He was cramped in his car, staking the Malibu Rendezvous parking lot: eyes on two "H" pushers in a Packard sedan. Near midnight: he'd been drinking scotch, he blew a reefer on the way over, the bennies he'd been swallowing weren't catching up with the booze. A tip on a midnight buy: the "H" men and a skinny shine, seven feet tall, a real geek.
The boogie showed at a quarter past twelve, walked to the Packard, palmed a package. Jack tripped getting out of the car; the geek started running; the "H" men got out with guns drawn. Jack stumbled up and drew his piece; the geek wheeled and fired; he saw two shapes closer in, tagged them as the nigger's backup, squeezed off a clip. The shapes went down; the "H" men shot at the spook and at him; the spook nosedived a '46 Studebaker.
Jack ate cement, prayed the rosary. A shot ripped his shoulder; a shot grazed his legs. He crawled under the car; a shitload of tires squealed; a shitload of people screamed. An ambulance showed up; a bull dyke Sheriff's deputy loaded him on a gurney. Sirens, a hospital bed, a doctor and the dyke whispering about the dope in his system--blood test validated. Lots of drugged sleep, a newspaper on his lap: "Three Dead in Malibu Shootout--Heroic Cop Survives."
The "H" guys escaped clean--the deaths pinned on them.
The spook was dead at the scene.
The shapes weren't the nigger's backup--they were Mr. and Mrs. Harold J. Scoggins, tourists from Cedar Rapids, Iowa, the proud parents of Donald, seventeen, and Marsha, sixteen.
The doctors kept looking at him funny; the dyke turned out to be Dot Rothstein, Kikey Teitlebaum's cousin, known associate of the legendary Dudley Smith.
A routine autopsy would show that the pills taken out of Mr. and Mrs. Scoggins came from Sergeant Jack Vincennes' gun.
The kids saved him.
He sweated out a week at the hospital. Thad Green and Chief Worton visited; the Narco guys came by. Dudley Smith offered his patronage; he wondered just how much he knew. Sid Hudgens, chief writer for _Hush-Hush_ Magazine, stopped in with an offer: Jack to roust celebrated hopheads, _Hush-Hush_ to be in on the arrests--cash to discreetly change hands. He accepted-- and wondered just how much Hudgens knew.
The kids demanded no autopsy: the family was Seventh-Day Adventist, autopsies were a sacrilege. Since the county coroner knew damn well who the shooters were, he shipped Mr. and Mrs. Harold J. Scoggins back to Iowa to be cremated.
Sergeant Jack Vincennes skated--with newspaper honors.
His wounds healed.
He quit drinking.
He quit taking dope, dumped the trunk. He marked abstinent days on his calendar, worked his deal with Sid Hudgens, built his name as a local celebrity. He did favors for Dudley Smith; Mr. and Mrs. Harold J. Scoggins torched his dreams; he figured booze and hop would put out the flames but get him killed in the process. Sid got him the "technical advisor" job with _Badge of Honor_--then just a radio show. Money started roffing in; spending it on clothes and women wasn't the kick he thought it would be. Bars and dope shakedowns were awful temptations. Terrorizing hopheads helped a little--but not enough. He decided to pay the kids back.
His first check ran two hundred; he included a letter: "Anonymous Friend," a spiel on the Scoggins tragedy. He called the bank a week later: the check had been cashed. He'd been financing his free ride ever since; unless Hudgens had 10/24/47 on paper he was safe.
Jack laid out his party clothes. The blazer was London Shop--he'd bought it with Sid's payoff for the Bob Mitchum roust. The tassel loafers and gray flannels were proceeds from a _Hush-Hush_ exposé linking jazz musicians to the Communist Conspiracy--he squeezed some pinko stuff out of a bass player he popped for needle marks. He dressed, spritzed on Lucky Tiger, drove to Beverly Hills.
o o o
A backyard bash: a full acre covered by awnings. College kids parked cars; a buffet featured prime rib, smoked ham, turkey. Waiters carried hors d'oeuvres; a giant Christmas tree stood out in the open, getting drizzled on. Guests ate off paper plates; gas torches lit the lawn. Jack arrived on time and worked the crowd.
Welton Morrow showed him to his first audience: a group of Superior Court judges. Jack spun yarns: Charlie Parker trying to buy him off with a high-yellow hooker, how he cracked the Shapiro case: a queer Mickey Cohen stooge pushing amyl nitrite--his customers transvestite strippers at a fruit bar. The Big V to the rescue: Jack Vincennes single-handedly arresting a roomful of bruisers auditioning for a Rita Hayworth lookalike contest. A round of applause; Jack bowed, saw Joan Morrow by the Christmas tree--alone, maybe bored.
He walked over. Joan said, "Happy holidays, Jack."
Pretty, built, thirty-one or two. No job and no husband taking its toll: she came off pouty most of the time. "Hi, Joan."
"Hi, yourself. I read about you in the paper today. Those people you arrested."
"It was nothing."
Joan laughed. "Sooo modest. What's going to happen to them? Rock what's-his-name and the girl, I mean."
"Ninety days for the girl, maybe a year honor farm for Rockwell. They should hire your dad--he'd get them off."
"You don't really care, do you?"
"I hope they cop a plea and save me a court date. And I hope they do some time and learn their lesson."
"I smoked marijuana once, in college. It made me hungry and I ate a whole box of cookies and got sick. You wouldn't have arrested me, would you?"
"No, you're too nice."
"I'm _bored_ enough to try it again, I'll tell you that."
His opening. "How's your love life, Joanie?"
"It isn't. Do you know a policeman named Edmund Exley? He's tall and he wears these cute glasses. He's Preston Exley's son."
Straight-arrow Eddie: war hero with a poker up his ass. "I know who he is, but I don't really know him."
"Isn't he cute? I saw him at his father's house last night."
"Rich-kid cops are from hunger, but I know a nice fellow who's interested in you."
"You do? Who?"
"A man named Ellis Loew. He's a deputy district attorney."
Joan smiled, frowned. "I heard him address the Rotary Club once. Isn't he Jewish?"
"Yeah, but look to the bright side. He's a Republican and a corner."
"Is he nice?"
"Sure, he's a sweetheart."
Joan flicked the tree; fake snow swirled. "Welll, tell him to call me. Tell him I'm booked up for a while, but he can stand in line."
"Thanks, Joanie."
"Thank you, Miles Standish. Look, I think I see Daddy giving me the come-hither. Bye, Jackie!"
Joan skipped off; Jack geared up for more shtick--maybe the Mitchum job, a soft version. A soft voice: "Mr. Vincennes. Hello."
Jack turned around. Karen Morrow in a green cocktail dress, her shoulders beaded with rain. The last time he'd seen her she was a too-tall, too-gawky kid forced to say thank you to a cop who'd strongarmed a hop pusher. Four years later just the too-tall stuck--the rest was a girl-to-woman changeover. "Karen, I almost didn't recognize you."
Karen smiled. Jack said, "I'd tell you you've gotten beautiful, but you've heard it before."
"Not from you."
Jack laughed. "How was college?"
"An epic, and not a story to tell you while I'm freezing. I told my parents to hold the party indoors, that England did not inure me to the cold. I have a speech prepared. Do you want to help me feed the neighbor's cats?"
"I'm on the job."
"Talking to my sister?"
"A guy I know has a crush on her."
"Poor guy. No, poor Joanie. Shit, this is not going the way I planned."
"Shit, then let's go feed those cats."
Karen smiled and led the way, wobbling, high heels on grass. Thunder, lightning, rain--Karen kicked off her shoes and ran barefoot. Jack caught up at the next-door porch--wet, close to laughing.
Karen opened the door. A foyer light was on; Jack looked at her--shivering, goose bumps. Karen shook water from her hair. "The cats are upstairs."
Jack took off his blazer. "No, I want to
hear your speech."
"I'm sure you know what it is. I'm sure lots of people have thanked you."
"You haven't."
Karen shivered. "Shit. I'm sorry, but this is not going the way I planned."
Jack draped his coat around her shoulders. "You got the L.A. papers over in England?"
"Yes."
"And you read about me?"
"Yes. You--"
"Karen, they exaggerate sometimes. They build things up."
"Are you telling me those things I've read are lies?"
"Not ex--no, they're not."
Karen turned away. "Good, I knew they were true, so here's your speech, and don't look at me, because I'm flustered. One, you got me away from taking pills. Two, you convinced my father to send me abroad, where I got a damn good education and met nice people. Three, you arrested that terrible man who sold me the pills."
Jack touched her; Karen flinched away. "No, let me tell it! Four, what I wasn't going to mention, is that Les Weiskopf gave girls pills for free if they slept with him. Father was stingy with my allowance and sooner or later I would have done it. So there--you kept my goddamned virtue intact."
Jack laughed. "Am I your goddamned hero?"
"Yes, and I'm twenty-two years old and not the schoolgirlcrush type."
"Good, because I'd like to take you to dinner sometime." Karen swung around. Her mascara was ruined; she'd chewed off most of her lipstick. "Yes. Mother and Father will have coronaries, but yes."
Jack said, "This is the first stupid move I've made in years."
CHAPTER SEVEN
A month of shit.
Bud ripped January 1952 off his calendar, counted felony arrests. January 1 through January 11: zero-he'd worked crowd control at a movie location--Parker wanted a muscle guy there to shoo away autograph hounds. January 14: the cop beaters acquitted on assault charges, Helenowski and Brownell chewed up-the spics' lawyer made it look like they instigated the whole thing. Civil suits threatened; "get a lawyer?" scribbled by the date.
January 16, 19, 22: wife thumpers paroled, welcome home visits. January 23--25: stakeouts on a burglary ring, him and Stens acting on a tip from Johnny Stomp, who just seemed to know things, per a rumor: he used to run a blackmail racket. Gangland activity at a weird lull, Stomp scuffling to stay solvent, Mo Jahelka--looking after Mickey C.'s interests--probably afraid to push too much muscle. Seven arrests total, good for his quota, but the papers were working the station brouhaha, dubbing it "Bloody Christmas," and a rumor hit: the D.A.'S Office had contacted Parker, TAD was going to question the men partying on Christmas Eve, the county grand jury was drooling for a presentation. More notes: "talk to Dick," "_lawyer???_," "_lawyer when??_"
The last week of the month--comic relief. Dick off duty, drying out at a health ranch in Twenty-nine Palms; the squad boss thought he was attending his father's funeral in Nebraska-- the guys took up a collection to send flowers to a mortuary that didn't exist. Two felony notches on the 29th: parole violators he'd glommed off another Stomp snitch--but he'd had to beat the shit out of them, kidnap them, haul them from county turf to city so the Sheriff's couldn't claim the roust. The 3 1st: a dance with Chick Nadel, a barkeep who ran hot appliances out of the Moonglow Lounge. An impromptu raid; Chick with a stash of hot radios; a snitch on the guys who boosted the truck, holed up in San Diego, no way to make it an LAPD caper. He busted Chick instead: receiving stolen goods with a prior, ten felony arrests for the month--at least a double-digit tally.
Pure shit--straight into February.
Back to uniform, six days of directing traffic--Parker's idea, Detective Division personnel rotating to Patrol for a week a year. Alphabetically: as a "W" he stood at the rear of the pack. The late bird loses the worm--it rained all six of those days.
Floods on the job, a drought with the women.
Bud thumbed his address book. Lorene from the Silver Star, Jane from the Zimba Room, Nancy from the Orbit Lounge-- late-breaking numbers. They had the look: late thirties, hungry-- grateful for a younger guy who treated them nice and gave them a taste all men weren't shitheels. Lorene was heavyset--the mattress springs always banged the floor. Jane played opera records to set the mood--they sounded like cats fucking. Nancy was a lush, par for bar-prowl course. The jaded type--the type to break things off even quicker than he usually did.
"White, check this."
Bud looked up. Elmer Lentz held out the _Herald_ front page.
The headline: "Police Beating Victims to File Suit."
Subheadings: "Grand Jury Ready to Hear Evidence," "Parker Vows Full LAPD Cooperation."
Lentz said, "This could be trouble."
Bud said, "No shit, Sherlock."
CHAPTER EIGHT
Preston Exley finished reading. "Edmund, all three versions are brilliant, but you should have gone to Parker immediately. Now, with all the publicity, your coming forth smacks of panic. Are you prepared to be an informant?"
Ed squared his glasses. "Yes."
"Are you prepared to be despised within the Department?"
"Yes, and I'm prepared for whatever displays of gratitude Parker has to offer."
Preston skimmed pages. "Interesting. Shifting most of the guilt to men with their pensions already secured is salutory, and this Officer White sounds a bit fearsome."
Ed got chills. "He is. Internal Affairs is interviewing me tomorrow, and I don't relish telling them about his stunt with the Mexican."
"Afraid of reprisals?"
"Not really."
"Don't ignore your fear, Edmund. That's weakness. White and his friend Stensland behaved with despicable disregard for departmental bylaws, and they're both obvious thugs. Are you prepared for your interview?"
"Yes."
"They'll be brutal."
"I know, Father."
"They'll stress your inability to keep order and the fact that you let those officers steal your keys."
Ed flushed. "It was getting chaotic, and fighting those men would have created more chaos."
"Don't raise your voice and don't justify yourseW. Not with me, not with the I.A. men. It makes you appear--"
A breaking voice. "Don't say 'weak,' Father. Don't draw any sort of parallel with Thomas. And don't assume that I can't handle this situation."
Preston picked up the phone. "I know you're capable of holding your own. But are you capable of seizing Bill Parker's gratitude before he displays it?"
"Father, you told me once that Thomas was your heir as a natural and I was your heir as an opportunist. What does that tell you?"
Preston smiled, dialed a number. "Bill? Hello, it's Preston Exley . . . Yes, fine, thank you . . . No, I wouldn't have called your personal line for that . . . No, Bill, it's about my son Edmund. He was on duty at Central Station Christmas Eve, and I think he has valuable information for you . . . Yes, tonight? Certainly, he'll be there . . . Yes, and my regards to Helen . . . Yes, goodbye, Bill."
Ed felt his heart slamming. Preston said, "Meet Chief Parker at the Pacific Dining Car tonight at eight. He'll arrange for a private room where you can talk."
"Which one of the depositions do I show him?"
Preston handed the paperwork back. "Opportunities like this don't come very often. I had the Atherton case, you had a little taste with Guadalcanal. Read the family scrapbook and _remember those precedents_."
"Yes, but which deposition?"
"You figure it out. And have a good meal at the Dining Car. The supper invitation is a good sign, and Bill doesn't like finicky eaters."
o o o
Ed drove to his apartment, read, remembered. The scrapbook held clippings arranged in chronological order; what the newspapers didn't tell him he'd burned into his memory.
1934--the Atherton case.
Children: Mexican, Negro, Oriental--three male, two female--are found dismembered, the trunks of their bodies discovered in L.A. area storm drains. The arms and legs have been severed; the internal organs removed. The press dubs the killer "Dr. Frank
enstein." Inspector Preston Exley heads the investigation.
He deems the Frankenstein tag appropriate: tennis racket strings were found at all five crime scenes, the third victim had darning-needle holes in his armpits. Exley concludes that the fiend is recreating children with stitching and a knife; he begins hauling in deviates, cranks, loony bin parolees. He wonders what the killer will do for a face--and learns a week later.
Wee Willie Wennerholm, child star in Raymond Dieterling's stable, is kidnapped from a studio tutorial school. The following day his body is found on the Glendale railroad tracks-- decapitated.
Then a break: administrators from the Glenhaven State Mental Hospital call the LAPD--Loren Atherton, a child molester with a vampire fixation, was paroled to Los Angeles two months before--and has not yet reported to his parole officer.
Exley locates Atherton on skid row: he has a job washing bottles at a blood bank. Surveillance reveals that he steals blood, mixes it with cheap wine and drinks it. Exley's men arrest Atherton at a downtown theater--masturbating during a horror movie. Exley raids his hotel room, finds a set of keys--the keys to an abandoned storage garage. He goes there--and finds Hell.
A prototype child packed in dry ice: male Negro arms, male Mexican legs, a male Chinese torso with spliced-in female genitalia and Wee Willie Wennerhoim's head. Wings cut from birds stitched to the child's back. Accoutrements rest nearby: horror movie reels, gutted tennis rackets, diagrams for creating hybrid children. Photographs of children in various stages of dismemberment, a closet/darkroom filled with developing supplies.
Hell.
Atherton confesses to the killings; he is tried, convicted, hanged at San Quentin. Preston Exley keeps copies of the death photos; he shows them to his policemen sons--so that they will know the brutality of crimes that require absolute justice.