Chapter 1
September 12, 1943
Paul Wayne had just finished his lunch on this Sunday afternoon. He had been to church in the morning, satisfying his Mama’s admonition to always go to the House of the Lord on Sunday. Mama would have been proud.
She would also be proud of the fine Sunday dinner of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, corn and green beans his wife Emily had prepared. Paul certainly was. He had eaten his fill, right down to the peach cobbler Emily had made. He stepped out on the back stoop and sat on the edge of the porch drinking his coffee while Emily finished washing the dishes.
September in Los Angeles was always warm. He was lucky enough to live near the coast and catch the breeze off the Pacific. Occasionally the breeze had the unpleasant smell of the del Rey salt marsh. He didn’t mind. He appreciated the coolness.
He looked out over the bean field where he used to work. Paul and his whole family, what was left of it, had come west after the “Dust Bowl” consumed Oklahoma. Paul was the last one left. His parents had both passed and his brothers had returned to Oklahoma. Paul never much cared for Oklahoma.
Now, with the war on, he had secured a good paying job at the aircraft plant up the road in Ocean Park. The roof of the plant was disguised from the air to look like a housing development. A false ‘factory’ roof across the road, where the employees parked and goods were stored, was designed to look like a manufacturing facility to attract any Japanese bombers.
Paul was enjoying the reverie when something caught his eye in the distance. Across the bean field and watermelon stands, he saw a car weaving, coming east on Washington towards him; a small maroon sedan bouncing from one side of the road to the other before jumping the curb and coming to a halt in the bean field.
A man got out of the right side of the car, obviously male because he was shirtless, and staggered up between two rows of beans before falling. Paul assumed he was drunk. But as the man staggered, he turned and Paul could see his back was covered in blood from a spot near the left shoulder blade. Paul dropped his coffee and ran toward the fallen man as quickly as possible.
Paul leaped over rows of beans, tripping once but righting himself quickly, and came upon the man who was struggling and moving about. He was apparently still trying to flee.
The dying man had made it less than twenty yards before falling. Paul knelt by him and said, “Lie still, okay? Save your energy. You’re going to be all right.” Paul knew that was a lie. The man had lost a lot of blood. His skin was turning as white as a candle.
The man groaned, “Please help me.”
Paul ran back to the car. There was a silk robe draped over the driver’s seat, soaked with blood. Paul found a dark sweater in the back and took it with him. He ran back and placed the balled-up sweater under the bleeding man’s head and did his best to comfort the poor soul.
Paul asked the man, “Who did this to you?”
The man groaned and managed to say only “Please help m...” before he died.
Paul sat back between the two rows of beans where the man had died. He tried to make sense of it. He could not.
Davis Harmon, ‘Ace’ - in his mind - criminal reporter, was sitting outside a lunch wagon in Santa Monica eating a hot dog and sucking the Coke out of a small greenish bottle through two little white straws. Parked beside his table was a black and white police motorcycle. The radio on the motorcycle began to broadcast an alarm.
“Any available unit in the area of Washington Boulevard and Thatcher Avenue. Apparent homicide victim alongside Washington Boulevard. Please respond.”
Davis knew that the cop was inside taking a leak. He also knew his editor would skin him alive if he stayed to tell the cop. Instead, Davis hopped into his aging Ford, put two sticks of Juicy Fruit in his mouth, and pulled away headed for the area mentioned by the dispatcher.
“Well,” Davis said to himself, “She did say ‘please’.”
Davis caught a break. He was the first to arrive. He pulled a camera out of the back of his old “Model A” and began to take pictures before the police arrived. There were a few photographic plates available, so one of the victim and one inside the car with the back door open. He’d hang on to the rest in case something happened.
Davis had been on the crime beat long enough to know what to look for and what he’d better not touch if he wanted to stay on the good side of the cops. Harmon had pushed that boundary before and learned the hard way not to repeat it.
The robe draped over the driver’s seat held his attention. It was silk, and originally an off pink color, almost a peach. But mostly it was stained a deep reddish brown where the blood had soaked it.
In the back of the sedan, Davis spotted crime scene gold. A camera. A small box Brownie. He had seldom known such temptation at a crime scene, and the last time he had succumbed. That’s how he had learned not to cross the line with the cops, especially in a murder investigation. Davis was still serving a penalty for that lesson.
He asked around as to who found the body and spent a lot of time with Paul before the first squad car arrived. Paul was still very distraught and disbelieving that this had happened and invaded his peaceful Sunday afternoon.
While the patrolman investigated, Davis talked to the gathering onlookers to see if anyone else had witnessed anything. One overstuffed red head said she had passed the car further west on Washington as she went to get groceries. The redhead took notice because the car was slowing to a stop and it looked like a naked man was in the passenger seat. She said that the driver, she thought, was dressed in dark clothing.
Finally, the detective arrived. The big black unmarked pulled to a halt and out stepped six feet of trouble for Davis. When he saw who it was, Harmon was sure he was onto a big story. Lieutenant Adam Freeman did not work weekends. Ever. But it was the Lieutenant who showed up. And it was Freeman who had banned Davis from every homicide briefing and crime scene since his evidentiary faux pas.
Davis got a shot of the Detective standing by the car while taking something from the patrolman. It appeared to be a wallet. Freeman opened it, spoke to the officer, then checked it against the registration card attached to the steering wheel shaft.
“You got something, Lieutenant?” Davis yelled from the side lines.
Freeman looked up to see who had called out. His frown spoke volumes. Davis Harmon would be a long time getting back into his good graces.
Davis followed up, “I do.”
“What do you think you’ve got?” Freeman snarled.
“Ask your officer there who was here when he arrived?” Davis said trying not to sound too smug. Freeman said something to the patrolman. Freeman indicated Davis. The officer nodded. Freeman scowled. He motioned for Harmon to join him. Davis took the Lieutenant’s picture before joining the detective. Freeman was not amused.
“OK, Hotshot, what is it you THINK you got?” Freeman stood facing Davis with arms crossed, legs spread shoulder width and obviously not in the mood to be trifled with. Davis attempted to look subservient.
“See the big red headed floozy over there?” Davis indicated the large woman with whom he had spoken. “Well, she saw the car further west on Washington. She noticed because she thought the one guy was naked.”
“One guy?”
“Yeah. She said there were two. The other guy was dressed in dark clothes. She figured him for the driver, but turns out it’s one of them English right-hand drive jobs, so the naked guy was the driver. She said the car was slowing to stop or something.” Davis beamed like he just delivered the crown jewels.
“Anything else?”
“Well, there’s beach sand on his shorts. But the shorts are dry. He ain’t been swimming. I found it interesting because, well, the bean field is sandy, but it’s not the same kind of sand that’s on the beach.” Davis was expecting more of a response than he got.
“We already saw that. I’ll talk to the floozy.” Freeman was about to walk away.
“Does this get me off your shit list, Lieutenant?” Davis smiled humbly and earnestly.
Freeman stopped and looked back. “NO. But you can start coming to the briefings again.”
Davis smiled and said, “You’re welcome, Detective.”
