The Friday Night Club

On Sunday I gathered enough personal items from my apartment to move in with Alex on a partial basis. I was riding on

cloud nine.

Monday, when I reported to work, I discovered the crime lab had opened much earlier to get a good start on sorting the

evidence in the second stabbing. The body had not been identified as yet so the same procedure was followed as with

Karen Dunston. Photos were again provided to the newspapers and TV stations to see if we could be as successful this

time.

My team met with Sergeant Canville to get a report on the salient facts obtained in the lab. Nothing, other than the

autopsy report was usable as yet. When we had a suspect we would then be able to cross check information obtained from

the two crime scenes.

The autopsy brought out several disturbing facts. The victim, as Karen had been, was sexually active, and also an

apparent former drug user. Slight traces of heroin were found in her body and old needle marks on her arms and legs. Also,

semen from more than one male was taken from her vagina.

Doc Morrissey had determined that the weapon used was the same type as the one used on Karen, probably a stiletto.

One important note he made was that the knife this time was wielded by a person much stronger than the person who

stabbed Karen. He had come to that conclusion by the depth of the wound and by the effect the impact had on the tissue at

the point of entry. This one point, together with the conflicting statements describing the perps, caused us to be certain there

were two perps instead of one.

Meanwhile, Sergeant Levine had gone to Sacramento to make inquiries to help fill out our background on Karen

Dunston. She hoped that by Wednesday at the latest she would have enough information to help in our investigation.

That afternoon Jason went in one direction, Galen another and I went a third. Each of us had a photo of our latest victim

with us in hopes of establishing an identity. I chose the neighborhood where Karen had last roomed to try making contact

with her ‘friend’ Antonia Pivetta. According to the landlady, Mrs. Lopez, Antonia had not been in her room since Friday

morning. With the possibility that Antonia might be the second victim, I showed Mrs. Lopez the photo. The girl in the photo

was not Antonia, according to Mrs. Lopez.

I tried every rooming house and sleazebag hotel in the neighborhood, all to no avail. No one could identify the young lady

in the photo. About 4 o’clock Jason called me and asked me to meet him at a coffee shop near Murphy’s bar. He also

called Galen. “I think I might have something,” he said.

We each had a coffee while he told us what he had discovered. “There’s a house a block from here that, according to

neighbors on each side, was a commune of some sort. The neighbors reported frequent comings and goings of young

people of both sexes. Then suddenly, about a month ago, the place was abandoned. No one is living there now. One of the

neighbors,” and here Jason consulted his notes, “a Mrs. Jean Johnson, thinks our latest victim was one of them.”

“Did you show her Karen’s photo?” I asked.

“I wasn’t given one.”

“Okay, why don’t you take Galen’s and go back to Mrs. Johnson’s. Galen will go with you and take a good look at the

house. I’ll try to locate the owner.”

Jason gave me the address of the house and the two left me to make the inquiries I needed. The county clerk’s office

gave me the name of a realtor named Douglas Jones as the owner on record. His office was downtown not far from police

head-quarters. I called ahead and made an appointment to see him immediately.

Doug Jones, a short, heavyset, balding black man met me at the door with a bone crunching handshake. “How can I help

you, Sergeant?”

“I need information about a former clients of yours. You own a rental property at 2312 14th Street; until a month ago it

was rented. I need the name of the renter.”

Jones looked at me with a look of disgust on his face. “A bunch of druggies and free love types were there for about six

months, until I found out what they were up to. Then I kicked them out; but not before they trashed the place.”

“Who paid the rent?”

“The name I was given was John Smith; he’s the only one I met although I saw others there at times, all young people. He

always paid in cash.”

I got out the pictures I had, of Karen and the second victim, but Jones shook his head. “I don’t recognize either one,” he

said.

“Do you have a forwarding address for this ‘Smith’?”

“No, they just cleared out.”

“Can you describe him?”

“Short, about my height, or maybe shorter; I’m 5’6”. He always wore a baseball cap, and he was skinny. He looked like a

strong wind would blow him over.”

“Would you recognize him again if you saw him?”

“I’m sure I would.”

“Would you be willing to work with a police artist who will try to sketch him, using one of our identikits?”

“Sure.”

“Did you happen to see a much taller, heavier man there?”

“No, I didn’t. Now, I’ve answered questions for you; can you tell me what this is all about?”

“I can tell you that the two young ladies whose pictures I showed you were stabbed to death and that your Mr. Smith is a

likely suspect.”

I thanked Mr. Jones for his time and arranged for him to meet with the police artist the following morning. I also arranged

to have a unit from the crime lab go through the house on 14th Street.

Galen and Jason, in the meantime, had talked to several more neighbors near the commune, as we had begun to think of

it. One of the neighbors was certain she had seen Karen entering or leaving several times. At this we called it a day.

* * *

I stopped by my apartment to pick up more of my belongings before driving to Alex’s place. By that time it was almost 7

P.M. In discussing our love-in relation-ship Alex and I had agreed that dinner would be a spontaneous affair, depending on

what time each of us arrived home. If one of us was much earlier than the other, that person would be in charge of dinner. If

we were both early we would work together on dinner, unless we decided making love was more important. If we were both

late, we would have dinner out, at a nearby family style restaurant. As I was a neophyte at cooking Alex left complete

instructions for each meal so I would know what to do if I had to do the cooking. On this, our first Monday together, Alex had

come home early and prepared a Russian version of beef stroganoff. I was discovering that my lover was an accomplished

cook.

An unspoken agreement was that I would not talk about my job except for trivial details which were sometimes humorous.

Alex would follow a similar routine. We both knew there would be times when some of the details wore us down enough we

would need each other’s shoulders to lean on.

Sunday had been spent, in part, at a nearby market stocking Alex’s pantry to accommodate two persons instead of one.

During the rest of the day we took a short walk and then I relaxed and watched basketball on TV while Alex rearranged her

closets to make room for me. As this was my first experience at living with someone other than my family I was amazed at

the myriad of details that needed to be taken care of to make such a change.

For breakfast we were each on our own. Alex went running for an hour starting at 6 and had to leave for work shortly after

7:30, so her morning routine was a quick shower then either a dry cereal with banana or SlimFast. I liked a big breakfast so I

got up with Alex and cooked bacon and eggs or hot cereal, or some such concoction. Then I left the same time Alex did.

Tuesday morning the police artist, with suggestions from Doug Jones, put together an identikit picture of Smith, the

apparent leader of the commune. We ran off a number of copies to distribute to other teams and to beat cops. Again, my

team split up to cover different areas in the vicinity of the commune and began making the rounds, stopping at local

commercial establishments and businesses with copies of Smith’s picture.

This time it was Galen who came up with a lead. He called to tell me he had talked with the proprietor of a neighborhood

print shop who thought Smith might be a man who worked for him until a month ago and then quit suddenly. As I had drawn

only blanks I met Galen at the print shop.

Sig Rynerson, the print shop owner, was a tall, gangling Swede in his middle forties. He was quite excited at the

prospect of being able to help the police. “My father was a policeman in Sweden,” he said in a slightly Swedish accent.

The man who called himself Smith, if Rynerson had identified him correctly, was actually named Franklin Walsh. He had

worked for Rynerson for almost a year. Rynerson’s records showed a Social Security number and an address different from

the house on 14th Street.

At this point Galen came up with an excellent question. “Is there anything belonging to Walsh that he left behind?”

“Come to think of it, he had a shop apron that is still in the back room,” Rynerson replied.

We wrapped the apron in a plastic bag Rynerson provided, thanked him and left. I called Jason and gave him the job of

checking out the address Rynerson had given us for Walsh. He would also double check with DMV and Social Security for

up to date information.

Galen and I returned to headquarters to check with the crime lab and turn Walsh’s apron over to them as part of the

mounting evidence. The results of the examination of the 14th Street house were disappointing. The house, because it had

been trashed, had been completely done over, leaving little or no evidence of previous occupants.

Jason struck out with DMV; they had the same address for Walsh that Rynerson had given us, which turned out to be an

empty lot. He did get the information that Walsh had registered a 6 year old Ford Taurus. We put out an APB on this car.

Social Security had an address in Cleveland, Ohio dating back more than five years, with no recent changes of address

listed.

With permission from my boss, Captain Priest, Jason flew to Cleveland on Wednesday to follow up on the information we

had on Franklin Walsh. Sergeant Levine returned from Sacramento late Tuesday and sat down with Galen and me

Wednesday morning. She had talked with school officials, neighbors, and former friends of Karen Dunston, all of whom gave

insight into Karen as a trollop. The boys at her school in particular said she was easy pickings for any male who wanted sex.

She was part of a group of swingers who tried everything, including drugs.

* * *

It wasn’t until Thursday morning that we got a tentative identification of our second victim. A teacher at Riverton High

School, Ms Margaret Selfridge, called headquarters and reported that the victim looked like a girl who had been in her history

class the year before.

I called the high school and was able to make an appointment to see Ms Selfridge at 2:30 that same day. Ms Selfridge

was a mousy looking, slight of build woman in her early thirties. When she met with us she came prepared, she had a copy

of a yearbook with her and showed us a photo of Helen Swift, from last year’s graduating class. The resemblance to our

photo was remarkable but by no means conclusive.

According to Ms Selfridge, Helen Swift was a loner; she had n o friends known to Ms Selfridge and was not one you

would think of as a free love advocate. That put a damper on our hopes for a positive identification but we had to follow up in

any event. We thank Ms Selfridge who took us to the counselor’s office and introduced us to the head counselor, James

Atterbury.

Mr. Atterbury had his clerk pull up the record of Helen Swift from their files. These we examined but found nothing to

indicate she had been involved with any promiscuous or drug related activities. We obtained her last known address and

left.

The street where Helen Swift had lived was in one of the older parts of town, in what had once been an upper class

neighborhood but was now showing signs of wear. A woman in her mid to late forties answered our knock. I showed her my

badge and asked, “Is this the residence of Helen Swift?”

“I’m her mother, Katherine Dolby, but Helen doesn’t live at home any more. She moved in with a friend when she

graduated from high school last year.”

“When was the last time you saw Helen?”

“About a week ago; she dropped by to pick up some personal things.”

“Can you be more specific about when that was?” I persisted.

“Let’s see; I think it was Wednesday of last week. Why are you asking all these questions? Has something happened to

Helen?”

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, but we are trying to identify a young woman who was murdered last Friday night. One of

Helen’s teachers thought it might be Helen.” Here I took out the photo and showed it to her.

Mrs. Dolby turned white and, I was certain, was about to be sick but she regained control of herself and took a closer look

at the photo.

“It looks like Helen, but I’m not certain.”

“Would you be willing to look at the body we have at the morgue? Or perhaps it would be better if your husband identified

her.”

“There is no husband; I’ll go with you if it’s necessary.”

While we were driving downtown Mrs. Dolby gave Galen the name of Helen’s girlfriend and the address Helen moved to

last August.

There was no doubt in Mrs. Dolby’s mind that the body was her daughter Helen. She gasped and held on to me for

support. I could feel her trembling. We left the morgue as quickly as possible and found a comfortable chair where she could

sit and regain her composure.

“I apologize for my abruptness, Mrs. Dolby,” I said. “I haven’t yet found a way of breaking that kind of news gently.”

“I’m sure it would be difficult for anyone to do,” she replied.

After driving Mrs. Dolby home we called it a day, with plans for the next day, Friday, to visit the girlfriend whose name

Mrs. Dolby had provided and to get a report from Jason on his Cleveland discoveries.

* * *

Jason’s report didn’t wait until Friday. At 4:30, as I was driving back to Alex’s place, I got a call from him on my cell

phone. “I thought it was important enough to call you, Sarge; (the first time anyone had called me Sarge) I was just informed

that our friend, Franklin Walsh, is on his way back to California. He apparently left Cleveland yesterday morning with an intent

to make it there in two days driving. He might be there by now, or arriving soon. From what I’ve been told he’s a likely

candidate to be our perp; he’s been in similar trouble with the law here.

I thanked Jason for being alert enough to think of calling me then called head-quarters to advise them of Walsh’s

imminent arrival. I also called CHP and asked them to be on the alert for his car and advise headquarters as soon as he

entered the state.

I then called Galen and informed him of the latest news. “Since tomorrow is Friday, perhaps we should keep him under

close observation,” he replied. “Maybe we should pick up his car when it arrives in town and put a tail on him.”

“Good idea,” I replied. “I’ll advise headquarters and CHP that’s what we plan to do. They can keep me posted and I’ll let

you know when something comes up.

I continued on home and explained to Alex that the entire evening, and perhaps the night, was shot; that I might get a

phone call at any time. We had a simple dinner and settled down for an evening of TV. And what did we watch? One of

those big name police dramas that was so far removed from reality to be less than entertaining. At 9 P.M. we discovered an

old Cary Grant movie we had both seen but decided it would be more entertaining than other TV fare. We made ourselves

comfortable on the sofa watching the movie, interrupting it frequently with a passionate kiss or two. What a delightful way to

spend an evening.

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