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I told him about being hired by Marley. He laid out what I already knew about the gambling wire service.
I said, “Marley wants leverage over Greenbaum.”
“There is no leverage,” he said. “You need to understand that Gus Greenbaum is a dangerous man. You’re an idiot to take that case, I don’t care how much money you need. You were an idiot in the first place to get kicked out of the department. You’re an idiot to have your business card found in the purse of our body. Goddamn, Gene, am I even related to you?”
I used to idolize my brother. When he joined the Army in spring 1917, I lied about my age so I could go with him. We lived through it and joined the police department together. But I rose faster, made detective first, and was assigned to focus on the toughest murders. I cracked big cases, got plum assignments, and Don didn’t try to hide his resentment. He was especially angry that I was named to be Amelia Earhart’s “bodyguard” when she visited Phoenix in ’30 and gave me a ride in her aeroplane. These things and his drinking and cocaine use strained the relationship, made me see him in a new light. I loved my brother, but much of the time I didn’t like him. I did still get postcards from Amelia.
After a long silence, I went back to the original order of business. “First it’s ‘our body’ and then it’s ‘you’re in the clear.’ So, which is it?”
He ground out the Lucky in my ashtray.
“When are you going to make an honest woman out of your Dolores del Rio lookalike?”
“Victoria is prettier than Dolores del Río, and she’s already an honest woman.”
“You know what I mean. All that churchgoing and you’re making love to that Mexican girl.”
I chuckled. “Don Hammons, the paragon of marital fidelity, giving me advice. Look, I’m not a moralist. Stay out of my private life. Anyway, you’re avoiding my question. Here’s why I care about ‘our body.’ If somebody is trying to frame me for murder, then he might kill again once he learns that I’m in the clear. Find a way to point the finger at me more directly. In addition to not wanting another killing, I want to know who the hell is up to this and why. This girl was killed, dismembered, and arranged in new clothes after she bled out. Ever seen a crime like that in Phoenix?” I didn’t give him a chance to answer. “Me, neither.”
When he next did the classic Don Hammons, withdrawing into silence, I went on. “When you picked me up the other night and took me to the murder scene, you said you wanted my help. I’ve tried to give it. She didn’t fall from the train. No blood on the tracks or the roadbed, which would have indicated she got chewed up by the wheels of the passenger cars. Too little blood around the body, telling us that she was killed and dismembered elsewhere, then dumped where we found her. No identification. And as I say, in death she was arranged, either to make a statement or because she was so despised by the killer. The wounds were severe but too precise to have been made by swinging a hatchet. They are consistent with a butcher’s tools, which were purchased before the murder by one Detective Frenchy Navarre. Who, last I knew, was king of vice cases. So why did he answer your phone just now? I’d say you’ve gotten pretty good value for your consultation so far.”
“Sure.” He swiveled and faced me, his back against the door. “Have you been following the Halloran trial? Your girl’s testimony sounded crazy as a hoot owl. Judge put a stop to it. Happy Jack got off.”
“Big surprise,” I said. “Don’t change the subject again. Can you get a fingerprint check on the business card without setting off alarms?”
“Maybe.” He shrugged. “Give me time.”
“What else do you know besides their daughter isn’t the dead girl?” I thumbed toward the hacienda.
“Doc Iverson did the postmortem at St. Joseph’s. He estimated she had been dead for less than eight hours. The body parts were removed with a sharp instrument, then sawed off at the bones, likely while she was nude. Very little blood was on the clothes, which appeared new, from a Los Angeles department store. No scuff marks on her shoes at all. New polish on her finger and toenails.”
“Raped?”
“Unlikely. No bruising or scratches. No skin under her nails. But she’d had sex within the past week or so. No signs of restraints such as ropes. Doc drew blood, and we’ll see if drugs or anything interesting turn up. Stomach contents were a ham sandwich and some chocolates. We fingerprinted her, but so far no hits. She wasn’t some roundheels with a prostitution bust in Arizona.”
“What about sending them off to the FBI?”
He shook his head. “There’s no appetite for going to that much trouble.”
“‘That much trouble?’ This is crazy. Murdered girl, no identification. Doesn’t anybody care?”
“Officially, she probably fell from the train,” Don said.
I shook my head in frustration. “Distinguishing marks?”
“She had a small cloverleaf birthmark on the inside of her left elbow.”
I fired another question: “Cause of death?”
He hesitated, lighting another cigarette.
“Blow to the temple. Makeup concealed it.”
I was surprised, but why should I have been?
“Like from a sap,” I said. “Like a cop did it. Falling from a train sure as hell didn’t cause that.”
“You’re getting ahead of yourself, getting paranoid.”
