Who Done It?
Valerie Johns finally had enough of dead bodies, fingerprints, blood spatters and DNA samples. After twenty years of working for the Boston Police Department, she applied for her pension and retired from the force. She also gave the key to her studio apartment back to her landlord and purchased a quaint Cape Cod house in Rockport.
As the former crime scene investigator examined her new home, she was glad to see that the walls had recently been painted and the hardwood floors refinished throughout the house.
It looks like new, and it's all mine, she thought with pride and a slight twinge of loneliness.
Just days away from her forty-fifth birthday, Valerie was beginning to wonder if she should have devoted less time to her career and more time to her personal life. She smiled wistfully when she thought of the men she had dated over the years. She could sort them into two basic categories. Those of the first type were put off by her job. They could not understand why an educated, well-bred woman would want to immerse herself in the sordid world of homicide. Those of the second type found her work fascinating in a morbid, voyeuristic way. They pressed her to reveal all the gory details—with photographs, if possible. Understandably, she was always attracted to men of the first group, but they rarely called for a second date. It was those from the second that hounded her with phone calls and text messages.
Maybe I should have lied and told people I was a secretary, a nurse or a teacher.
However, all was not hopeless. Forty-five was not THAT old! Even if starting a family was becoming an impossible dream, there was always the chance of finding true love and of living what remained of her life happily ever after.
Who knows? Perhaps my knight in shining armor is living right here in Rockport. I could walk out that door tomorrow, next week or next month, and there he'll be.
Twenty years in law enforcement should have obliterated her all naïve schoolgirl fantasies, but apparently, they did not. Despite seeing humanity at its worst, Valerie still believed in fairy tales.
The week after settling into her cozy Cape Cod, the former law enforcement officer embarked upon a new profession: that of being a novelist. Unlike most would-be writers, she had her pension and a fairly decent savings account on which to live, so the necessity of bringing home a paycheck did not interfere with her writing.
Her first book—she fully intended on creating an entire series of novels—was appropriately entitled Who Done It? It was, as its name implies, a detective story. Rather than write about modern crimes that were usually solved in the forensics laboratory, she chose to take a step back in time and have her story take place in the glamorous days of 1940s Hollywood. For her protagonist, she created a drop-dead gorgeous private detective, fifty-something years of age, named Drake Haines, whom she envisioned to look like George Clooney.
In devising a plot, she looked to the pages of cinematic history and chose to fictionalize the death of Paul Bern, the director, screenwriter, producer and husband of the original blond bombshell, Jean Harlow. Although Bern's death was ruled a suicide by the authorities, many people believe he was murdered and the crime covered up by the studio. Sex. Money. Power. Murder. The perfect ingredients for a really juicy mystery novel.
With no job and no personal life to distract her, Valerie completed the first draft of the manuscript in a little over six months. The editing process took even less time since it involved mostly grammar mistakes and an occasional continuity error. She made only one major change in the final version: she added a chapter wherein Drake Haines conducts a steamy affair with the famous widow while he is investigating her husband's death. Women readers, she discovered, did not like their heroes chaste.
Once the book was finished, the investigator-turned-novelist called on a publisher she had met while still working for the police department. Seven years earlier, Nestor Van Lew's wife had been murdered by her boyfriend; and at that time, there was much speculation that the husband was the culprit. Thanks to Valerie's careful examination of the physical evidence, the correct man was put behind bars and the publisher's name was cleared.
When Valerie first contacted Van Lew, the publisher reluctantly agreed to meet with her.
Another former cop wanting to be the next Joseph Wambaugh, Nestor thought.
But when he read the first two chapters of the computer printout, he was pleasantly surprised.
"From what I see, this is pretty good," he declared after quickly perusing the rest of the manuscript. "It just might sell."
Van Lew was right. Seven months after Who Done It? was released, it was at the top of The New York Times Best Seller List. By then, Valerie Johns was nearly finished writing her second book. Within days of its release, Valerie's new novel sold a million copies.
Who Done It This Time? was another Hollywood murder story loosely based on fact. Rather than blond bombshells and possibly suicidal husbands, this book presented a fictionalized account of the gangland hit of a handsome mobster patterned after Bugsy Siegel. Again, Drake Haines had an affair with his client, the gangster's glamorous moll inspired by Virginia Hill. And, as was the case with the Jean Harlow-like widow, their relationship ended once the crime was solved.
* * *
Valerie Johns was on a roll. She had two books that topped the bestseller list and saw no reason to change a winning formula. Consequently, book three followed the same pattern. In Who Done It and Why? Valerie fictionalized the killing of Johnny Stompanato, Lana Turner's shady boyfriend who was stabbed to death by Turner's teenage daughter, Cheryl Crane.
While trying to connect the unsympathetic murder victim to known underworld figures, the good-looking private detective is shot and left for dead on a studio back lot. He is discovered in the nick of time and rushed to the hospital emergency room where Jeanne Killian, a beautiful woman doctor, saves his life. Drake falls in love for the first time, and two weeks after being released from the hospital, he proposes to Dr. Killian. The wedding date is set, the church is reserved and plans are made for a reception and a honeymoon.
Three days before the wedding, however, as Jeanne is returning home from the final fitting of her wedding dress, she is abducted by a former patient. Her body is found on what was to be the couple's wedding day. Like Elizabeth Short, the Black Dahlia, the doctor had been cut in half at the waist and her body mutilated. Her fiancé, the sexy, gray-haired private detective, is devastated. As Dr. Killian's coffin is lowered into the ground in the final chapter of the book, Drake tearfully vows to find his lover's killer and make him pay for what he did to her.
Valerie's publisher was delighted with the third book.
"I particularly like the ending. By killing off the doctor, you've set the stage for your next book."
"Wrong," the writer said with a smile. "Drake Haines is never going to find the killer. The doctor's murder is going to be a subplot that runs through each succeeding novel, just like Richard Kimble was always looking for the one-armed man in The Fugitive."
"Will this mean there'll be no more love interests for your detective?"
"Not at all. Drake is like Captain Kirk. He can have a girl on every planet, but at the end of the episode, he'll fly off aboard the Enterprise with Spock, McCoy and Scotty."
* * *
After completing her third novel, Valerie Johns took a break from writing. Her first book, the original Who Done It? was being made into a feature-length motion picture, and she was invited to Hollywood to consult with the screenwriter. Soon after arriving on the West Coast, she attended a publicity party where she met the film's producer, its director and the actors who were to play the sexy platinum-blond actress and her ill-fated husband.
Halfway through the party, Valerie stepped out onto the patio to get a breath of fresh air. Across the lawn, through the darkness, came a man that literally took her breath away. At first, she thought it was George Clooney himself.
"Hi," he said, in a voice that was more Cagney than Clooney. "You must be the woman who wrote the novel. I recognize you from your photograph on the book jacket."
"That picture is at least ten years old," Valerie admitted.
"Really? It doesn't look as though you've aged much since it was taken."
Valerie blushed and felt her knees go weak.
"Did anyone ever tell you that you look like ...?"
"George Clooney?" he said, finishing her question. "All the time. That's how I got this job. You said in an interview that you imagined your detective looked like George Clooney, and here I am."
"So, you're the actor who's to play Drake Haines?"
"The one and only. I'd like to think I was cast in this role because of my acting ability, but more than likely I got the part because I work much cheaper than the real Mr. Clooney."
"Have you appeared in any other movies?"
"No. I've done a few commercials and some local theater. Up until now, my biggest claim to fame was playing a corpse on an episode of Law and Order: Criminal Intent."
"Playing a corpse, huh? Did you get your name in the credits at least?"
"No, but I did get to meet Vincent D'Onofrio. He's a really cool guy."
The conversation went on for another ten minutes. Valerie was already half in love with the unknown actor when she realized she did not even know his name.
"I'm Valerie Johns, by the way," she announced, extending her right hand.
"I know."
An uncomfortable silence followed. Should she ask him his name, or did he have an actor's ego and expect her to already know it?
Finally, she prompted, "And you are?"
"Why don't you just call me Drake? I'm a method actor, you see, and I don't want to get out of character."
When he saw the producer heading in their direction, the star of the film quickly grabbed Valerie by the arm.
"Here comes Max Irving," he whispered in her ear. "Let's get out of here."
As she was being whisked down the long, circular driveway, the breathless author asked her companion, "What's wrong? Do you owe him money or something?"
"No," the actor laughed, "but Max is like herpes. There's no getting rid of him."
"Charming analogy!" she said facetiously as she got into the passenger seat of her rental car and let the actor get behind the wheel.
Before anyone knew she had left the party, Valerie Johns was racing away in a late-model Mercedes.
"Where are we going?" she asked the actor.
"Back to my place. Is that okay with you?"
Had she been home in Massachusetts, she would never have gone off with a stranger. Years of seeing the dead and mutilated bodies of trusting women had taught her a lesson. But in Hollywood she let her guard down, or maybe it wasn't the location as much as it was the man. Surely, no one who looked like George Clooney could be a killer!
"Here we are," Drake announced as he pulled up to a small bungalow in one of the less fashionable areas of the city. "Home sweet home."
When the actor unlocked the door, and Valerie stepped inside, she was surprised at the outdated décor.
I realize struggling actors don't make much money, but this furniture looks like it was left over from the Great Depression.
"I know it's not much," he apologized, "but who knows? Someday I might have one of those fancy mansions in Brentwood."
"Maybe playing Detective Drake Haines will be the boost your career needs," the writer laughed.
"In which case, I'll have you to thank for my great fortune."
Again, Valerie blushed like a schoolgirl.
Can this be the man I've been waiting for all my life? she wondered.
"Can I get you a drink?" the host asked.
"A glass of wine, if you have it."
After the actor disappeared into the kitchen, Valerie's cell phone rang. According to her caller ID, it was Alessandro Bonetti, the screenwriter.
"Hello? ... Oh, I'm sorry that I missed the magazine photos, but I left the party early. Something came up. ... Actually, I left with the actor who is to play Drake Haines."
Speak of the devil! Valerie thought as the George Clooney lookalike walked back into the room, carrying a glass of wine and a shot of Scotch.
Suddenly, the author's eyes widened as she listened to Alessandro's reply. In response to her expression, the actor's eyes narrowed, and he put the drinks down on the coffee table.
Valerie angrily flipped her cell phone shut.
"That was Alessandro Bonetti. He just told me that the lead role in the movie hasn't been cast yet. They're still holding auditions. So, who the hell are you?" she demanded to know.
"I'm afraid I wasn't completely honest with you. I'm not playing the part of Drake Haines. I am Drake Haines."
"You're insane."
"No, I'm not. I'm your character come to life. You should know better than anyone that I'm a man of my word. I promised Jeanne I would find her killer, so I hunted you down, just like I would any other no-good murderer."
"I'm a writer, not a murderer."
"You killed off the woman I loved and destroyed my life just so you could sell a book."
"Neither Drake nor Jeanne is real. They're both fictional characters!"
"Keep telling yourself that," the protagonist of the bestselling novels said as he grabbed the writer's neck with his hands and started to squeeze.
Valerie had always believed in fairy tales, and in the last moments of her life, she became part of one. Unfortunately, she forgot that not all such stories had happy endings. Sometimes, steadfast tin soldiers perished in fires, little match girls froze to death on city streets and grandmothers got eaten by big bad wolves.
* * *
The pretty young receptionist smiled at the handsome older man seated in the waiting room.
"Isn't it a shame about Valerie Johns?" she asked.
"Who?" the man replied with a questioning look.
"Valerie Johns, the author of the novel. She was found murdered last night—strangled."
"That is a shame. Does her death mean that the studio will shelve the picture?"
"I wouldn't worry about that if I were you," the receptionist laughed. "No doubt the public relations department is already thinking about how they can use her murder to the studio's advantage."
The silver-haired man shook his head.
"That's Hollywood for you. My wife, Jeanne, is an emergency room doctor, and she can tell you some stories about this town!"
"I'll bet she can."
The intercom buzzed, and the secretary told the actor, "You can go in now."
The casting director took one look at the man who was to audition for the role of Drake Haines, and her eyes widened with surprise.
"Did anyone ever tell you that you look like ...?"
"George Clooney?" he said with a dazzling smile. "I hear it all the time!"
Image in the upper left corner is of Jean Harlow.
It doesn't take a detective like Drake Haines to figure out who these flipflops belong to.
