Crime Components (Arizona Homicide Files Book 1)

Book summary

In Crime Components, investigative reporter Gene McLain embarks on a relentless pursuit to uncover the truth behind a mysterious double homicide in 1950. With no leads or evidence, McLain’s dedication transforms this case into a gripping tale of suspense and determination, illustrating how one man's courage can change everything.

Excerpt from Crime Components

The April evening is in its final minutes before sunset. The cloud formations over the mountains south of Phoenix, Arizona are fantastic. Big and soft, with the rays of the setting sun making colored patterns against the white background.

The slopes are covered with cactus in full bloom and the soft breezes play through the mesquite and chaparral, whispering that, in a few hours, Easter will arrive.

For a while, the only sounds are those of nature. At first faint, then growing louder, voices mingle with, then override, the natural sounds of the area. The first voice is soft, but speaks with great urgency.

“I can't do this. The wire’s cutting into his wrists.”

“I'm tired of your complaining,” a forceful voice replies.

“Take another full wrap around his wrists, then bend it. That's it. You've got it. Now, down on your knees, Mama's boy. Get your hands behind your back. Don't try anything funny, or I’ll kill you before you can even start to turn around.”

The soft voice let out a sob. “Please, don't hurt us. We promise not to identify you. Please, my mother needs me. She’s an invalid and I take care of her. Please, for her sake.”

A husky voice mixed with tears and emotion enters the

conversation.

“Please, fella’, we didn’t do anything to you. Please listen to me. I want to live. I want to live! Please, Please!”

The owner of that husky voice breaks into a long burst of crying. The soft voice interjects.

“Look, you have your whole life in front of you. Don't hurt us. If you do, the law will track you down and …”

The forceful voice breaks into laughter. “You're wrong, pal. There won't be any law after me. You see, there's no motive.

This is the perfect crime. You know, you’re lucky. Your part in this will make you famous in legal history. You'll be remembered as a key part of the perfect crime.”

There is a rustling in the underbrush and the husky voice screams. “Get that gun away from my head! I want to live, damn it. Don't you understand? I want to live—”

The explosion of a .45 caliber automatic destroys the solitude of the mountains as the air momentarily fills with a gory display of blood, brains, and shattered bone.

When the echoes of the gunfire subside, the soft voice cries out in halted speech, “Mother, I'm so sorry, and Ruth, I love you with all my heart. The Lord is my shepherd. He makes—”

The .45 explodes. Once again blood, flesh, and bone fillthe desert air. The echo of the shot bounces off the canyon walls. Then, it’s silent. From afar the birds resume their singing, and the soft breezes continue to whisper.

Feet grind into the rocks. A car door opens and shuts. The engine turns over and is gunned. The air is filled with sand and gravel as the wheels spin. The car rockets away. The sound of the powerful engine grows fainter and fainter, until it is gone.

Dark shadows fall over the walls of the canyon as the sun sets. The moment before it slips behind the mountain, its rays strike the white of the clouds, creating a palette of colors. In the final seconds before vanishing, a blood red ray illuminates the bodies of two men in business suits laying face down in a shallow arroyo. Their hands are wired behind them. The backs of their heads have been destroyed.

Here in this lonely place where only the dead kept watch, and an act had been committed that later sets in motion a crime story like no other.

But, for now, the canyon is dark. Across the mountains, the lights of the city twinkle. Easter is just hours away. Soon, many lives will change by what has happened on this beautiful April evening.

CHAPTER ONE

Some kids grow up wanting to be a fireman, movie star, mob boss, or President of the United States. I never wanted to be anything but a homicide reporter. I got my wish.

I wake up late this morning, which is highly unusual for me: I'm always an early riser. I never hear my wife Blondie leave the bed, dress for work, or feed the kids and get them off for school.

Last night, I was in Florence Junction covering the execution of the Gonzales brothers, a couple of young punks who pulled off several vicious murders. I went down early because there was going to be a picnic. The state of Arizona is very liberal when it comes to last visits by relatives on execution day. They give the families two or three hours together in a private room where they can touch, kiss, and embrace. When I spoke to Warden Franks about the upcoming executions, he told me he had a problem. The Gonzales family is a large one and they wanted to have a picnic to send the brothers off to a different world.

Frank Thomas is one tough guy. You wouldn't want to meet him in a dark alley, because he's the one who would come out of any fight. He likes to boast that he runs the toughest prison in the USA next to Leavenworth and Atlanta. He would be the last person to ever

coddle a prisoner. He assumes they’ve been sent to “The Big House on The Gila,” as the cons refer to this place of hell that stands on the banks of the Gila River, for punishment and not to join the country club. There's no television and only a few model cons are allowed to have radios. You’ll find no exercise equipment in the sun baked exercise yard that has no trees. Exercise means you walk around and around in circles. Otherwise, you work or you’re locked up. For Frank to even consider giving the Gonzales clan someplace for a picnic was almost unthinkable.

The only room that can be controlled that’s large enough for the Gonzales clan is the “death” house. When I arrive with my Speed Graphic in hand for a couple of photos, I find that the ladies have spread white table cloths on the floor all along the front of the gas chamber, and have set out baskets of delicious Mexican food. They ask me to join them and I do. The picnic lasts until two hours prior to execution, when the family members say their tearful farewells. The young brothers deserve to die, but to their family they are sons, brothers and husbands.

The executions go off on schedule. Like ninety-nine percent of so-called tough guys, there is a lot of blubbering and tears. The good Padre tries to assure them that God will hear their story, and they might be granted forgiveness. The youngest brother collapses at the door to the chamber and has to be carried in. At last, sitting side by side, they are strapped in place and the door is locked. The Warden drops the cyanide pellets and their heads snap up when the first wisp of smoke brings the smell of peaches, which is the fragrance of lethal gas coming from the pellets. It’s over quickly. The police, sheriffs, and a couple of out-of-state reporters file out.

I have a cup of coffee and a piece of pie with a friend who has come over to cover the execution for the Los Angeles Examiner. We start swapping old newspaper stories and it is later than I had planned when I start home. It’s raining. This is no drizzle but a heavy spring rain and the going is slow. Blondie and the kids are asleep when I arrive and slip into bed.

Now soft streams of sunlight filter through the blinds that cover the open windows. It's a beautiful day and the breezes are soft and warm.

The Gonzales story is history and I'm anxious to get to my next assignment. As I drive into downtown Phoenix I can

see that the snowbirds are packing up their golf equipment and

getting ready to head east. We'll be seeing them come next October, when they’ll flock to "The Valley of the Sun."

I find a parking spot behind the Maricopa County Court House. This is my home away from home. Inside, you'll find the Phoenix Police Department, Maricopa County Sheriff's Office, the jail, courtrooms, and the offices of the District Attorney, his staff, plus the judges chambers.

My target is the office of Chief Deputy Harry Morse, in charge of the Phoenix Police Department Missing Person's Division. I can tell by the way he squirms around that he's ready to go off duty. He's winding up some small talk with a couple of uniformed officers, Phil Rivera and Jimmy Lynch. Rivera spots me first and eyeballs my Hawaiian print shirt which I'm wearing tails-out over grey slacks.

"Look who we have here. I didn't think we'd be graced with your royal presence after winning another story of the year award."

Jimmy Lynch pats the left side of my shirt where I have the .38 clipped onto my belt.

"When you gonna' use that .38, McLain, and bring in one of those big, bad criminals?"

Rivera gives me no time to reply. "You’re wrong, Jimmy. There's no time to have shoot-outs with criminals. Didn't you see the morning paper? He's too busy having dinner with the Gonzales Brothers."

I have to laugh at this kind of chatter.

"Okay, fellas, knock it off. The power of the press is here to get the real story."

Deputy Morse gets into the act. "I don't know about the power of the press. We had a fellow here today who calls himself a TV reporter. He came over from KPHO.”

"Yeah," Lynch chimes in, "he told Harry that television has come to Arizona, and the newspapers are all washed up."

"You guys are too much. I'll let you know when the newspapers are out of business. Right now I want to find out about a missing person’s story that, according to a hot rumor, was brought here earlier."

Morse punches off the lights in his office and moves into the hall before he answers. "There's no Missing Person's Report. Nothing at all to that rumor you heard. Didn't even take a complaint. There are no missing persons, just a couple of car salesmen off on a wild weekend in Mexico. Look Gene, if anything does turn up on this story I'll assign Blondie to the case, but there is no case."

The mention of Blondie sends Rivera and Lynch into gales of laughter. Rivera steps in front of Morse, tears streaming from his eyes.

"I like that Inspector. Give the case to Blondie."

This gets my quick reply. "Rivera, what are you talking about?"

Lynch grabs my arm.

"Blondie, you do remember your wife don't you? Tell me, McLain, how did a guy with a mug like yours ever convince that

beautiful doll to marry you?"

I turn and walk down the corridor but shoot back over my shoulder, “Just good old Irish charm fellas, just good old Irish charm."

CHAPTER TWO

I make my way out of the courthouse and across the street to my favorite coffee shop, the Legal Eagle. The Eagle, which serves the people working at the courthouse, is owned by a vivacious lady named Mary Olive Devlin, who’s just a few years removed from her home in Dublin, Ireland.

I spot Blondie through the big plate glass window. All 5’4" of her, looking like a young Lana Turner. She's reading the newspaper. I have to stop for a second and murmur a prayer of thanks that I’m the lucky guy who married this lovely lady. She's dressed in her summer uniform: navy blue linen skirt and a crisp white, short-sleeved shirt.

As I enter, the milk and honey voice of Teresa Brewer comes from the radio behind the counter singing her hit, "Music, Music, Music." I hum a couple of lines along with her until John Mahoney, a well-known criminal attorney, says "Hello." We make small talk for a couple of seconds, then I move back to where my beautiful bride waits.

"How's my best girl?"

She gives me that million dollar smile that Hollywood would give a sack of gold to capture. "Your only girl is just fine. I ordered for you. Now, what's new?"

"Nothing I can put my finger on, but I have the feeling that something off the wall is going on with a supposed missing person’s case that Morse tells me is ‘not a case.’"

Blondie had happened to be in Harry's office when the woman came in. “I would say she's in her late fifties, nicely dressed, well-educated and level-headed. She wanted to file a missing persons report on a man who’s a salesman at the Acme Auto Agency. Harry as good as told her that the man was on an extended drunk in Mexico, and not to worry. The kicker is that a second salesman who works for Acme is also missing."

This jolts me with that old feeling that homicide reporters like to refer to as their gut instinct. "Honey, something tells me I better go out to the Acme Auto Agency and check this out."

"Okay Gene, if you really think it's important, go ahead. I have to get home and take care of the boys. Mom is going over to the Martin's for dinner and I don't want to make her late. By the way, as I recall, you and I have some plans to spend quality time alone together this evening."

Blondie slides out of the booth and pulls her black, leather bag off the seat. She checks its interior to be certain her badge, gun, and ID are in place, then settles the strap over her left shoulder. She gives me a good look and plants a kiss on my cheek.

"Just don't take all night. I'll wait for you."

As Blondie makes her exit, every male eye in the joint watches the fluid hip movement under her skirt. You know, the cops are right when they wonder how a 5'8" guy like me, with a mug that came straight out of Ireland, ever got such a beautiful wife. They don't know that we were childhood sweethearts. I guess the man upstairs puts the right people together to make a perfect marriage.

I finish my snack, pay my bill, and move out of The Eagle into the soft desert night. I’m amazed how close the stars seem to be, up in the black velvet sky. I find my car on the lot and head out from Van Buren Street toward the Acme Auto Agency.

CHAPTER THREE

Of all the establishments on Van Buren Street, known to the locals as Auto Row, none are more magnificent than the Acme Auto Agency. Brand-new, highly polished Fords fill the three plate glass windows. I admire the layout for a few seconds before pushing through the glass doors and into what seems to be a deserted showroom.

Soft music plays as I wander down the hall bordering the sales offices. The maroon carpeting is thick and very plush so, without notice, I come upon a gentleman with a full head of grey, neatly trimmed hair. He’s wearing a dark blue blazer, red striped tie, a white shirt, and grey slacks. I can smell his expensive aftershave. He’s engrossed in an in-depth story about the fall prospects for the Arizona State College football team. He almost goes into shock when I speak in his ear.

"You must be a ‘Whizzer’ White fan."

His eyes widen and he reaches somewhere to find a reply. "I sure am. Wilford ‘Whizzer’ White is the best running back in the nation, and this is the year the Sun Devils are going to a major bowl."

"You'll get no argument from me on that subject. I think Arizona State College will take the Border Conference Championship and be playing in the big time come New Year's day."

The gentleman puts down his paper, stands, and we shake hands.

"Sorry, I get carried away with Sun Devil football. My name is Bill Broaddus and I'm the owner. Can I show you some of our great new cars?"

I could use something to replace my battered heap, but I give Mr. Broaddus the facts of life. "I'd love to own one of your new models, but it's not in my budget this year. I'm Gene McLain of the Arizona Reporter, and I'd like to know something about a couple of your salesmen that I understand are missing."

Broaddus clears his throat and starts to ramble. "It's kind of a funny thing. Early last Saturday, the Saturday before Easter, a young guy came in. Good looking kid. Tall and slender with dark curly hair. It seems he has an old Ford at home that he's thinking of trading. He asked for a demonstration ride, so ‘Big George’ Williams, the salesman on duty, said ‘fine, let's go.’"

The name George Williams rings a bell loud and clear. When Broaddus refers to ‘Big George’ Williams, I am ninety-nine percent sure I know who he’s talking about. "Hold on a second. This ‘Big George’ Williams you mentioned, is this the same George Williams who was once a member of the Arizona Highway Patrol?”

"One and the same. All six feet four, two hundred and forty-five pounds of solid muscle. That's George, all right."

"If I were you, I wouldn't worry about George. He's one tough cookie."

Broaddus waves his arms to signal me to stop talking. "You don't understand. I would never worry a second about George. He goes on a jag about twice a year. These little ‘vacations,’ as he calls them, can run from a week to an entire month or more. Since he's on straight commission, it's no big deal. When George is here he sells twice as many cars as any other salesman."

"Okay, so what's the difference about George being gone this time?”

Broaddus's face flushes as he starts to twist and turn. "Mr. McLain, the problem is not George. The problem is Severson. Harold Severson is a top quality young man who’s only been with us for two months."

"Mr. Broaddus, I don't quite follow you. How does Severson get into George William’s act?"

"George was all ready to take the young client for a demo ride. Severson had just gone off duty and he asked George if he would drop him at his apartment while George and the client checked the car out. George said okay, and the client didn't mind, so Severson went back to his office, cleaned off his desk and announced he was ready. At 6:15, last Saturday evening, the three of them drove out of here with the car. That was a week ago. The car, the client, George and Severson have all vanished. My guess is that George and Severson dumped the client and after a couple of beers, George talked young Severson into going with him to enjoy the booze, the gambling, and the ladies that the lovely land south of the border has to offer."

Something doesn't fit. I run Broaddus' dialogue through my mind on fast forward. "Didn't you say the client didn’t drive here in the car he wanted to trade?"

"That's right. Someone drove him in or he got a ride. Anyway, he left the old car at home."

"That's really different, if you want to talk about a trade. What car did George use to give the client a demo ride?"

Broaddus wipes the smile off his face, which turns stern. "That's what really ticks me off about this whole affair."

"How's that?"

"They took the only convertible I have in stock. A real beauty—apple red with a white top. I just hope it doesn't get scratched or dented while they are visiting the flesh pots. It's a beautiful piece of merchandise."

I let the tape in my mind make one more pass on the information that Broaddus has furnished. "Thanks, Mr. Broaddus. You've given me some things to think about."

The smile is back on his face. He looks the part of a successful businessman. Very fashionable and slender.

"Anytime that I can be of help, please feel free to call on me, McLain."

I start to move through the cars on the showroom floor, then stop and look back at Broaddus, who is standing where I left him.

"You know, Mr. Broaddus,” I say to him, “you seem so certain that a spree in Mexico is the answer. Something inside me tells me this never happened."

I push through the glass doors out into the warmth. I look back. Broaddus hasn't moved. Instead, he looks as though my final words have hit him like a ton of bricks.

CHAPTER FOUR

When I get home, Blondie is getting the kids ready for bed. Little Larry and Jerry rush out to see their dad and get a kiss. I find my dinner in the oven where my wife has kept it warm. I pour a cup of coffee then start on my food like a starving man. Blondie comes in wearing a pretty blue robe. She gets a cup and saucer from the cupboard, fills her cup, and joins me at the kitchen table.

I fill her in on my trip to Acme Auto and my meeting with the owner, Bill Broaddus.

"You know, Blondie, this guy is like everyone else that's involved so far. They all seem to think Williams and Severson are in Mexico on one of the sprees that George Williams is famous for.”

Her blue eyes are sparkling and I know that something important is about to unfold.

"Well, I have a new twist for you. On the way home I realized I had left the gas bill and our mortgage payment on my desk, so I turned around and drove back to headquarters to get them. Coming down the stairs, I ran into the middle-aged woman who had tried to get Harry to make out a Missing Persons report. She remembered that I had been in the office, so she stopped me and told me her problem. Her name is Iva Roper and she's a combination nurse-housekeeper for Mrs. Severson, whose son vanished along with George Williams. She is very upset because Harry won't file a report. She told me that Mr. Severson takes care of his mother, who is an invalid, when she is off duty. He cooks his mother's breakfast and takes her in her wheelchair for outings every morning and evening, and spends most of his hours away from work with her."

While Blondie is talking, I walk to the sink as quietly as possible, rinse my dirty dishes, then lean against the counter as she finishes her story. The old feeling in my gut takes over and I know I am one hundred percent correct when I speak. “Blondie, there is no doubt in my mind, and I mean no doubt, that we are dealing with a case of double homicide.”