L.A. Noir: The Lloyd Hopkins Trilogy

by James Ellroy

  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 nervousness had subsided. Squeezing her knee gently, he said, “This variation is the nurse spanking 360

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  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 wideangle 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!”

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  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 dance step 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 re-entered 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 362

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  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.”

  “Really?”

  “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 rightleft 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 re
volver. Richard

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  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 whirling 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. 19

  Lloyd awoke at dawn, startled out of a dreamless sleep by a sharp cramp in his leg. Rubbing his calf, he looked out of the car window and saw the Tudor cottage and the white Mercedes parked in the same spot as the night before. Oldfield’s shackup was still in progress. He had time to go home and call for reinforcements to aid him in a continued surveillance and possible approach.

  Lloyd swung his Matador around and pulled up behind the Mercedes. He wrote down the license number, then called R&I on his two-way radio and read it off, requesting a complete readout on both vehicle and owner. After three minutes of static crackle, the operator came back on the air with her information. FHM 363—No wants; no warrants. Registered to Richard Brian Oldfield, 4109 Windemere, L.A. 90036. No wants; no warrants; no criminal record. Discouraged and exhausted despite his hours of sleep, Lloyd drove home, thinking of a shave, shower, and lots of coffee. A three-day accumulation of newspapers greeted him on his front porch. The previous day’s L.A. Times bore a banner headline: “Policeman Murdered in Malibu.” A sidebar added, “Execution Style Death for L.A.P.D. Lieutenant.” Lloyd kicked the papers aside and unlocked the door, seeing the stapled together notebook pages on the floor immediately. Picking them up, he read:

  Memo to: Lloyd

  From: Dutch

  Read now.

  L.—Where have you been? Shacking? I thought you turned over a new leaf. I’m your liaison, and we were supposed to be in daily contact,

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  remember? This info is straight from Gaffaney. I’ll save the good stuff for last.

  *A.P.B. issued on Marty Bergen—no response as yet.

  *Seizure order for Big Orange Insider granted, yield—zilch. Punk kid editor had contents of M.B.’s desk destroyed after your last visit. Is threatening “police brutality” suit.

  *Intensive questioning of P.C.H./Temescal Cyn. area residents—

  zilch.

  *Phone-in info. on Christie—so far crank bullshit. (No eyewitnesses have come forth.)

  *Blood on pavement—conclusively Christie’s.

  *Additional skull fragment and flattened slug found on beach (.357

  Teflon tipped). This, + coroner’s report—“Death caused by massive neurological destruction inflicted by gunshots fired at point-blank range,” indicate that Christie was killed with his own gun.

  *Sacramento D.M.V. night info. operator (she saw account of Christie’s death in papers) called in, said that Christie called at 8:30 or so on the night of the murder, requesting D.M.V. make on car license. She gave info., but cannot remember the name of the person she gave him, or the lic. #, or the make of the car. Interesting, because the M.E. fixed the time of H.C.’s death at around the time of the call.

  *On afternoon of his death, Christie was seen around classified file section at Avonoco. He told secretary he was meeting a “heavy hitter”

  at the beach that night. When secretary asked why, he clammed up. She said he seemed agitated and elated.

  *Re: I.A.D. interviews—Rolando, clean. Kaiser, Tucker, Murray, in protective custody, appear to be clean.

  ****! Important—while I.A.D. officers were checking out offices of Junior Miss Cosmetics, security guard freaked out and tried to run. He was apprehended and taken into custody. (Pos. of marijuana.) Gaffaney is convinced he has guilty knowledge. This man (Hubert Douglas, M.N., age 39) yelped for you (said you were “cool” when you busted him for G.T.A. years ago). Will talk only to you. Come to P.C. immedi- ately (Gaffaney’s orders) before Douglas makes bail or wangles a writ.

  ***Call me—D.P.

  *

  *

  *

  Lloyd didn’t bother to shave or shower or change clothes. Still wearing his B&E outfit, he drove straight to a liquor store. As he recalled, Hubert 366

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  Douglas was a bonded sourmash fiend. A pint of Jack Daniel’s seemed like the ticket to soothe his soul and loosen his tongue. After purchasing the bottle, he raced downtown to Parker Center.

  Hubert Douglas was being held in an interrogation cubicle adjoining Fred Gaffaney’s office. Lloyd looked through the one-way glass and saw him sitting across a table from the captain, dressed in security guard’s uniform replete with gold epaulets and a Sam Browne belt. A loudspeaker about the window crackled with his story of Come-San-Chin, the Chinese cocksucker. Gaffaney listened with his head bowed, fingering his cross-and-flag tie bar.

  Lloyd walked in the door just as Douglas delivered his punch line and doubled over with laughter, slapping the table and exclaiming, “Dig it! Dig it!” Seeing Lloyd, he said, “Hopkins, my man!” and got up and extended his hand. Lloyd took it and said, “Hello, Hubert. My colleagues treating you okay?”

  Douglas nodded toward Gaffaney, who looked up and glared at Lloyd.

  “This joker keeps asking me questions. I keep tellin’ him I’ll talk to you, and he keeps tellin’ me you out of touch, the heavy implication bein’ that you out pourin’ the pork somewhere. I know my rights. I been in custody almost twenty-four hours. You gots to arraign me within twenty-four hours or cut me loose.”

  Lloyd looked at Gaffaney, then back at Douglas. “Wrong, Hubert. This is Saturday. We can legally hold you until Monday morning. Have a seat. I’ll be back to talk to you after I have a few words with the captain.”

  Gaffaney got up and followed Lloyd outside. Measuring him with disdainful eyes, he said, “You need a shave and your clothes are filthy. Where have you been?”

  “Out pulling burglaries,” Lloyd said. “What’s with Hubert?”

  Gaffaney pushed the cubicle door shut. “I was at Junior Miss Cosmetics, along with an aide. We were talking to Dan Murray in his office. We had just gotten word that Christie was checking out the classified file section at Avonoco several hours before he was shot. Since my instincts regarding Murray’s behavior told me he was clean, I mentioned it. Douglas was washing windows in the next room. My
aide thought he looked hinky and copwise, so he kept an eye on him. He bolted when the conversation turned to files. My aide caught him with a big bag of weed in his pocket. He knows something, Hopkins. Get it out of him.”

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  Lloyd let his mental wheels spin. “Captain, have you thrown the name Thomas Goff at that D.M.V. operator who called in about Christie?”

  “Yes. I talked to her myself. She said that Goff was not the name she dug up for Christie. I also gave her the license number and a description of Goff’s vehicle. Negative on that too. What do you—”

  Lloyd hushed the captain with a hand on his shoulder. “Has Douglas seen the mug shots of Goff?”

  “No.”

  “Then get me a copy of them now, and run me a complete all-police computer check on this name—Richard Brian Oldfield, white male, about thirty. Four-one-oh-nine Windemere, Hollywood. White Mercedes, FHMthree-six-three. He’s clean on wants and warrants, but I need all the details I can get.”

  Gaffaney nodded, then said, “What are you fishing for?”

  “I’ll tell you after I’ve spoken to Douglas. Will you get me those mug shots now?”

  The captain walked into his office, flushing from his neck all the way up to his crew cut. Returning to Lloyd and handing him the mug-shot strip, he hissed, “Don’t make Douglas any promises of leniency.”

  Lloyd gave his superior officer a guileless smile. “No, sir.” When Gaffaney walked back to his office, he entered the cubicle and flipped off the loudspeaker. “Let’s make a deal,” he said to Hubert Douglas, placing the pint of Jack Daniel’s on the table between them. “Tell me what I want to know, and you walk. Fuck me around, and I hotfoot it up to Narco Division and glom a pound of reefer to add to the bag the I.A.D. bulls took off you, making it a felony possession bust. What’ll it be?”