November?

Something new may be coming to Mr. Barnett. Am working out something for NaNoWriMo.

Part 1

So there I was in my office over Wong's Chinese Antiques in Chinatown waiting for my occasional secretary, Britney, to get back from her latest attempt at breaking into the movie business at an audition for a role in a movie called It Came From the Deep. Britney was a nice kid. UCLA graduate in Theater and all that. Pretty surfer type blond from Orange County with bright blue eyes and a nice little figure she liked to show off. But she had two things working against her show business-wise. She couldn't act. I'd seen her in a couple of plays and she was just awful. And she had a moral center that kept her off the casting couch.
Some people in the business thought she was a tease because of the way she dressed with short skirts and low cut blouses, but they didn't realize that she pretty much grew up wearing bikinis and she thought she dressed modestly. To accuse her of dressing like a slut would be like accusing an Hawaiian girl of the same for wearing nothing but a lei and grass skirt.
I spent a lot of time trying to get the movie madness out of her and convince her to get into a money-making trade like being waitress or private detective, but she always pointed out that I was always late in paying her and wasn't exactly rolling in jack.
I was half reading and half sleeping through a copy of Popular Mechanics. I am neither popular nor a mechanic, but I try to keep up with current technology, if only in theory. I thought it was a crime when electronic ignition became the norm in cars. I actually enjoyed setting the points on my old Plymouth Barracuda when I had it.
So I was reading an article that I seemed to have read every year since 1965 -- You Will Fly to Work -- when there was a knock on the outer door of the office and then the squeak of the door hinges.
A voice called out, "Hello?"
I put the magazine in the drawer next to my bottle of Old Grand Dad and called out, "Come on in."
And then she walked in. She wasn't Britney. She was almost the opposite of Britney. Instead of the sunshine of Britney this woman was night. Shiny black hair, olive skin, dark eyes and more curves inside her pin striped navy suit than Mulholland.Drive The type of woman who would make a corpse kick the slats out of his coffin. Just looking at her made me gasp. And I've seen the best of them.

A New Story, A New Character

On an unusually hot April day in 1960 in the California city of Souwerk in a house on Diemert Avenue, a middle aged woman, a housewife, was murdered. Her name was Carolyn Wolfsheimer. Her husband, Albert Wolfsheimer, came home from his job at Bethlehem Steel at 5:30 in the evening and found her laying dead in the living room of their tract home with a length of clothesline wrapped around her neck. He called the Los Angeles County Sheriff's Department, which responded by sending five marked police cars, one unmarked police car and an ambulance to the house. Soon the residential street was impassible because of the Sheriff's cars, the newspapermen's cars and the neighbors standing in the street wondering, and then expressing shock at what had happened in their quiet neighborhood.

A seven-year-old boy walked up to one of the deputies keeping the neighbor's back and said, "I know who did it."

"And who might that be?"

"The star man."

"Star man? What's a star man? Do you mean a man from Mars?" the deputy asked indulgently.

"There are no men from Mars. Mrs. Wolfsheimer called him the star man. She said that he read her stars."

"Do you mean an astrologer?"

The boy shrugged. "If that's another name for 'star man' I guess so."

"Wait right here. Let me get a detective."

The deputy left the boy alone for a moment and then returned with a man wearing a suit and tie and a hat. He said that his name was Detective Foreman.

"What's this about a 'star man?'"

"That's who did it," the boy said. "That's who killed Mrs. Wolfsheimer."

"How do you know?"

"I saw him go into the house this morning and then leave about an hour later. In a hurry."

"Had you seen this man before?"

"A couple of times. He read Mrs. Wolfsheimer's stars. That's what she told me. He told her what was going to happen."

"Why weren't you in school?"

"Smog. I've got bad asthma. I was sitting in the living room looking out the window for the Helm's man."

"What did this 'star man' look like?"

"Like that guy who sells cars on TV during the roller derby. The Fender Bender."

The two deputies looked at one another for a moment and then the uniformed man said, "Dick Laine? Fender Bender Laine? Wears thick glasses?"

"That's him."

"What kind of car did he drive? the detective asked.

"Like that one," the boy said pointing to a green 1954 Plymouth coupe. "Except gray."

The detective opened his notebook. "What's your name, son?"

"Roger Scott. I live at 15043 Diemert. My phone number is University 41742."

"We may want to talk to you later. Now run along and let us get on with our business."

But Detective Foreman never got back to the boy. Instead, three days later Albert Wolfsheimer was arrested for the murder of his wife. The investigation claimed that Wolfsheimer had killed his wife before going to work and that he had done it in a fit of rage because she had, the previous day, bought a new $250.00 Kirby vacuum cleaner that they could not afford and that he suspected that Mrs. Wolfsheimer was having an affair with her dentist. The boy's claims about Mrs. Wolfsheimer being a devotee of astrology were discounted due to the fact that none of the neighbors or acquaintances of Mrs. Wolfsheimer could ever remember her mentioning astrology or fortune-telling in any way or any time.

Three months later Albert Wolfsheimer was found guilty of murdering his wife. He was sentanced to life imprisonment at Folsom prison.

Two months after that an astrologer named Ezra Gadsen was arrested for the murder of Mrs. Juanita Barnes of Downey, California. Like Mrs. Wolfsheimer, Mrs. Barnes had been strangled. Gadsen drove a gray 1954 Plymouth coupe. He wore thick eyeglasses and he bore a passing resemblance to Fender Bender Laine. He had been noticed by the mail man, who thought it strange that Mrs. Barnes did not see him off from the door. Mrs. Barnes was a friendly woman with whom the mail man often shared a cup of coffee in her kitchen while taking a break on his route. A search of Gadsen's apartment in Bell Gardens resulted in the finding of a Dresden figurine of milkmaid that Mr. Wolfsheimer had said was missing after his wife's death

Mr. Wolfsheimer was released from prison and he moved from California back to his native Pennsylvania. Ezra Gadsen was tired and convicted of the murders of Mrs. Wolfsheimer and Mrs. Barnes. He was sentenced to die in the gas chamber at San Quentin. After several appeals he was lead into the death chamber, strapped into the chair and the cyanide tablets were dropped into pail of acid.

It was after the arrest of Mr. Wolfsheimer that the boy, Roger Scott, decided that he didn't want to be a policeman after all. He decided that cops were dopes. He had told them what he saw and they ignored him. After Mr. Wolfsheimer was released from prison Roger rode his bicycle to the Sheriff's station and asked the desk sergeant for Detective Foreman. Foreman looked at the boy as if he'd never seen him before. Roger looked back and said, "I told you it was the 'star man.'" Then he turned on his heel before he could see Foreman's face fall and turn red.

No. Roger decided he was not going to be a policeman. He decided he was going to be a private detective. Private detectives were smarter than cops, tougher than cops and drove better cars than cops.

My name is Roger Scott. I was that boy. And that is how I started my career as a snooper.

The End. For Now

Please note that the story told in the previous posts featuring Lt. Ray Tate and the members of the Sycamore Grove Police Department is being suspended for an so far undetermined length of time.

Instead, the beginning of a new story will start on this site in a short time.

Episode 11

The first Tate saw of the Lakeland Community Worship Center was a stainless steel cross soaring above the trees of Viejo Park. As Chen drove through the park, taking the most direct route, Tate could see that the cross was mounted on a tall narrow cone faced in granite. Tate estimated that the cone was to to one hundred feet high and that the cross added another fifty feet to the total height. Beyond the cross was a narrow strip of green velvet textured grass, then and expansive parking lot, almost empty at the moment, that surrounded a group of buildings. The largest building, which Tate assumed was the church proper, looked more like a sports arena than what he thought of as a house of worship; roughly oval shaped with glass walls that went up three stories, and then two conical shapes that made the roof that reminded him of the top of a circus tent. At first the image of clowns and elephants and trapeze artists came to him. Then he remembered attending tent revivals with his grandparents when he was a child. He could almost smell the odor of saw dust and hot canvas, and sweating men and women fanning themselves as a traveling evangelist delivered loud, long and hot-blooded sermon. Doubtless, this modern version was climate-controlled.
A verdant grass lawn surrounded the building, and silver dollar eucalyptus and small ponderosa pines attempted to give a touch of nature to the grounds.
"Are the offices in the that building?" Tate asked.
"I suppose so. I never saw any other buildings the only other time I was here."
"I guess we'll have to spend part of our time looking for the offices in that monstrosity. Park over by that group of cars. That's probably where the staff parks."
"What makes you say that?"
"It's unlikely that there are services going on at this hour, but considering what's happened the staff is goingt o get together and try to figure out what to do."
Chen parked his car pulled into a slot amid eight other cars at the north side of the building. Most of the cars were mid-range sedans and SUVs, but there was one late model Mercedes and a shiny new Lexus still bearing the dealer's plate.
"It looks like at least two of the bigwigs are here," Chen said. "My pastor would like to be able to afford those wheels, let alone the deacons."
Tate got out of the car and walked over to the Lexus and Mercedes and looked down at the concrete curb in front of their front wheels.
"Well, it looks like Dale Lewis has gotten himself a new Lexus, unless his evil twin is parking in his spot."
They followed the walk around the building until they found an entrance with the word "Office" painted on the glass of the door. Tate pushed the door open and found himself in a spare modern lobby. The walls were painted off-white and the carpet was the color of oatmeal. On the wall behind the semi-circular receptionist's desk were the letters "LCWC" made of brushed stainless steel. The desk itself was made of smoked glass and chromed steel; the chair of black steel and black ballistic nylon. The woman sitting behind the desk was middle-aged and sparsely made up. She wore a somber gray and black, and her graying hair was severely pulled back. Her face was drawn and anxious.
"I'm sorry, gentlemen," she said when she looked up from her computer terminal. "The office is closed today except by special appointment."
Tate pulled his wallet from his back pocket and showed her his badge, "I'm Lieutenant Raymond Tate. This is Detective Chen. We're from the Sycamore Grove Police Department. We'd like to speak to Dale Lewis. Is he here?"
"I'll check." She lifted the receiver of the telephone and punched a number while Chen looked at Tate with raised eyebrows. "There are two detectives here from the Sycamore Grove Police Department to see Pastor Lewis. Is he in?" She listened for a few seconds and then looked at Tate. "Someone will be here in a moment to show you to Pastor Lewis' office."
Tate put his wallet back into his pocket while Chen leaned down to read the name plate on the desk.
"Ms. Jackson," he said. "Do you seriously think I believe that you had to call to find out if Dale Lewis is or not here. Would you have said that he isn't here if so instructed?"
She didn't answer, but her face reddened as she looked away.
"Lying to the police is rarely a good idea. It's not good for the reputation of this organization, either."
"I am only following standard procedure, detective."
"Interesting. We'll be wanting to speak to you before we leave."
Tate and Chen turned away from the woman and looked toward the closed door of the elevator. Neither spoke as they both unconsciously had assumed the same posture; jackets unbuttoned and their hands slid into their front pockets.
There was a quiet "ding" sound and then the elevator doors whispered open. A tall portly man with thick salt and pepper hair combed straight back from a pink broad forehead above a pink jowly face stepped into the lobby and extended his hand in the general direction of the two detectives. He wore a forest green knit polo shirt with the letters LCWC stitched in yellow over the left breast, a pair of pleated khaki trousers and brown boat shoes worn without socks.
"I'm Dale Lewis."
"Lieutenant Tate," Tate replied shaking a large soft hand. It reminded him of grabbing newly risen bread dough. "this is Detective Chen. Sycamore Grove Police Department. We're investigating the murder of Matthew Hauser."
"Let's go up to my office."
They entered the elevator and rode up to the third floor of the building. The elevator door opened to a wall of glass overlooking the grounds of the church. Lewis lead the way to an office at one corner of the building and opened the door.
There was a small reception room that was almost an exact miniature of the lobby, where a young woman, dressed in black, sat behind a desk working at a computer. Lewis ignored her while he showed Tate and Chen into his office. He positioned himself behind a desk, framing himself against a background overlooking the grounds, On his desk was a computer terminal, several framed photographs that Tate couldn't see, and a worn leather bound Bible. Tate noted the letters NIV at the base of the spine. Tate and Chen sat down and Chen took out his pen and notebook.
"How did you hear about the death of Mr. Hauser?" Tate asked. He glanced at the few pictures on the walls -- Durer's Praying Hands, a photograph of a sunset over the ocean in which a cross of light seemed to radiate from the sun, and a second photograph of waves crashing against rocks creating a rainbow.
"Mrs. Hauser called and told me."
"Mrs. Hauser? You don't call her by her first name?"
"Rarely. She is not the type of woman who invites familiarity. Very proper."
"Are you aware of the circumstances and location of Mr. Hauser's death?"
"Vaguely. I have a friend who is a member of the Sycamore Grove P.D."
"And his name is?"
"Scott Miller."
Tate looked at Chen to make sure he wrote down the name.
"Can you think of any reason that Mr. Hauser would be at the Rustler's Roost? Besides the obvious, that is."
" Not really. To be truthful, it's a surprise to me that he was at such a place. If he had a secret life, he kept it very secret. I've never been aware of any impropriety in Matt's life. I've known and worked with him for many years and would never have guessed."
"I see. Can you think of any reason anyone would want to kill him?"
"None. Except perhaps that he was a man with a high profile. He was nationally, even internationally known. There's always some nut who takes a dislike to the success, but I can think of no specific reason or a particular person."
"This church has been involved in no controversies or scandals?"
"None."
"There have been no internal disputes among the church leadership?"
Tate pulled his empty pipe from his pocket while Lewis looked at it with concern. He tapped the bit against his lower lip as he looked out the window past Lewis' shoulder. After a few moments of silence he looked down at the pipe and slipped it back into his pocket.
"Who will take over the leadership of this church?"
"For right now it'll be me. There will have to be a meeting of the church elders to make the final decision."
"Do you have a copy of the church charter that I can take with me?"
"I'll have Rita print up a copy for you. He spoke into an intercom, "Rita? Please print up a copy of the church charter for me." A voice replied, "Yes, Rev. Lewis."
"Are you going to make any arrangements for Mrs. Hauser? Life insurance? Some sort of trust or death benefit?"
"She'll be well taken care of."
"There's something that bothers me, Mr. Lewis," Tate said scratching at a non-existent itch over his nose. "It's my understanding that you and Mr. Hauser were close and long-time friends, as well as being co-laborers doing the Lord's work. But Mr. Hauser has been dead, murdered, less than a half day and you have shown less emotion than most men do about the death of a cat they don't like. Most Pentecostal ministers I've known, and I've known a few, would barely be able to speak without breaking down."
"I suppose I'm the exception to your rule, Detective. I've never been an emotionally demonstrative man. Ask anyone who knows me, including my wife and children."
"This investigation is in the very early stages, Mr. Lewis, so we'll probably want to talk to you again. But before we leave I'd like to ask one more question."
"Go ahead."
"What kind of boat do you have?"
Lewis started slightly. "How do you know I have a boat?"
"I just know."
"A Grand Banks 42. I keep it in Long Beach."
"A nice vessel. We'll see ourselves out."
Tate and Chen left the office and stopped by the reception desk and picked up the church charter that had just been printed.
"How'd you know he has a boat?" Chen asked when the were in the elevator.
"His shoes."
"What about them? They're just loafers. And not very clean ones"
"They're Seabago boat shoes and there's dried salt around the soles and the seams. What'd you think of Lewis?"
"Cold fish."
"What did you want to ask Ms. Jackson after we got done with Lewis?"
"Nothing. I just wanted her to think a while."
"You are a cruel man, Detective Chen."
The elevator doors opened and they walked through the lobby and out the doors without looking at the receptionist. She heaved a sigh of relief and returned to her copy of Charisma magazine.
"What do you think of this place?" Tate asked as they walked back to Chen's car.
"Not much. I never came back after visiting it once. It's like going to a concert instead of worship. Too big, too noisy, too busy. It's..."
Chen's cell phone rang. He pulled it out of his pocket and answered, "Chen", then handed it to Tate. "It's for you."
"Tate, here." He listened for a moment. "Where's he at? -- How bad? -- They get him? -- Her? -- Really? Okay. We'll be there in a while. Call his wife. Tell her we'll meet her there."
He closed the phone and handed it to Chen.
"What's up?" Chen asked.
"That damn Garza went and got himself shot."

Just Wait a Week

For those few readers of this story this writer asks then readers to be patient for a week.
To tell the truth, this writer has been reluctant to post more episodes for the story for superstitious reasons.
Please know that starting March 7 new episodes of the story will begin.
This writer sincerely hopes that the reader will enjoy them.

Still workin'

For those few who are interested in the progress of the story, please know that the author is still working on the story featuring Lt. Ray Tate.
This author, while not a professional writer, hopes to give the reader a good story with decent writing.
If you are a Ray Tate fan please know that Ray is still at work.