by James Ellroy
Lloyd started to see red. “And?”
Bergen squared his shoulders. “And this is vigilante shit all the way. Where’s the backup units? Where’s the sheriff’s black-and-whites? It’s all about to come down, and you’re here by your lonesome looking scared. 414
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Why? Personally, I think we should go in full bore, fire team, copters, tear gas, snipers, I—”
Lloyd swung an overhand right at Bergen’s jaw. Bergen caught the blow flush and went down on his back, then got up on one knee and began flailing with both arms, his eyes squeezed shut. Lloyd started to bring up an uppercut, then hesitated and moved backward into the phone booth. He fed dimes to the coin slot until he realized he had deposited four times the required amount. Cracking the door for air, he deep breathed and dialed.
“Hello?”
The voice was Havilland’s. Lloyd cleared his throat and brought his voice up to tenor register. “Doctor, this is Jack Herzog. I’ve been away for a while. I need to see you.”
The Doctor’s response was a startling burst of laughter. “Hello, Sergeant. Congratulations on a job well done.”
Lloyd said, “I know all about you and your father. Herzog left a pile of notes. Let Linda go, Havilland. It’s over.”
“Yes, it is over, but Herzog’s green door would prevent him from keeping notes, and if you had any evidence, storm troopers would already have assaulted me. And Linda is here of her own free will.”
“Let me talk to her.”
“No. Later perhaps.”
“Hav—”
Lloyd doubled over as a blunt force crashed into his kidneys; he dropped the receiver and slid down the wall as Bergen uncoiled his fists and elbowed his way into the booth. Lloyd tried to get up, but stomach cramps forced him to remain bent over, retching for breath.
Bergen picked up the dangling receiver and spoke into it. “Hey guru man, this is Martin Bergen. I’m a reporter for the Big Orange Insider. Maybe Jack Herzog told you about me. Listen, Hopkins and I just broke Billy Boy Nagler. He told us all about your scam. The Orange is going to do an exposé
on you, talk about how you cheated your way through medical school, how you studied pimp techniques with Western Avenue spades, how chronic impotence led you to become a spiritual master. You like it, guru? You feel like consenting to an interview?”
Lloyd got to his feet and shoved his ear in the direction of the receiver, shouldering Bergen partially aside, so that both men were able to hear the tail end of Havilland’s scream, the long silence that came in its wake and
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the calm words that finally emerged. “Yes. An interview. You obviously know where I am. Come over. We’ll barter for the truth.”
The line went dead. Lloyd shoved Bergen out of the booth and limped over to his car, his abdominal pain abating with each step he took. Grabbing Ginjer Buchanan’s floor plan from the glove compartment, he said,
“Have you still got your thirty-eight?”
“Yes,” Bergen whispered.
Lloyd spread the floor plan out on the hood of the cruiser. “Good. You knock on the front door, I’ll go in upstairs on the beach side. There’s a woman in the house. She’s innocent. Don’t go near her. Keep the Doctor talking for at least two minutes. If he tries to pull anything weird, kill him.”
26
The Night Tripper switched on the living room amplifier and the bedroom number three speaker, then walked into the kitchen and found the 1984 equivalent of his 1957 Arkansas toad stabber, a short-bladed, serratededged steak knife. He stuck the weapon in his back pants pocket and called upstairs, “Richard, come here a second.”
Oldfield appeared at the head of the stairs. “Yes, Doctor?”
“We’re having a visitor,” Havilland said. “Maybe more than one. Stay upstairs in number three and stick close to Linda. Listen for strange noises. When you hear ‘now’ come over the speaker, bring Linda down to me.”
Nodding mutely, Oldfield about-faced and walked back down the hall. Havilland stared at the front door and counted seconds, savoring each little increment of time. He was up to six hundred and forty-three when the doorbell rang.
The Doctor opened the door, extending his second count to six hundred and fifty, standing perfectly still as he eyed the burned-out figure who had maneuvered at the center of the Alchemist’s life and the unseen periphery of his own. “Please come in,” he said.
Bergen entered, hunching forward with his hands jammed in his wind-416
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breaker pockets. “Nice décor,” he said. “Too bad I didn’t bring my notebook. I can never remember details unless I write them down.”
Havilland pointed to a pair of armchairs facing the latticework patio and the beach. Bergen walked over and sat down, stretching his legs and cramming his hands deeper into his pockets. Sitting down beside him, the Doctor said, “Where’s Hopkins?”
Bergen licked his lips. “Parked over on P.C.H., scared shitless. He’s crazy about this girl you’re holding, and he’s afraid to move because he thinks you’ll kill her. He suspects you of all kinds of felony shit, but his superiors won’t let him move—no hard proof. We glommed Billy Boy’s diary, but all we could get out of it were possible pandering beefs. You’re clean, Doc.”
Havilland breathed out slowly, wondering if the burnout’s right hand was holding a gun. “Then you really have no intentions of writing an article on me? You came here to offer me a deal?”
“Right. Hopkins and I both want something personal. I want all your records pertaining to Jack Herzog destroyed. I don’t want anyone to know that you counseled him. Hopkins wants the girl released safely. If you comply, Hopkins drops his investigation and lets the L.A.P.D. high brass deal with you, and I never write a word about you and your scam. What do you think?”
Havilland let the deal settle in on him. The selfishness of the men’s motives rang true, but they obviously didn’t know that he knew the game was over. “And if I don’t comply?”
Bergen pulled out his left hand and looked at his watch. “Then I attack you in print with a yellow journalistic fervor you wouldn’t believe, and Crazy Lloyd goes after you with everything he’s got. A word to the wise, Doc. They don’t call him Crazy Lloyd for nothing.”
*
*
*
Lloyd skirted the ocean side of the house, looking for the foundation stanchions mentioned on the floor plan. Holding the Ithaca pump in the crook of his arm, he hugged the edge of the sand, shielded from view from within the house by a wooden screen of crisscrossed trelliswork. The rear stanchion was an ornately carved wooden pole leading up to a second-story balcony that was open at the front and enclosed by a trelliswork arbor immediately before the upstairs windows. Lloyd grabbed the pole with his right arm and inched himself up the narrow footholds provided by the carving indentations, holding the shotgun out at arm’s length. When he was just underneath the edge of the balcony, he slid the Ithaca
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pump up and over, wincing at the clatter and scrape of metal. Leaning his weight into the pole, he released his right arm and grabbed the edge with both hands, then hoisted himself onto the tar papered surface. Hearing nothing but silence, Lloyd picked up the shotgun and tiptoed over to the enclosure, looking for an entry point. There were no built-in doors, but dead in the middle a section of wood had cracked and separated, providing a crawl space. Seeing no other way, Lloyd wedged himself through, splintering a large network of boards in the process. The sound exploded in his ears, and he closed his eyes to blot out the overwhelming sense that the whole world could hear it. When he opened them, he again heard nothing but silence, and realized that his finger had the Ithaca’s trigger at half-squeeze. Early morning light played through the gaps in the trelliswork and reflected off the second-floor windows. Lloyd threaded his way past piles of lounge chairs and over to the windows, hoping to find at least one unlatched
. He was about to begin trying the hasps when he saw that the middle window was wide open. Holding the shotgun out in front of him, he walked over and pulled back the curtains that blocked his view. Seeing nothing but an empty bedroom, he stepped inside and padded to the door. Opening it inward with trembling hands, he saw a long carpeted hallway and heard Marty Bergen’s voice surrounding him: “We’re reasonable men, aren’t we? Compromise in the basis of reason, isn’t it? We—”
Lloyd pulled the door shut, wondering how Bergen’s voice would be carrying from two places at once. Then it hit him: William Nagler’s diary had stated that Thomas Goff taped the Beach Womb groupings. The house was obviously equipped with speakers, amplifiers and bugging apparatus. Bergen and Havilland were downstairs talking, while an upstairs speaker was blasting their conversation. Lloyd pushed the door open and peered out, cocking his ears in order to get a fix on the speaker. The sound of amplified coughing delivered it: The room across the hallway two doors down. Linda was flashing across his mind until Havilland’s voice destroyed the image. “But you want innocence for Jack, and you can’t have it. Hopkins wants the woman and he can’t have her. Now! ”
And then Linda was there in reality, propelled out of the speaker bedroom by an unseen force. Lloyd jumped out into the hallway when he saw her, catching a blurred glimpse of a moving object that she seemed to be 418
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shielding. When Linda saw him, she screamed, “No!” and tried to duck back into the room, revealing Richard Oldfield behind her.
“Hopkins, no!”
Linda stumbled and fell to the floor as Oldfield froze in the doorway. Lloyd fired twice at eye level, blowing away Oldfield’s retreating shadow and half the doorframe. Muzzle smoke and exploding wood filled the hallway. Lloyd ran through it to find Linda on her feet, blocking his entrance into the bedroom. She pummelled him with tightly balled fists until he shoved her aside and saw an empty room and a half-open picture window reflecting a descending object on its opposite side. Screaming “Oldfield!”
Lloyd pumped a shell into the chamber and blew the reflection and the window to bits, staring into the rain of glass for geysers of red that would mark first blood. All he saw was glass fallout; all he heard and felt was Linda pushing herself into him, shrieking, “No!”
Until a shot reverberated stereophonically from downstairs and the bedroom speaker, tearing him away from Linda and down the hall to the head of the stairs, from which he saw Bergen and Havilland wrestling on the floor for Bergen’s .38, kicking, flailing and gouging at each other, twisted into one entity that made a clean shot at the Doctor impossible. Lloyd fired blindly at the far downstairs well. Startled by the explosion, Bergen and Havilland jerked apart from each other, letting the .38 fall between them. Lloyd hurtled down the stairs, pumping in another round and taking a running bead on the Doctor’s head. He was within a safe firing perimeter when Havilland got his left hand on the revolver and aimed it at Bergen’s midsection. Bergen twisted away and brought his knees up to deflect Havilland’s arm, again voiding Lloyd’s target. The Doctor’s finger jerked the trigger twice. The first shot ricocheted off the hardwood floor, the second shot tore through Bergen’s jugular. Lloyd saw innocent first blood cut the air and screamed, hearing his own terrified wail dissolve into the sound of his Ithaca kicking off a wild reflex round and the .38 blasting three times in its echo. When his tear-wasted vision cleared, he saw Havilland stabbing Bergen in the stomach with a shortbladed knife. Lloyd felt everything move into a thunderous slow motion. Slowly he worked the slide of his weapon; slowly he walked to the death scene and aimed point-blank at Havilland’s head. Slowly the Doctor looked up from his second generation fate, dropped the knife and smiled. Lloyd rested the muzzle on his forehead and pulled the trigger. The empty
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chamber click resounded like hollow thunder, snapping the slow motion sequence, sending everything topsy-turvy and breakneck fast. Suddenly Lloyd had the shotgun reversed and was slamming the butt into Havilland’s face over and over again, until a jagged section of his cheek was sheared off and blood started to seep from his ears. Then the speed diminished into a vertiginous absence of light, and from deep nowhere a beautiful voice called out, “Walk, Richard. Walk. ”
27
The legal machinery took over, and for nine straight days, temporarily suspended from duty and held incommunicado at Parker Center, Lloyd watched the state of California and the City and County of Los Angeles bury Dr. John Havilland in an avalanche of felony indictments, a barrage of due process based on his ninety-four page arresting officer’s report and Havilland’s own written and taped memoirs. The first indictment was for the murder of Martin Bergen. The Malibu District Attorney expected it to be an open and shut case, because a highly respected veteran police officer had witnessed the killing, and because the defendant appeared to have no known relatives or friends likely to press embarrassing lawsuits against either Sergeant Lloyd Hopkins or the Los Angeles Police Department for their jurisdictional foul-up on the “arrest.”
Back-up charges were quick in coming, as federal agents investigating the Howard Christie murder moved in and seized everything at Havilland’s Century City office, Beverly Hills condominium, and Malibu house. His handwritten notes alone led to three indictments for first degree murder, handwriting experts having examined verified specimens of the Doctor’s script along with his diary notations stating that he had ordered Thomas Goff to “kill the proprietor of the liquor store on Sunset and the Hollywood Freeway as proof of your desire to move beyond your beyond.” Identical match ups, three murder one indictments and an indictment for criminal conspiracy resulting.
The agents also found the deed to a storage garage in East Los Angeles, 420
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and upon checking it out discovered a yellow Toyota sedan and the decomposed body of Thomas Goff. A right index print belonging to John Havilland was found on the car’s dashboard. The District Attorney of the City of Los Angeles ordered yet another murder indictment. The federal officers could find no concrete evidence linking Havilland to the murder of Howard Christie, and gave up.
Four days into his forced sequestering, Captain Fred Gaffaney visited Lloyd at his typewriter storage room/domicile and told him that any report that he submitted explaining Martin Bergen’s presence at the Malibu house would be accepted if he agreed to edit out all mention of former officer Jacob Herzog and all mention of the stolen L.A.P.D. files and the security firms and their files. The various prosecutors thus far involved in the case had read his ninety-four page epic and considered it “overly candid” and
“potentially embarrassing to the prosecution.” Lloyd agreed. Gaffaney smiled and told him it was a wise move—he would have been summarily shitcanned from the Department had he refused. Before he left, Gaffaney added that he would be appearing before the grand jury in two days. Was there any information he had held back? Lloyd lied and said, “No.”
The worshippers of John Havilland were taken into custody, questioned and released after signing depositions elaborating their relationships with
“Doctor John.” A free-lance “deprogrammer” of religious cult captives was there to aid the district attorneys and D.A.’s investigators in their interrogations. The combined coercion worked four out of five times, resulting in detailed accounts of brainwashing, dope experimentation, and sexual debasement. Only William Nagler could not be convinced to talk. He screamed his mantra and ranted about “horror movies” and was ultimately released to the care of his parents, who admitted him to an expensive private sanitarium. The D.A.s were pleased overall with their questionings; the depositions would be juicy fodder for the grand jury, and they would spare the sad brainwashees the grief of a courtroom appearance. Lloyd was not spared that grief. He spoke for four straight hours, almost verbatim from his new arrest report, omitting all mention of Herzog, the security files and Martin Bergen’s outsized role in his investigation. He explaine
d Bergen’s presence at the death house as a simple case of a bulldog reporter hot on a story. When Lloyd concluded his own story, he did not mention Richard Oldfield or Linda Wilhite and their presences at the house, or how he happened to be unconscious when the first wave of sheriff’s deputies arrived on the scene. When he walked back to the witness
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table, Fred Gaffaney was there with a wink and glad tidings: his violations of L.A.P.D. canon were only going to cost him a thirty-day suspension without pay, a slap on the wrist for his vigilante hooliganism. The final witness to appear before the grand jury was a Los Angeles County deputy medical examiner, who stated that in his opinion the flurry of indictments leveled at Havilland was overkill, because the Doctor’s fall down a steep flight of stairs immediately before his arrest had resulted in severe and irrevocable brain damage. Havilland was destined to live out his years insensate, not knowing who, what, or where he was. The impact sustained by his fall had opened up lesions from a previous head injury, quadrupling the neurological destruction. The M.E. ended with the statement,
“I tried to get the man to understand that I was a doctor, that I was there to examine him. It was like trying to explain relativity to a turnip. He kept looking at me so pathetically. He had no idea that it was over.”
But Lloyd knew that it wasn’t. There was the unfinished business of the horror movie and the big “why” of Linda’s behavior at the Beach Womb. And when that was settled, there was the matter of homage to Marty Bergen.
Nine days after the incident the press had dubbed the “Malibu Massacre,” Lloyd was released from his “voluntary incarceration” at Parker Center. His thirty-day suspension had twenty-one days left to go, and he was told to remain in Los Angeles for the next two weeks, in order to be available to the myriad D.A.s working on the Havilland case. He was also ordered not to speak to representatives of the media and to refrain from police work on any level.
