by James Ellroy
In the 1965 Watts riot he had killed a fellow National Guardsman who had fired into a storefront church filled with innocent blacks partaking of coffee and prayer. No one had ever made him for the killing, and two months later he entered the Los Angeles Police Academy. His career as a policeman was sustained brilliance, his concurrent role as husband and father a series of blundering attempts to instill his family with benign equivalents of his knowledge. When the force of his will elicited anger and hurt, he ran back to the job, and when the job swirled him into vortexes of boredom and terror and loathing, he found women who wanted
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to touch briefly what he was, offer their innocence as barter, and then get out before his hard line fervor destroyed their hard-earned and fatuous sense of life’s amenities.
And then, last year, Teddy Verplanck merged into his path, turning his universe into chaos. When that symbiosis was completed, death and rebirth occurred simultaneously, and as his wounds healed, Lloyd became a hybrid warrior formed of his past and its validity and of accredited blood testimony as to where it would ultimately take him.
And his hard line fervor cracked and solidified, leaving him to tread air in the middle of a fissure.
Before he could consciously recall his vow of abstinence, Lloyd drove to Wilshire and Beverly Glen and the only destination that gave the softer part of his fissure credibility. Finding the door open, he walked into the entrance hall and cleared his throat to announce his presence. His answer was the shuffle of feet and an unexpected giggle.
“You’re early,” Linda called out.
Trying to track the voice, Lloyd said, “It’s Hopkins, Linda.”
Linda stepped out of a closet next to the dining room, dressed in a silk robe. “I know it is.”
Lloyd walked forward to meet her. “Am I that predictable?”
Nodding her head both “yes” and “no,” Linda said, “I don’t know. Just don’t apologize for this afternoon. I was as out of line as you. No pretexts this time?”
“No.”
“Want to talk before or after?”
“After.”
Linda smiled and tilted her head toward the bedroom, then let Lloyd step ahead of her and walk in. When his back was turned, she slipped off her robe and let it fall to the floor. Lloyd swiveled to face the soft sound, seeing Linda nude, framed in the doorway, backlighted by the glow of a hall lamp. Keeping the frame at arm’s length, he undressed, wincing when his gunbelt hit the carpet. Linda giggled at the impact, then laughed outright when he leaned over and fumbled off his shoes and socks and snagged his zipper and nearly fell out of his pants. Whispering something that sounded like “beyond the beyond,” she slid past him and lay down on the bed. Lloyd saw her take up a beckoning position, a single shaft of light fluttering across her abdomen. Using the light as a beacon, he came to her. She talked while he held her and felt her and tasted her; little sighs about 346
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love and green doors. When his kisses became more persistent and then trailed down to her breasts, those sighs became the gasped word “Yes.” Lost in the word’s repetition, he let his lips move lower, until “yes” crescendoed into “Now, please, now!”
Lloyd obeyed, joining their two halves in a single abrupt motion, then pulling back to a sustaining movement as Linda coiled herself around him and pushed upward. He moved slowly; she with the unrestrained fervor of a graceful animal exploding with gracelessness, forming a point-counterpoint give and take that battered awareness of technique to death. Then he began to move with her fury, and the cop/whore entity pushed itself into a wordless, gasping trance.
Linda succumbed to reality first, twisting her head from the crook of Lloyd’s collarbone. She traced his back with her palms and kissed his neck softly, until he pulled his head from the pillow and looked down on her, revealing a blank, tear-mottled face. All she could think of to say was, “Hopkins.”
Lloyd rolled over and took her hand. When he remained silent, Linda said, “It’s after. We were going to talk, remember?”
Twisting sideways to face her, Lloyd said, “What do you want to talk about?”
“Anything except what just happened. It was perfect; let’s not mess with it.”
Lloyd positioned himself so that his eyes and Linda’s were only inches apart. “No earth-shaking postcoital revelations?”
Nodding her head so that their noses rubbed, Linda said, “Yes. I’m quitting the Life. I’ve got seventy grand tucked away, which should set me up in some kind of business enterprise. I’m quitting the shrink, too. If I quit hooking on my own I won’t need him, and therapy is too expensive for a fledgling businesswoman.”
“He’ll be very sorry to see you go.”
“I know. He’s a very brilliant shrink, but I shouldn’t associate with men who are obsessed with me. Having pictures of me on the wall is just too sad. Even though he takes them down for my visits, I still feel manipulated. Do you remember the pictures? Exactly how was I posed?”
“You weren’t posed. They were candid type shots.”
Linda’s face clouded. “Really? That’s strange. All the pictures in the book were posed.”
Lloyd shrugged, then felt an overlooked connection hit him. “Never un-
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derestimate your power, even over hardnoses like Havilland. Listen, did you ever mention Stanley Rudolph to him?”
Linda said, “Yes, but not by name. All I mentioned was that he liked to take nude pictures of me. Why? I don’t want to talk about your case or my clients.”
“Neither do I. What do you want to talk about?”
“Tell me why you broke up with your wife.”
“It’s not a pretty story.”
“It never is.”
Lloyd turned over on his back, wanting to distance himself from Linda. He tried to find the appropriate words to begin his story, then realized that unless he looked her straight in the eye, his prelude would be self-serving lies. Twisting back around and locking into eye contact, he said, “It happened last year. I had been neglecting my family and cheating on my wife with various women for years before that, but last year was when it all exploded.
“I was working Robbery/Homicide, pretty much on the cases I pleased, when I got an anonymous phone call that led me to a murder victim. A young woman. I headed the investigation and dug up information that pointed to a mass murderer who was so fucking smart that no police agency in L.A. County connected any of his killings. At the time I went to my superiors with my information, he had killed at least sixteen women.”
Linda raised a hand to her face and bit the knuckles. Lloyd said, “My superiors wouldn’t authorize an investigation; it was too potentially embarassing to too many police departments. So I went after him myself. Janice left me about that time, taking the girls with her. There was just me and the killer. I found out who he was—a man named Teddy Verplanck. He made the media very big as the Hollywood Slaughterer. You probably heard about him. I went out to get him, but a woman I was seeing got in the way. He killed her. I went out to kill Verplanck. We shot each other up, and another officer, my best friend, killed him. That part of it never hit the media. Janice and the girls don’t know exactly what happened, but they do know that I was shot, and that the whole episode almost cost me my career. Now I’ve got some nightmares to live with and a lot of innocent blood to atone for.”
Linda astonished Lloyd by smiling. “I was expecting some tawdry little tale of other men and other women, not a gothic epic.”
Baffled by the reaction, Lloyd said, “You almost sound titillated by it.”
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Linda kissed his lips softly. “My father shot my mother and then blew his brains out. I was ten. I’m no neophyte. Sometimes my thoughts are very dark. Let’s go to sleep on a happy note, though. I want us to be together.”
Lloyd got up and closed the bedroom door, shutting out a
ll traces of light.
“So do I,” he said.
*
*
*
The morning began with a muffled cadence counting issuing from the living room. Lloyd put it off as Linda gyrating to a TV exercise program and went back to sleep, only to be awakened again minutes later by a firm bite on his neck. He opened his eyes and saw Linda squatting beside the bed in a black leotard. She was sweating and holding one hand behind her back. He leaned forward to kiss her, only to have her dart out of the way of his lips. “What size sweater do you wear?” she asked.
Lloyd sat up and rubbed his eyes. “No kiss? No offer of breakfast? No
‘when will I see you again?’ ”
“Later. Answer my question.”
“Size forty-six. Why?”
Linda muttered “shit,” and handed Lloyd a Brooks Brothers box tied with a pink ribbon. He opened it and saw a carefully folded navy blue pullover sweater. Stroking its downy front, he whistled and said, “Cashmere. Did you buy this for me?”
Linda shook her head. “I’ll tell you the story some day. It’s a size too small, but please wear it.”
Standing up, Lloyd grabbed Linda and consummated their morning kiss.
“Thank you. I’ll lose weight so it’ll fit better.”
“I wouldn’t put it past you. What’s the matter, Hopkins? You’re scowling.”
Lloyd broke the embrace. “Delayed reaction to joy. My already complicated life has just gotten much more complicated. I’m glad.”
“It’s mutual. What happens next?”
“I’m going to New York in a day or so. Thomas Goff comes from there. I’m going to cruise his old haunts and talk to people who knew him. It’s my only remaining out. When I get back I’ll call you.”
“You’d better. Why don’t you shower while I make some coffee and toast?
I’ve got my yoga class in an hour, but at least we can have breakfast together.”
Lloyd showered, alternating hot and cold jets of water over his body, lost in the sound of the spray and the hum of music coming from the kitchen.
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After drying off and dressing, he walked into the kitchen and found Linda fiddling with the radio dial. “I hate to be a downer,” she said, “but I just heard some bad news. An L.A. policeman was murdered in Malibu. I didn’t get all the details, but—”
Lloyd grabbed the radio and flipped the tuner to an all-news station, catching static and the conclusion of a weather report. He sat down and looked at Linda, then put a finger to her lips and said, “They’ll repeat the story. Cop killings are hot news.”
The weatherman said, “Back to you, Bob,” and a stern-voiced announcer took over: “More details on that Malibu killing. L.A. County Sheriff’s detectives have just announced that the dead man found on the beach near Pacific Coast Highway and Temescal Canyon Road is a twenty-two-year L.A.P.D. veteran named Howard Christie, a lieutenant assigned to the Rampart Division. Christie’s decapitated body was found early this morning by local surfers, who called the Malibu Sheriff’s Substation to inform them of the grisly find. Captain Michael Seidman of the Malibu Station told reporters: ‘This is a homicide, but as yet we do not know the cause of death and have no suspects. We have, however, determined that Lieutenant Christie was killed in the parking lot immediately above the spot on the beach where his body was found. We are now appealing to anyone who was in the vicinity of Pacific Coast Highway and Temescal Canyon Road last night or early this morning, people who might have seen or heard something suspicious. Please come forward. We need your assistance.’ Further details on this story as it breaks. And now—”
Linda turned off the radio and stared at Lloyd. “Tell me, Hopkins.”
“It’s Goff,” Lloyd said, with a death’s-head grin. “I’m not going to New York. If you don’t hear from me in forty-eight hours, send up a flare.” He grabbed his sweater and ran out the door. Linda shuddered, imagining her new lover’s departure as a race into hell.
*
*
*
Pacific Coast Highway and Temescal Canyon Road was a pandemonium of police vehicles with cherry lights flashing, TV minicam crews, mobs of reporters, and a large crowd of rubbernecks that spilled over from the parking blacktop, forcing southbound P.C.H. traffic into the middle lane. Lloyd pulled up to the dirt shoulder on the land side of the highway and killed his siren, then pinned his badge to his jacket front and dodged cars over to a diagonal stretch of pavement sealed with a length of rope hung with “Official Crime Scene” warnings. The area behind the cordon was 350
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filled with plainclothes officers and technicians with evidence kits, and a long bank of pay phones was crowded with uniformed sheriff’s deputies calling in information. At the rear of the scene a half dozen plainclothesmen squatted beside the wooden railing overlooking the cliffs and the ocean, spreading fingerprint powder on a cracked piece of timber.
“I’m surprised it took you this long.”
Recognizing the voice, Lloyd pivoted and saw Captain Fred Gaffaney push his way through a knot of patrol deputies and plant himself in his path. The two men stared at each other until Gaffaney fingered his cross-and-flag tie bar and said, “This is one sensitive piece of work, and I forbid you to interfere. It’s in the sheriff’s jurisdiction, with I.A.D. handling any connections to collateral cases.”
Lloyd snorted, “Collateral cases? Captain, this is Thomas Goff all the way down the line!”
Gaffaney grabbed Lloyd’s arm. Lloyd buckled, but let himself be led over to the shadow of an empty pay phone.
“Internal Affairs is moving on the other officers whose files were stolen,”
the captain said. “They’re going to be interrogated and perhaps taken into protective custody, along with their families. Except for you. Let’s put the past aside, Sergeant. Tell me what you’ve got so far, and if possible, I’ll help you move on it.”
Lloyd drummed his fingers on the side of the phone booth. “Marty Bergen has at the very least seen the stolen files. He’s missing, but some columns that he left for advance publication indicate conclusively that Herzog passed the files to him. I think we should issue an A.P.B. on Bergen, and get a court order to seize everything at the Big Orange Insider. ”
Gaffaney whistled. “The media will crucify us for it.”
“Fuck the media. I’ve also got a hearsay line on Goff, through a hotshot psychiatrist who has a patient who knows him. But the cocksucker is hiding behind professional privilege and won’t kick loose with the name of his source.”
“Have you considered talking to Nathan Steiner?”
Lloyd nodded. “Yeah. I’m going to run by his office today. What have you got? The radio report said Christie was decapitated, which sounds like possible forty-one stuff.”
Gaffaney’s hands played over his tie bar. “I’ve got an excellent reconstruction from a team of very savvy sheriff’s dicks. The M.E.’s verdict won’t be in for hours, but this is the way they see it:
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“One—yes, it’s a gunshot homicide. Christie was shot over by that broken piece of railing, and was blown down to the beach by the impact. I saw the body. It landed on some rocks up from the tide, so it stayed dry. I saw powder burns on his shirtfront, so the shots were obviously fired pointblank. Two—Christie was decapitated, but the biggest piece of his head the technicians have been able to find so far is a skull fragment about the size of a half dollar. You know why? He was almost certainly killed with his own gun. It wasn’t found on his body or anywhere around here. His badge was stolen, too. I talked to one of the top dogs at Rampart, and he told me that Christie packed a three-fifty-seven Python on and off duty, and that he kept it loaded with Teflon-tipped dum-dum’s.” Gaffaney reached into his pants pocket and handed Lloyd a copper-jacketed slug. “Feel the weight of that monster, Hopkins. I took it off of Christie’s gunbelt while the medics weren�
�t looking. The expended rounds and Christie’s head are probably halfway to Catalina by now.”
Lloyd gouged the slug’s teflon head with his fingernail. “Shit. Those Sheriff’s dicks are probably right; this is a much heavier load than a fortyone. What else? Anything from Avonoco? Christie’s vehicle? Other vehicles? Witnesses? Blood tracks on the pavement?”
The Captain put a restraining hand on Lloyd’s chest. “Slow down, you’re making me nervous. There’s nothing on any of that yet, except a trail of blood leading from the railing across the parking lot and through the underpass to the other side of P.C.H. The trail got fainter as it went along, which indicates that the killer himself wasn’t wounded, he was just soaked with Christie’s blood. The techs are doing their comparison tests now; we’ll know for sure soon. What’s your next move?”
“Pump Nate Steiner for some legal advice. Hassle the shrink. You?”
Captain Fred Gaffaney grinned. “Interrogate the other security chiefs, go over their records, rattle skeletons. The feds are at Avonoco now. Christie’s security rating makes him a quasi federal employee, so this is a collateral F.B.I. beef. Stay in touch, Hopkins. If you want transcripts of the I.A.D. interrogations, call Dutch Peltz.”
Lloyd walked back to his car, oblivious to the ghouls lining P.C.H., drinking beer and standing on their tiptoes to get a glimpse of the drama. He had his hand on the door when the young man from the Big Orange Insider drove by and flipped him the finger.
*
*
*
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Nathan Steiner was a Beverly Hills attorney who specialized in defending drug dealers. His forte was “obstructionist” tactics—filing writs and court orders, suits and countersuits, and motions requesting information on prospective jurors, potential witnesses, and courtroom functionaries; all strategies aimed at securing dismissals on the grounds of prejudiced testimony or “courtroom bias.” These strategies often worked, but more often
