"Yes. But don't cloak your self-serving motives in respect for the Department. Given what you are, it's pitifully transparent."
Change-up: "Has IAD been tailing me sporadically since the Johnson thing?"
"No. If you've been under surveillance, it's the Feds. I forgave you for _that_ murder, remember?"
X-ray eyes--the fuck made me blink.
"Clean yourself up, Lieutenant. You smell like blood."
o o o
I cruised by Wenzel's pad--J.C.'s car was parked outside. Call it: potential Tommy links snipped quick.
Shell-shock images:
The Feds bag Junior live. He plea bargains: queer exposure quashed in exchange for Dave Klein nailed. Junior, evidence-prof savant--all my killings, all my payoffs itemized.
Go--toss that insane hovel one more time--
I drove over, unlocked six padlocks to get in. Lights on, new horror:
Shotgun shells in the oven.
Cherry bombs crammed down a toaster.
Razor blades choking a heat duct.
Do it:
Bag the spy camera.
Bag the gibberish notes.
Dump the furniture again--four chairs in--loose stitching. Rip, reach--
Cash tucked away--$56.
Gilette 187 carbons--Homicide-pilfered.
A new Glenda/Klein report--more detail:
PRIOR TO HER FATAL SHOOTING AND STABBING OF GILETTE, MISS BLEDSOE FIRED TWO NON-WOUNDING SHOTS WITH THE AFOREMENTIONED .32 REVOLVER THAT SHE HAD PURCHASED FROM GEORGE AINGE. (SEE BALLISTICS REPORT -- 114-55 ATTACHED TO THE HIGHLAND PARK SQUAD CASE FILE FOR DETAILS ON THE EXPENDED ROUNDS TAKEN FROM GILETTE'S BODY AND FOUND EMBEDDED IN HIS LIVING ROOM WALLS.) THAT REVOLVER IS NOW SAFE IN MY POSSESSION, LEFT WITH ME BY AINGE PRIOR TO HIS DEPARTURE FROM LOS ANGELES. I HAVE TEST FIRED SIX ROUNDS FROM IT, AND BALLISTICS ANALYSIS OF THE ROUNDS INDICATES THAT THEY ARE IDENTICAL TO THE ROUNDS TAKEN FROM BOTH GILETTE'S BODY AND THE GILETTE PREMISES. IT IS PLASTIC WRAPPED AND THE SMOOTH PEARL GRIPS SUSTAINED RIGHT AND LEFT THUMB PRINTS WHICH MATCH TO ELEVEN COMPARISON POINTS THE PRINTS ON FILE FROM GLENDA BLEDSOE'S 1946 JUVENILE SHOPLIFTING ARREST
I ripped it up, flushed it.
"Safe"/"wrapped"/powdered = safety-box-stashed.
I tapped the walls--no hollow spots.
I unzipped cushions--mousetraps set with Cheez Whiz snapped at me.
I yanked a loose floorboard--an electric dashboard Jesus glowed up iridescent.
I laughed--
99% CRAAAZY Junior--1% sane. Sane evidence-methodical, logical, concise, succinct, plausible--assume death provisions rigged--willing the concise, logical, plausible, succinct evidence to its most logical, potentially vindictive heir: Howard Fucking Hughes.
Laughing--hard to breathe--Rice Krispies popping on the floor. Voices next door--why's that nice Mr. Stemmons laughing so CRAAAZY?
I grabbed the phone, fumbled it, dialed.
"Hello? Dav--"
"Yeah, it's me."
"Where are you? What happened with Doug?"
Ancelet--skewed time-ancient stuff. "I'll tell you when I see you."
"Then come over now."
"I can't."
"Why?"
"I'm waiting someplace. There's an off chance the guy who lives here might show up."
"Then leave him a note and have him call you at my place."
Don't laugh. "I can't."
"You sound very strange."
"I'll tell you about it when I see you."
Silence--line crackle--Miciak hovered.
"David, do you. . ."
"Don't say his name, and if it hasn't been in the papers or on TV, figure no."
"And when it's yes, I know what to do."
"You always know what to do."
"And you'll always push me for where I learned it."
"I'm a detective."
"No, you're this man who implements things. And everything about me can't be explained."
"But I'll--"
"But you'll always try--so come over and try now."
"I can't. Glenda, tell me things. Distract me."
Hear it--match flare, exhale. "Well, Herman Gerstein came by the set today and raised hell with Mickey. It seems that he's seen rushes, and he's afraid Sid Frizell's making the movie too gory. Also, quote, 'This vampire incest routine might get that goddamn goyishe Legion of Decency on our ass,' unquote. To top that off, Touch told me that Rock gave him the crabs, and Sid's been screening outtakes from this stag film he's shooting down in Lynwood. Not the most attractive performers, but the crew seemed to enjoy it."
I checked a window-dawn coming. "I should keep this line open."
"Tonight then?"
"I'll call you."
"Be careful."
"Always."
I hung up, grabbed a chair and drifted someplace. Vampires there: Tommy, Pops chasing Meg with his fly down. Blank sleep, hands on me-- "Yeah, he's the boss at Ad Vice."
"Lieutenant, wake up."
Up thrashing.
Two prototype IA men, guns out.
"Sir, Junior Stemmons is dead."
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Code 3 to Bido Lito's-- two cars--no explanation. Spooked: Jack said he'd lose the corpse.
Side streets, there:
Reporters, prowl cars, Plymouths--Feds snapping zoom-lens pix. Civilians milling around--no crowd ropes yet.
I parked and followed a morgue team. Feds talking-duck by, listen:
"...and their pictures weren't in our Intelligence files. These were unknown, most likely out-of-town hoods seen servicing the coin machines here and at a dozen other Southside locations."
"Frank--"
"Please, just listen. Yesterday, Noonan got an anonymous tip on a garage down here. We hit it, and we found slot machines up the wazoo. _But_--it was just a separate garage on a dirty little street, and we can't trace the ownership to save our lives."
Slot intrigue--fuck it--
I ran inside. Heavy brass: Exley, Dudley Smith, Inspector George Stemmons, Sr. Lab men swarming, Dick Carlisle, Mike Breuning.
Voodoo eyes strafed me--Lester Lake's savior. They flipped stiff fingers surreptitious--Breuning kissed his.
Flashbulb pops. Stemmons shouting, close to tears.
Morgue jockeys pushed a gurney in. I chased them--past the bandstand, back hallways--a slot room.
FUCK--
Junior dead--fetal-curled on the floor.
Junkie-tied--an arm tourniquet--rigor-locked teeth on a sash cord.
A spike bent off a mainline; bulging eyes. Short sleeves--needle tracks and vein scars exposed.
A bluesuit, gawking: "I checked his pockets. He had a key to the front door on him."
A lab man: "The janitor got here early and found him. Jesus, this kind of grief right in the middle of the Fed thing."
The coroner, mind reader: "It's either a legitimate OD or a very skillful hotshot. Those marks are proof of the man's addiction. My God, a Los Angeles police officer."
Jack Woods--never.
Ray Pinker nudged me. "Dave, Chief Exley wants to see you out back."
I double-timed it out to the lot. Exley was standing by Junior's car. "Interpret this."
"Interpret shit. It's real or it's the Kafesjians."
"IA said they found you asleep at Stemmons' apartment."
"That's right."
"What were you doing there?"
"I drove over to Steve Wenzel's place and saw J.C.'s car in front. Junior's apartment was close, and I thought he might show up. What happened with Watts?"
"Five dead, and no eyewitnesses. It was dark when Tommy Kafesjian fired, is that correct?"
"Yeah, he had some nigger kill the lights. Did you--"
"Wenzel was the only white victim, and the state of his body precluded an early ID. Apparently, the shotgun rounds provoked a reaction from a number of independently armed men inside the club. Bob Gallaudet and I went down there and mollified the press. We told them all the victims were Negroes a
nd promised them passes to the Chavez Ravine evictions if they soft-pedaled the story. Of course they agreed."
"Yeah, but you can bet the Feds were monitoring our radio calls."
"They were there taking pictures, but so far as they know it was just some sort of glorified Negro altercation."
"And since they're charging us with giving shine killings the go-by, you sent a dozen Homicide dicks over for appearances."
"Correct, and Bob and I spoke to an influential Negro minister. He has political aspirations, and he promised to talk to the victims' loved ones. While he's at it, he's going to urge them not to talk to the Feds."
Junior's car--grime-streaked windows, filthy. "What did you find here?"
"Narcotics, canned food and homosexual literature. IA's impounding it."
Noise inside the club. Check the window: Stemmons, Sr., kicking chairs. "What about Junior?"
"We'll tell the press it was accidental death. IA will investigate, very discreetly."
"And steer clear of the Kafesjians."
"They'll be dealt with in time. Do you think Narco could have done this?"
Stemmons sobbing.
"Klein--"
"No. Sure, they could rig a hotshot, but I don't think it's them. I'm leaning toward a legit OD."
"Why?"
"A patrolman said Junior had a front-door key in his pocket. He was a doped-up crazy fuck, and this place is a known Tommy K. dope drop and hangout. If they were going to kill him, they wouldn't have left the body here."
"What kind of condition did you find his apartment in?"
"You wouldn't believe me if I told you, and you should let me forensic it. I aced forensics undergrad, and I trashed the place and probably left prints up the ying-yang."
"Do it, then wipe it. And call Pacific Bell and get his phone records sealed. Now, last night you said Stemmons had dope stored in safedeposit boxes."
"Yes."
"Do you know which banks?"
"I've got his bank books and the box keys."
"Good, and you're an attorney, so I'll go along with your 'dope stash' fantasy and tell you to study your law books and figure out a strategy to bypass Welles Noonan and secure a bank writ."
"_Fantasy?_"
Sighing: "Stemmons has dirt on you. It's most likely stored in those boxes. He was extorting you on some level, or you would have dealt with him in your inimitable strongarm fashion before this lunacy of his extended so far out of control."
NOW, SPILL IT:
"He had a clipping file on _you_. It was hidden with some Personnel forms on Johnny Duhamel. Last night I made a bullshit comment on Duhamel that jacked your blood pressure up about twenty points, so don't you fucking patronize me."
"Describe the file"--no reaction, pure frost.
"All your Bureau cases. Thorough--Junior was as good a paperwork evidence man as I've ever seen. I broke into his apartment last week and found it. _Last night_ it was gone."
"Interpret."
I winked Dudley-style. "Let's just say it's nice to know that my good buddy Ed has got a personal stake in this too. And don't worry on Kafesjian 459 PC--I'm in way too deep to stop."
Window view--Papa Stemmons grieving. "You should calm him down, Eddie. We don't want him screwing up this personal thing of ours."
"Call me after your forensic"--about-face, watch him go.
Window view:
Exley waltzing up to Stemmons--no handshake, no embrace. Crack the window, listen:
"Your son.. . forbid you to interfere or talk to the press. . . spare you the pain of his pervert tendencies made public."
Stemmons weaving, grief-crazy.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Car radio downtown:
KMPC: Policeman Found Dead at Southside Jazz Club--LAPD Says Heart Attack.
KGFJ: After-Hours Shootout! Five Negroes Dead!
Press blanket--Exley working fast.
Nothing on Harold John Miciak.
Police-band check--dipshit cops ID'ing Junior by name.
The Bureau, my office-a run for clean clothes. A locker-room shave and shower--keyed up, exhausted.
Down the hall to Personnel--I requisitioned Junior's print abstract. Furtive: I grabbed Johnny Duhamel's.
The lab--I bagged an evidence kit and a camera. A call to PC Bell-- Exley's name dropped.
Do this:
Compile all Gladstone 4-0629 calls going back twenty days.
List the names and addresses of all people called.
Hold all George Stemmons, Jr., records--awaiting Chief Exley's court order.
Call _me_ at that number--with full results--inside four hours.
Car radio back out:
Watts killings--Negro preacher blames liquor--"the enslaver of our people."
Exley press-leak fantasia:
During a hot pursuit through a closed-down Southside nightclub, Sergeant George Stemmons, Jr., suffers a fatal heart attack. The robber escapes; there will be no autopsy--it violates the dead officer's religion.
No Miciak.
No Fed stuff.
Blues guarding Junior's door--I locked them out and worked.
I took photos:
Booby traps/cornflake piles/sloth.
I bagged fibers, listed property.
Print dusting next--tedious, slow. I got Junior himself--multiple sets--ten point matched to the abstract. The living room/hallway/ kitchen--odd latents, featuring scar ridges. An easy make--me--Pops caught me stealing and burned my fingers.
Three rooms down--I wiped them clean. The inside doorway--a new set, a match: Duhamel, eight comparison points. Extrapolate it: Johnny scared to enter.
I wiped them. The phone rang--PC Bell, responding.
I copied:
10/28/58--BR 6-8499--Mr. & Mrs. George Stemmons, 4129 Dresden, Pasadena.
10/30/58--BR 6-8499---ditto.
11/2/58--MA 6-1 147--Administrative Vice Division, LAPD.
11/2/58--Mom/Dad.
11/3/58, 11/3/58, 11/4/58, 11/4/58--Ad Vice.
11/5/58, 11/5/58, 11/6/58--GR 1-4790--John Duhamel, 10477 Oleander, Eagle Rock.
11/6/58, 11/6/58, 11/7/58, 11/9/58, 11/9/58--AX 4-1192--Victory Motel, Gardena.
11/9/58--MU 8-5888--pay phone, 81st/Central--Los Angeles.
11/9/58--MU 7-4160--pay phone, 79th/Central--Los Angeles.
11/9/58--MU 6-1171--pay phone, 67th/Central--Los Angeles.
11/9/58--Victory Motel.
11/9/58--ditto.
11/9/58-Duhamel's pad.
11/10/58--WE 5-1243--pay phone, Olympic/La Brea--Los Angeles.
11/10/58-Victory Motel.
11/10/58, 11/10/58, 11/11/58, 1 1/12/58-KL 6-1885--pay phone, Aviation/Hibiscus--Lynwood.
11/16/58-HO 4-6833--Glenda Bledsoe, 2489 1/2 N. Mount Airy, Hollywood.
Writer's cramp-interpret the data:
Mom-Dad/work early on--straight biz. Duhamel calls next--Junior going crazy. The Victory Motel--Mobster Squad HQ--Smith's strongarm spot/Johnny on duty.
Pay phones then--Darktown locations--say dope biz, maybe talks with Steve Wenzel. A non-sequitur phone booth--Olympic and La Breathe Kafesjian pad six blocks south. Crazy Junior--THEY said don't call the house.
11/12 to 11/16--no calls, Junior INSANE. 11/16--_my_ late Glenda call.
Logical, but:
Lynwood pay-phone calls = ????
Exhaustion-fried--I dusted the bed rail.
Fuck--
Interlocked hand spreads--laced fingers gripping. Sweat smears, viable latents: and _no_ Johnny points. Obvious Junior prints linked with unknown prints: some ham-handed faggot.
Wipe them--_bbring bbring_--grab the phone, shut the bed out.
"Exley?"
"It's John Duhamel."
"_What the--how did you know I was here?_"
"I heard a radio call about Stemmons. I drove by his place, and the patrolmen told me you were inside. I--look, I need to talk to you."
ADRENALINE--my head buzzed.
"Where are yo
u?"
"No . . . meet me tonight."
"Come on, _now_."
"No, we'll make it eight o'clock. 4980 Spindrift. It's in Lynwood."
"_Why there?_"
"Evidence."
"Johnny, tell me--"
_Click_--dial tone--tap the button--Exley, fast.
NO.
Don't--he's hinked on Johnny--just maybe.
Option call--I dialed MA 4-8630.
"Office of the District Attorney."
"Dave Klein for Bob Gallaudet."
"I'm sorry, sir. Mr. Gallaudet is in a staff meeting."
"Tell him it's urgent."
Transfer clicks, "Dave, what can I do for you?"
"A favor."
"Name it--you've shot me a few recently."
"I need a look at an lAD personal file."
"Is this an Ed innovation? IA's very much his cadre."
"Yeah, it's an Exley thing. When a man makes the Detective Bureau, IAD does a very thorough background check. I'm meeting a man tonight, and I need more of a handle on him. It's about the Darktown trouble, and you could get a look at the file with no questions."
"You're doing this behind Ed's back."
"Yeah, like those Kafesjian reports I gave you."
A pause-seconds ticking. "Touché, so call me back in a few hours. It can't leave the Bureau, but I'll oblige you with a synopsis. What's the man's name?"
"John Duhamel."
"Schoolboy Johnny? I lost a bundle on his pro debut. Care to enlighten me?"
"When it's over, Bob. Thanks."
"Well, quid pro quo for now. And next time I see you, let me tell you about the meeting Ed and I had with this colored minister. Strange bedfellows, huh?"
That bed--laced hands. "The fucking strangest."
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Surplus adrenaline--it jacked me up to peep the Kafesjians.
I staked their house from three doors down--no bedroom-window strip show. Nobody peeper-chasing--three cars on the lawn.
Stakeout time killer--my car radio:
Junior eulogized--LAPD chaplain Dudley Smith: "He was a grand lad. He was a dedicated crimefighter, and it is a cruel caprice of fate that so young a man should suffer cardiac arrest while chasing a common robber."
Welles Noonan on KNX: "... and I'm not saying that the surprising death of an allegedly healthy young policeman is connected to the other five deaths that have occurred within the past twenty-four hours in South Central Los Angeles, but it seems curious to me that the Los Angeles Police Department should be so eager to explain it all away and be done with it."