The Derelict

Part I: San Francisco, December through April

Street people saw him frequently as he pushed or pulled his small, two-wheeled cart through the streets of San

Francisco. Sometimes he was seen on Market Street moving among the pan handlers and other homeless, at times in the

Haight-Asbury, occasionally in the Tenderloin.

He was older than most of the street people, perhaps in his sixties, perhaps younger. He was invariably dressed in a

tattered old overcoat worn out long before it came into his possession. On his feet was a pair of dirty, old whit track shoes

acquired when another lost person threw them away. A week’s growth of beard covered his face and always seemed to stay

the same as if each day he trimmed it to that length.

Where he spent the night was anyone’s guess, he didn’t avail himself of the many night places others put to use.

Perhaps he had his own private place in an alley or under someone’s porch as a few of the more knowledgeable did. Once

in a while he was spotted at one of the various soup kitchens in the area, such as the one at St. Anthony’s or at Glide

Memorial Church.

There was much speculation as to what the cart contained. It was always neatly arranged; a newspaper covered the top,

an umbrella was tied to the handle with several lengths of dirty white shoe laces.

Now and then one of the more outgoing members of the street fraternity tried to strike up a conversation with him but not

once did they succeed, except for an infrequent grunt or monosyllabic reply.

To all of them he was an outsider and a mystery. He had appeared suddenly two years ago with no indication of where

he came from. He seemed to instinctively know his way around and where all the food sources were as if he was native to

the area. Yet somehow they knew he wasn’t.

Then one cold, wet December morning he didn’t appear in his usual haunts. Except for one or two idly curious who

questioned any change, no one seemed to notice. It was a frequent situation among the street people; one of the regulars

would suddenly disappear and never be seen again.

Several days after the man’s disappearance, a dishwasher at a small, off-Market restaurant went into the alley behind the

restaurant to dispose of a bag of garbage. He heard a low moaning sound coming from the trash bin and upon investigating

discovered a blood covered body. Immediately he ran into the restaurant and in a combination of Spanish and broken

English got the attention of the assistant manager.

“A body, a body, all blood, all over the place,” was the gist of his pronouncement.

The assistant manager dialed 911 and made it clear it was not the restaurant’s, or his, responsibility, but something

needed to be done with the body before it became a sanitation problem.

When an ambulance arrived a few minutes later the attendants discovered that the body was alive but only by a slender

thread. When they called in their report they were instructed to start an I-V and then transport the person to a nearby hospital.

Here, an emergency team went to work. Examination showed the man had been severely beaten and extensive internal

bleeding had occurred. Both the kidney and liver were damaged. Whoever administered the beating had used a club or

baseball bat, or a similar weapon, and apparently had left the body as dead. To the examining team the man appeared to be

in his middle fifties and, except for the injuries, was in good physical shape.

For the next two weeks the man clung to a tenuous thread of life. Intensive treatment of the wounds and massive blood

transfusions were needed to keep the thread intact.

In the meantime a police investigation began in an attempt to discover the person’s identity and, if possible, who was

responsible for the beating.

A young detective named Carl Benson became the chief investigator. Although gentle in nature, his 6’3” height and

230lbs.tended to intimidate people who didn’t know him. He was so appalled at the extent of the beating he was determined

to bring the case to a satisfactory conclusion, on his own time if necessary as he was already burdened with a full case load.

Carl began questioning people who frequented the restaurant and the neighborhood surrounding it. No one had any

helpful information. From there he branched out to other neighborhoods. As he worked on other cases he frequently took out

a hospital photograph of the man and showed it to those he was questioning. A week later this paid off.

Joaquin Santana was the proprietor of a fruit stand close to the subway entrance at the San Francisco Civic Center.

When he looked at the photograph he immediately exclaimed, “Si, I have seen this man. I know him because he came by

four, five times to ask for fruit. I give him apple or banana I can’t sell; one that has been, how you say, bruised? He always

wear old overcoat, many holes and sewed up places. He was one of the homeless.”

From this beginning Carl began questioning street people, showing them the photograph. Only a few recognized the

man but none could provide any information except about his cart. This they described accurately.

Carl returned to the restaurant where the body had been found but could find no trace of the cart. The dishwasher was no

longer employed there and had left no forwarding address. The assistant manager, Willie Showers, also claimed no

knowledge of the cart.

“It wasn’t in the alley when the man was found,” he said. “Maybe it was thrown in with the trash.”

Carl carried his search one step further. He drove to the garbage dump where the trash from the restaurant's bin was

disposed of only to discover that any trash collected two to three weeks earlier had already been buried under a mountain of

other trash.

* * *

While Carl’s search was going on the man slowly showed signs that his condition was stabilizing. His overall condition

improved enough that he was taken off the life support system and transferred from a semi-private room to a ward. His vital

signs were still closely monitored and after two weeks he was still in a coma.

During this phase, Carl Benson had the presence of mind to take the man’s finger-prints and forward them to the FBI

Fingerprint Identification Laboratory. He was rewarded a few days later with a response, and an identification. The man’s

name was Even Wansley. He was a veteran of the Vietnam conflict and because of this his prints were on file. According to

their records he was now 56 years of age. His last known address in their files was in Seattle but that was at the time of his

discharge in 1973.

To Carl the name was familiar, but he couldn’t place it. Bringing the information to his captain brought an unexpected

response. At first Captain Morrissey was puzzled; he too recognized the name but couldn’t put his finger on it. Then,

suddenly he snapped his fingers and said, “Of course, he’s the reporter from Los Angeles who disappeared a couple of

years ago after being knocked down in a hit and run accident. At the time he was in the middle of an investigation into the

activities of crime bosses in L.A. As I recall he was about to make a grand expose.

“The cops there suspected foul play but never got anywhere with it. Then he disappeared. There should be quite an

extensive file on the case in L.A. I’m sure they would be happy to forward it to you.”

Two days after his request to Los Angeles for information on Evan Wansley Carl received a voluminous packet from the

police of that city. The file included a separate packet from the Los Angeles Times which documented some of Wansley’s

contribution to that newspaper. Carl was fascinated by what he read. Wansley had credits over a ten year span that covered

a wide range of topics.

His first major document was a story of the plight of the homeless in both Los Angeles and San Francisco. The article,

written about ten years previously, had received national attention. Wansley had actually, on his own, taken several months to

live among the street people and thus learned first hand what problems they encountered. This explained, in part, why he had

been able to return to San Francisco and become one of them so easily.

He had also written an expose of the trash collection industry in Los Angeles, another document that received national

attention.

According to the information packet, at the time of his disappearance Wansley had already begun a series connecting

the Los Angeles political arena with the local Mafia. The series was cut short when he disappeared.

When Wansley disappeared the matter had been immediately dropped by both the Times and the police. This caused

Carl Benson to suspect there was something more to the report than first met the eye. Was there a cover-up somewhere?

Were Los Angeles police officials involved, and officials of the Times? Many questions needed to be answered.

When Carl took his concerns to Captain Morrissey he found a sympathetic ear. “It looks like you’ve come up with

something, Carl. Perhaps Wansley disappeared because his life was in danger. Maybe he wasn’t a victim of amnesia as

we had supposed. If and when he recovers we might get answers to some of those questions. In the meantime, I have a

question for you? Have you discussed his identity with anyone else?”

“No, Sir,” Carl replied. “I was hoping we could keep that under wraps for a while. If he’s still a hot number in L.A. they

might still be looking for him. Maybe they found him; his present condition could have been an attempted hit.”

The captain added, “Let’s keep his identity known to just the two of us for a while. I’m sure our boys are trustworthy but

one of them might inadvertently let a friend in L.A. know. Who knows where it would go from there?”

“Sounds good to me, Captain.”

A week later, Benson received word from a hospital contact that his ‘case’ was conscious and although not real alert

could probably carry on a short conversation.

At the end of his shift Carl paid a visit to the hospital. As he walked up to Wansley’s bed he was met by a pair of wary

eyes. “I’m Detective Benson of the San Francisco police. Do you remember who you are?”

Wansley nodded then blurted out, “San Francisco police? What are you doing in Los Angeles?”

“You’re not in Los Angeles, Mr. Wansley, you’re in San Francisco.”

“How did I get here?”

“Apparently you’ve been living in San Francisco for the past two years or so. Don’t you remember any of it?”

Wansley replied, “The last thing I remember is being run down by a car in L.A. Did you say two years?”

Carl went on to inform Wansley what he had learned in his investigation. That he had been a street person who was

known by some of the other street people but not by name. That his almost lifeless body had been found in a trash bin behind

a restaurant almost a month previously, and that Carl had learned his identity from his fingerprints.

“I got a packet from L.A. detailing your life there. I have not informed them or anyone else except my captain that you’ve

been found. I thought you would prefer to keep it that way, for now at least.”

“And I’ve been in the hospital almost a month?”

Carl answered in the affirmative.

“What’s your interest in my case? Wansley asked.

“I was assigned to your case as part of my case load. Then, I think curiosity got the better of me. You were on the back

burner most of the time until I learned who you are.”

Wansley replied, “If it’s been two years since I was in L.A. then I’m probably of no more interest to the power structure

there. Besides, any information I had at that time will be outdated by now. I’d no longer have a case to present.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Carl responded. “But there’s a strong possibility your present condition is related to your L.A.

history. At least we have to keep an open mind on that. Now, you look like you need to rest before we continue our chat. I’ll

come in tomorrow about this time.”

The next day when Carl returned Wansley was sitting up in bed looking a little more alert than on the previous day.

“I’m glad to see you sitting up, Mr. Wansley,” Carl began. “It’s a sign that you’re returning to the land of living. How do you

feel?”

“I still feel like I’ve been run over by a Mack truck,” Wansley replied. “But I think I’ll survive.” After a pause he continued,

“I’ve been thinking about what you said yester-day, about keeping my identity quiet. It might be a good idea for the time

being, while I’m getting my strength back. But I can’t always live in a vacuum, it’s not my nature.”

“What if there are people out there still interested in your death? Do you want to ignore them?”

“No, but I’ve been in that situation often since becoming an investigative reporter. I need to be active again or I’m

nothing.”

“First you have to get your health back,” Carl replied. “When your doctor approves we’ll need to move you out of here.

The question is, where? Is there anyone in Los Angeles you can trust?”

“There was someone but I don’t know where she is now. Perhaps you can find her for me.”

Wansley gave Carl the name Pauline Thorpe and a Los Angeles phone number. “Tell her I’ve been in contact with you but

don’t tell her any more than that until I find out if she has been endangered in any way. Tell her I mentioned the Pasadena

pineapple; it’s a private joke between us.”

“Okay, Mr. Wansley, I’ll call her as soon as I leave here. I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

“Please, call me Evan. If I’m going to trust you it has to be on a first name basis.”

“Okay, I’m Carl.”

When Carl called the L.A. number a short time later he learned that the number was no longer in use. It had been

disconnected almost a year ago. There was no other listing for the name Pauline Thorpe in the area code given to Carl by

Evan Wansley. He checked other are codes in the L.A. area and again struck out. No one by that name had a listed number.

He then remembered a Los Angeles police sergeant he had done a favor for several years ago. Perhaps the sergeant

could return the favor and locate the woman for him but he would get Wansley’s approval first.

It was several days later before Carl could find the time to pay a return visit to Evan Wansley. When he did he found

Wansley out of bed walking around in the ward where his bed was located.

“I’m glad to see you up and around,” Carl commented. “It shows you are on the road to recovery.”

“I hope so,” was the response. “But I’m doing this on my own; the doctor wouldn’t okay me getting out of bed. He said I’d

tear my stitches loose. But let me go back to my bed so you can sit while we talk.”

When Wansley was back in bed and Carl seated next to him he asked, “Have you been able to contact Pauline?”

“No, I haven’t. She’s not listed in any of the L.A. directories. I have a good friend who is a police sergeant with the

LAPD. I need your permission to contact him to see if he can locate her.

“You have it as long as you don’t mention my name.”

“I won’t,” Carl assured him.

Late that evening Carl called his friend, Phil Bostrom, at his home in Los Angeles. After preliminary greetings and small

talk Carl brought up the subject of Pauline Thorpe, mentioning it was highly confidential but important to a case he was

working on.

Phil replied, “The name rings a bell but I can’t recall why. Can I look it up tomorrow at headquarters and get back to you?”

“As long as it’s done discreetly. Call me at home after 9 tomorrow night.”

”Will do.”

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