Steve Ricks was given a box at the bottom of the page with what Collins considered an over-optimistic head:
The story dealt with the finding of the body, a short interview with Mrs. Ramon Menendez, and a statement from Sergeant Rod Easley. Collins was not mentioned in either of the stories, a fact he noted with a cynical grunt.
He went to Bigelow’s office for a conference. Today being Saturday, Bigelow was anxious to get to the golf course. Collins also had the weekend off, but he was more interested in his scheme for extracting information from Molly Wilkerson before she either collected her hush-money or was killed. He explained his plan and was gratified to see Bigelow grin. “Clever. It may work, Omar. It’s certainly; worth a try.”
At least Bigelow wasn’t one to veto an idea simply because of its unorthodoxy. Or maybe, thought Collins unkindly, he didn’t know the difference.
“Phelps called from the park,” said Bigelow. “His men have made what he calls ‘an informal search’; they’ve checked trails within a thirty-mile radius of Persimmon Lake and found not a damn thing.”
“Steve Ricks is the key to the entire affair,” said Collins. “If we find who killed him and why, we’ll crack the Genneman case. At least that’s my opinion.”
Bigelow nodded wisely. “Has Easley turned up anything?”
“Not much. The landlord paid no attention to Ricks; the neighbors never noticed him except when he practiced his guitar. Easley covered neighborhood service stations but nobody claims to have known him.”
“What about Sullivan and Kerner in the park?”
“Nobody so far remembers Ricks or his car. They’ll need another day or so to finish.”
“And the service station where Ricks used to work?”
“Easley’s looking for it. I’ll mention it to him again.”
Collins returned to his office.
Earl Genneman had been killed by a shotgun blast a day and a half’s hike into the wilderness.
Steve Ricks had hiked the same trail, either independently or following the Genneman party, and on his return to Fresno had been killed. From these events a multitude of theories could be formulated, with insufficient facts to prove anything. Was there another woman in Genneman’s life? His wife appeared to think not; his stepdaughter had also scouted the possibility. Interesting situation with Jean. Almost as if Genneman’s death had been a signal, or had removed a barrier, she and Buck James were back on friendly terms. Had the offer of a managership in Wisconsin been contingent upon Buck’s staying away from Jean? A device to get him out of the way?
Nothing was impossible. Collins drummed on the desk, and reached for the telephone directory. He made a list of establishments which rented camping equipment. Then, procuring a photograph of Ricks from Easley’s desk, he left.
On his third try, at Bain’s Sporting Goods, Collins struck pay dirt. The clerk both remembered Ricks’ face and, after considerable rummaging, found a record of the transaction. Collins examined the slip with interest. It was dated June 12, Friday, the day before Ricks had entered the National Park. There was no notation as to when the equipment had been returned, but the clerk explained that none was usually made.
“What time Friday did he come in?” asked Collins.
The clerk shook his head. “I don’t remember.”
“The slip has a number. Would that tell you anything?”
“Maybe so.” The clerk went back to the files, checked slips dated Friday, June 12, noted the lowest number and the highest number extrapolated, “I’d say — just a guess — that he came in about ten o’clock.”
Collins studied the receipt. It noted only a pack-frame and a sleeping bag, and Ricks had paid in advance for one week.
“He also got some dehydrated food,” said the clerk. “I forget just what it was. Seems like it wasn’t very much, but I don’t rightly remember.”
“Did he say where he was going?”
“He might have. I didn’t pay particular attention; I see twenty people a day like him.”
Collins continued to study the slip; there was a set of numbers at the top. “This must be the number of his driver’s license.”
“Yes. That’s how we keep our customers honest. We don’t lose much gear.”
“Think back a bit. Did Ricks say anything at all about this trip? If he was to meet someone, or where he expected to go?”
The clerk shook his head. “I simply don’t remember a thing he said. I don’t believe he had much to say. Just wanted some gear for a few days in the mountains.”
“Was anyone with him when he came into the store?”
The clerk started to speak, stopped. Then he said, “No, but now that I think of it, he parked in that loading zone across the street. Parking’s real tight around here, and he seemed nervous that he was going to get a ticket. Anyway he kept looking over his shoulder all the time he was in the shop.”
“Anyone in his car?”
“I didn’t notice. I remember, though, the car was a new Ford Galaxie. My father has one just like it, the same color and everything.”
“What color?”
“Off-white, sandy-white, desert tan, whatever they call it. Some fancy name.”
“Well, well. You didn’t by any chance notice the license number?”
“Lord, no.”
“Did Ricks talk to anyone else while he was in here?”
“No, sir. But don’t put too much store by what I’m telling you. I paid the man no attention; he was just another customer. I’m surprised I even recognized his picture.”
Collins returned to headquarters, where he found Sergeant Easley, who reported no success after a morning spent checking service stations. Collins told Easley what he had learned at Bain’s Sporting Goods. “What puzzles me,” he said, “is the new white Ford Steve was driving.”
“Pretty hard to confuse with a green ’54 Plymouth,” said Easley. “What should I do next? Nothing is working out for me.”
“Where’s that list we drew up?”
Easley produced the list. Collins studied it. “Point one: landlord and neighbors. Nothing there. Two: Ricks’ car. We’ve got that, we know where he bought it. Three: service station where he got his gas. Nothing on this yet. Four: Sullivan and Kerner can’t find any trace of Ricks in the park. Scratch this one. Five: the Clover Club. I want to try again, there may be more there. Six: the check for thirty-two dollars. Jake Mansfield; that we know. Seven, the murder weapon. Pretty hopeless. Eight: where did Steve get loaded aboard the boxcar? You might look into that. Find where access to the yard is easiest. It’s probably not far from where his car was found. Nine: the camping equipment. That’s taken care of. Ten: Ricks’ family. Bigelow has contacted them; we can let this go for a while. Eleven: bank accounts, debts. The hundred-dollar bill. You might go down to the Sunset Nursery, ask around there some more. Somebody might remember something. Twelve: the shotgun.”
“The landlord says Steve never owned a shotgun,” said Easley.
“Nothing looks very hot. Try the Sunset Nursery, then see if you can figure where he got loaded aboard the boxcar. Ask around the neighborhood, look in the ditch for Steve’s hands.”
Easley left for the Sunset Nursery; a short time later Collins set out for San Jose.
He arrived a few minutes past five. At the main Western Union office he hired a messenger, to whom he gave explicit instructions. Then, with an hour or two to kill, he drove past Genneman Laboratories, Incorporated: a row of glass and concrete structures that Collins had expected; Genneman must have been several times a millionaire. But who profited by his death? Not Opal, who had had everything and appeared to mourn her husband deeply. Not the children, who were neither better nor worse off than before. The fact, thought Collins, was that Genneman’s death seemed to help no one. If the inquiry into Steve Ricks trickled out, he’d set an accountant to looking over the Westco books and inventory. Not impossibly Bob Vega, Buck James, Red Kershaw, or all three had been finagling with the stock.