The Derelict

At 3 P.M. Benson received word that Jesus Rodriguez had been picked up on an outstanding traffic citation and was

being held in the holding room downtown. On a hunch Carl went to the traffic division and picked up more than a dozen long

overdue citations for Rodriguez. He also picked up Rodriguez’ rap sheet and noted a long record of arrests on suspicion of

using narcotics, and other infractions but no convictions,

Rodriguez was a dark complexioned, burly man in his late thirties. Almost six feet tall he nevertheless looked tiny

compared to Carl Benson.

Carl intended to use his size advantage to intimidate the smaller man and browbeat him into submission if necessary.

As a backup he asked the arresting officer, Sean Clancy, to be present. The two together were a fearsome looking duo.

Benson began by throwing the stack of traffic citations on the table directly in front of Rodriguez. This startled Rodriguez

and made him pull back with a look of apprehension.

Benson began, “How do you expect to continue driving if you keep breaking the law and don’t even bother to pay your

fines? You have enough citations here to have your license revoked. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“Yeah, I speak English, and you don’t have to shout at me,” was the terse reply, with only a trace of an accent to show his

Hispanic heritage.

“I’ve a mind to take you into traffic court right now and have them throw the book at you. They’ll not only revoke your

license but throw you in jail as well; perhaps even confiscate your car,” Carl continued in a belligerent tone.

Clancy meanwhile didn’t say a word but stood there with a menacing look on his face.

By this time Rodriguez’ attitude began to change and he no longer railed back at Carl. “Geez, I didn’t know there were

that many. I guess I’ll have to do something to correct the problem.”

“Maybe I can help you with the traffic citations if you’ll help me with another problem,: said Carl, in a more appeasing

tone.

“Oh yeah, what?”

“Tell us who threw the body in the dumpster in back of Shoni’s restaurant three months back.”

“I don’t know nothin’ about a body in a dumpster and I don’t know where Sho’s restaurant is.”

“Shoni’s, and don’t make it more difficult for yourself than it already is. We have enough information now to arrest you for

murder and probably get a conviction. But, I don’t think you killed the man and I’m willing to listen to your side of it. Either you

help us out or I’ll arrest you and charge you with murder.”

Rodriguez had begun to sweat and cast furtive looks about as he answered, “I want to see my lawyer.”

“We haven’t charged you with anything yet,” Benson replied. “When I charge you with murder, then we’ll send for your

lawyer. All I’m asking you now is to provide me with information in exchange for help with your traffic citations. Now, who

threw the body in the dumpster?”

“Woody,” he blurted out. “That’s the only name I know. All I did was drive the car.”

“How can we find Woody?”

“I don’t know, I only seen him that one time.”

“Describe him for me.”

“Taller than me, skinny; that’s all I know.”

“Who else was in the car?”

“One other guy; I didn’t get his name.”

“Where did you pick up the body?”

“In an alley off Market, near the Civic Center.”

“How did you get the message?”

“Whenever they need a driver they call me. That time it was 2 in the morning. I was told I was needed and where to go.”

“Who are they?”

“What?”

“You said they call you. Who calls you?”

“I don’t know; I just get a call and then a few days later I get a hundred bucks in the mail.”

“How often do you get called?”

“Once or twice a month; sometimes once a week. I don’t ask no questions, I just go. I went out last week and drove a

biggie to the airport.”

“Tell me about the biggie. Did you get a name? Where did you pick him up? What was his destination?” Carl felt that

now that Rodriguez was talking he was going to make a stoolie of him.

I don’t know his name. I don’t ask questions and I keep my nose out of everybody’s business. That’s why they use me as

a driver. I drove him from the Hyatt Regency to United; I think it was a late morning flight to L.A. but I’m not sure.”

“Okay, Jesus; I’m going to let you go now but I want you to keep in touch. I’ll give you a card with my cell phone number

on it. Call me whenever you can add to the information you’ve given me, day or night. I suggest you memorize the number

and destroy the card; you don’t want any of your buddies finding the card on you. And I’ll see what I can do about your traffic

citations. Try not to get any more if you want to keep driving.”

* * *

After both Rodriguez and Clancy left Benson reported to his captain and described the meeting with Rodriguez. “I might

have recruited a stoolie, until his buddies catch on,” Carl said. “And we have two leads to work on; I’ll have Aristoni and

Thurbridge try to identify Woody and perhaps you can have someone working the airport detail identify our recent flyer.” He

then handed Rodriguez’s traffic citations to Captain Morrissey and asked him to arrange a temporary squash on them.

Benson arranged to meet with his two team members for lunch the next day and, after a fast food dinner, drove out to see

Evan Wansley. Again, Wansley was in the middle of researching articles from the stack of news material Benson had

brought him.

“We’re working on two leads that might be the opening we’ve been looking for,” Carl announced. He then filled Evan in

on the information obtained from Rodriguez. “Apparently Woody is the goon who dumped your body behind Shoni’s.

Hopefully, we’ll put a name to him in a few days. And the man who flew to L.A. last week might also be a connection we

need.”

At lunch the following day Benson met with Aristoni and Thurbridge and brought them up to date, describing the meeting

with Rodriguez. “We’ve moved one step up the ladder; now let’s find Woody and take it from there.”

It was two days later before Benson got a call from Tom Aristoni. “I think I’ve located your man. His name is Jonathan

Woods. He seems to fit the mold of the person you’re looking for.”

“Okay,” Benson replied. “Get me a photo of him and I’ll have Rodriguez take a look at it.”

The next day Aristoni surreptitiously took a photo of Woods and forwarded several copies to Benson. Later in the day

Benson followed Rodriguez into a super market and showed him the photo.

“That’s him.” said Rodriguez.

Woods had a record a mile long, mostly strong-arm stuff. He had served two short terms for assault and was now on

parole following his release six months ago. This time, no outstanding traffic citations were available for use; or a new ploy

would have to be used. Finally, after consulting with Captain Morrissey, it was decided to use the direct approach and

threaten him with a murder charge.

Woods was picked up that evening and placed in a cell by himself, to be questioned in the morning. Benson was given a

boost in the interrogation when a veteran detective, Jack Walls, who was a skilled interrogator, was assigned to help with the

questioning. Benson met with Walls beforehand and explained what was involved and the answers that were needed. They

decided not to tip their hand and to call him Woods, and not Woody.

Walls, another large, impressive looking man, began the questioning. “We have a witness who places you at the scene,

on December 15, dumping a body into the dumpster behind Shoni’s restaurant. We are ready now to charge you with

murder in the first degree However, we don’t think you were behind the murder; if you cooperate with us we’ll recommend

the charge be reduced to second degree, or even manslaughter.”

“Up yours; there’s no way you can connect me to any murder. So either charge me or release me.”

Here Benson stepped in. “As Detective Walls said, we have a witness who places you there. But you’re just a punk who

follows orders; we don’t want you, we want the one who gave you the orders. Another option we have is to have your parole

revoked and put you back in stir. If we do that, we’ll spread the word you’ve turned stoolie. How long do you think you’ll last?”

At this Woods blanched but didn’t budge. “I still say you’re full of crap. I got wit-nesses too that can put me at Saint

Anthony’s Christmas party on December 15.”

“At 2 in the morning?” Wells threw at him.

“So, I stayed late to shoot craps.”

The questioning went on all day, Walls and Benson alternating, each getting progressively more aggressive in their

attack. But Woods wouldn’t budge. They decided to let him cool his heels another night and then, if he didn’t break, to carry

out the threat of having his parole revoked.

* * *

Meanwhile, airline records at United Airlines showed a passenger flying first class from San Francisco to Los Angeles

on their March 13, 11:54 A.M. flight whose name was on the list of 12 names Evan Wansley had given to Carl Benson. His

name was Raymond Creighton, a newly elected member of the Los Angeles City Council. Benson brought the news to

Wansley, who was overjoyed to get the information.

“If you can come up with a photo of him from your files I’ll show it to Rodriguez. If he gives us a positive I.D. we’ll have

moved another notch forward.”

Benson again met with Rodriguez, this time at a gas station where each bought gas at an adjacent pump. Again,

Rodriguez made a positive I.D. of the man in the photo Wansley had provided as the man he had driven to the airport.

“And you drove him from the Hyatt Regency to the United terminal at the airport?”

“Yes.”

“Did you see who he was with before getting into the car?”

“I’m not sure, but I think I saw ‘Big Daddy’ near him in the lobby.”

“’Big Daddy’, but you’re not sure!”

“I’m not positive, but pretty sure.”

“Okay, Jesus, thanks. Keep your eyes open to see if you can come up with any more names for me.”

Benson knew who ‘Big Daddy’ was; he was the name behind many of the local politicos and had his finger in every local

function. His name had been connected to local crime but, as far as Benson knew, had never been arrested.

Carl reported this information to Captain Morrissey and received a “My, My,” in response. “So now Gino Caprioti is

consorting with the L.A. mob. This will take very careful handling. You had better leave him to me; I’ll see if I can get a handle

on it.”

Carl was disappointed that the matter of ‘Big Daddy’ had been taken out of his hands but knew it was better that way. It

would be a delicate matter that he didn’t have the facilities or techniques to handle. He did get permission to inform Wansley

of this new development.

“Well,” said Wansley. “Now things are beginning to take shape. I think we have reached a point where I need to begin

opening up things in Los Angeles. Ask your captain if he can provide me with a contact there.”

The very next day Captain Morrissey called a good friend who had recently been promoted to lieutenant in the homicide

division of the Los Angeles Police. “Gil, this is Tom Morrissey. One of my detectives is working on a very sensitive matter

that can’t be discussed on an open line. Can you call me back at (415) 555-3100 from a pay phone in the next 15 minutes?

Okay, I’ll be waiting for your call.”

Ten minutes later Morrissey answered his cell phone; his friend, Lieutenant Gil Hastings was on the line. “The sensitive

matter involves your local politics and your own police department. Do you recall the investigative reporter from L.A. who

disappeared a couple of years ago, Evan Wansley?’

When Hastings’ answer indicated he thought Wansley was dead Morrissey continued, telling him the story of Wansley’s

return to life. “He and my detective have come up with some information that you will need to report to someone higher up

with the L.A. police. You will need to decide who that person is when you hear their story.

“I’d like to have them fly to L.A. to meet with you. Can you take some time out of your schedule for that?”

Hastings agreed to the meeting and arrangements were made for him to meet Carl Benson and Evan Wansley two days

from then at the L.A. airport.

* * *

The same day Captain Morrissey talked to Lieutenant Hastings Carl Benson and Jack Walls resumed their questioning

of Jonathan Woods. Before doing so Benson visited a judge friendly to Captain Morrissey. The judge agreed to begin the

paper work to revoke Woods’ parole and hold it, undated until needed.

“Are you ready to cooperate, or do you want to go back to the slammer?” was the first question Benson asked. “We have

the paper work all ready for that to happen. And, as I told you, if you go back to prison someone will be waiting to stick a shiv

in you.”

It was more than an hour later, after constant pressure by both detectives, that Woods broke. “I work for Gino,” he blurted

out. “But if word gets out that I ratted, I’m dead. What else do you want from me?”

Benson was merciless in keeping the pressure on. “I want a list of names of all the people you know who work for Gino, in

one capacity or another. I also want a list of people he meets with regularly, including his contacts in Los Angeles.

“Detective Walls will provide you with pencil and paper; then a secretary will type it up and you will sign it. We’ll release

you, but you know what will happen if word gets out that you were here. You’d better have a good story ready in case

somebody asks where you’ve been. And don’t leave town. Clear?”

From headquarters Benson went to Hyatt Regency. He showed his badge to the desk clerk, a young, dark-haired man

wearing a badge identifying him as Peter Uvalle. He then showed the photo of Raymond Creighton to Uvalle and said, “This

man checked out of your hotel at about 10:30 A.M. on March 13. I need to know what name he used in registering, how long

he was here, and whom he met with. I would appreciate your cooperation.”

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