all right. But we haven’t been able to nail it down. The trouble is, no such man was ever reported missing in these parts. We haven’t been able to turn up any local antecedents. Naturally we’re still working on it.”
Mungan’s broad face was serious. He talked like a trained cop, and his eyes were sharp as tacks. I said: “We may be able to help each other to clarify the issue.”
“Any help you can give me will be welcome. This has been dragging on for five months now, more like six.” He threw out a quick hooked question: “You represent his family, maybe?”
“I represent a family. They asked me not to use their name. And there’s still a question whether they are the dead man’s family. Was there any physical evidence found with the bones? A watch, or a ring? Shoes? Clothing?”
“Nothing. Not even a stitch of clothing.”
“I suppose it could rot away completely in twenty-two years. What about buttons?”
“No buttons. Our theory is he was buried the way he came into the world.”
“But without a head.”
Mungan nodded gravely. “Doc Dineen filled you in, eh? I’ve been thinking about that head myself. A young fellow came in here a few weeks ago, claimed to be John Brown’s son.”
“Don’t you think he is?”
“He acted like it. He got pretty upset when I showed him the bones. Unfortunately, he didn’t know any more about his father than I do. Which is nil, absolutely nil. We know this John Brown lived out on the old Bluff Road for a couple of months in 1936, and that’s the sum-total of it. On top of that, the boy doesn’t believe these are his father’s bones. And he could just be right. I’ve been doing some thinking, as I said.
“This business about the head, now. We assumed when the body was first turned up, that he was killed by having his head cut off.” Mungan made a snicking sound between tongue and palate, and sheared the air with the edge of his huge hand. “Maybe he was. Or maybe the head was chopped off after death, to remove identification. You know how much we depend on teeth and fillings. Back in the thirties, before we developed our modern lab techniques, teeth and fillings were the main thing we had to go on.
“If my hypothesis is right, the killer was a pro. And that fits in with certain other facts. In the twenties and thirties, the Bluff Road area was a stamping ground for hoods. It was until quite recently, as a matter of fact. In those days it was a real hotbed. A lot of the liquor that kept San Francisco going during Prohibition came in by sea and was funneled through Luna Bay. They brought in other things thanliquor—drags, for instance, and women from Mexico and Panama. You ever hear of the Red Horse Inn?”
“No.”
“It stood on the coast about a mile south of where we found the skeleton. They tore it down a couple of years ago, after we put the stopper on it. That was a place with a history. It used to be a resort hotel for well-heeled people from the City and the Peninsula. The rum-runners took it over in the twenties. They converted it into a three-way operation: liquor warehouse in the basement, bars and gaming on the first floor, women upstairs. The reason I know so much about it, I had my first drink there back about 1930. And my first woman.”
“You don’t look that old.”
“I was sixteen at the time. I think that’s one of the reasons I went into law enforcement. I wanted to put bastards like Lempi out of circulation. Lempi was the boss hood who ran the place in the twenties. I knew him personally, but the law got to him before I grew up to his size. They got him for income tax in 1932, he died on the Rock a few years later. Some of his guns were sent up at the same time.
“I knew those boys, see, and this is the point I’m coming to. I knew what they were capable of doing. They killed for pay, and they killed because they enjoyed it. They bragged in public that nobody could touch them. It took a federal indictment to cool
Mungan’s broad face was serious. He talked like a trained cop, and his eyes were sharp as tacks. I said: “We may be able to help each other to clarify the issue.”
“Any help you can give me will be welcome. This has been dragging on for five months now, more like six.” He threw out a quick hooked question: “You represent his family, maybe?”
“I represent a family. They asked me not to use their name. And there’s still a question whether they are the dead man’s family. Was there any physical evidence found with the bones? A watch, or a ring? Shoes? Clothing?”
“Nothing. Not even a stitch of clothing.”
“I suppose it could rot away completely in twenty-two years. What about buttons?”
“No buttons. Our theory is he was buried the way he came into the world.”
“But without a head.”
Mungan nodded gravely. “Doc Dineen filled you in, eh? I’ve been thinking about that head myself. A young fellow came in here a few weeks ago, claimed to be John Brown’s son.”
“Don’t you think he is?”
“He acted like it. He got pretty upset when I showed him the bones. Unfortunately, he didn’t know any more about his father than I do. Which is nil, absolutely nil. We know this John Brown lived out on the old Bluff Road for a couple of months in 1936, and that’s the sum-total of it. On top of that, the boy doesn’t believe these are his father’s bones. And he could just be right. I’ve been doing some thinking, as I said.
“This business about the head, now. We assumed when the body was first turned up, that he was killed by having his head cut off.” Mungan made a snicking sound between tongue and palate, and sheared the air with the edge of his huge hand. “Maybe he was. Or maybe the head was chopped off after death, to remove identification. You know how much we depend on teeth and fillings. Back in the thirties, before we developed our modern lab techniques, teeth and fillings were the main thing we had to go on.
“If my hypothesis is right, the killer was a pro. And that fits in with certain other facts. In the twenties and thirties, the Bluff Road area was a stamping ground for hoods. It was until quite recently, as a matter of fact. In those days it was a real hotbed. A lot of the liquor that kept San Francisco going during Prohibition came in by sea and was funneled through Luna Bay. They brought in other things thanliquor—drags, for instance, and women from Mexico and Panama. You ever hear of the Red Horse Inn?”
“No.”
“It stood on the coast about a mile south of where we found the skeleton. They tore it down a couple of years ago, after we put the stopper on it. That was a place with a history. It used to be a resort hotel for well-heeled people from the City and the Peninsula. The rum-runners took it over in the twenties. They converted it into a three-way operation: liquor warehouse in the basement, bars and gaming on the first floor, women upstairs. The reason I know so much about it, I had my first drink there back about 1930. And my first woman.”
“You don’t look that old.”
“I was sixteen at the time. I think that’s one of the reasons I went into law enforcement. I wanted to put bastards like Lempi out of circulation. Lempi was the boss hood who ran the place in the twenties. I knew him personally, but the law got to him before I grew up to his size. They got him for income tax in 1932, he died on the Rock a few years later. Some of his guns were sent up at the same time.
“I knew those boys, see, and this is the point I’m coming to. I knew what they were capable of doing. They killed for pay, and they killed because they enjoyed it. They bragged in public that nobody could touch them. It took a federal indictment to cool
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