Clandestine

by James Ellroy

  “Ow, ow, ow, ow, ow,” she choked.

  Wacky held both her hands to her sides. He spoke calmly. “Yes, dear. ‘Officer.’ Now what’s wrong?”

  “Off…ic…er,” she got out, “Ma, ma—my neighbor…dead!”

  “Where?” I said.

  The woman pointed to Twenty-eighth Street. She started to run in that direction. I ran after her. Wacky followed me. She led us halfway down the block and up to an old, white wood-framed four-flat. She pointed up the stairs leading to the second story. The door was wide open.

  “Uh, uh, uh,” she stammered, then pointed again and backed up against a row of mailboxes, biting at her knuckles.

  Wacky and I looked at each other. We both nodded and Wacky gave me the beginning of a smile. We drew our guns and raced up the stairs. I entered first, into what had once been a modest living room. Now it was in a shambles: chairs, bookshelves, and cabinets were overturned and the floor was covered with broken glass. I held my breath, and advanced slowly, my gun held in front of me. Behind me, I could hear Wacky breathing hoarsely.

  There was a small kitchen straight ahead. I tiptoed up to it. The white linoleum was broadly spattered with congealed blood. Wacky saw it and immediately tore back into the rear rooms of the apartment, completely forgetting caution. I ran after him, almost knocking him over in the bedroom doorway just as I heard his first exclamations of horror: “Oh, God, Freddy!”

  I pushed him aside, and looked into the bedroom. Lying on the floor on her back was a nude woman. Her neck was black and purple and twisted to the side. Her tongue was hugely swollen and stuck out obscenely. Her eyes bulged in their sockets. There were puncture wounds on her breasts and abdomen and deep gashes on the insides of her thighs. She was covered with dried blood.

  I checked my watch—9:06 a.m. Wacky stared at the dead woman and then at me as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. His eyes moved back and forth frantically while he remained motionless.

  I ran downstairs. The woman who had summoned us was still next to her open apartment door, still gnawing at her knuckles. “The phone!” I yelled at her. I found it in her crowded front room and called the station, requested a team of detectives and a meat wagon, then ran back upstairs.

  Wacky was still staring at the dead woman. He seemed to be committing to memory the details of her desecration. I walked through the apartment, writing down descriptions: the overturned furniture, the broken glass, and the configuration of the dried blood in the kitchen. I knelt down to check the carpet: it was a dark-orange phony Persian, but light enough so that the trail of blood was still visible. I followed it into the bedroom where the dead woman lay. Wacky suddenly spoke out behind me, causing me to almost leap through the ceiling: “Jesus fucking Christ, Freddy. What a mess.”

  “Yeah. The dicks and the coroner are on their way. I’m gonna keep looking around here. You go downstairs and get a statement from the woman.”

  “Right.”

  Wacky took off and I returned to my note-taking. It was just a homey middle-class apartment, clean and comfortable looking, not the kind of place that even a desperate hophead would burglarize, but that was what this looked like. Further investigation revealed a blood-soaked terry cloth bathrobe on the floor in the little dining room that separated the living room and kitchen. At the end of the kitchen was a door that led downstairs to what looked like a laundry room; there were bloody footprints on the rickety wooden steps.

  I went through the apartment looking for the murder weapon and found nothing, no sharp instruments of any kind. I checked the victim again. She was a pretty brunette and looked to be in her middle twenties. She had a slender body and very light green eyes. She was wearing dark red toenail polish and lipstick that matched perfectly the color of her dried blood. Her body was sprawled in what seemed like reluctant acceptance of death, but her face, with its open mouth and bulging eyes, seemed to be screaming, No!

  I went through the rooms again, looking for more details that might mean something. I found a bloody partial fingerprint on the hallway wall near the bedroom door. I circled it with my pen. There was a telephone stand in the living room with no phone on it, just an ornate crystal ashtray filled with matchbooks. One of them caught my eye—a colorful orange job with three stars on it, all arranged around a martini glass. The Silver Star. I poked in the ashtray. All the matchbooks were from bars and night spots in the central L.A.-Hollywood area. I looked around for smoking materials—pipes, cigarettes, or tobacco. Nothing. Maybe the woman was a barhopper or matchbook collector.

  I heard loud footsteps thumping up the stairs. It was Wacky, followed by two plainclothes cops and an old guy I knew to be an assistant medical examiner. I nodded them in the direction of the bedroom. They went in ahead of me. I heard whistles, moans, disgusted snorts, and declarations of awe:

  “Oh, God. Oh, shit,” the first detective said.

  “Holy Jesus,” the second detective said.

  The medical examiner just stared and exhaled slowly, then walked over and knelt beside the dead woman. He poked and prodded at her skin, then ran a thumbnail over the caked blood on her legs. “Dead at least twenty-four hours, fellas,” he said. “Cause of death asphyxiation, although the stomach and breast wounds could have been fatal. Look at her eyes and tongue, though. She died gasping for breath. Look for a switchblade knife—and a fucking lunatic.”

  “Who found the body?” the first detective asked. He was a tall, burly guy I had seen around the station.

  “I did,” Wacky said.

  “Name and shield number?” he asked.

  “Walker, five eighty-three.”

  “Okay, Walker. I’m DiCenzo, my partner’s name is Brown. Let’s get out of here, stiffs depress me. Brownie, call the lab guys.”

  “I did, Joe,” Brown said.

  “Good.”

  We all walked into the living room, except for the doctor, who stayed with the body, sitting on the bed and rummaging through his black bag.

  “Okay, Walker, tell me about it,” DiCenzo said.

  “Right. My partner and I were at the market around the corner when the lady who lives in the downstairs apartment comes running in, hysterical. She leads us back here. That’s it. After we discovered the stiff and called you guys, I got the dame calmed down. She said she had a feeling something was wrong. The stiff was a friend of hers, and she didn’t show up at work yesterday or today. They both work at the same place. She’s got a key to the stiff’s apartment, because sometimes the stiff went away for the weekend and she fed her cat. Anyway, she had this feeling and went up and unlocked the apartment. She found the stiff and went running for the cops. The woman’s name is June Haller, the stiff’s name is Leona Jensen. She was employed as a secretary at the Auto Club downtown. She was twenty-four. She’s got parents someplace up north, near ’Frisco.”

  “Good, Walker,” DiCenzo nodded. We were interrupted by a team of three guys from the crime lab. They were in plainclothes and were carrying cameras and evidence kits.

  Brown pointed toward the bedroom. “In there, guys. The doc’s waiting for you.”

  DiCenzo started scanning the living room, notebook in hand. I tapped him on the shoulder and motioned him to the kitchen. “Holy shit,” he said when he saw the bloodsplattered linoleum floor.

  “Yeah,” I said. “He sliced her in here, then got her into the bedroom and strangled her. She resisted as he dragged her through the living room—that accounts for the overturned furniture and broken glass. There’s a door leading downstairs at the end of the kitchen. There are bloody footprints going down. He had to have come and gone that way. There’s a bloody fingerprint in the hall near the bedroom. I circled it. What do you think?”

  DiCenzo was nodding along with me. “What’s your name?” he asked.

  “Underhill,” I said.

  “You a college man, Underhill?” />
  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  “Well, I’d say that nothing you learned in college is gonna help us with this here homicide. Unless that print is complete and belongs to the killer. That’s college stuff—scientific. It looks to me like a botched-up burglary. When we find out what the lab report says, which ain’t gonna mean much, we’re gonna get stuck with hauling in every known burglar, dope addict, and degenerate in Los Angeles. What I’m hoping is that the dame was raped—rape-o-burglar is a rare M.O. Not too many of those bastards around. Is this your first murder victim?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it getting to you?”

  “No.”

  “Good. You and your partner go back to the station and write your reports.”

  “Right, Sergeant.”

  DiCenzo winked at me. “It’s a shame, ain’t it, Underhill? That tomato had it all, you know what I mean?”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  * * *

  —

  I found Wacky in the bedroom. Flash bulbs were popping and he was writing in his notebook, shielding his eyes from the glare, casting occasional glances at the late Leona Jensen. He was getting angry looks from the lab men, so I pulled him into the hallway.

  “Let’s go. We’ve got to get back to the station and write our reports.”

  Wacky continued scribbling in his notebook. “There,” he said. “I’m finished. I wrote a poem about the stiff. It’s a masterpiece. It’s dedicated to John Milton. It’s called ‘Piece of Ass Lost.’ ”

  “Forget it, Wacky. Let’s just get out of here.”

  We drove north on Hoover in silence.

  “You think they’ll find the guy who croaked her?” Wacky finally asked.

  “DiCenzo thinks there’s a chance.”

  “Frankly, I’m pessimistic.”

  “Why?”

  “Because death is going to be the new fad. I can feel it. It’s going to replace sports. I’m writing an epic poem about it. All forty-eight states are going to have the atom bomb and drop them on each other. L.A. is going to drop the A-bomb on ’Frisco for stealing tourists. The Brooklyn Dodgers are going to A-bomb the New York Giants. I can feel it.”

  “You’re crazy, Wack.”

  “No, I’m a genius. Freddy, you gotta call Big Sid. I loved Hillcrest. I want to play it. It’s a shot-maker’s course. I could shoot sixty-eight there.”

  I laughed. “That’s a riot. You just want to throw the salami to Siddell again. Tell me, Wack, did you ever get to finish with her?”

  “Yeah, but I’ve been calling her to try to fix up another date, and every time I call some maid answers and says, ‘Miz Siddell ain’t at home, Officer.’ I think she’s giving me the bum’s rush.”

  “Maybe, but don’t worry. There’s lots of other fat girls around.”

  “Yeah, but not like Siddell; she’s class. Listen, partner, I need a favor. Will you talk to Siddell? Sound her out on how she feels about me? You’re in tight with Big Sid, you can do it.”

  I hesitated, then felt my wheels start to turn. “Sure, Wack, I’ll drop by Big Sid’s place sometime next weekend. He gave me carte blanche for visits. I’m his new gravy train.”

  Wacky punched me in the arm. “Thanks, pard. When I’m dodging flaming arrows down in N——— Gulch and you’re king of Wilshire Vice I’ll remember this moment.”

  We pulled into the parking lot of the station. I started to offer a snappy rejoinder as token resistance, but couldn’t. Instead, I walked upstairs to the detectives’ squad room and typed up my report.

  * * *

  —

  I drove to Beverly Hills early Saturday evening, getting honest with myself en route: I could invent all the pretexts I wanted, but I knew I was going to Big Sid’s home for only one reason: to search out Lorna Weinberg and attempt, somehow, to satisfy my curiosity about her. The house was on Canon Drive, just south of Sunset. I was expecting some outrageous pretensions to class and was surprised: the large white Colonial edifice with the well-tended front lawn was understated, almost somber.

  I knocked on the door and a Negro maid answered, informing me that “Mr. Big Sid ain’t at home, Miz Siddell be up in her room takin’ a nap.”

  “What about Lorna?” I blurted.

  The withered old woman looked at me as if I were nuts. “Miz Lorna done moved out years ago.”

  “Sorry,” I said, peering through the crack in the door, scanning a living room furnished in old wood and rich fabrics. Somehow I felt that the place might be a treasure trove of wonder, even in Lorna’s absence. I paused, then said forcefully, “Wake up Siddell, will you, please? I have an important message from a friend of hers.”

  The old woman eyed me suspiciously, then opened the door and gestured toward the living room. “You waits here,” she said, “I get Miz Siddell.”

  The maid trotted upstairs, leaving me alone in the richly appointed room. I noticed some framed photographs above the red brick fireplace, and went over and looked at them. They were individual portraits of Big Sid, Siddell, and Lorna. Sid beamed proudly, Siddell looked as slender-faced as a good photographer could make her, and Lorna looked grave and abstracted, wearing a graduation gown and cap. There was another, larger photo of the family trio: Big Sid clutching his omnipresent cigar, Siddell looking sullen, and Lorna leaning on a cane. I noticed that her right leg was withered and deformed, and felt a nervous flush come over me. I shook my head to clear it, then recalled: Lorna had remained seated during our one meeting. But where was Mother Weinberg?

  Lost in my reverie, I felt a sharp tug at my coat sleeve and turned to find Siddell Weinberg pushing herself against me. “I know what you must think of me,” she was saying, “but I don’t do those kinds of things all the time…”

  I held the feverish-looking woman at arm’s length and took a stern tack, the better to secure the information I now had to have. “Well, I do, Miss Weinberg, so it’s not really a big issue. But you should call Wacky. He’s fond of you, and wants to see you again.”

  “I know, but I can’t! You have to tell Herbert not to call me here. Daddy thinks that anyone interested in me is just out for his money. Besides, I’m engaged.”

  “Does Big Sid approve of your fiancé?”

  “No, not really, but at least he’s Jewish, and he’s in graduate school. He’s got a future.”

  “And policemen don’t have futures?”

  “I didn’t mean that!” Siddell wailed. “Daddy likes you, but he thinks Herbert is crazy.”

  I led Siddell to a plush red leather couch next to the fireplace. “Your father is right,” I said. “He is. Are you in love with this guy you’re going to marry?”

  “Yes, no! I don’t know!”

  “Then call Wacky. He’s in the phone book—Herbert L. Walker, 926 South St. Andrews, L.A. All right?”

  “All—all right. I’m going out of town next week, but I’ll call Herbert when I get back.”

  “Good.” I patted Siddell’s hand, then started fishing around for conversational lead-ins to get to the real purpose of my visit. Finally, I got one: “This is a hell of a nice house, Siddell. Your mother obviously puts a lot of time into it.”

  Siddell lowered her head. “Mama is dead,” she said.

  “I’m sorry. Was it recently?”

  “No, it was in 1933. I was nine and Lorna was thirteen.”

  “That’s a long time ago.”

  “Yes and no.”

  “You mean you still feel it?”

  “Y—Yes…but mostly, Lorna does.” Siddell’s voice had taken on the resonance of a person explaining a profound truth.

  I prodded gently. “What do you mean, Siddell?”

  “Well, Mama died and Lorna got crippled at the same time, so Lorna hates and loves Mama at the same time. They were driving down Sunset. Mama was pregnant again
. It was raining, and Mama skidded into a tree. Her stomach hit the steering wheel. She lost the baby, but aside from that she wasn’t hurt. Lorna went through the windshield. Her pelvis was crushed, that’s why she walks so funny, and why her right leg is so skinny—all the nerve endings got torn up. Anyway, Mama wanted another baby, really badly. She knew Daddy wanted a son. She held the baby in there; she wouldn’t believe it was dead. She was supposed to go to the hospital to get labor induced, but she didn’t. The baby infected her stomach, and she ran away. They found her dead, up in the Hollywood Hills. She had made a little nest for herself up there, with all these baby clothes she bought from Bonwit Teller. She couldn’t believe the baby was dead.”

  It was almost more than I wanted to know.

  Siddell sensed this: “Don’t be sad,” she said. “It was a long time ago.”

  I nodded. “And your father never remarried?”

  Siddell shook her head. “Daddy hasn’t touched another woman since the day Mama died.”

  I got up to leave. By way of farewell, Siddell said, “Tell Herbert I’ll call him. Tell him I like him.”

  “I will.”

  I walked out to my car, looking up at the sky and hoping for rain. As I hit the ignition, the wonder caught me, and the irony—my adopted family were orphans, too.

  5

  Wacky was out with the flu Monday and Tuesday, and Beckworth bought it because Wacky hardly ever used his sick leave. In reality, he was juiced up and working on his new “epic” poem and waiting by the phone for a call from Siddell Weinberg.

  Early Wednesday morning as we swung out of the station parking lot, I put his fears to rest: “She’s going out of town for a week or so. She’s going to call you when she gets back.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. We had a nice chat. She’s engaged to some Jewish guy, but she isn’t in love with him.”

  “And she’s hot for some un-kosher meat on the side?” Wacky was almost drooling.

  “I think so. She thinks you’re the cat’s meow.”