Reading the file a second time, paying close attention to the most recently dated additions, Lloyd learned that Oldfield’s surrender to the Goff psyche was becoming more pronounced, assuming “pathological dimensions.” Goff hated women and prowled bars looking for ones to abuse; Oldfield paid prostitutes to let him beat them. Goff hated policemen and spoke often of his desire to kill them; Oldfield now aped his half brother’s broadsides. The last file entry was dated 2/27/84, slightly over two months earlier, and stated that “Richard Oldfield was assuming the proportions of the classic paranoid/schizophrenic criminal type.”
Lloyd put the folder down, wondering if Oldfield had discontinued therapy in February or if Havilland had more data on him elsewhere. He rummaged through the other drawers until he found a metal Rolodex file. Oldfield’s address and phone number were right there under the O’s—4109 Windemere, Hollywood, 90036; 464-7892.
Lloyd sat still for a full minute, fuming at the fact that his illegal entry would destroy the possibility of ever hanging an accessory rap on Havilland. Then he thought of Richard Oldfield and went calm beneath his rage. Putting the files back in their proper place, and sorting the ramifications of the B & E, he picked up the tool kit and made for the door, thinking: Don’t let Havilland know that his secrets have been plundered; don’t give him reason to warn Oldfield, who might warn Goff. Cover your tracks.
Lloyd looked at the splintered doorjamb and calculated more odds, then got out his crowbar and padded over to the door of the adjoining suite. Thinking, just do it, he pried the door open.
Only the sound of cracking wood assailed him. He hit the next door and the door after that, then heard the blare of an alarm cut through the echoes of his destruction.
The noise grew, then leveled off to a piercing drone. Lloyd grabbed his tool kit and ran toward the maintenance storeroom, checking the elevator bank as he passed it. The flashing numbers on top said that armed help was on the sixth floor and ascending rapidly.
Lloyd opened the storeroom door, then let it close halfway. He paced off three yards to the service stairs across the hallway and closed the door behind him, leaving himself just enough of a crack to peer through. Seconds later he heard the elevator door open, followed by the sounds of running footsteps and strained breathing drawing nearer. When he saw a single uniformed guard draw his gun and step cautiously inside the storeroom, he nudged his door open and hurled himself across the hallway, pushing the storeroom door shut. There was a panicked “What the fuck!” from the guard trapped inside, and then six shots tore through the door and ricocheted down the hallway.
Lloyd stepped inside the service stairs, picked up his toolbox and hurtled down twenty-six stories to ground level. Chest heaving and soaked with sweat, he pushed the connecting door into the lobby open. No one. He walked out the door and across the astroturf lawn to Century Park East, restraining himself by assuming a nothing-to-hide gait. He was safely inside his unmarked cruiser when he heard the wail of sirens converge on the scene of his crime. With shaking hands, he drove to the Hollywood Hills.
Windemere Drive was a residential side street in the shadow of the Hollywood Bowl. One-story tudor cottages dominated the 4100 block, and the sidewalk was free of tree and shrub overhang. It was a good surveillance spot.
Lloyd parked at the corner and circled the block on foot. No yellow Toyota. Coming back around, he flashed his penlight at the numbers stenciled on the curb. 4109 was two doors down from where he had left his car, on the opposite side of the street. He checked his watch. At 8:42 the stucco and wood tudor house was pitch dark.
He walked back to his unmarked Matador and grabbed the Ithaca pump stashed under the driver’s seat. After jacking a shell into the chamber, he walked over to 4109 and rang the doorbell.
No answer and no light coming from inside. Lloyd pressed his face to the front picture window. Heavy curtains blocked his vision. Hugging close to the walls, he padded across the porch and around the driveway to the back yard. No car; thick drapes covering all the windows. The opposite side of the house was shielded from foot access by an overgrown hedge connected to the house next door. Lloyd craned his neck to get a quick look, glimpsing more darkened windows. Sounds from brightly lit neighboring dwellings underlined 4109’s lack of habitation. He walked back to his car to wait.
Slouching low in the driver’s seat, Lloyd waited, keeping a sustained eyeball fix on 4109. It was almost an hour later that a white Mercedes pulled to the curb in front of the house. A man too tall to be Thomas Goff and a woman in a white nurse’s uniform got out and moved into a side-by-side lovers’ drape. The woman squealed as the man nuzzled her neck. Together they walked up the steps and into the house. A light glowed behind the heavy curtains as the door was shut.
Lloyd stared at the curtains and thought of the woman. If she was a prostitute, Oldfield would probably pay her to stand his abuse. But that didn’t click; her uniform and affectionate manner spelled girlfriend or pick-up. Keeping his impatience at bay by concentrating on the need not to risk the woman’s safety, Lloyd settled in to wait out the night.
18
LAUGHING voices and a burst of light cut across the Night Tripper’s field of vision, casting a rainbow haze over his infrared image of Lloyd Hopkins slouching in the front seat of his car. He put down the magnification lens he was holding to his eye and smiled. “Hello, Sherry. Hello, Richard,” he said.
Sherry giggled. “Hi, Lloyd.” Her uniform was a size too small and looked like it would split down the middle should she attempt anything more strenuous than walking in a straight line. She sniffed back a wad of mucous and giggled again. Havilland smiled. Coked to the gills.
He sized up his leading man.
Oldfield stood with his back up against the bolted door, in a posture that reminded the Doctor of a staunch medieval warrior trying to keep demons at bay, never guessing that they resided inside him. Last night Havilland had called him to his Malibu grouping retreat and had primed him for his performance by whispering death poems in his ear while he scrubbed Howard Christie’s blood from the seats of his Volvo. The recitation had had a calming effect on them both; and now Richard Oldfield was a quiet nuclear warhead.
Sherry laughed and undid the top button of her uniform blouse. Ofdfield walked to the middle of the living room and said, “Ready when you are, C.B.”
Sherry giggled at the remark; Havilland could hear traces of stage fright. He walked to Oldfield and threw an arm around his shoulder. “Hold on just a minute, will you, Sherry? I want to talk to your co-star alone.”
Sherry nodded and kicked off her shoes. The Doctor led Oldfield back to the bedroom and swept an arm toward its new furnishings. “Isn’t it wonderful, Richard? One of your co-counselees helped me set it up while you were asleep out at the retreat.”
Oldfield darted his eyes over white velvet curtains shuttering the windows; his mattress removed from the bedstead and centered on the middle of the floor, covered with light blue silk sheets; a movie camera on a tripod with its gaze zeroing downward. He dry swallowed and whispered, “Please take me as far as I can go.”
Havilland embraced him, letting his lips touch his ear. “Yes. You helped me last night, Richard. I was afraid. You took me through that fear, just as I have taken you through your fears. Just one reminder. When she abuses you, think of all the abuse that governess made you take as a child. Keep your fuel intake at optimum, right up until the moment. Now wait here.”
The Doctor walked back into the living room. Sherry Shroeder was sitting on the couch, her uniform top completely unbuttoned. “I didn’t know whether or not to strip,” she said.
Sitting down beside her, Havilland said, “Not yet. Button up your outfit while I give you directions.” He put a hand on her knee as she fumbled at her top. “What we are filming is a variation on the corny old nurse routine. You know, nurses are supposed to be very experienced, because they know so much about bodies.”
Sherry laughed. Havilland noticed that her nervousnes
s had subsided. Squeezing her knee gently, he said, “This variation is the nurse spanking the boy, who of course is Richard—really a man—and then getting so aroused that she has to seduce him. What I want you to do is pull down Richard’s pants and spank him hard, very hard, then do the most seductive striptease you are capable of. After that I’ll give both of you more specific instructions. Do you understand?”
Sherry waggled her eyebrows. “I used to play tennis when I was a little girl. I’ve got a great backhand.” She laughed and covered her mouth. “Richard’s got a really sharp bod. Where’s the camera guy?”
“Well …” Havilland said, “to be frank, I can’t afford one, so I’m filling in. You and Richard came too high, so to cut costs, I’m standing in behind the camera myself. I—”
Sherry poked a teasing finger in the Doctor’s ribs. “Come on, Lloyd. As Gary Gilmore said, ‘Let’s do it.’”
They walked into the bedroom. Oldfield was sprawled on his back across the mattress, fully clothed. Havilland got behind the camera, adjusting the tripod and swiveling the lens until the mattress was captured in a wide-angle shot. Clearing his throat, he said, “Since this is a silent movie, please feel free to talk—but quietly. I don’t want to upset the neighbors.” He turned the camera on and listened to the whir of film. “Sherry, you know what to do. Richard, follow Sherry’s lead, but position your face on the near side of the mattress, so I can get some close shots. Okay, action!”
Sherry sat down on the edge of the mattress, facing the camera. She extended her legs in front of her, resting her heels on the floor. Patting her lap, she said, “Come on, you bad boy.”
Oldfield obeyed, getting to his feet and loosening his belt, then lying down across Sherry’s legs, positioning his buttocks just above her knees. “Bad, bad boy,” she said as she pulled down his pants and undershorts. “Bad, bad boy.”
Havilland zoomed in for a close-up reaction shot just as Sherry’s first slap hit naked flesh. Oldfield grimaced. “Harder, Sherry,” the Doctor said.
Sherry redoubled her efforts, grunting “Bad, bad boy,” each time her palm made contact. Oldfield’s lens-framed eyes contracted with the blows. Havilland hissed, “Harder, Sherry, harder. Remember your tennis stroke.”
“Bad bad bad bad boy!” Sherry brought her hand down full force. Oldfield’s eyes glazed over and dry spittle formed at the corners of his mouth. Havilland took his eye from the camera and saw that raised red dots were forming on his buttocks. “Bad bad bad bad bad boy!”
“Cut!”
The Doctor’s own shout startled him. “Cut,” he repeated softly. “That’s a print. Richard, go wait in the hall. Sherry, step off the mattress and do your striptease.”
The actors obeyed, Oldfield drawing himself to his feet and cinching his pants without meeting Sherry’s eyes; Sherry kneading her flushed right hand. When Richard was outside the bedroom, Havilland said, “Be your sexiest,” and swung the camera up. “Now,” he said.
Sherry Shroeder began to undress, plucking at the buttons on her uniform. She took off her blouse and dropped it on the floor, then snagged the zipper at the back of her skirt. Jerking it loose, she muttered, “Shit,” then caught herself and pouted at the camera, stepping out of the skirt and twirling it on a finger above her head. Letting it drop, she unhooked her bra and pulled down her stockings and panties. Nude, she did a pelvis grinding dancestep that caused her breasts to shake in opposite directions. Covered with goosebumps, she silently mouthed song lyrics and tried to pout at the same time. Zooming in for a close-up, the Doctor thought that he could detect the words to “Green Door.”
“Cut!”
Again the Doctor’s own voice jolted him. “Lie down, Sherry,” he said. “Richard, you can come in now.”
Oldfield reentered the bedroom, naked, holding his hands over his genitals. Havilland pointed to the bed, then shut off the camera and checked the expended film cylinder. Film to burn. He framed a long shot of the mattress and the two performers on it, then locked in the tripod and said, “I’m a little shy, so I’ll let you pros do what comes naturally. I’ll come back and check on you in a few minutes.”
Sherry laughed and Oldfield flinched. Havilland flipped the automatic forward switch and walked out to the dining room. Poking his infrared lens through a crack in the curtains, he saw his best actor perform.
Lloyd Hopkins, stuffed fat with bait, was still sitting inside his car, still staring daggers at the house. The allusions to illegal searches in his personnel file had been accurate—he was not above committing crime to solve crimes. He was a hypocritical snake, and a cowardly one—undoubtedly afraid of approaching his suspect for fear of jeopardizing the fair damsel in the bedroom. Havilland watched him yawn, scratch, and stretch without ever taking his eyes from the tudor cottage. Each tiny move was like a laser beam piercing the childhood void.
Checking his watch, the Doctor saw that ten minutes had passed. He walked to the bedroom. Sherry and Richard were lying on opposite sides of the mattress. He turned the camera off and stared at his performers. Sherry was positioned on one elbow, an arm across her breasts. Richard lay rock still, eyes closed, twitching.
“We did it soft,” Sherry said. “I think we faked it pretty good. Richard couldn’t, you know, but I think it still looked okay. If you want we can try again and shoot some hard shots.”
Havilland walked to the bedroom closet and ran his hand over a ledge at the back, coming away with a thick roll of adhesive bandage. “No, that does it, except for some clothed shots I want to get. You can get dressed now.”
“Realty?”
“Really. I’ll give you the rest of your money in a minute.”
Richard’s eyes twitched open at the phrase. He got to his feet and stretched, then pulled on his pants and shirt and took the tape from the Doctor’s hand. “Thank you for helping me go beyond my beyond,” he said.
Havilland looked into his eyes and saw frozen rage. He focused the camera at Sherry and hit the on switch. Sherry finished buttoning her blouse and said, “Lloyd, can we make this quick? There’s a party in the Valley at eleven-thirty, and since this was quicker than I thought, I’d like to make it.”
Havilland nodded assent and telescoped the lens so that Sherry’s face was held in an extreme close-up. “Now, Richard,” he said.
The viewfinder went black as Richard Oldfield hurled himself beyond his beyond. A high-pitched shriek died into a struggle for breath; crashing bodies caused a blank wall to sway before the camera’s eye. The Night Tripper tried to refocus, then gave up. Richard pinned Sherry to the floor with his knees, one hand holding her head, the other swirling tape up from her mouth to her nose. When both passages were shut air tight, he stood up and watched her face turn red, then blue and her arms and legs flail. Soon her entire body became a collective gasp; her torso pushing off the floor in an adrenaline-fueled death throe.
Oldfield fell to his knees and pummeled the flailing body, throwing right-left combinations at the groin and ribcage until all resistance ended in a last shudder of asphyxiation. Now weeping, he stood up on wobbly legs and saw the Doctor with the camera strapped to his shoulder, bending down, pulling the bandage off of Sherry Shroeder’s face.
“Now, Richard. Now, Richard. Now, Richard.”
The Night Tripper was holding out a silencer-fitted revolver. Richard took it in his hand, then looked down, seeing the dead woman’s face covered with a transparent plastic pillow.
“Now, Richard. Now, Richard. Now, Richard.”
The camera zoomed in and whirred; Oldfield pressed the barrel to the pillow and pulled the trigger. There was a dull plop, then the hiss of escaping air, then a spread of crimson as the deflated plastic filled with blood.
“Yes, Richard. Yes, Richard. Yes, Richard.”
The Night Tripper steadied the camera, pushing the eyepiece out of his way. He took the gun from Richard’s hand and flipped the cylinder open, letting the spent round fall to the floor. The Bronx ferris wheel became a whirlin
g corkboard. He took two fresh rounds from his pocket and placed them in adjoining chambers, then flicked the cylinder shut and spun it.
Richard Oldfield stood slack-jawed, swaying to self-contained music. The Night Tripper took a Dodger baseball cap and Howard Christie’s badge from his jacket, placing the cap on Richard’s head, pinning the badge to his left breast pocket. He placed the camera back on the tripod, then filmed close-ups of the badge, the cap and Richard’s face. Thinking of Linda Wilhite and toppling chess pieces, he picked the gun up off the floor and placed it in Richard’s right hand. Getting back behind the camera, he said, “Do you feel complete now, Richard?”
“Yes,” Richard said.
“Articulate how you feel.”
“I feel as if I’ve conquered my past, that I’ve broken through all my green doors with the promise of peace as my reward.”
“Will you go one step further for me? It will help a beautiful woman to resolve her nightmares.”
“Yes. Name it.”
“Stick the gun in your mouth and pull the trigger twice.”
Richard obeyed without question. The hammer clicked on empty chambers. The Night Tripper captured his finest moment on film, then ran to the dining room curtains and looked out with his blood-colored lens. Lloyd Hopkins was asleep, his head cradled into the half-open car window.