by James Ellroy
Lloyd stood up and stretched. What would have cracked the case twentyfour hours before was now stale bread. The High-Power Tank adjoined the 606
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Ding Tank, where Duane Rice was incarcerated until two weeks ago. Gordon Meyers was the night jailer there, and he had incurred Rice’s wrath as a member of the overall robbery scheme or for some other reason—stale bread also, because Meyers was dead, and Rice was unlikely to live through the night. Everyone involved in the twisted mess was dead or marked for death, including himself. Thinking inexplicably of Louie Calderon’s “The kid was just too scared to say no. Don’t let them kill him,” Lloyd looked at McCarver and said,
“A righteously too late tip, but I’ll give you some righteous advice: walk real soft around cops, because nothing’s going to be the same with us anymore.”
McCarver said, “What the fuck,” and Lloyd walked out to his car and handcuffed witness. A crew of reservists were hanging black bunting on the front doors of the station as he drove away.
*
*
*
Pulling into his driveway a half hour later, Lloyd saw a stack of L.A. County interagency records sleeves beside his kitchen door. Killing the engine, he said to Rhonda, “You’re staying with me until Rice is kill—I mean captured.”
Rhonda rubbed her wrists. “What if I don’t like the accommodations?
You also mentioned money a while back.”
Lloyd got out of the car and pointed to the door. “Later. I’ve got some reading to do. You sit tight while I do it, then we’ll talk.”
The records sleeves were thick and heavy with paper. Picking them up, Lloyd felt comforted by the bulk of the cop data. He unlocked the door, flicked on the light and motioned Rhonda inside. “Make yourself at home, anywhere downstairs.”
“What about upstairs?”
“It’s sealed off.”
“Why?”
“Never mind.”
“You’re weird.”
“Just sit tight, all right?”
Rhonda shrugged and started opening and closing the kitchen cabinets. Lloyd carried the sleeves into the living room and arrayed them on the coffee table, noting that the paperwork came from the L.A. County Department of Corrections, L.A. County Probation Department, County Parole Bureau and California State Adult Authority. The pages were not broken down by the names of his four suspects, and he had to first collate them into stacks—one for Duane Rice, one each for the Garcia brothers, one for Anne Vanderlinden. That accomplished, he broke them down by agency,
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with R&I rap sheets on top. Then, with the sounds of Rhonda’s kitchen puttering barely denting his concentration, he sat back to read and think and scheme, hoping to pull cold facts into some kind of salvation. Duane Richard Rice, quadruple cop killer, grew up in the Hawaiian Gardens Housing Project, graduated Bell High School, had a 136 I.Q. The first of his two arrests was for vehicular manslaughter. While working as a mechanic at a Beverly Hills sports car dealership, he lost control of a car he was test-driving and killed two pedestrians. He ran from the scene on foot, but turned himself in to the Beverly Hills police later that same night. Since Rice possessed no criminal record and no drugs or alcohol were involved, the judge offered a five-year prison sentence, then suspended it on the proviso that he perform one thousand hours of public service. Rice shouted obscenities at the judge, who retracted the suspension and sentenced him to five years in the California Youth Authority Facility at Soledad. While at Soledad, Rice refused to participate in group or individual therapy, studied martial arts and worked in the facility’s auto shop. He was not a disciplinary problem; he formed no discernible “close prison ties.” He was not a member of the Aryan Brotherhood or other institutional race gangs and abstained from homosexual liaisons. Judged to be a “potential achiever, with high intelligence and the potential for developing into a highly motivated young adult,” he was paroled after serving three years of his sentence. Rice’s parole officer considered him “withdrawn” and “potentially volatile,”
but was impressed with his hard work as foreman at a Midas Muffler franchise and his “complete eschewing of the criminal lifestyle.” Thus, when Rice was subsequently arrested on one count of grand theft auto, the officer did not cite him for a parole violation, mentioning in a letter to the judge that “I believe this offender to be acting under psychological duress, deriving from his relationship with the woman with whom he was cohabitating.”
Rice received a year in the county jail, was sent to the Malibu Fire Camp and evinced spectacular bravery during the Agoura brushfires. His parole officer and the judge who tried his case granted him a sentence reduction as a result of this “adjustment,” and he was given three years’ formal county probation and released from custody.
Lloyd put the Rice records aside, and turned to the paper on the girlfriend. Vanderlinden, Anne Atwater, white female, D.O.B. 4/21/58, Grosse Pointe, Michigan, had a file containing a scant three pages. She had been arrested twice for possession of marijuana, receiving small fines and suspended sentences, and three times for prostitution. She was given two years’
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formal probation following her second conviction, and bought her way out of a probation violation on her third arrest by informing on a “suspected auto thief ” to L.A.P.D. detectives. Shaking his head sadly, Lloyd checked the date of Anne Vanderlinden’s dismissed charge against the date of Duane Rice’s G.T.A. bust. Three days from the former to the latter; Vandy had snitched off the man who loved her.
The two remaining stacks of paper read like a travelogue on eerie fraternal bonding, with even eerier informational gaps. Robert Garcia, known during his losing boxing career as Bobby “Boogaloo” Garcia, the “Barrio Bleeder,” had been a fight manager, the owner of a coin laundromat and a hot-dog stand, while his brother Joseph had his occupations listed as “asst. fight manager,” “asst. laundry operator” and “fry cook.” The brothers had been arrested only once, together, for one count of burglary, although they were suspected of having perpetrated others. Once convicted, they were sentenced to nine months’ county time together, and served it together, at Wayside Honor Rancho. At Wayside, the brothers’ antithetical personalities rang out loud and clear. Lloyd read through a half dozen reports by correctional officers and learned that Robert Garcia was disciplined for attempting to bribe jailers into placing his brother in the “soft” tank where youthful inmates who might be subject to sexual abuse were housed, and, that once those bribes were rebuffed, he assaulted two prisoners who spoke jokingly of Joe as “prime butthole.” Released from the disciplinary tank after ten days’ confinement, the Barrio Bleeder then beat up his own brother, telling a psychiatrist that he did it “so Little Bro would get a little bit tougher.” When Bobby was again placed in solitary, Joe set his mattress on fire so that he would be placed on the disciplinary tier, within shouting distance of the brother who protected and abused him. Those facts were eerie, but the absence of facts on the brothers’ last five years was even stranger. Based on Christine Confrey’s description and R&I stats, the late Robert Garcia was obviously the “Shark,” yet he had no arrests for sex offenses, nor was a penchant for sexual deviation mentioned anywhere in his file. Both he and his brother were placed on formal probation after their kick-out from Wayside, and reported dutifully until their probationary term was concluded. Yet there was no mention of employment for either man. Only one fact made sense: listed as the Garcias’ “known associate” was Luis Calderon. Lloyd thought the burgeoning fed investigation into Calderon right before the bank slaughter sent everything topsy-turvy. The connection was there, just waiting to be made.
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But it wasn’t, because there was a correctness, a sense of inevitability about this spiral of death. Lloyd shivered with the thought, then took the mental ball and ran with it, wrapping up the odds and ends of the case in
to a tight but anticlimactic package.
After killing the officer with the commandeered car, Rice traveled by foot to the vicinity of the Bowl Motel, came across Bobby Garcia on the street, where he could not safely take him out, then followed him to the church and killed him. Why? The reason was meaningless. Joe Garcia, the “tall,” “sweetlooking” Mexican who bank witnesses said “didn’t shoot anyone” was also the “puto” Mexican that Rice told Rhonda took off with his girlfriend from Stan Klein’s pad. The only loose strand in the fabric was Klein. Rice was there to grab his woman, presumably armed with a silencered .45. Yet Klein was killed with a knife. Joe Garcia was there, too, but he did not read, sound, feel, or in any way play as a killer.
Again, Louie Calderon’s words echoed: “Don’t let them kill him.” Lloyd put down the paperwork and called out, “Rhonda, come here.”
Rhonda walked in. “Time to talk money?” she said.
Nodding, Lloyd watched her sit down in Janice’s favorite left-behind chair. “That’s right. Questions and answers, but first there’s this: if other police officers question you, you don’t mention Stan Klein’s name, or anything about this “puto Mexican” you told me about. Got it?”
“Got it, but why?”
“I’m not sure, it’s just an ace in the hole I’m working with.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Never mind. First question: when Rice called you today, did he mention this Mexican guy by name, or anything else about him, or where he thought he and Anne Vanderlinden might have gone?”
“That’s easy: no, no and no. All he said was ‘This puto Mexican took off with Vandy and you’ve got to help me find them.”
“All right. You said Rice wanted you to pick up some money. Did he say where?”
“No.”
“He just assumed that since you and Anne worked outcall together—”
“We didn’t work Silver Foxes together. I’ve never met her. It’s just that we move in some of the same circles, and know some of the same people, and we’ve both tricked with a lot of music industry biggies. Besides, Vandy isn’t working Silver Foxes now. She quit two months ago, in October.”
“How are you so sure of the date?”
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“Well . . . I got Duane the information about Vandy and Stan Klein on my lonesome, and I thought if he paid for that, then maybe he’d pay me for a list of all the clients Vandy tricked with regularly, so last week, when I was in the office, I looked at her old file and made a list. I was going to sell it to Duane tonight, you know . . .”
“Exploit his jealousy?”
“I wouldn’t call it that.”
“Do you think if she were scared and broke she’d run to any of the men on the list?”
“I’d make book on it. There’s one guy, a producer, who used to use Vandy for theme parties, paid her top dollar. He’s a really good bet.”
“How much for your silence and the list?”
Rhonda took a piece of paper from her bodice. “Duane’s bought and paid for, right? I mean, you guys are going to kill him sooner or later, right?”
“Smart girl. How much?”
“An even thousand?”
Lloyd got his checkbook from the dining room table and wrote Rhonda Morrell a check for one thousand dollars. When he handed it to her, she smiled nervously and said, “Still want me to stick around?”
Lloyd looked away from the smile. “Get out,” he said. The door was opened and shut quietly, and high heels tapped toward the street. Lloyd picked up the piece of paper that Rhonda had left, saw a list of four names, addresses and phone numbers, then looked at his phone. He was reaching for it when an internal voice said “Think” and made him stop. Obeying, he sat down in Janice’s chair, still warm from the Silver Fox. He was doomed, because he could not kill Duane Rice in cold blood. Rice was doomed from all sides, and Jesus Fred Gaffaney was doomed within the Department. He would undoubtedly offer up his evidence on the Watts riot killing as a tactic to save himself—a legendary L.A.P.D. detective as youthful murderer was prime media meat, and the Department would pay heavily to stonewall the revelation. If the high brass capitulated, they would be looking to save face by every means possible, and he would be dismissed without the early pension deal now being offered, while Jesus Fred himself would keep his captaincy and get shunted to some safe, shithole outpost where a new generation of witch-hunters would keep him under wraps until his retirement or death. If Gaffaney went public with his information, as civilian or policeman, the grand jury would either indict
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him or not indict him, but either way, Janice and the girls would know, and his local celebrity would be exploited to full advantage. Lloyd thought of the other victims: the families of the dead cops, Hawley and Eggers and their disintegrating marriages; Sally Issler and Chrissy Confrey, dropped like hot rocks amidst desperate declarations of future fidelity. The bank teller and her loved ones, and the shitload of harmless street people who were going to be bait for thousands of cops in an impotent rage, because three of their own got taken out, and there was nothing they could do about it.
Feeling buried, Lloyd thought of Watts and the fatuous idealism that had carried him through the riot and into the Job. He had convinced himself that he wanted to protect innocence, when he really wanted to crawl through sewers in search of adventure; he had sold himself a bill of goods about the just rule of law, when he really wanted to revel in the darkness he pretended to despise, with his family and women as safety buffers when the dark ate him up.
To take the edge of failure off his admissions, Lloyd tried to bring to mind the most tangible evidence of his success—the faces of innocents spared grief as a result of his hard-charger actions. None came, and he knew it was because their well-being was only a rationalization for his desire to plunder. The last admission shined a spotlight on the survival plan that was forming in his mind all night. Lloyd laughed out loud when he realized he couldn’t figure it out for one simple reason—he thought he was the one he wanted to save. Knowing now that he wasn’t, he picked up the phone and punched a painfully familiar number.
“Hollywood Station, Captain Peltz speaking.”
Dutch’s voice was stretched thin, but it was not the grief-stricken voice of two hours before. Trying to sound panicky and apologetic, Lloyd said,
“Dutchman, we’re in deep shit.”
“One of your rare dumb statements, Lloyd. What do you want?”
“Any response on the A.P.B.s yet?”
“No, but there’s roadblocks and chopper patrols all over Hollywood, and we’ve got Rice’s vehicle, a ’78 Trans Am, purchased five days ago. It was parked a block from where you guys shot it out. If he’s still in the area, he’s dead meat. Did you get—”
“I gave you a wrong name, Dutch. Joe Garcia wasn’t in on the heists or the killings. I can’t go into it, but the third man is a guy named Klein. He’s dead. Rice killed him yesterday.”
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Dutch’s hollow voice returned in force: “Oh, Jesus God, no. ”
“Oh, Jesus God, yes. And listen: Gaffaney and his freaks had his name and package for hours before the bulletin was issued, and they don’t give a fuck if he’s innocent or—”
“Lloyd, all the stats on the robbers say one white man, two Mex—”
“Goddammit, listen! Rice is the white man, Bobby Garcia is Mexican, Klein, the other dead man, is tall and Latin-looking. And he’s dead. All we’ve got is Rice on the loose, and he’s a pro car thief and probably out of the area.”
“How sure are you of all this?”
Lloyd tried to sound quietly outraged. “I’m the best, Dutch. We both know it, and I know Joe Garcia is innocent. Do you want to help me, or do you want one of your men to gun him down?”
A long silence came over the line. Lloyd imagined Dutch weighing the odds of innocent lives intersecting with trigger-happy cop
s. Finally he said,
“Goddamn you, what do you want?”
A wrench hit Lloyd’s stomach; he knew it came from manipulating his best friend with an outright lie. “Garcia is most likely running with Rice’s girlfriend,” he said. “A blonde white woman in her mid-twenties. Gaffaney’s hot dogs don’t know about her, because I just found out about her myself. The Garcia brothers have got no family, and the one K.A. in their file is a gun dealer already in custody. I’m assuming they’ll run to her friends. I’ve got a list of names and addresses of four likelies. I want surveillances on the four pads, experienced officers. Tell them to apprehend Garcia and the woman without force.”
Another long silence, then Dutch’s voice, cold and all business: “I’ll implement it. I’ll direct four unmarked units to the pads and have them hold tight until 0800, then I’ll bring in a fresh shift when the daywatch comes on. We’re talking obvious unmarked cars, though. There’s no time to have the men come to the station for their civilian wheels. And I want a full report on this guy Klein—fast.”
Lloyd picked up Rhonda’s list and read it off slowly. “Marty Cutler, 1843
Gretna Green, Brentwood; Roll Your Own Productions, 4811 Altera Drive, Benedict Canyon. That has to be a house—it’s all residential down there. Another no name address—Plastic Fantastic Rock and Roll, 2184 Hillcrest Drive, Trousdale Estates—that’s also all residential. The last one is Tucker Wilson, 403 Mabery, Santa Monica Canyon. Got it?”
“Got it. These are all fat city addresses. Wh—”
“Rice’s girlfriend is a class outcall hooker. These are former customers of
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hers. My source put an asterisk after the Trousdale address, and she said some ‘exec producer’ was an especially good bet. You take it from there.”
