A Low-Profile Case
Ellis Buckner, who was just two weeks away from his ninetieth birthday, stood in front of the mirror in his room at the Four Seasons Hotel in Washington, D.C., trying unsuccessfully to knot his tie. It was at times such as this that the octogenarian wished he had remarried after his wife died rather than remain a widower for more than thirty years.
While he was struggling with his tie, he heard a knock.
"Mr. Buckner?" a female voice called from the hallway.
Ellis crossed the room and opened the door. A young naval officer, in full dress uniform, introduced herself.
"I'm Lt. Robin Sibley. I'm a White House social aide, and I'm to have the pleasure of escorting you to the dinner tonight."
"Glad to meet you, Lieutenant. I hope you know how to tie a tie. I seem to be all thumbs at the moment."
Not only did Lt. Sibley assist the elderly man with his necktie, but she also helped him put on his tuxedo jacket and his overcoat.
"You might want to wear a hat and gloves as well, sir. It's a cold night out there."
"You call this weather cold?" Ellis laughed. "I've lived my whole life in New England. I could tell you a few things about the cold."
"I'm sure you could, sir. Just the same, I'd put on a pair of gloves, if I were you."
"I'll make a deal with you, lieutenant. I'll wear my gloves if you stop calling me sir."
"Yes, sir—sorry."
As he left the hotel room and headed toward the elevator, Ellis reached into his coat pocket, took out his Isotoner gloves and slipped them on his hands.
"I was in the Navy once," the old man announced when the elevator doors shut and he and the aide began their descent to the first floor.
"I know. I read your book. You served on the Massachusetts."
"Big Mamie," Ellis said nostalgically. "That's what we called her: Big Mamie. What a ship! About every three or four years I make the two-hour drive down to Battleship Cove in Fall River to see her, and for years I attended every reunion of the crew."
"Why did you stop?"
"There were fewer and fewer of us left alive. And of those that hadn't died, some of the men retired and headed to Florida while others ended up in senior citizens homes."
When they arrived on the ground floor, Lt. Sibley led Ellis through the lobby and out the door to a black limousine that was waiting to drive them down Pennsylvania Avenue a mile and a half to the White House. With no traffic, the trip would have taken only six or seven minutes; however, the winter weather conditions had made rush-hour congestion even worse than usual.
"You were only eighteen when you enlisted, weren't you?" Lt. Sibley asked once the two of them were sitting in the back seat of the limo.
"Yes. When I heard about the attack on Pearl Harbor, I immediately joined up."
"Did you know you wanted to seek a career in law enforcement before you went off to war?"
"Oh, yes. I wanted to be a cop all my life," Ellis admitted. "When I returned home from the Pacific, I enrolled in the police academy, and after graduation I joined the Boston Police Department where I made detective at thirty. I suppose you already know that from my book."
Robin smiled and nodded.
Following the customs of social etiquette, Ellis asked the young lieutenant about her own life and her reasons for joining the Navy. Robin gave a brief answer before politely steering the conversation back to the famous former detective. Inevitably, she asked about the case that had made Buckner a superstar in law enforcement: that of Carl Glassman, the Bag Lady Killer. Unlike Albert DeSalvo who preyed on women in and around Boston, David Berkowitz who terrorized New York City or Richard Ramirez who murdered people in California, Glassman left victims in ten different cities scattered across the continental United States.
"You postponed your retirement to try to solve the murder of an unknown homeless woman and wound up linking her death to a string of others," Robin said, impressed by the former detective's tenacity. "It reminds me of Bob Woodward believing he's covering a simple hotel break-in and unearthing the Watergate scandal."
"I hardly think Woodward and Bernstein or the American people would consider the arrest of a serial killer on the same level as political corruption and the downfall of a president," Ellis laughed.
"Maybe not," Robin admitted sheepishly.
Up ahead a delivery truck slid on the ice and plowed into a minivan. Luckily, no one was hurt, but traffic, which had already been crawling along at a snail's pace, came to a complete stop.
"It might be quicker if we get out and walk," Ellis said jokingly.
"It's just as treacherous to walk in this weather. Those sidewalks are covered with a layer of ice. Besides, I'd like the opportunity to learn more about the case—if you don't mind my asking."
"I don't know what I can tell you that you didn't learn from reading my book."
"Well, for one thing, you were the best detective on the force; why did you retire at forty-five?"
"I was tired of seeing the worst of human nature. In 1968 Boston was still reeling from the Strangler killings. I was looking forward to collecting my pension and picking up a little extra cash as a security guard. Three weeks was all that I had left, and—believe me—I was counting down the days. Then the murder was reported. The victim was one of those nameless, faceless women who carry everything they own in bags or in small, collapsible shopping carts. Since it was such a low-profile case, the captain assigned it to the two homicide detectives with the least amount of experience."
"And according to your book, you were asked to oversee them," Robin said. "It seems to me the police department didn't consider finding the killer a high priority. So why assign it's most experienced detective to oversee the case?"
"Because, like I said before, I had only three weeks left. Basically, the captain wanted me to keep busy, or," Ellis added with a laugh, "maybe he just wanted to get me out of his hair. Either way, I figured I'd babysit the two detectives, offer my sage advice when I felt it was needed and keep counting down the days until I could hand in my shield."
"What changed your mind?"
"Once I saw the victim, I felt sorry for her. No one should be left to die beside a garbage dumpster. I know it sounds trite, but I wanted to see her killer brought to justice."
"You did more than that," Robin pointed out. "Carl Glassman was a prolific serial killer with eighteen known victims and possibly more that were never discovered. And think how many women he might have gone on to kill if you hadn't put him behind bars."
"I got lucky," Ellis said modestly.
"Luck had little to do with it. You spent months searching fingerprint records and contacting police departments all over the country, looking for cases with a similar M.O. Sixteen to eighteen hours a day, seven days a week."
"And thanks to our advanced technology, a cop today can have that information in less than an hour. A nice, neat computer printout with names, dates and photographs. If only we'd had IAFIS or ViCAP back then."
"Medieval monks would have appreciated a word processor back in their day, but instead they had to write out books in longhand."
"I did what any other good cop would have done. I found the connection between our Jane Doe murder and the killing of elderly homeless women in New York and Baltimore. Once I did, the FBI stepped in and discovered the other known victims."
"But you were the one to notice that the locations where the women's bodies were found happened to be in the vicinity of American League baseball parks. You also compared the dates the women were murdered to what teams were playing in the stadiums at the time. If it weren't for your efforts, I doubt the FBI would ever have been able to determine that Carl Glassman, a sportswriter who covered the Washington Senators, was the Bag Lady Killer."
A silence fell on the interior of the limo, a stillness broken only by the siren of a police car that was responding to the accident up ahead.
"I'm not an idle flatterer," Robin finally said. "I have a good deal of respect and admiration for you."
Buckner looked at the young lieutenant, thinking that if he and his wife had been blessed with children, he might have had a granddaughter—or possibly a great-granddaughter—her age. Perhaps that explained the curious bond that formed between the two people in such a short period of time.
Feeling close to someone for the first time since his wife died, the former policeman confessed, "There is something I can tell you that you don't already know, something that never made it into my book: I know the identity of the homeless woman."
"You do?" Robin asked with surprise. "When did you find out?"
Buckner turned his head and looked out the limo's window, seeing not the snow covered cars that surrounded him, but a series of images from his past.
"I knew all along," he replied softly. "When we went through the victim's personal belongings, one of the young detectives found a yellowed wedding photograph in the pocket of an old, torn dress the dead woman owned. The detective asked me if I thought our Jane Doe was the bride in the photo. When I held the picture up to the light, I recognized the face. Without a word to the other two men, I left the station and headed toward the city morgue. When the medical examiner's assistant uncovered the victim, I knew immediately who she was."
"A friend of yours?"
"Not exactly, but I credit her with getting me through World War II."
Seeing the perplexed look on the lieutenant's face, Ellis explained, "I was full of patriotic zeal when I enlisted, but when I found myself on a ship in the middle of the Pacific, I was scared shitless—pardon my language. We all were. A lot of the guys had wives and girlfriends back home and displayed their pictures for moral support. But others—me included—relied on Hollywood's beauties for help. Everywhere you looked, you could see pinups of Betty Grable, Rita Hayworth, Veronica Lake and Susan Hayward. But me, I had a crush on a young starlet named Lana Dickson. Let me tell you, she may not have been as famous as the others, but she was every bit as beautiful—more beautiful, in my opinion."
"What did she look like?"
"The four movies she made were all in black and white, but my photograph of her, which I cut out of Photoplay magazine, was in glorious color. She had chestnut hair, big brown eyes and a little rosebud mouth. To me, she looked more French than American. The first time I saw her on the silver screen, I fell in love with her."
"You said she made only four movies. What happened to her career?"
"Hers was the usual tragic Hollywood story: a couple of unsuccessful marriages, a string of short-lived affairs, alcohol, drugs. After the war, her name vanished from the movie marquees and eventually faded into obscurity. And then she winds up dead on a street in Boston more than twenty years later."
"So you knew the victim's identity before you even began the investigation into her death. Why didn't you tell anyone? Why let her to this day be a Jane Doe to the police and the Boston Bag Lady to the press?"
Buckner's eyes glistened with unshed tears as he explained.
"I married a wonderful woman back in 1948. She was a petite blonde with big blue eyes—a real looker. We were happily married for thirty-two wonderful years before she died, and I wouldn't trade one moment I spent with her for all the money in the world. I would have walked in front of a speeding truck before ever being unfaithful to her. But every now and then I would fall asleep at night and dream of a French-looking girl with chestnut hair, brown eyes and a rosebud mouth."
"After carrying her picture with you into battle, her image must have been burned into your mind," Robin suggested.
"It's possible. I only know, in a strange sort of way, I was every bit as loyal to her as I was to my wife. I couldn't reveal to the world that the once beautiful actress who had briefly risen to the brink of Hollywood stardom had fallen so low that she was living on the street in bug-infested clothes that smelled of alcohol, vomit and urine. I prefer to believe that she was a guardian angel who protected me during the war. I wanted to protect her then, and I still do. In all the years that have passed since I saw that poor, pathetic woman, old beyond her years, lying on a slab in the morgue, you're the only person I've ever told the truth to."
"I'm flattered. I'll be equally honest with you. When I heard that you were invited to the White House, I called in a few favors to be able to meet you."
Ellis looked at the young lieutenant and asked earnestly, "Why? I'm nothing but an old man who used to be a cop. I got lucky when I solved Lana Dickson's murder. And as far as my bestseller—hell! I didn't even write it. Someone else did, and the publisher put my name on it."
"You must have had something to do with the book."
"Oh, sure. I sat down with the writer and told him my story. We met several more times, and he asked a lot of questions about my life and the case. Then four months later I read over the completed manuscript and made a few changes before it was published."
"What changes did you make?"
"The writer had access to the police files, and he included information from them that I hadn't given him. I didn't want some of the statements in my book, so I asked that they be removed."
"What statements?"
"Ones concerning the fact that in her collection of rags, the victim had a diamond engagement ring and a gold wedding band. The police assumed she had stolen them, but I knew they belonged to her. Lana's last husband had given them to her. Then there was the wedding photograph that was found when we discovered the body. Even though the two detectives didn't know her identity, I'm sure someone my age would have recognized her. I didn't want anything in the book to even hint that the victim had once been a Hollywood actress."
"Why not? You say you wanted to protect her, but all you did was let her remain forgotten. If her death had been made public, perhaps her films would have gained new life, and she may have found fans in a new generation of moviegoers."
Ellis shook his head and answered, "I don't want to offend you, lieutenant, but you're optimistic to the point of being naive."
"Why do you say that?" Robin asked, taking no offence at his words.
"When my book was being made into a movie, I flew out to Hollywood to act as a consultant. While I was there, I did a little discreet investigating into Lana Dickson's whereabouts. I learned that after divorcing her third husband, she left Hollywood, married a fourth time and settled on a ranch somewhere in Montana. When the screenplay was completed, I decided to rent a car and drive back to Boston, making a detour to Montana along the way.
"Apparently, Lana and her rancher husband were quite happy for several years, but then their only child, a five-year-old daughter, was killed in a sledding accident. Both parents were devastated. Then three years after the child's death, Lana's husband died of cancer. Bills began piling up, and she lost the ranch. Unable to support herself, she took up with a number of men, and eventually one of them took her to Boston where he later abandoned her. She lived on the streets for the remainder of her life, most likely occasionally resorting to prostitution to pay for food and alcohol."
"The poor woman," Robin commented. "What a terrible end to a life once filled with such promise."
"Now you see why I didn't tell anyone. If I had revealed her identity, reporters would have dug deep into her past and discovered every secret she might have had. And if they didn't find anything juicy enough to print, they would have embellished the truth. I can just picture the cruel tabloid headlines: ALCOHOLIC EX-ACTRESS FOUND BUTCHERED IN BEANTOWN, BOSTON BAG LADY'S TRAIL FROM HOLLYWOOD BEAUTY TO HOOKER TO HOMICIDE VICTIM. That bastard Glassman murdered her once," Ellis said bitterly. "I wasn't about to let the press murder her a second time."
The flashing lights of the departing tow truck caught the old man's attention. Minutes later, with the scene of the accident having been cleaned up, the limousine continued its slow, stop-and-go journey along Pennsylvania Avenue.
* * *
"Here we are—at last!" Ellis exclaimed as the chauffeur turned the limo's engine off.
"Before you get out, I have something to give you," Robin said, removing a manila envelope from her shoulder bag.
"What's this? An itinerary for this evening?"
Without waiting for the lieutenant to answer, he bent the aluminum clasp and opened the flap. Ellis's heart raced when he removed the contents: a page torn from a 1941 issue of Photoplay magazine.
"Th-this is it," he stammered. "This is the photograph I had taped on the wall beside my bunk on the Massachusetts. But it couldn't be it. I lost it after the war."
The former police officer stared into the Robin Sibley's eyes, searching for an explanation.
"How is it you have this picture with you? You couldn't possibly have known ...."
In an instant, the young naval officer and White House social aide was transformed into a 1940s pinup girl, one with chestnut hair, brown eyes, and a small rosebud mouth, one who looked more French than American.
Ellis was so mesmerized by Lana Dickson's beauty that he failed to notice that it had stopped snowing and the sun, despite the lateness of the evening, was shining brightly. When he did take note of his surroundings, he correctly assumed the cause.
"I'm dead, aren't I?"
There was no sadness, no sense of regret. All he felt was wonder.
"Yes."
"When and how?"
"You had a massive heart attack in your hotel room," his guardian angel replied. "You died while you were fussing with your tie."
"My wife?" he asked, eagerly turning his head, hoping to spot her beloved face. "I always imagined she would be the one to welcome me."
"You'll see her soon," Lana promised with a smile of gratitude for a man who had proved to be much more than just a fan of her movies. "I'm to have the pleasure of taking you to her. Are you ready?"
"I'm ready whenever you are. I don't suppose I'll need my gloves anymore?" he asked with a smile.
"No, nor your overcoat. And the tuxedo jacket is unnecessary as well. I'm sure your loved ones will be happy to see no matter how you're dressed."
If Salem had been in the Navy during World War II, he would have kept his own picture next to his bunk!
