved in drug-dealing.

Witherspoon had sold drugs illegally in The Beach area before becoming an agent of the police chief.

Witherspoon stated, “I was as much a prisoner of the chief of police, both by my need for drugs and by evidence he had on me, as I would have been if I were sitting in the town jail.”

As chief of police, Cummings had refused offers of assistance from private sources to have the town’s drug problems investigated by outside experts. Such a repeated offer by John Collins, chairman of the board of Collins Aviation, was repeatedly refused.

According to Collins, Cummings always insisted he was “within a few months” of breaking the case.

He made a similar insistence to the News-Tribune Tuesday of this week.

***

After handing in the originals and duplicates of both stories to the copy desk of the afternoon newspaper, Fletch spent time identifying the photographs he had ordered processed two days before and drafting captions for them. The photographs were of Roberta Sanders, Police Chief Graham Cummings (which had been in the News-Tribune picture files), Charles Witherspoon outside the lean-to handing a small cellophane-wrapped package of heroin to Creasey, who was not identifiable in the photograph, and of Lewis Montgomery dressed in a Hawaiian shirt standing beside the Volkswagen minibus.

He Xeroxed two copies each of the affidavits and Cummings’s handwritten note and turned both copies over to the copy desk. One clear copy of each would be photographed, engraved and printed in the News-Tribune with his second story.

The originals of the affidavits and the handwritten note he brought back to his office and placed in an addressed envelope. He telephoned for a city messenger. Then he sealed the envelope.

It was only then that Fletch made the telephone contacts he had already reported in news stories already being printed.

***

“Beach Police. Please state your name and the number from which you are calling.”

With his handkerchief between his mouth and the telephone receiver, Fletch said, “I want to report a body.”

“Please state your name and the number from which you are calling.”

“There’s a body buried on the beach, of a girl—the girl Bobbi. She is buried in a sleeping bag. She’s dead.”

“Who is this?”

“This is not a hoax. Bobbi is buried on the beach near the sea wall. The only place along the sea wall where the sand is perpetually in the shade. Where it curves and the sidewalk overhangs. Up the beach from Fat Sam’s lean-to. There is a rock from the sea wall placed over the exact spot where she is buried. Have you got that?”

“Please repeat.”

“The body of Bobbi is buried on the beach, next to the sea wall not far from Fat Sam’s lean-to. There is a rock placed precisely on the sand where she is buried.”

“Please identify yourself. Who is this calling?”

Fletch said, “Please find Bobbi.”

***

At seven forty-five Thursday morning, the city messenger appeared in Fletch’s office. He was about twenty-five years old, wearing a black leather jacket and carrying a motorcycle helmet.

Without saying anything, Fletch handed him the envelope containing the original affidavits and the original of Cummings’s handwritten note.

The messenger read the address and, without saying anything, left.

***

At seven-fifty, Fletch dialed a suburban number.

“Hello?”

“Good morning, Audrey. You sound as fresh as a morning glory.”

“Fletcher? Is that you?”

“Sharp as a tack, too.”

“Why are you calling at this hour? I’m trying to get the kids off to school.”

“I just wanted to make sure you’re awake and have the coffee on for Alston.”

“He’s had his coffee. He’s just leaving for the office.”

“Call him back, will you, Audrey? I need to speak to him.”

“He’s right here. Trying to kiss me good-bye.”

“How could he, ever?”

“Fletcher, you’re sweet. Here’s Alston.”

“Is this Alston Chambers, our distinguished district attorney?”

“Hiya, buddy. I’m not district attorney. I’m what is known as the district attorney’s office. That means I just do all the work.”

“I know. Audrey sounds pretty fresh for eight o’clock in the morning.”

“She makes up for the coffee with morning sprightliness. I can’t stand either. That’s why I leave for the office so early. What’s up, buddy?”

“Alston, I’m sending over to your office by messenger a couple of depositions or affidavits or whatever you legal types call them, and a signed, handwritten note. They should be in your office by the time you get there.”

“Okay. What do they say?”

“They should be self-explanatory. Briefly what they say is that Graham Cummings, the chief of police at The Beach, is and has been for at least four years the source of illegal drugs in The Beach area.”

“Wow. Graham Cummings? He’s as clean as a hound dog’s tooth.”

“We thought he was as clean as a hound dog’s tooth.”

“I’m sorry to hear this.”

“Actually, so am I.”

“Has anybody arrested him yet?”

“No. That’s a bit of a problem, as you can see. You’ll have to arrange that.”

“Right, Irwin. It will take time.”

“Time?”

“A few hours. First, I have to get your depositions and copy them. Then I’ll have to get in touch with federal narcotics agents, show them the depositions, and so forth. Then they’ll have to send someone down there, after having gotten an arrest warrant.”

“Don’t be too long about it. If you miss him, he’ll probably head for the Mexican border in his own car, which looks like a police car, bubble machine and all. He has a police radio in the car and a high-powered rifle. Apparently he’s used it to fool Customs a lot. Anyway, it’s a dark blue Chevrolet sedan, license number 706-552.”

“Give me the number again.”

“706-552.”

“Okay. Sure you’re right about this?”

“Yup.”

“Boy. Graham Cummings. I can’t believe it.”

“Look, Alston, even before you pick up Cummings, there’s something else I want you to do for me.”

“You’ve already given me a morning’s work.”

“I know, but I want the two people who signed these affidavits to be picked up and put in protective custody.”

“Right. Where are they?”

“At eleven o’clock this morning, they’ll be waiting to be picked up at the beer stand at the main section of The Beach. You know, the beer stand that you can see from Shoreside Boulevard.”

“I know the place.”

“They’ll be there waiting.”

“What are their names?”

“Witherspoon and Montgomery. A couple of terrible-lookin‘ fellas. Witherspoon’s thirty-eight; Montgomery’s seventeen. Their names will be on the depositions.”

“Of course.”

“And Alston, be quick about this, will you? I’ve already got the story splashed all over the afternoon paper, and you know that comes off the presses at eleven-twenty-two.”

“Ah, yes: Fletcher, the terrific journalist.”

“And there is a death involved here—”

“Murder?”

“No. A fifteen-year-old girl found overdosed this morning at The Beach. Cummings could turn into a dangerous man very easily.”

“Fletcher, did I ever tell you you’re a great journalist?”

“No.”

“Irwin Fletcher, you are. You really are. I hope the News-Tribune appreciates you.”

“They’re about to fire me.”

“Nonsense.”

“Something about my not wearing shoes in the office.”

“Hey, old buddy Irwin, I get to see you honored tomorrow.”

“What do you mean?”

“Thanks for inviting me to witness your receiving the Bronze Star.”

“I didn’t invite you.”

“I got an invitation from the promotion department of the News-Tribune.”

“I didn’t send it.”

“You must have made up the invitation list.”

“I made up no invitation list.”

“I’m coming anyway. All us old comrades-in-arms are very proud of you, you know. All I ever won in the marines was a disease coffee doesn’t cure.”

“Do you still have it?”

“No. I lost it on a toilet seat.”

“At City Hall, I hope.”

“Probably. I thought you picked up the Bronze Star years ago.”

“I never picked it up.”

“Will you pick it up tomorrow?”

“Sure,” Fletch said. “Sure, sure, sure.”

“I’ll be there.”

“You be there. Better look pretty—there will be photographers.”

“I’ll wear a smile. See you then, Fletch.”

“See you then.”

***

“Fletcher!”

It was nine-thirty in the morning, and Fletch was going home for the day. He had waited to see the front-page proof at nine-fifteen. It was beautiful. Both stories began above the fold, with pictures of Bobbi and Cummings. The jumps, with more pictures, would be on page three, with full reproductions of the affidavits and handwritten note and more pictures. A blockbuster. Copy editors had changed very little of his copy. A veritable one-two helluva blockbuster.

He had the key in the ignition of the MG.

“Oh, hello, Clara.”

She had parked her gray Vega station wagon down the line of cars waiting to take their owners home again.

“How are you, sweetheart?”

“Fletcher, this is Thursday.”

“I know.”

She was leaning over his car door like a traffic officer.

“Where are you going?”

“Home.”

“I haven’t seen the beach-drug story yet.”

“I know.”

“I told you you’re to have that story in by four o’clock this afternoon.”

“When would you run it?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to do some work on it first.”

“Would you run it tomorrow?”

“I don’t know. It depends on how much work we have to do on it.”

“Would you run it in the Sunday paper?”

“I don’t know. Frank said something about holding it for a week or two. He said he wanted to see it too. He said you had some crazy idea Graham Cummings is implicated.”

“Did I say that?”

“They’re friends.”

“Oh.”

“Is Cummings implicated?”

“His name is mentioned in the story.”

“It’s up to Frank and me when the story runs in the paper. It’s your job to get the story on my desk by four o’clock this afternoon.”

“Have I ever disappointed you yet, Clara?”

“I’m serious, Fletcher.”

“Have no fear. You’ll see the story this afternoon.”

“You’re sure?”

“Clara: I’m absolutely sure. This afternoon you’ll see the drug-beach story.”

“I’d better.”

“You will.”

“And you’d better plan on being in the marine commandant’s office at ten o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Don’t worry about that, either.”

“Okay. Your job is on the line.”

“I’d hate to lose it,” Fletch said. “You know how I love working with you.”

Fletch turned the ignition key.

“Fletch, I’ll see you by four o’clock at the latest.”

“You’ll see the story by four o’clock,” Fletch said. “Maybe even a little earlier.”