Schooled to Kill

by Dell Shannon

Genres: Mystery; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

'A Luis Mendoza story means superlative suspense' Los Angeles Times Two little girls have been raped and murdered and every available officer in The Los Angeles Police Department is on the case. Lieutenant Mendoza's team meticulously make enquiries - there's house-to-house checking, and exact tracing of the girl's movements between home and school. No stone is left unturned, but what clues will finally reveal the children's fate?

Release date: May 21, 2014

Publisher: Orion

Print pages: 240

Sample

THE DOG was asleep when it happened. Asleep on the pile of coats and sweaters in the back seat of the topless convertible ambling along the freeway. The
crash woke him, and then he was thrown violently out of the car, his erstwhile bedding along with him, and landed still on top of the coats on the shoulder of the road.

He was stunned momentarily, shaken and bruised but not really hurt. There were loud noises, loud voices, screams. By the time the dog got to his feet, shaking and frightened, all the cars had
stopped moving out there, and people were crowding around the center of the road. The dog whimpered and tried to join the crowd, searching for his own people; but a man shoved him away with angry
words; and then a loud screaming thing was coming nearer and nearer, and the dog panicked and ran. He ran, lumbering, along the shoulder of the road, a long time past the lines of stalled cars,
until he found a way off that road and was on a narrower street where there were houses.

Then he was lost. He wasn’t a dog to stay panicky for very long, but he felt very lost. He’d never been in a city before, and it bewildered him. He went on walking, sometimes
trotting along, investigating yards and the few empty lots, but nothing was familiar. . . . By daylight he had found his way to a long straight street lined with buildings, and presently there
began to be people in the streets, which pleased him, for he didn’t know he was a dog at all; but most of them steered a wide course around him or just ignored him. He was alone and lost, and
he felt very sorry for himself.

He didn’t like the noise and confusion of the street, and turned back up a narrower street where smaller buildings stood. He was sitting on the curb there, forlorn, when a car slid up to
the curb and stopped and a woman got out. She spoke to him in a friendly tone. “Hello there,” she said, and held out her hand and patted him. “What are you doing here?”

The dog, extremely pleased, smiled widely at her and offered his paw politely. She shook it and laughed, but then she went on and walked around the corner out of sight. The dog’s ears
drooped despondently. There was, however, the car. The front window was down, and with some difficulty he heaved himself up, almost stuck halfway through, panted and struggled and flopped down
clumsily into the seat.

He approved of the car. It had the right smells. It smelled of children and also of cats. The dog was very fond of both children and cats.

Something had happened to change the world; and his people had gone away. It was an empty feeling inside him; but he was of a philosophic disposition, and largely took life as he found it. Here
at least was temporary haven. Until his people came back.

He curled up on the floor of the back seat and went to sleep.

Landers was alone in the Homicide office when the new one came in. It was one-thirty of a Monday afternoon in February, just a week since the Lieutenant had come back to work,
and they were being kept busy. Even a little more so than usual.

That wanted rapist-killer on the Ten Most Wanted list, Patrick Albert Rooney, hadn’t been picked up yet. He might be the X they wanted here for the rape murders of the Moreno girl and
Juliet Romano. There were flyers out; they knew he’d been here, at least, ten days ago; he might still be here, or he might not.

They hadn’t any leads at all on the murder of Mrs. García.

It was the first week in February, and as usual in Southern California, at some time early in the year, it had turned strangely mild. They’d get more cold weather and rain before April,
but right now it was sunny and warm.

And Landers was alone in the office because half an hour before, with Mendoza, Hackett, and Higgins just back from lunch, they had had a call—the body of the Pickens child found at last,
up in Elysian Park. Nobody had really expected her to be found alive, the eight-year-old reported missing four days ago. So now it was Homicide’s business, and one like that they wanted to
get after fast—pick up anything and everything they could in the way of leads—so the three of them, Sergeant Lake said, had taken off in a hurry, picking up John Palliser on the way as
he came in, and Lake had dispatched a mobile lab truck to meet them.

The kids, thought Landers, coming back from lunch to hear that. It was the innocent kids that got you. The little eight-year-old kid, dead. They hadn’t had a child rapist in a while; that
was probably what it was. At first they’d thought they had one on the Moreno girl, who’d only been twelve, but the next one that boy had killed had been nineteen, and the Moreno girl
had looked a lot older than she was, well developed, so they were thinking now he was just a rape killer period. Could be this Rooney; he’d used a knife before, and a knife had been used on
Rita Moreno and Juliet Romano.

Landers was typing up a report on the latest body from Skid Row, yet another stupid idiot with an overdose of heroin in him. He was alone in the office; it was Piggott’s day off and
Glasser and Grace were both out on something. Landers was feeling grim about the little Pickens girl, and wondering what they were finding up there, when Sergeant Lake rang him. “So what
now?” said Landers.

“Well, something I think you’ll want to hear about,” said Lake. “A funny something. You’d better listen to this guy.”

Resignedly Landers got up and went out to the anteroom. Standing beside Lake’s desk was a beefy-shouldered, nervous-looking young man in tan work-clothes, who was saying, “Honest, I
never even fired off a gun. In my life. They wouldn’t take me in the Army accounta I’m deaf in one ear. I got water in it swimming once.”

“Yes, yes,” said Lake. “This is Detective Landers. You tell the tale to him.”

“A detective,” said the young man. “That’s good. I never been in trouble with the law, I never even got a traffic ticket. The whole thing’s just crazy, that’s
all. But I thought I better come tell you guys about it, and I don’t know all your different departments or whatever, place this size, I told the guy downstairs, in the lobby or whatever, I
said it was about a murder and he sent me up here.”

“You’ve got some information about a murder, sir?” asked Landers.

“That’s right, only it ain’t happened yet, see. The murder. I oughta said, my name’s Loveluck.”

“Lovechuck?” said Landers.

“No, no. Luck. Loveluck. It’s a funny name, ain’t it? But people remember it because it is funny. Gabriel Loveluck, that’s me.” He was about twenty-five, and he
wasn’t overly tall but stocky and strongly built. He had large light-blue eyes and a nose that turned up slightly and big square hands.

“Well, what have you got to tell us, Mr. Loveluck? Come in here and sit down, won’t you?” Landers took him into the sergeants’ office, gave him a chair, and sat down at
his desk.

“Thanks. You’re a detective? I mean, you don’t look very old,” said Loveluck dubiously.

“I’m a detective,” said Landers equably. It wasn’t his fault that he had one of those faces that would go on looking about twenty until he was a grandfather. “What
have you got to tell us?”

“Well, it’s just crazy,” said Loveluck. “I guess you won’t hardly believe it. Neither did I at first. But, swear on the gospel, it’s so. I was in this place
for lunch, see—an hour ago, maybe hour and a half. It’s a place over on Fourth, Papa Joe’s place.”

“That’s its name?”

“No, no, its name is the Roman Villa, but it’s just Papa Joe’s place—nothing fancy, not very big, but serves good eats and it ain’t expensive. See, I work
at the Shell station along up from there—toward San Pedro—and it’s handy. I’m just sittin’ there havin’ another cup of coffee when this guy comes up to me. He
says, would I like to make a thousand bucks, and I said sure, but what’s the catch. He says, come on outside, I tell you, nobody twistin’ your arm but you look like a guy maybe might be
willin’. To me he says that! I ask you, do I look like a murderer?” asked Loveluck indignantly.

“What?”

“Yeah, yeah, I never heard such a crazy thing. Offered me a thousand bucks to kill somebody! I thought it was a gag— I went out and sat in his car with him, no harm hear
what he had to say—and he says he’ll give me a thousand bucks to kill this dame. A woman yet. Crazy. He says he’s out on bail, he’s coming up for trial in a couple weeks for
armed robbery and this woman’s the only witness against him and he don’t want to go to jail. Crazy.”

“I will be damned,” said Landers. “Do you know him? Had you seen him anywhere before?”

“Never laid eyes on him before today,” said Loveluck promptly. “Or, so far as I know, did he ever see me before. Which makes it all the crazier. He said his name was Bill
Bessinger and the woman’s a Mrs. Naomi Spears. Well, mister, I was so flabbergasted I didn’t know what to say, if you get me— Me! I never even had a traffic ticket, I’m an
honest man, I go to church regular—Baptist—and maybe I’m not so smart as some people, I never graduated from high school, went to learn a trade instead—but right while
I’m tryin’ to get my mouth to shut—he thinks I look like a guy’d do a thing like that!—I think, gee, the cops oughta know about this, and if I turn him right
down like my first instinck is to do, naturally, he’ll maybe go on the run and they can’t find him. So I pretend like maybe I’d be interested, and say Maybe, and I’d like to
think about it, and all. So he gives me a paper with his name and phone number on it and goes off, and I hightail it right here to you guys, and come to think I shoulda called the boss and told him
where I was. It’s crazy.”

It was fairly crazy, but that kind of thing was not new to any experienced cop. “I will be damned,” said Landers, and picked up the phone. “Jimmy, get me Goldberg’s
office. . . . Landers, Homicide. Have you got a record on a Bill Bessinger who’s due to come up for trial pretty soon?”

“Oh, my, yes,” said the voice of Sergeant Betts. “Why? Well, the count is armed robbery, his third time round in California, so just maybe the judge will hand him a real
sentence for a change. Witnesses? Yes, the woman he held up—a Mrs. Naomi Spears. Owns a little general market over on North Main. She was alone in the place when he came in with a gun.
What’s Homicide’s interest? He hasn’t killed anybody—yet.”

“You’ll be hearing,” said Landers. “I just wanted to check, thanks.” He put the phone down.

“The more I think about it the madder I get,” said Loveluck. “He thought I look like a guy who’d kill a dame for a thousand bucks! I should sue him for libel. I
never missed a Sunday at church. I don’t even smoke. I never so much as touched a gun. I—”

“Yes, well, we’re interested to know about this anyway,” said Landers. “You’d better make a statement, Mr. Loveluck, and we’ll see how the Lieutenant wants to
play it.”

“How to play it? I s’pose you know where this guy’s living—if he’s on bail. Go and arrest him, I should— Offering me, anybody, a thousand bucks
to—”

Alison came briskly out of the beauty salon, walked down to the corner, and turned up to where she’d luckily found a slot for the Facel-Vega on the street. She had a date
for lunch with Angel Hackett, but would go home first to change into the new suit. She slipped into the driver’s seat, glanced in the rear-view mirror, then started the engine and headed up
toward Yucca, went around the block back to Hollywood Boulevard, and down to Laurel Canyon, and up that broad winding boulevard to Rayo Grande Avenue.

Thank goodness, she thought, that Máiri was back, so good with the twins, so reliable. With due care for cats—the twins were more visible—she turned into the drive and pulled
up. As she got out of the car backward, reaching for the coat she’d decided she didn’t need after all, her eyes fell on the back seat and widened.

“For heaven’s sake! What are you doing here?”

The dog smiled at her and got up, climbed clumsily over the seat, and flopped out onto the drive. He was a large shaggy dog with absolutely no tail. He had a big round head and big feet. Most of
his body was a deep blue-gray, but his head, chest, and all four feet were white—rather dirty white now.

“And where in the name of guidness did that come from?” said Mrs. MacTaggart, coming round from the back with some cut roses in one hand.

“For heaven’s sake!” said Alison crossly. “The stupid thing was on the curb where I parked, it must belong around there somewhere—why it got in the car,
heaven knows, but I’ll have to—”

“’Tis an English sheepdog,” said Mrs. MacTaggart interestedly. “Nice dogs they are.”

“It looks part bear,” said Alison. “Of all the annoying things! It’s after eleven now. And I’d better put it on a leash of some— Has it got a collar? Maybe
there’s an address—”

“Very friendly the beastie is, at least.”

The dog swiped at Alison’s cheek with a long pink tongue as she bent over him. In the depths of the shaggy coat she found a chain-link collar and a small tag attached. The dog squirmed and
pawed playfully. “Be quiet, I can’t read it if— Well!” said Alison.

“Is there an address, achara?”

“There is not. It just says Cedric. Which I suppose is your name,” she said to the dog.

The dog balanced himself on his round, tailless end and offered a polite paw. They both laughed, and Alison said resignedly, “Oh, well! I’ll just call Angel and say I’ll be
late. But of all the nuisances— Come on, Cedric!”

Up in Elysian Park, beyond the tamed landscaping around the Police Academy building, Mendoza stood with Hackett and Higgins and Palliser looking at the small body over which
Dr. Bainbridge was bent. With anger and pity they looked, but impassive expressions, and the interns from the waiting ambulance smoked and tried to look impassive too. The squad-car men who’d
answered the first call, from one of the Parks and Recreation employees who had found the body, looked angry and muttered at each other.

“We knew she was dead,” said Mendoza. He dropped his cigarette and stepped on it. “The only answer, a rapist. Eight years old.” Marla Pickens, a thin blonde youngster
small for her age, by the description. Missing from where?—they couldn’t even be sure of that. She’d gone to school last Thursday morning, but she’d forgotten a book needed
for her first class and the teacher had given her permission to go home for it. Six blocks from the public school on Logan Street, over to Laguna Avenue where she lived. But Mrs. Margaret Pickens
worked at the Broadway from nine to four, and she hadn’t been home, so nobody could say whether Marla had got home and then started back to school, or had been picked up on her way home. Men
from Missing Persons and Juvenile had been out, the Homicide men could guess, along all the way Marla would have taken to go home, asking if anyone had seen her—seen anyone approach her.
Nothing apparently had showed—though now that it was Homicide’s business, they’d want to talk with those men.

“It’s the kids get you,” said Higgins suddenly, savagely. “The senseless bloody things we see. The grown-up idiots, they’ve brought it on themselves. Some way. But
the kids—” he balled one big fist.

None of them added anything to that. It was, of course, all too true. And Higgins was probably thinking of Stevie Dwyer and that hit-and-run last November. Not that that had been
entirely bad luck: it had stirred Higgins up finally to propose to Mary Dwyer, and even now, nearly four months later, he seemed a little surprised that she’d actually married him. And Stevie
was going to be all right eventually.

Which Marla Pickens wouldn’t be.

Bainbridge hoisted his tubby self to his feet and said, sounding less irascible than usual, “She was probably raped. I’ll give you details when I’ve done an autopsy, but
I’ll bet on that. Call it ninety-six hours, give or take.”

“As we might expect,” said Mendoza, “that morning—on her way home or back to school.” He lit another cigarette.

“After four days it’s the best I can do. Stomach contents may pin it down some.”

“All right, doctor,” said Hackett. “We know. And so we go break the news to that poor woman, and go cover all the ground that’s been covered, and turn up damn all. If
anybody’d seen her, they’d have said so by now. A hell of a thing to work. Do you think it ties in with Moreno and Romano, Luis?”

Mendoza shook his head. He looked dapper and elegant, as usual, in the silver-gray herringbone, Homburg in his hand. He also looked coldly savage. Mendoza now had some hostages to fortune
himself. “I do not. We decided that boy is after the grown-ups—he made a little mistake with the Moreno girl, who looked at least eighteen. Besides, there wasn’t a knife used
here. Can you give us a provisional cause, Bainbridge?”

The doctor shrugged. “I’ll have a guess she was strangled. By accident or intention, take your choice. But it could have been something else—you can see she’s been
beaten.”

“Yes, doctor.”

The lab men had been prowling around. This area up above the Academy had been left largely wild, and there were no paths: clumps of young trees, many lower bushes and wild grass. Now Duke came
up from a growth of young birches down a little slope, with a plastic bag held before him.

“Tells you a little something, any. . .