The Madman Theory

Chapter 6

Steve Ricks had been dead approximately two days, according to the Tucson police doctor — since sometime between 6 p.m. and midnight Tuesday. Railroad records indicated that the boxcar carrying his body had left the Fresno yard at 10:20 that night.

Ricks had been killed by blows of a hammer or similar implement. His hands had been crudely hacked off, possibly by an axe or hatchet. The murderer had emptied Ricks’ pockets and broken his teeth further to prevent identification. But he had not thought to remove Ricks’ shoes, and his grisly attempt had gone for naught. The check from the shoe instructed the Bank of America at Fresno to pay $32 to the order of Steve Ricks. It was signed “J. K. Mansfield,” a name not to be found in the local telephone directory.

The murder having been committed within the jurisdiction of the Fresno police, Tucson was returning the body to Fresno. Tucson and Fresno would share the freight cost. The Atcheson, Topeka and Santa Fe Railroad would bear alone whatever expense it had incurred in transporting the body to Tucson.

Collins returned at once to 982A Mulberry Street with a photographer and a fingerprint man. He inspected Ricks’ effects but found very little: a handful of photographs portraying Ricks in navy blues, Ricks playing guitar with a country band identified as Pete Silliman and His Arkansas Stampers, Ricks with his arm around a ferret-faced blond woman, and others of a similar nature. The photos showed him to have been a man of average height, overweight, with a cheerful face, a snub nose, and sandy hair combed in sweeps and waves. Collins estimated his age at thirty. There were several letters from a Mrs. Beulah Ricks in Bledsoe, Texas, apparently the man’s mother, containing nothing which seemed pertinent.

Of one thing Collins was certain: the deaths of Earl Genneman and Steve Ricks were connected. To believe otherwise would be to stretch coincidence. Both killings were characterized by savagery, a ruthless lack of squeamishness.

A thought startled Collins, and he cursed himself for the oversight — even Captain Bigelow would have seen it. A stroke of luck that he had remembered in time, rather than try to explain the lapse to Bigelow later! Steven Ricks’ shoes. Collins already had glanced through the scanty wardrobe: a cheap blue suit, a pair of tan slacks and a brown plaid sports jacket, five or six sports shirts, some neckties, some underwear and socks, two pairs of cowboy boots, a pair of pointed black dress shoes, a pair of tan suede loafers, and heavy work-boots. With care Collins wrapped the boots in newspaper and took them out to his car.

The Sunset Nursery was a sprawling emporium selling everything from potted orchids to garden tractors, firewood, flagstones and cement. Collins talked first to the owner, then to a man named Sam Delucci, the warehouse manager, and then to Ricks’ fellow-employees. He learned that Ricks was older than he had thought, nearer forty than thirty. His job had consisted of loading and unloading trucks, delivering orders of sand, fertilizer, rock, peat moss and the like to customers’ cars in the parking lot. He had worked cheerfully if without any great enthusiasm. His pay had been a dollar and ninety cents an hour. He had been a braggart, with a talented imagination. About a third of his talk had dealt with the big money he had won at Las Vegas or playing the horses, the remaining two thirds celebrated his triumphs on the bandstand and in the bedroom. He had often spoken of plans to organize an all-star band for the purpose of recording his songs, of which he claimed to have composed more than a hundred. Some of these, according to Ricks, had been pirated into smash hits by competitors. He had played on weekends at the Clover Club, on Morgan and J Streets, an establishment he undiscourageably urged his fellow-employees to patronize.

On the morning of Friday, June 12, Ricks had telephoned in to report himself sick with stomach cramps, nausea, vomiting, and diarrhea. “He laid it on thick,” Delucci, the warehouse manager, said. “Steve wouldn’t just say he was sick and hang up; he had to make like he had bubonic plague mixed with a broken leg and falling hair. He sang one pitiful song, that guy did. I even felt sorry for him. I told him to go to bed, take some aspirin, and come to work when he felt better. I should have known.”

About his background Ricks had never been explicit. He had seemed to be unmarried. His previous jobs and occupations were legion. According to him, he had sold cars, tended bar, worked in a service station, picked apricots, grapes and peaches, worked in packing sheds, dealt poker at gambling clubs, run the chuck-a-luck cage at a Las Vegas resort. As a bookmaker, he claimed to have lost nine thousand dollars on one race and won ten thousand on the next. By and large the verdict of his fellow-workers was favorable: Steve Ricks had been a blow-hard and no-good, but there were also tales of sharing his lunch with a nursing mother-cat. Collins heard nothing which might have served to link the life of Ricks with Earl Genneman’s.

Returning to headquarters, Collins took Ricks’ workboots to the laboratory, together with the samples of mud and dirt he had collected along the Copper Creek Trail. “What I want to know,” he told Otto Kalisher, the technician, “is this: did these boots walk through this dirt or step in this mud?”

Collins asked when he could have a report, but Kalisher would make no definite commitment. “I’m up to my ears. Likely tomorrow morning. Say ten o’clock.”

Collins had to be content, although he itched with impatience. Had Ricks followed Genneman to Persimmon Lake and beyond? Then what? Had he shot Genneman? But they seemed to have inhabited different worlds. Or had Ricks been hired to shoot Genneman? Collins shook his head. What he knew of Ricks, of his easy life, his impudence, his braggadocio, make it hard to picture him as a paid assassin. But Collins had been wrong many times in his career and he seldom trusted his intuition. If Otto Kalisher declared that Ricks had stepped in the mud of Persimmon Lake, had scuffed his boots in the dirt of Lomax Meadow, then he must alter his thinking. But there was a too tempting simplicity to the theory that Ricks had been hired to kill Earl Genneman, and then had himself been killed, perhaps to forestall blackmail.

Returning to headquarters, Collins found Easley at his desk, receiver to his ear, checking out the last few license numbers of the list supplied by Superintendent Phelps. He finished his call and drew a line through one of the few uncanceled names on the list.

“No leads,” he told Collins. “We’re down now to about a dozen parties who seem to be off on vacations.”

“Give it a rest,” said Collins. “This Ricks business is the hottest thing we’ve got going.”

Easley stretched his heavy arms. “What do you have in mind?”

Collins took the yellow pad and pencil. “If Kalisher says Ricks was on the Copper Creek Trail, we’ve got something. Until then...” As he talked he scribbled notes. “First, the landlord. I’ve talked to him without much luck. A vague old bird. Maybe you can scratch up something he never thought to tell me.”

“Maybe so,” said Easley. “I’m a pretty vague bird myself.”

“Landlord and neighbors,” said Collins. “The usual drill: who were his friends, when they saw him last, the routine. Second, where is Ricks’ car? A ’54 Plymouth coupé license — you’ve got it somewhere. I’ll call the city police and put it on the hot list. In the meantime, we can check were he bought it. If he got credit, whom did he give for references? Third, where did he buy his gas? He used to work in a service station — he might have got chummy with the attendants. Fourth, we want some pictures of Ricks blown up from the photos hanging on his walls. Then Sullivan or Kerner or both can take them into Kings Canyon and circulate them around the campgrounds, the grocery store — everywhere Ricks might have shown himself. We want to know if he came in alone, talked to anyone, where he went when he left. Someone might have seen him start up the trail or come back down. Fifth: the Clover Club. Ever hear of it?”

“Sure. It’s a joint on Morgan Street. One of these Okie hangouts. It gets pretty wild on occasion.”

“Steven Ricks played in the orchestra there on weekends. If he went up into the mountains he must have told the band-leader something. Probably the same story he told Delucci at the Sunset Nursery. I’ll check that one out myself.”

“Something I’ve noticed,” complained Easley. “Whenever there’s overtime, sitting around a night club, with drinks on the taxpayers, it’s always the big shots that take over the investigation and never the sergeants. How come?”

Collins grinned and returned to the yellow pad. “Sixth, the check in Ricks’ shoe. Thirty-two dollars — for what? Who is J. K. Mansfield? Seventh, the murder weapon. A hammer? A hatchet? Eighth, just where did Ricks get put aboard the boxcar? Ninth, if Ricks went up the Copper Creek Trail, what did he use for camping equipment? Did he rent it, borrow it, buy it? If so, where? Tenth, Ricks’ relatives: who and where are they? Eleventh, does he have any bank accounts? Is he in debt? Is that hundred dollars mad-money that he always carried? If not, where did he get it? Twelfth, the shotgun. Thirteenth, do any of Genneman’s friends or relatives know Ricks? Fourteenth... That’s enough for today. I’ve got to get more men on the job. Let’s see now. You take care of the landlord, the neighbors, the gas station, and if you have any time left, telephone around the places that rent out camping equipment. Tonight I’ll look into the Clover Club. That still leaves a lot of work. Maybe I can get a couple more men. First, I better write out a report for Bigelow. He likes everything in black and white.”

“You’re telling me,” said Easley.

The sergeant cleared off his desk and departed to interview James and Lillian White at 982 Mulberry Street. Collins went to his office. He typed:

Collins, reading what he had written, smiled grimly. If Bigelow wanted to leap to conclusions, it was his privilege. He finished:

The time was five o’clock. Collins walked down the corridor to Bigelow’s office and to his relief found no one behind the desk. He tucked the report into the IN basket and departed.

From headquarters to the Morningside Estates was a drive of twenty-five minutes in the afternoon traffic. This gave Collins time to metamorphose from a police inspector to a suburban home-owner, while his thoughts segued from crime and Captain Bigelow to what might be on the stove for dinner.

He swung through the portals of Morningside Estates, drove out Astarte Avenue, turned into Osiris Way, drove a block, and pulled into his driveway. Merle and Jill, Lorna’s two little girls from her previous marriage, sat on the lawn, blond hair brushed, frocks starched crisp. Seeing, their new stepfather, they jumped to their feet and ran to him.

“Hi, kids,” said Collins in an attempt at a paternal voice. He parked, alighted, his hand behind him. “Daddy Collins!” squealed Merle. “Did you bring us something?”

“Yeah,” said Collins, “I happened to run across a couple of dolls, and thought you two might be interested.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you! Mommy, look what Daddy Collins brought us! Aren’t they cute?”

Lorna appeared in the doorway. “Daddy, you shouldn’t do things like that. They’ll be expecting something every night.” But she was secretly pleased.

He kissed her. “You’re looking beautiful tonight. As usual.”

“How do we look, Daddy Collins? These are clean dresses!”

“You look like two ice-cream cones.”

They went inside. Lorna brought a pitcher of martinis from the refrigerator; Collins settled into the sofa with a sigh. “This is the life. Relax, man, relax.” He loosened his collar and tie.

“I had no idea you worked under such tense conditions,” said Lorna, stroking his forehead. “Poor dear, was it such a hard day?”

“I’m so tense I’m going to work overtime tonight. At a place called the Clover Club. I’ll need a nifty broad along for cover. What do you say?”

Lorna laughed, then frowned. “What about the children?”

“Morningside Estates has a baby-sitting agency-part of its many services, if you can believe their brochure. One call, and a nice old lady knocks on the door.”

“I don’t have a thing to wear,” wailed Lorna.

“At the Clover Club blue jeans would be fashionable. In fact, I don’t want you to dress up. Tonight, I’m the Omar Collins I used to be when the world was young.”

“Are you very hungry?” Lorna asked, with her disconcerting habit of abruptly changing the subject, as if her mind worked on several levels at once.

“I’m always very hungry. What’s for supper?”

“Something new I thought I’d try. Pork pie with leeks. I hope you like it,” Lorna said anxiously.

“Let me wash up, and I’ll show you!” Inwardly, Collins prayed that it would be more edible than her fried chicken.

The Clover Club during the day was a ramshackle structure running half the distance between I and J Streets, on Morgan. Ten years before, someone had painted the siding cobalt blue, which by now had so cracked and weathered that the previous color — brick red — showed through, creating a rather happy effect.

After sundown an incomprehensible magic transformed the dinginess, bringing wonder and excitement of a garish sort. The red and blue neon sign flashed CLOVER CLUB up and down Morgan Street; in each window burned the multicolored emblems of Lucky Lager, Falstaff, Olympia, Brew 102, Budweiser, and Schlitz; from within came the muffled clatter of many voices, the thump of the bass fiddle, the nasal whine of voices raised in celebration of unrequited love.

There was a cover-charge of a dollar a couple. A sign warned off minors and roving-eyed stags, but in practice both occasionally gained entry with the full knowledge of the huge special policeman. His favorite method of quelling a disturbance was to toss both offenders to the floor and plant his enormous buttocks on them.

The bar occupied one entire wall; along another ran a counter serving hamburgers, pizza, and barbecued ribs. The bandstand jutted out on the dance floor, and when Inspector Collins and his wife arrived, four men stood strutting and swinging in the glare of pink spots: two guitarists, a string bass, and a fiddler who doubled on the drums.

Collins and Lorna found a table. He ordered Bourbon highballs from a waitress who came over immediately.

When she returned with the drinks, Collins asked, “Whose quartette is that up there?”

The waitress looked around as if she were deaf. “Oh, that’s Little Lefty Willis and his Panhandlers.”

“Is Steve Ricks coming in tonight?”

“Steve Ricks? Who’s he?”

“A guitarist. He plays here.”

The waitress smiled perfunctorily. “I don’t keep track of the musicians. I couldn’t — they come and go faster than the customers.” She took Collins’ money and hurried away.

“Let’s dance,” said Collins. “If I want to charge the city for an evening out, I’ve got to produce.”

They danced around behind the bandstand and waited till the number was over. Collins attracted the attention of the violinist. “When does Steve Ricks come on?”

The musician, long, somber and gaunt, shook his head mournfully. “Not tonight. He’s here Friday and Saturday with Jake Mansfield and his bunch. This is Little Lefty and his Panhandlers. I’m Little Lefty.”

“I’d hate to tangle with your big brother,” said Collins amiably. One mystery solved: the identity of J. K. Mansfield. Thirty-two dollars undoubtedly represented Ricks’ wages for a weekend’s work. “The band sounds pretty good.”

“Thanks much. Anything you’d like to hear?”

“Nothing in particular,” said Collins. “But I wonder how I can get word to Ricks?”

“Beats me. Maybe hire one of them sky-writing machines.”

“I’d better talk to Mansfield. Do you know where he can be found?”

“I sure do. That’s Jake playing the guitar — the heavy-set guy. Hang around. We take a break after this number.”

Collins took Lorna back to the table, and they waited while the group sang Rover’s Got a Doghouse in the Sky. The selection received applause. Little Lefty bowed; Jake Mansfield played a quick pizzicato on his Durbro. Collins went back to the bandstand.

He signaled Mansfield, a fleshy man wearing tight black trousers, an imitation suede sports shirt, and a turquoise and silver neck ornament.

Mansfield incuriously approached. “Hi, friend. Was you waving to me?”

“I’m trying to get in touch with Steve Ricks. Lefty said you were the man to ask. But come over to the table; I’ll stand you a drink.”

“Words I like to hear,” said Mansfield. He followed Collins quickly.

Collins performed introductions, signaled the waitress. “Two more of the same for us, and whatever Mr. Mansfield wants.”

“Call me Jake. I’ll have Scotch on the rocks. Double, if the gentleman’s good for it.”

“Sure,” said Collins expansively. “When a man has money it’s his duty to spend it.”

“Me, too,” said Jake Mansfield. “But with me the project’s still in the talking stage. You know Steve?”

“I know his ex-wife. Ricks is behind on his alimony.”

Mansfield looked uninterested. “With Steve that’s the way it would be, all right. Too bad you wasted the drink, sport. I don’t know where he is.”

“I looked for him last weekend,” said Collins. “I thought he played with your group.”

Mansfield nodded. “He’s not a bad guy. Got a nice personality. He didn’t make the scene last week — let on he was sick, but looked pretty healthy to me.”

“He didn’t say where he was heading over the weekend?”

“Nobody tells me anything. I’m the boss. Cheers.” He raised his glass, swallowed two thirds at a gulp. “You a lawyer?”

“No, nothing like that. I just wanted to talk to him. Does he have a girl friend?”

“Nobody special. See that little redhead over there? Steve’s been playing around with her. That’s her husband, that big boy in the red shirt. He’s a truck driver. Maybe that’s why Steve didn’t come around last week. He’s got a real good survival instinct. Wished I had it. My life has been one sorry mess.” He finished his drink and glanced thoughtfully at Collins, who signaled the waitress.

“Something a little funny about this,” said Jake Mansfield. “I still think you must be a lawyer. Or a process-server?”

“Not so you could notice it,” Collins laughed.

“You got a way about you like the cops on TV. They come out on top every time.”

Collins smiled wryly. “On TV.”

“Look at Ody over there. The bouncer. Wouldn’t think he’s a cop, would you? Half a ton of blubber. How he keeps the peace! Give Ody your lip and his backside blots out the ceiling. ’Scuse me, Miz Collins. Well, here’s cheers.”

“Cheers,” said Collins. “I’d surely like to talk to Steve.”

“Can’t help you, my friend.” Mansfield rose. “I got to go back to the stand. Come back tomorrow night and hear a real band. This is just a pick-up group.”

“Maybe we’ll do that.”

“Thanks for the lousy Scotch.”

For another twenty minutes Collins sat brooding, the highball warming in his hand. Lorna sat by him in quiet empathy. Suddenly he turned an interrogative look at her. She nodded, picked up her purse, and they left.

On the following day Steve Ricks’ car was found by the city police; more accurately, it was brought to the attention of the city police by a Mrs. Ramon Menendez, who lived in a square yellow cabin under two fig trees on Matthews Avenue, an unpaved lane six blocks from the Santa Fé yard. According to Mrs. Menendez, the car had been parked on Matthews Avenue Tuesday night. She had paid no particular attention to it; many of the neighborhood youths owned just such jalopies. Some time during Thursday night the car was stripped, probably by some of the self-same teenagers, and Mrs. Menendez had telephoned the police.

The discovery was reported to the Sheriff’s office, and Inspector Collins came out to investigate. With its tires removed, the faded, dented car looked like a cripple.

Collins walked around it while Wilson, the fingerprint man, investigated the interior. Wilson pointed to a smear on the plastic seat. “Looks to me like blood.”

Collins nodded without any great interest. “It figures. Can I look in the glove compartment?”

“Go ahead.”

The glove compartment yielded nothing of interest. Collins snapped it shut, went to the rear of the car, pried open the trunk. Here he found a cheap suitcase containing a rumpled black and white sports shirt, several packets of guitar strings, as many prophylactics, and a bottle of mouthwash.

Collins closed the trunk, and rejoined Wilson. He raised the rear cushion and found only dirt and lint.

A few minutes later Wilson got out.

“Get anything?” asked Collins.

“Not much. Some smears. Two or three prints — maybe.”

“About what I expected,” said Collins. “But there’s one little thing I see that cheers me up.” He made an entry in his notebook and went off for a talk with Mrs. Menendez.

She was a short dark woman, speaking accented English. She was excited by the proximity of crime. Yes, she told Collins with flashing hands, she had noticed the car drive into Matthews Street on the night of Tuesday, June 16. The lights had gone past her windows about nine o’clock — she had been expecting her sister to call and had run to the door, only to see the car halt a few feet down the street.

“Then what happened?”

“Then nothing happen. I see this man sitting in the car, he sit for a minute like he thinks real hard. I notice him because I wonder why somebody want to stop in the middle of the road so late at night. But he don’t look like he was leaving, so I go back in the house. When I go to see again, during the commercial, the car look empty. I could see because the light down by Flora Street is shining through the windshield. Then I see the man. He was sitting real quiet.”

I’ll bet he was, thought Collins — he was resting after bludgeoning Steve Ricks and heaving him aboard the boxcar. Not to mention hacking off his victim’s hands and knocking out the teeth... Funny, now that he thought about it. The murderer had gone to great lengths to hinder identification of the body, yet he had casually abandoned his victim’s car without troubling to remove the license plates or destroy the registration certificate. The madman theory again?

Collins took his leave of Mrs. Menendez and pondered the matter. The situation was probably this: the identified corpse of Steve Ricks would have led to an investigation in which awkward disclosures might come to light. So it was necessary that the corpse be rendered unidentifiable. By putting it aboard a boxcar, it might even go undiscovered for two or three weeks.

An automobile was more difficult to dispose of. Why hadn’t the murderer merely left the car in front of 982 Mulberry Street, where it might stand uninvestigated for weeks? Miscalculation? Carelessness? Panic? Probably something of the sort, thought Collins. The murderer had completed his grisly work and wanted only to get back to the world of normalcy; he dropped it off in the first likely looking side street.

The killer however, had neglected the check in Ricks’ shoe. He had also neglected another detail which might or might not link Ricks to Earl Genneman.

Wilson had packed his gear and was waiting in the car. Collins joined him and they returned to headquarters.

In his office Collins looked over the notes he had scribbled the day before. Certain questions had already been cleared up or checked out: items 5 and 6 for instance. The car had been located.

In the meantime, Kalisher should have a report on Ricks’ boots. Collins called the laboratory and asked his question. Just as Kalisher was answering, Captain Bigelow appeared in the doorway, scowling.

Collins waved him to a seat, listened to Kalisher’s report, then swung around to face his superior. “That was Kalisher. Steve Ricks is our man. He was up the trail, at least as far as Persimmon Lake. Did he kill Genneman? That I don’t know. So far there’s no sign of the shotgun. We can’t make a gunpowder check of his hands, because his hands are missing.”

Bigelow nodded ponderously. “The question is, did Steve Ricks witness the murder and get killed because of it? Or did Ricks murder Genneman and get it out of revenge? Or was Ricks an accessory in the Genneman murder? Since there’s no link between Ricks and Genneman, it looks to me as if the first supposition is the one we want to hit hard — Ricks the innocent bystander.”

“It might well be,” said Collins. “I’ve got a few other ideas, Captain. In the first place, Steve Ricks wasn’t the sort to make a one-man pack-trip into the mountains. Some good reason took him up there. Second, I just came back from looking at his car. I noticed something interesting: the chrome frame around the license plate. It advertises ‘George Phipps Ford Agency, San Jose.’ So Ricks either bought his car in San Jose or from a San Jose man. Which means the beginning of a connection.”

“That makes sense,” Bigelow nodded. “We want to look closer into the background of that car. Somebody should check Sacramento on the registration.”

Collins pretended to make a note. “Last night I looked into the Clover Club, where Ricks played guitar. The check in his shoe came from the bandleader down there. Easley is making the rounds of Ricks’ neighbors. Sullivan and Kerner are checking out Ricks’ photo around Kings Canyon, to see of anybody spotted him up there. And here’s what else I’ve got in mind.” He read his list of thirteen items aloud.

“Just about covers the matter,” said Bigelow. He pondered a moment. “We could use another man or two on the case. I’ll see what I can do. You better take care of the San Jose end. Something’s got to give somewhere. I don’t suppose there’s been any word from the park ranger? No sign of a maniac with a shotgun?”

“Nothing, and I don’t think we’re going to hear anything.”

“Well, let’s see what turns up in San Jose. The case could blow apart any minute.” He left in grandeur.

Collins telephoned the Department of Motor Vehicles in Sacramento and stated his problem.

The information was presently forthcoming: the automobile registered to Steven Ricks of 982A Mulberry Street, Fresno, had formerly been owned by one Rupert Marvell, of 1818 Haddock Drive, San Jose. Collins noted name and address, telephoned Lorna to expect him when she saw him, departed the office, and set out north along Highway 99 for San Jose.