Crime Components

Chapter 1

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."