A Date with Death

Shortly after 2 A.M. 0n Saturday, October 28, the phone call came from my partner, Pete Polancek. “Meet me at 338 B

Street as soon as you can. We have a murder to investigate.”

I’m Brad Hawley, recently promoted to the plain clothes squad after four years as a patrolman with the Riverton police

department. At 27 years of age, at an age others considered just out of the cradle, my promotion thrilled me. I had been

assigned to work with Pete, a twenty year veteran of the force. Having Pete as my partner was a lucky break for me. He had

the reputation of being one of the best crime solvers on the force. Also, I was fortunate to be working on the Riverton police

force. It was rated one of the best police departments in California, primarily because Chief Langston was tops but also

because Riverton was a stable community. It had one of the lowest crime rates in the state. Police officers from surrounding

communities used to joke, “If you want to retire go work in Riverton.”

Up to this time all of the investigations Pete and I had worked on had been uncomplicated ones. A couple of breaking

and entering, one stolen car, and a runaway boy were almost the entire substance of my detective work since I was promoted

six weeks ago. This was my first homicide.

The scene of the crime was an alley close to police headquarters. The area had been cordoned off and a police

emergency vehicle, lights flashing, was already on the scene.

I parked my old Toyota behind Pete’s almost new Mustang. Normally Pete would have been driving our usual police

vehicle, but with the hour being what it was he had come directly from his apartment. Pete met me at the entrance to the alley

and cautioned me that what I about to see wasn’t a pretty sight. “There’s blood all over the place. Apparently the victim was

stabbed, probably more than once.” Pete was a big man, well over six feet and weighed about 250 pounds. He had never

been what one would call a sharp dresser, tonight he was more disheveled than usual. Not only that, he had a bandage over

one eye; bumped his head getting out of the shower, he explained. Pete was right, it was not a pretty sight. My stomach was

already in upheaval before I even saw the body. When I did I came close to losing my dinner and everything else I had eaten

the previous day. The victim was a teen-aged girl, quite attractive. She was lying in a pool of blood behind several garbage

cans. The cans, and the area all around her, were spattered with blood. The medical examiner, Doctor Morrissey, was

bending over her making a preliminary examination before the body was taken to the morgue for a more thorough

examination.

Her name is Marilyn Cable,” Pete informed me. “Her parents called headquarters about two hours ago to report she

hadn’t come home from work and was usually home shortly after eleven. She worked part-time at Peroni’s Ice Cream Parlor,

just around the corner. I got the call shortly before I called you. Apparently it happened within the past two hours. Doc

Morrissey said the blood had just started to congeal when he arrived. The body was found by a drunk about 1:30. He ran out

to the street and almost ran into a cop who was walking his beat. It was called in at 1:38. Nobody has informed her parents

yet that her body has been found. Unfortunately, that’s going to be our unpleasant responsibility.”

The next hour or so were spent at the scene making certain we obtained all the information we could. A crew from the

crime lab recorded all the relevant facts. Picture were taken, measurements made and then the body was placed in a body

bag and taken to the morgue. Here the medical examiner would complete the examination and the forensic technicians

would take over, examining the body for anything that might be a clue to the identity of the killer. It was almost 4 A.M. before

we drove in Pete’s car to the Cables’ house in a quiet neighbor hood about four blocks from police headquarters. When Mrs.

Cable came to the door I was impressed with the way Pete handled the situation. He was a real pro.

“I’m Lieutenant Polancek of the Riverton Police and this is my partner, Detective Hawley. We were called in regard to

your daughter, Marilyn. May we come in?”

“Please do,” said Mrs. Cable. “Have you any news yet about where she is?”

Before Pete could respond Mr. Cable, a tall, slender man in his early forties, entered the living room where we had been

seated. We introduced ourselves to Mr. Cable and then Pete, very gently, told them the news. “I’m afraid I have bad news for

you, Mr. and Mrs. Cable. Marilyn was found about two hours ago in an alley near where she worked. She had been killed.”

Mrs. Cable reached for her husband’s hand and cried, “Oh no! My baby!” She then burst into tears and had to be

consoled by Mr. Cable.

“I’m sorry I had to tell you the way I did,” Pete continued. “There isn’t any easy way of telling people they have lost a loved

one.”

“How did it happen?” asked Mr. Cable.

“She was stabbed,” Pete replied. “Apparently she hadn’t been dead very long when her body was discovered. Brad and

I have been assigned as the investigating team.

At this point a knocking at the front door was followed by the entrance of a well-rounded, matronly woman police officer.

She introduced herself to the Cables, nodded in the general direction of Pete and me and then made the statement, “I came

to see if there’s anything I can do to help in any way; phone calls, doctors you need to see, or anything of that nature. Then

these two gentlemen can go work on the investigative end of it.” With this she gave us a quick smile and another nod.

I had heard stories of this police woman but had never met her. Cops called her “Mother Machree” because of her

motherly nature. Actually, her name was Levine and she had no children.

Pete again apologized to the Cables for being the bearer of such bad news and we made our exit.

“That’s the part of the job I hate,” Pete stated. To which I added, “I see what you mean.”

As there was little more we could do at that time of the morning in terms of information gathering we each went home to

get in a few more hours of sleep. I had my bachelor pad in a small apartment overlooking the Sacrament River. Pete lived

on the other side of town, close to the freeway. Going to bed was one thing; getting more sleep was something else. My

mind kept going over the gory sight of Marilyn’s body and all the blood on the scene. I would have to harden myself to such

things if I was going to endure as a detective.

When we reconvened at 9 A.M. that Saturday Pete informed me that, from his experience, we were in for many hours of

interviewing every person we could find who had even the remotest connection with Marilyn. We had to talk to her friends,

both in and out of school, teachers and other school personnel who had been in contact with her, other employees and

management of the ice cream parlor where she worked, past and present boyfriends, and probably numerous other people

we couldn’t as yet envision.

“This is where we become foot soldiers,” said Pete. “We’ll wear out a lot of shoe leather and tire tread in order to unearth

every bit of information that might have a bearing on the case. I uncovered some information already. She was a senior at

Riverton High School, very popular apparently. She was vice-president of the junior class last year, queen of the junior prom,

active in many school functions. We’ll have to wait until Monday to tackle the school end of it.”

Because it seemed the easiest place to start we went to Peroni’s first. The manager, Sidney Bergeron, opened up for

business at 10 A.M. Bergeron, a short, over-weight man in his late fifties, was in process of rearranging furniture which had

been shoved aside so a janitorial service could do its nightly cleanup.

Pete and I showed Sidney our credentials and informed him of the purpose of our visit. He was stunned to hear that

Marilyn had been murdered and was at a complete loss as to why anyone would want to kill her.

“She was such a sweet girl, everybody liked her.”

“Not everybody,” I interrupted. “Someone, apparently, seemed to have a reason for taking her life.”

“I can’t believe it,” Bergeron replied.

“Were you on duty last night when Marilyn was here?” Pete asked him.

“No, I was off at 6 last night. My assistant manager works from 4 to closing, at 11, sometimes later. I can give you his

name and address, and also other employees who worked last night,” was his answer.

“Thanks, that would be quite helpful,” Pete replied. “And I have to ask you the usual question. Where were you last night

between 11 P.M. and 2 A.M.?”

The manager replied instantly, “My wife and I went to a movie at the Strand, the movie got out about 10:30. We went

home and went to bed, probably about 11:30. From then until the alarm woke me at 7 this morning I was asleep. My wife will

confirm that if you need confirmation."

“Thanks,” said Pete. “Now, if you will get us that information you mentioned we’ll get out of your hair.”

Bergeron went to his office, behind the serving counter, and made a copy on his computer of last night’s work schedule

and a copy of employees’ names and addresses. He had put a check mark next to the names of those on duty last night.

The assistant manager was a young Spanish American named Jose Lopez. His wife answered the door to our knock.

We could hear loud rock music playing in a room at the back of the house and the sound of young children from another

section of the house. Pete showed her his badge and then said, “Mrs. Lopez, we need to talk to your husband. Is he at

home?”

When she answered I detected a strong Spanish accent to her words. “He’s in the garage working on the car. What’s he

done? He hasn’t broken no laws.”

“Please, we need to talk to him about something that happened at his job,” Pete replied.

Jose was changing the oil in his car when we entered the garage. His accent, while noticeable, was not as pronounced

as his wife’s. Pete explained the reason for our visit and then asked if anything unusual had happened at the ice cream

parlor the previous evening.

“No senor,” was the response. “We had our usual busy Friday night. What kind of thing you looking for?”

“Did you notice anyone paying an unusual amount of attention to Marilyn? Did she flirt with anyone, did she leave with

anyone?”

“No, she get fired if she do that,” Jose replied.

“Did she have an argument with any of the other waiters or waitresses?” Pete continued.

“Not that I notice.”

“Would you have noticed if it did happen?”

“I think so.”

“What time did you get off work?”

“About 11:30, after everything closed up.”

“One last question then I’ll let you get back to your work. Where were you from

11:30 to 2 A.M.?”

“I stopped at my brother Luis’ house for a beer and then I came home. I was home by 12:30 or 1.”

We questioned seven other employees that afternoon. None of them provided any information different from what we

had been told by Jose. Marilyn had worked from 7 to 11 P.M.; everything about the evening had been normal. There had

been no altercations with staff or customers. Marilyn had left at the same time as another waitress whose boyfriend had

come to pick her up. They had offered her a ride home but she had declined, saying she would walk home as it was only a

short distance. We corroborated this story with the girl’s boyfriend who stated that he and his girlfriend had gone to a well

known lovers’ lane and parked for a while before he took her home.

By 6 P.M. we were both exhausted and felt we had accomplished little. When Pete suggested we go get a couple of

beers after we wrote up our reports I accepted the invitation.

I saw a different side of Pete after we had each downed a few beers. On the job he was serious, almost tense; he was

so intent on his work. Relaxed he became more jovial, at times funny, as he told stories about things that had happened to

him both as a cop and in civilian life.

Even in discussing his marriage and his-wife he retained a good humor. “We had a good thing for a while,” he said. “But

she couldn’t put up with the strange working hours. I can’t say I blame her. She told me I was married to my job more than to

her. At least, we’re still friends and I see her once in a while even though she did remarry. Did you know that almost half of

police marriages end up in divorce?”

When I answered that I hadn’t heard that he continued, “It’s a statistic I’ve read many times and it keeps getting worse.”

We stayed out much later than we had planned and as a result I didn’t get to bed until past midnight.

We were back at it again bright and early Sunday morning, talking to neighbors and other non-school, non-job people

who had known Marilyn. Again, none of the information we were able to dig out shed any light on the crime. I was into my

third notebook of note taking in which one theme was constantly repeated. “She was a nice young woman and there’s no

reason anyone would want to kill her.” Perhaps we could get some answers from school contacts on Monday.

The high school principal, Gerald Ashley, found an office we could use and promised complete cooperation from the

staff. Each of Marilyn’s teachers, past and present, was sent a note asking them to meet with us at their convenience. As

they arrived our questions centered mainly around who her friends were, other contacts she had, and whether any student

had any reason for animosity toward her. We also interviewed many students who had contacts with her.

All the answers continued to be the same as we had obtained from our other sources. The only animosity, we were told,

might be if someone was jealous of her popularity.

When we were certain we had exhausted all possible leads at the school we returned to police headquarters and

examined all the data we had collected. We needed to isolate two threads from the information, motive and opportunity.

Motive was still not indicated anywhere in the data but many of the people we questioned had the opportunity. Perhaps ten

per cent could not corroborate their whereabouts at the time of the murder. We had no reason to suspect any of them but it

was all we had to work with.

In the meantime, other police business needed our attention. We had a hit and run accident to investigate in which a

young child was seriously injured. The driver, immediately after the accident, had taken off with tires screeching, leaving

enough rubber to convict a dozen different drivers.

We also had a robbery, with assault. Two young punks had threatened the owner of a liquor store and asked for money.

When he refused they hit him on the head with a lead pipe, emptied the till and fled. One was apprehended within an hour.

He had been identified by an eye witness who was about to enter the store when the culprits made their exit. An APB was

put out for his accomplice who tried to flee when his buddy was caught but got no further than Sacramento, an hour’s drive

away, before he too was apprehended. Two sixteen year olds, high on PCP, making their first heist a losing effort.

The next week was pure routine. We patrolled the city, looking into occasional disturbances and, as time allowed,

reviewed our efforts in the investigation of Marilyn Cable’s murder. We seemed to be at a dead end. The final medical

examiner’s report provided the information that Marilyn had been stabbed six times. Also, there was no indication of rape.

Although there had been signs of a struggle no evidence had been uncovered to help us in the search. One of her fingernails

had been broken. Perhaps, in the struggle, she had scratched the attacker.

Pete and I took the weekend off to relax for a few days, our first full weekend in a month. I visited my family in San

Francisco and took my dad to a 49ers game. They were having another great season. My dad is a retired San Francisco

cop, which explains in part my reason for being a cop. I had wanted to be a lawyer but after my family paid college expenses

for two older brothers there wasn’t any left for me. I didn’t want to work at flunky jobs while I tried to make it through law school

on my own so I took a couple of temporary jobs while doing two years at junior college and then turned to being a cop. I

haven’t given up on being a lawyer; I’m still taking classes when time allows to get my B.A. Maybe by the time I’m 40 I’ll get

that law degree.

While in the city I also revisited an old girlfriend of mine, one I almost became engaged to before we both decided it

wasn’t right.

Then next Thursday morning, November 7, we had another murder to investigate. A black woman bus driver was

reported missing when she failed to report for work Sunday morning, November 5. When she had still not made an

appearance by 10 A.M. on Tuesday Pete and I were sent to investigate. Her address was a run-down motel in a sleazy part

of town. The manager used his pass key to open her door.

Her naked body was lying on top of an unmade bed. Again, blood was every-where. Another stabbing. I took a deep

breath before I took a close look at the body.

Pete used the room phone to report what we had found and to request a crime team and coroner. While waiting we

examined the room thoroughly and questioned the manager about recent visitors. The manager, Charles Zeno, told us that

from his recollection she never had visitors in the daytime. “Of course,” he said, “she was usually working during the day.

She might have had nighttime visitors but you would have to ask the night clerk about that.”

The crime team arrived in about 15 minutes. They cordoned off the area and began an in-depth examination of the

scene. When Doc Morrissey examined the body he mad a startling pronouncement. “She was stabbed six times, just like

the Cable girl. The same type of wounds also. Whether or no it’s the same killer I would not care to speculate.”

The victim’s name was Annetta Thomas. Her file at the local transit system office, where she had been employed for two

years, showed that she was 27 years old, was divorced, and had no children. Her ex-husband was in prison, serving time for

aggravated assault. He was one person with an iron-clad alibi. We interviewed other employees and her supervisor and

were informed she had no current boyfriends.

None of the other employees had any knowledge, other than the divorce, of her private life. She was a loner and didn’t mix

socially with any of them.

We questioned former neighbors of hers from the community where she had lived when she was married. A few of the

neighbors considered themselves acquaintances but not close friends. One neighbor told us she had attended a Baptist

church on the fringe of their neighborhood. The minister, a tall, gaunt white man with a pock-marked face reluctantly

answered some of our questions. He informed us she had recently had an alcohol problem and had received counseling

from him for the problem. He refused to go into details about the counseling. He also knew of no close friends.

The last time she had been seen alive by any of the persons we interviewed was 6 P.M. Saturday when she finished her

driving shift and checked out.

When we returned to headquarters another surprise awaited us. As Doc Morrissey had informed us at the time the body

was first examined, she had been stabbed six times. The cause of death, however, was not stab wounds. She had been

smothered first, probably with a pillow. Dr. Morrissey’s report also showed there had been extensive bleeding, which

indicated she had been stabbed immediately after she was suffocated. Also, it was very likely, from the amount of the

bleeding, that the blood had found its way to the murderer’s clothes and/or body.

From the condition of her body she had been dead more than 48 hours, which set the time of death at some time

Saturday night. The report also stated there had been no indication of sexual activity.

The crime team had also completed its report. They had obtained various items from the room which might or might not

have a bearing on the crime. Four plastic bags contained specimens of human hair. One of them was marked as belonging

to the victim, the other three from “persons unknown.” One of the unknown specimens had come from a pillow, the others

from the bathroom sink. A complete analysis of these hairs would be made in the next few days to ascertain gender and age

of the person and also the type of chemicals such as shampoo, hairspray, etc. the person used.

They had also bagged a button that appeared to have come from a shirt, and several fibers, as yet unidentified, obtained

from the carpet.

We had so little information about the victim that establishing a motive would be as difficult as it had been with the Cable

murder. The only common thread was the six stab wounds each had sustained. Other than that, and the fact that they were

both female, there were no similarities between the two cases.

Annetta’s mother and former in-laws lived in San Jose. We were able, through contacts with the San Jose police, to

have them informed of her death. None of them could provide any helpful information, or a reason why anyone would want to

kill her.

END OF STORY.