Chapter 13

During the next hour, Bishop sweated while he waited for messages. When they came he felt miserable. The patrols had found dozens of tall men in the market-none of them Sanderson.

He pounded the desk angrily. "Where'd the son of a bitch go?" he yelled. "We got guys watching every exit. Even if he did get out, how far could he get? The streets are sealed in every direction. He couldn't have got half a mile without being questioned." He stared at Trask. "All right-nothing is foolproof. But where the hell would he go?" He looked at the phone and then left the room.

Trask quickly dialed Sally Rosson's number. "Hi. Sergeant Trask. You okay?"

"Fine," she laughed. "You caught me in the shower. I'm dripping like a sieve."

"I'm sorry, Miss Rosson. I'll hang up and let you get dry."

She laughed again. "That's perfectly all right. I appreciate your concern about me. Please call anytime you feel like it. Oh my God, the floor looks like a lake. Good-bye."

He hung up smiling. He liked her laugh and wondered what it would be like to hear it every morning. He dialed Penny Bruce's number. Ten rings went by with no answer. He wondered uneasily if she were safe.

"Irish!" he heard Bishop yell behind him. "We're back in business."

"What's happening Mike?"

"I think I have a fix on Sanderson. I knew he'd have to hole up someplace near the Farmers Market to keep out of sight, so I called his buddy Brendt. Brendt says Sanderson practically lives in drive-in movies."

"Yeah but...."

"There's one next door!" Bishop said, grinning. "Across the street. It figures Irish. Sanderson hid in the crowds, waited for an opening and jumped across the street."

"Could be, Mike."

"I'll give you ten to one kid. Anything come through here? I went inside so I wouldn't tie up the phone!"

"No. But I can't get Penny Bruce. Shouldn't she be home now?"

Bishop winced. "I hope not. I hope she's locked in under a hair dryer or seeing a movie. Come on. Let's get down there. I got cars watching all the exits. If he's in that theater he's cooked."

As they approached their car on the parking lot, they saw Larry Davis wave jauntily at them from his Jaguar.

A few blocks east of the Farmers Market, they turned into the entrance of the Gilmore Drive-in Theater. Bishop shook his head at the cashier and parked the car to one side.

"Something wrong with the car?" the man asked. "I'll have to ask you to park somewhere else."

Bishop got out of the car and showed the man his badge. "We're police officers. We've got reason to believe a killer we want is inside. We'll need your full cooperation for this."

The man's eyes boggled as he saw three patrol cars and two motorcycle cops approach. He nodded quickly.

"Be glad to help. But you're going to have a tough time locating him. The lot's jammed. We got two big hits."

The detective surveyed the giant lot. It was terraced in rows that began a few feet back of the mammoth screen and fanned out to a rear wall hundreds of feet away. It seemed as if every car in Los Angeles had parked there for the night. On each row were more than two dozen cars of every size, make and color. Sleek late-model sedans were flanked by convertibles, sports cars, pickup trucks, station wagons, and even ancient Model A's.

Bishop groaned aloud and then plunged into the mass of vehicles. As he did, the screen exploded with an ear-shattering rock and roll number and giant figures in Technicolor gyrated behind them.

The detectives moved along the row of cars at the back of the huge lot and glanced into each vehicle. They could see hardly anything in the darkness inside. Bishop looked at the sea of cars and shook his head.

"I don't see any other way but to walk each row from the last one down and look inside each car. If we fool around in the center rows, he might notice what we're doing and run. No flashlights please, and no noise." He instructed two men to watch the exit for any car that pulled out toward the street and then continued to file along the hindmost row. "I feel like a goddamned peeping torn," he growled. A few seconds later his eyes widened. "For Pete's sake, don't these goons realize they're doing this in public?"

The cars were loaded with youngsters who were ignoring the movie and making love. Bishop caught glimpses of several girls who were sitting half-naked on the laps of boys or kissing them with their heads turned away from the screen. In a few cars couples were making passionate love on the back seats.

Bishop was hardly astonished but he was too intent on finding Sanderson to worry about them now. A moment after he and Trask had finished checking the two back rows, the screen went dark suddenly. Dozens of car doors around them swung open. For several minutes long lines trooped to the distant snack bar. The detectives waited patiently for the passengers to get back into the cars. It would be harder than ever to find Sanderson in that mass of moving figures. To Bishop's surprise many of the people who had left for candy and popcorn entered different cars on their return.

"What's the idea?" Bishop asked. "They've moved to other cars."

Trask grinned. "Visiting friends, I guess. And a few are probably switching partners."

Bishop swore. "On top of everything else, we gotta cope with musical cars. How the hell do we know he isn't moving around?" He turned despondently to Trask. "Go to the manager's office and call for more men, Al. This may take all night. It's so dark I can hardly make out anybody's face in those damned cars." He watched Trask's robust frame move away and then turned back to the search. This time he checked at a much slower pace, studying the passengers carefully.

When he and Trask had walked down the rows before, glancing briefly into each car, no one had bothered to stop their lovemaking. They had decided the men were lost and trying to find their own cars. The necking went on un-brokenly.

Now Bishop's changed tactics fired anger and resentment. One girl who lay against her boyfriend in the back seat with her halter off screamed as she saw the detective's face glued to the window. He hurried away before her boyfriend jumped out of the car.

In the next row he was surprised to see a girl sitting on the floor of the back seat in nothing but panties. This time he was surprised only because she was alone.

The detective was trying to figure out why she was sitting in a place where she could not see the movie when he felt angry fists pound his back and neck. He turned to see an outraged giant behind him. The boy grabbed Bishop by the collar.

"Wait a minute," he shouted. "I'm a police officer."

"Bullshit, Mac!" the infuriated boy shot back. "You're a frigging peeper!" , He rained blows on the detective's face and neck. Bishop fought back but the youth had weight, height and reach on him. He had gone down for the second time when he heard Trask's voice. A moment later the burly Irishman was pounding the boy with ham-like fists.

The cars on both sides of the back rows flung their doors open simultaneously and several men jumped out. In a moment Bishop and Trask were rushed by a dozen youths. As he fought them off, Bishop could smell the beer on their breaths.

"Goddamned peeping bastards!" he heard one boy yell. Then a whistle blew in the distance, a fist crashed against his head and he lost consciousness.

When he awoke several minutes later, Trask was bending over him.

"What happened?" he asked.

"They clobbered you," Trask said, laughing. "You're okay. You knocked three teeth out of one guy. You got a good right hook, boy."

"How long have I been out?"

"About thirty minutes."

Bishop winced. "We'll never check all eight hundred cars before the film ends. It just takes too damned long this way. I'm going to call Brendt. He's been to drive-ins with Sanderson before, hasn't he?"

"Sure," Trask said, puzzled. "So what?"

"Listen, when you go to movies, you usually sit about the same row from the back or front. Give or take a few. Right?"

"Sure, but not always. Not if it's a crowded movie."

Bishop rose and dusted himself. "That's true. But suppose you were among the first ones in?"

Trask's eyes brightened. "That's right. He may have come in here as soon as it got dark. He knew we were tailing .him. It would only take a minute to get here from the market."

Bishop nodded. "Keep looking. I'll be back in a minute."

At the manager's office, he was met by several uniformed police who had just arrived in response to Trask's summons. He told them to spread out and check the passengers in each car. Then he dialed Brendt's home. The phone rang several times before he answered.

"Hello," he finally said, gruffly.

"Brendt? Lieutenant Bishop here. Listen, tell me quickly if you know. When you and Sanderson go to drive-in movies, where do you generally park? I mean, inside the lot itself."

Brendt paused for a minute. "Usually the first few rows behind the snack bar. Jim's always running up for peanuts or ice cream or some damned thing to eat."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah. He hates sitting in the back. If I were you, I'd check the first few rows near the eats. Check the snack bar, too. He may be in there now."

"Thanks," Bishop said, "you may have really given us something now."

"Always glad to help, Lieutenant," Brendt said.

Running quickly to where Trask and several men were waiting, he ordered them to concentrate on the rows near the screen. Although his head still ached terribly, he joined in the search. This time, however, he took no chances with the passengers. He opened the door of each car, showed his badge and asked the lovers to unclinch.

He had nearly reached the end of the row when he saw Sanderson. He was coming back to his car with a chocolate sundae, a bag of popcorn and several pieces of candy.

For a moment he stared incredulously at the detective. Then he threw his load into Bishop's face and ran. Bishop tore after him, chasing him around several cars. He pulled a whistle from his pocket and blew it twice. Immediately police descended on them from two directions.

Sanderson looked at the approaching police and darted past Bishop toward the opposite end of the vast lot. He had nearly outdistanced them when he collided hard with a man carrying two boxes full of hot coffee. Stunned, Sanderson fell to the ground. When he came to a moment later, he was looking into Bishop's face. His hands were securely handcuffed.

"Let's go, Sanderson," Bishop said gently.

"Where?" the tall man asked, frightened.

"To my office. It's nice and comfortable. We're going to have a long chat. You and me."

Sanderson stared at the circle of police and fascinated moviegoers behind the detective.

"I didn't do anything," he said, almost too softly to be heard.

"You lying bastard," someone in the crowd said. "You killed two women."

"No," Sanderson said earnestly. "I never killed anyone."

"Come on, Joe," Bishop said gently, wishing the crowd would shut up. It was hard enough handling a psychotic under any circumstances. Under the eyes of a peering crowd, it was much worse.

"No," Sanderson yelled in terror. "You're going to give me the third degree. You're going to "keep asking me horrible questions."

"No," Bishop said. He motioned to Trask to get his other arm. Together they lifted him from the ground.

"Let me go," Sanderson screamed. "Let me go. You're going to send me back to that horrible place. Let me go. I didn't do anything. I swear to God!" He fought the detectives.

The tall man began to sob like a child and the crowd suddenly lost its arrogant superiority. Bishop asked the manager if there were any doctors in the theater. The man nodded brightly. Two doctors had left their exact position on the lot in case of emergency. One of them came up briskly a moment later and, at Bishop's request, gave Sanderson a sedative by hypodermic needle.

As they put him in a police car a few minutes later, Sanderson said sleepily, "I didn't kill those women. I can prove it. I didn't kill those women."

Bishop shook his head. "That's what I love about these babies. He's already forgotten about them."

When he awoke the next morning, Sanderson stuck to his denials. He had had nothing to do with the killings. Even under the probing of a police department psychiatrist, he refused to budge.

Bishop nodded sympathetically as the photographer spoke. Then he leaned forward and showed the man several nude photographs.

"Aren't these yours?" he asked.

"Yes," Sanderson agreed frightenedly.

"You like to play rough with girls, don't you? It excites you to grab their breasts and their behinds, doesn't it?"

Sanderson stared at him and nodded.

"If a girl doesn't want to make love with you, you get mad, don't you? Burning mad?" Bishop's tone was easy, soft-as if he were playing with a child. Actually the big man's trapped, frightened expression and the pain he showed in trying to cope with the questions, made him seem like a child. Bishop patted his hand. "We know you killed these women because they turned you down."

"No," Sanderson yelled. "No, no, no!"

The psychiatrist leaned forward . and whispered in Bishop's ear.

"All right, Joe," Bishop said suddenly. "Let's suppose you're right. You didn't do it, you say. But suppose we show you, you don't remember what happened. Suppose we prove to you, you did kill them. Then will you admit it?"

The tall man's eyes filled with fear again.

"I promise you no one will hurt you," Bishop said. "But will you tell us all you know if we prove you're wrong?"

"How can you prove it?" Sanderson asked, warily.

"Very easy. You tell us where you were the day Penny Bruce was attacked. If we prove you weren't there, that should help convince you."

Sanderson eyed him warily.

"You want me to say what you want so you can put me back in that place," he said stubbornly.

Bishop shook his head. "No, Joe. Supposing we bring Penny Bruce here and she tells you, you were the man."

"NO!" Sanderson yelled. "I was not. I was not! I swear it. Don't hurt me. Please. Don't hurt me. Please, please, please!" He turned to the psychiatrist pleadingly. "Don't let him hurt me, please."

"He won't hurt you," the psychiatrist said easily. "Even if you admit what really happened. Nobody will hurt you. You will be given kind treatment. I promise you."

Sanderson was silent for a long moment.

"If Penny Bruce says you were the man who attacked her," Bishop said again, as if to a child, "and we prove you were there, will you tell us everything?"

Sanderson nodded slowly.

Bishop exchanged glances with the psychiatrist.

"All right. Where were you at noon, day before yesterday?"

"I was taking pictures at a wedding," Sanderson said slowly.

"Give me the address and phone number."

The photographer took a slip of paper from his pocket and gave it to him.

"How long were you there?" Bishop asked.

"For about four hours. First I took pictures at the bride's house. Then at the wedding. Then the reception." He smiled, remembering. "It was a lovely wedding."

"I think," said the psychiatrist, "you are wrong about the date, Joe. Think hard now. Did this wedding not take place several days or weeks earlier?"

"No," Joe said.

Bishop looked at the paper. "This is pretty worn out. It might have been in your wallet for weeks."

Sanderson shook his head.

"All right, Joe," the detective said. "We'll check this story. I'll call them now and then I'll have Penny come. All right?"

Sanderson's eyes showed terror again, but he nodded.

Bishop started to say something else when the door opened and Trask entered.

"The news boys are all outside. What'll I tell them?"

Bishop took him aside. "We'll be ready in a few minutes, Irish. He finally agreed to talk if we could break his alibi and get Penny to identify him."

Trask nodded quickly. "She's been waiting in my office for an hour. Shall I bring her in now?"

"No. Give her about ten or fifteen minutes. So he thinks we just sent for her. And call the people on that slip. The wedding probably took place some time ago, and if we can get the exact date, it might help."

Trask took the paper and left.

"Now let's just have some nice coffee and doughnuts while we wait," Bishop said, warmly. "Just you, me, and the doctor. Okay? Every-thing'll be cleared up in a little while. Right, Joe?"

Sanderson reacted gratefully to the detective's display of genial warmth. He smiled sheepishly and nodded. When the uniformed policeman entered with the coffee and doughnuts, he even acted hungry. He was busy eating his fourth doughnut and downing his second cup of coffee when the door opened to admit Penny Bruce and a policeman.

The pretty, dark-haired girl stopped nervously at the threshold and stared at Sanderson who dropped his coffee suddenly and ran to the farthest corner of the room.

He remained there, cowering and shivering as her eyes raked him over. Bishop, the psychiatrist, and the policeman stared at her, waiting.

"Say something to her," Bishop suddenly instructed the man in the corner. He realized she would have to hear his voice.

The man did not move his lips.

"Say something, Joe," Bishop said again. "Tell her your name and age."

The man's lips moved noiselessly as if he found the words impossible to voice. Then slowly the sound came through, the syllables muffled as if only by the strongest willpower could he utter them.

"My name is Joe Sanderson," he said in a childish singsong. "I am 35 years old."

Penny Bruce stared at him a moment longer and then shook her head violently.

"It's not him," she yelled. "He's not the man."

Bishop stared at her. He opened his mouth to say something when he saw Trask's face at the door. The expression on the Irishman's face startled him.

"What's the matter, Al?" he said, realizing with a sinking feeling as he asked that he knew very well what the matter was.

"They say the wedding was day before yesterday," Trask said in a strange voice. "He was with them nearly five hours-from eleven until four."