“And that’s the only reason?”
Franzen was silent for a moment. Then slowly, he said, “No, I suppose not. I went walking in Aquatic Park when I came back to San Francisco this afternoon, just walking and thinking. The more I thought, the more I knew that it was hopeless. It was only a matter of time before you found out I was the one, a matter of a day or two. I guess I could have run, but I wouldn’t know how to begin to do that. I’ve always done things on impulse, things I would never do if I stopped to think about them. That’s how I killed them, on some insane impulse; if I had thought about it I never would have done it. It was so useless...”
Sheffield exchanged glances with the two inspectors. Then he said, “You want to tell us how you did it, Mr. Franzen?”
“What?”
“How did you kill them?” Sheffield asked. “What kind of weapon did you use?”
“A tenderizing mallet,” Franzen said without hesitation.
Tobias asked, “What was that again?”
“A tenderizing mallet. One of those big wooden things with serrated ends that women keep in the kitchen to tenderize a piece of steak.”
It was silent in the cubicle now. Sheffield looked at Rauxton, and then at Tobias; they were all thinking the same thing: the police had released no details to the news media as to the kind of weapon involved in the slayings, other than the general information that it was a blunt instrument. But the initial lab report on the first victim — and the preliminary observations on the other two — stated the wounds of each had been made by a roughly square-shaped instrument, which had sharp “teeth” capable of making a series of deep indentations as it bit into the flesh. A mallet such as Franzen had just described fitted those characteristics exactly.
Sheffield asked, “What did you do with this mallet, Mr. Franzen?”
“I threw it away.”
“Where?”
“In Sausalito, into some bushes along the road.”
“Do you remember the location?”
“I think so.”
“Then you can lead us there later on?”
“I suppose so, yes.”
“Was Elaine Dunhill the last woman you killed?”
“Yes.”
“What room did you kill her in?”
“The bedroom.”
“Where in the bedroom?”
“Beside her vanity.”
“Who was your first victim?” Rauxton asked.
“Janet Flanders.”
“You killed her in the bathroom, is that right?”
“No, no, in the kitchen...”
“What was she wearing?”
“A flowered housecoat.”
“Why did you strip her body?”
“I didn’t. Why would I—”
“Mrs. Gordon was the middle victim, right?” Tobias asked.
“Yes.”
“Where did you kill her?”
“The kitchen.”
“She was sewing, wasn’t she?”
“No, she was canning,” Franzen said. “She was canning plum preserves. She had mason jars and boxes of plums and three big pressure cookers all over the table and the stove...”
There was wetness in Franzen’s eyes now. He stopped talking and took his rimless glasses off and wiped at the tears with the back of his left hand. He seemed to be swaying slightly on the chair.
Sheffield, watching him, felt a curious mixture of relief and sadness. The relief was due to the fact that there was no doubt in his mind — nor in the minds of Rauxton and Tobias; he could read their eyes — that Andrew Franzen was the slayer of the three women. They had thrown detail and “trip-up” questions at him, one right after another, and he had had all the right answers; he knew particulars that had also not been given to the news media, that no crank could possibly have known, that only the murderer could have been aware of. The case had turned out to be one of the simple ones, after all, and it was all but wrapped up now; there would be no more “bludgeon slayings,” no public hue and cry, no attacks on police inefficiency in the press, no pressure from the commissioners or the mayor. The sadness was the result of twenty-six years of police work, of living with death and crime every day, of looking at a man who seemed to be the essence of normalcy and yet who was a cold-blooded multiple murderer.
Why? Sheffield thought. That was the big question. Why did he do it?
He said, “You want to tell us the reason, Mr. Franzen? Why you killed them?”
The small man moistened his lips. “I was very happy, you see. My life had some meaning, some challenge. I was fulfilled — but they were going to destroy everything.” He stared at his hands. “One of them had found out the truth — I don’t know how — and tracked down the other two. I had come to Janet this morning, and she told me that they were going to expose me, and I just lost my head and picked up the mallet and killed her. Then I went to the others and killed them. I couldn’t stop myself; it was as if I were moving in a nightmare.”
“What are you trying to say?” Sheffield asked softly. “What was your relationship with those three women?”
The tears in Andrew Franzen’s eyes shone like tiny diamonds in the light from the overhead fluorescents.
“They were my wives,” he said.
I Don’t Understand It
Well, I’d been on the road for two days, riding on the produce trucks from El Centro to Bakersfield, when a refrigerator van picked me up and took me straight through to the Salinas Valley. They let me out right where I was headed, too, in front of this dirt road about three miles the other side of San Sinandro.
I stood there on the side of the road, hanging onto the tan duffel with my stuff in it, and it was plenty hot all right, just past noon, and the sun all yellow and hazed over. I looked at the big wood sign that was stuck up there, and it said: JENSEN PRODUCE-PICKERS WANTED, and had a black arrow pointing off down the dirt road. That was the name of the place, sure enough.
I started up the dirt road, and it was pretty dry and dusty. Off on both sides you could see the rows and rows of lettuce shining nice and green in the sun, and the pickers hunched over in there. Most of them looked like Mex’s, but here and there was some college boys that are always around to pick in the spring and summer months.
Pretty soon I come over a rise and I could see a wide clearing. There was a big white house set back a ways, and down in front an area that was all paved off. On one side was a big corrugated-iron warehouse, the sun coming off the top of that iron roof near to blinding you, it was so bright. About six flatbeds, a couple of Jimmy pickups, and a big white Lincoln was sitting beside the warehouse. All of them had JENSEN PRODUCE done up in these big gold and blue letters on the door.
I come down there onto the asphalt part. Just to my right was four long, flat buildings made of wood, but with corrugated roofs. I knew that was where the pickers put down.
I walked across to the big warehouse. Both of the doors in front was shut, but there was a smaller one to the left and it was standing wide open.
Just as I come up to that door, this woman come out, facing inside, and sure enough she banged right into me before I could get out of the way. I stumbled back and dropped the duffel.
She come around and looked at me. She said, “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you there.”
Well, she was about the most beautiful woman I ever saw in my whole life. She had this long dark hair and green eyes with little gold flecks in them, and she was all brown and tan and her skin shined in the sun like she had oil rubbed on it. She had on a pair of white shorts and this white blouse with no sleeves. Her hands was in little fists on her hips, and she was smiling at me real nice and friendly. She said, “Well, I don’t think I’ve seen you before.”
I couldn’t say nothing right then. I mean, I never been much good around the women anyway — I can’t never think of nothing to talk to them about — and this one was so pretty she could’ve been in them Hollywood pictures.