by James Ellroy
The woman remained silent. The silence was unnerving, so to keep himself from doing an embarrased little foot-dance, Lloyd memorized her physicality, maintaining a probing eye contact that the woman returned without flinching. A rigid angularity trying to hold reign over a soft, strong body, he decided; thirty-four to thirty-six, the slight traces of make-up a concession to awareness of her age; the brown eyes, pale skin, and chestnut hair somehow denoting breeding; the severe tweed suit a coat of armor. Smart, contentious, and unhappy. An aesthete afraid of passion.
“Are you with the Intelligence Division?”
Lloyd gawked at both the non sequitur and the force in the woman’s voice. Recovering, he shifted his feet and said, “No, why?”
The woman smiled mirthlessly and spat out her challenge: “The L.A.P.D. has a long history of trying to infiltrate causes they deem subversive, and my poetry has been published in feminist periodicals that have been highly critical of your department. This bookshop carries a list of titles that includes many volumes that explode myths surrounding the macho mentality.”
The woman stopped when she saw that the big cop was beaming broadly. Aware that a parity of discomfiture had been achieved, Lloyd said, “If I wanted to infiltrate a feminist bookstore, I would have come in drag. May I come in, Miss—”
“My name is Kathleen McCarthy,” the woman said. “I prefer Ms., and I won’t let you in until you tell me what this is all about.”
It was the question Lloyd was hoping for. “I’m the most honored homicide detective on the west coast,” he said softly. “I’m investigating the murders of close to twenty women. I discovered one of the bodies. I won’t insult you by describing how it was mutilated. I found a bloodstained book at the crime scene, Rage In The Womb. I’m certain that the killer is interested in poetry–maybe feminist poetry in particular. That’s why I came here.”
Kathleen McCarthy had gone pale, and her challenging posture had slumped, then tensed up again as she grabbed the door jamb for support. Lloyd moved in, showing her his badge and I.D. card. “Call the Hollywood Station,” he said. “Ask for Captain Peltz. He’ll verify what I’ve told you.”
Kathleen McCarthy motioned Lloyd inside, then left him alone in a large room filled with bookshelves. When he heard the sound of a phone being dialed he slipped off his wedding band and examined the books that covered the four walls and spilled over onto chairs, tables, and revolving metal bookracks. His respect for the strident poet grew–she had placed her own published works in preeminent spots throughout the room, alongside volumes by Lessing, Plath, Millett and other feminist ikons. An out-front ego, Lloyd decided. He started to like the woman.
“I apologize for judging you before I heard you out.”
Lloyd turned around at the words. Kathleen McCarthy was not chagrined by her apology. He started to feel her, and threw out a line calculated to secure her respect. “I can understand your feelings. The Intelligence Division is overzealous, maybe even paranoid.”
Kathleen smiled. “May I quote you on that?”
Lloyd smiled back. “No.”
An embarrassed silence followed. Sensing the mutality of the attraction deepen, Lloyd pointed to a book strewn couch and said, “Could we sit down? I’ll tell you about it.”
In a low voice and with a deliberately cold deadpan stare, Lloyd told Kathleen McCarthy how he had discovered Julia Lynn Niemeyer’s body and how a blood smeared copy of Rage In The Womb, along with the poem sent to Julia’s post office box, had convinced him that his assumed one-time killer was in reality a mass murderer. Ending with a recounting of his chronological work-up and the psychological profile he had deduced, he said, “He’s brilliant beyond words, and going completely out of control. Poetry is a fixation with him. I think that he wants subconsciously to lose control, and that he may view poetry as his means to that end. I need your feedback on Rage In The Womb, and I need to know if any strange men–specifically men in their thirties–have been coming here to your store, buying feminist works, acting furtive or angry or in any way out of the ordinary.”
Lloyd sat back and savored Kathleen’s reaction of cold, hard, muscle-constricting rage. When she was silent for a full minute, he knew that she was mustering her thoughts into a severe brevity, and that when she spoke her response would be a perfect model of control, devoid of rhetoric or expressions of shock.
He was right. “Rage In The Womb is an angry book,” Kathleen said softly. “A polemic, a broadside against many things, violence on women in specific. I haven’t stocked it in years, and when I did, I doubt if I ever sold a copy to a man. Beyond that, the only male customers that I get are men who come in with their girlfriends and college students–young men in their late teens and twenties. I can’t remember when I’ve had a single man in his thirties in the store. I own the store, and run it by myself, so I see all my customers. I—”
Lloyd cut Kathleen off with a wave of his hand. “What about mail orders? Do you do a catalog business?”
“No, I don’t have the facilities for mailings. All my business is done here in the shop.”
Lloyd muttered “Shit,” and punched the arm of the couch. Kathleen said, “I’m sorry, but listen…I have a lot of friends in bookselling. Feminist literature, poetry, and otherwise. Private dealers you’ve probably overlooked. I’ll call around. I’ll be persistent. I want to help.”
“Thank you,” Lloyd said. “I could use your help.” Feigning a yawn, he added, “Do you have any coffee? I’m running on empty.”
Kathleen said, “One moment,” and departed into the back room. Lloyd heard the sounds of cups and saucers being readied, followed by the electric crackle of a radio and the blare of some kind of symphony or concerto. When the music picked up tempo, he called out, “Would you turn that off, please?” Kathleen called back, “Alright, but talk to me.”
The music diminuendoed, then died altogether. Lloyd, relieved, blurted out, “What shall I talk about, police work?”
Kathleen came into the living room a moment later, bearing a tray with coffee cups and an assortment of cookies. “Talk about something nice,” she said, clearing books from a low end table. “Talk about something dear to you.” Scrutinizing Lloyd openly, she added, “You look pale. Are you feeling sick?”
Lloyd said, “No, I feel fine. Loud noise bothers me; that’s why I asked you to turn off the radio.” Kathleen handed him a cup of coffee. “That wasn’t noise. That was music.” Lloyd ignored the statement. “The things that are dear to me are hard to describe,” he said. “I like poking around in sewers, seeing what I can do about justice, then getting the hell out and going someplace where it’s gentle and warm.”
Kathleen sipped coffee. “Are you talking about being with women?”
“Yes. Does that offend you?”
“No. Why should it?”
“This bookstore. Your poetry. 1983. Pick a reason.”
“You should read my diaries before you judge me. I’m a good poet, but I’m a better diarist. Are you going to catch this killer?”
“Yes. Your reaction to my being here impresses me. I’d like to read your diaries, feel your intimate thoughts. How far do they date back?”
Kathleen flinched at the word “intimate.” “A long time,” she said, “since my days with the Marshall Clarion. I…” Kathleen stopped and stared. The big policeman was laughing and shaking his head delightedly. “What is wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing, except that we went to the same high school. I had you all wrong, Kathleen. I figured you for East Coast Irish money, and you turn out to be a mick from the old neighborhood. Lloyd Hopkins, Marshall High Class of ’59 and cop of Irish Protestant grandparents meets Kathleen McCarthy, one-time Silverlake resident and Marshall High graduate, Class of…”
Kathleen’s features brightened with her own delight. “Class of ’64,” she finished. “God, how funny. Do you remember the rotunda court?” Lloyd nodded. “And Mr. Juknavarian and his stories about Armenia?” Lloyd nodded again. �
�And Mrs. Cuthbertson and her stuffed dog? Remember, she called it her muse?” Lloyd doubled over, consumed with laughter. Kathleen continued, throwing nostalgia out between her own gleeful squeals. “And the Pachucos versus the Surfers, and Mr. Amster and those T-shirts he had made up? ‘Amsters Hamsters’? When I was in tenth grade someone tied a dead rat to his car antenna and put a note under the wipers. The note said, ‘Amster’s Hamsters bite the big weenie!’”
Lloyd’s laughter crescendoed into a coughing fit that had him in fear of spewing coffee and half-digested cookies all over the room. “No more, no more, please, or I’ll die,” he managed to get out between body-wracking coughs. “I don’t want to die this way.”
“How do you want to die?” Kathleen asked playfully.
As he wiped his tear-stained face, Lloyd sensed a probing intent behind the question. “I don’t know,” he said, “either very old or very romantically. You?”
“Very old and wise. Autumnal serenity long gone into deep winter, with my words carefully prepared for posterity.”
Lloyd shook his head. “Jesus, I don’t believe this conversation. Where did you live in Silverlake?”
“Tracy and Micheltorena. You?”
“Griffith Park and St. Elmo. I used to play ‘chicken’ on Micheltorena when I was a kid. Rebel Without A Cause had just come out and chicken was in. Being too young to drive, we had to play it on sleds with little rubber wheels attached. We started at the top of the hill above Sunset, at two-thirty every morning that summer; ’55 I think it was. The object of the game was to sled all the way across Sunset against the light. At that time of the morning there was just enough traffic out to make it slightly risky. I did it once a night, all summer long. I never dragged my feet or hit the hand brakes. I never turned down a dare.”
Kathleen sipped her coffee, wondering how bluntly she should phrase her next question. To hell with it, she decided and asked, “What were you trying to prove?”
“That’s a provocative question, Kathleen,” Lloyd said.
“You’re a provocative man. But I believe in parity. You can ask me anything you like, and I’ll answer.”
Lloyd’s face lit up at the possibilities for exploration. “I was trying to follow the rabbit down the hole,” he said. “I was trying to light a fire under the world’s ass. I wanted to be considered a tough guy so that Ginny Skakel would give me a hand job. I wanted to breathe pure white light. Good answer?”
Kathleen smiled and gave Lloyd a sedate round of applause. “Good answer, Sergeant. Why did you quit?”
“Two boys got killed. They were riding on one sled. A ’53 Packard Caribbean smashed them to pieces. One of the boys was decapitated. My mother asked me to quit. She told me that there were safer ways to express courage. She told me stories to take the edge off my grief.”
“Your grief? You mean you wanted to continue playing that insane game?”
Lloyd savored Kathleen’s incredulous look and said, “Of course. Teenage romanticism dies hard. Turnabout, Kathleen?”
“Of course.”
“Good. Are you a romantic?”
“Yes… In all the deepest essentials… I…”
Lloyd cut her off. “Good. May I see you tomorrow night?”
“What did you have in mind? Dinner?”
“Not really.”
“A concert?”
“Very amusing. Actually, I thought we might be-bop around L.A. and check out urban romanticism.”
“Is that a pass?”
“Absolutely not. I think we should do something that neither of us has ever done before, and that rules out that. You in?”
Kathleen took Lloyd’s outstretched hand. “I’m in. Here at seven o’clock?”
Lloyd brought the hand to his lips and kissed it. “I’ll be here,” he said, walking out the door before anything could happen to defuse the power of the moment.
When Lloyd wasn’t home by six o’clock, Janice went about preparing for her evening, feeling relief on all fronts. She was relieved that Lloyd’s absences were becoming more frequent and predictable, relieved that the girls were so engrossed in their hobbies and social life that they didn’t seem to mind their missing father, relieved that her own loving detachment seemed to be growing to the point where some time soon she would be able to tell her husband, “You have been the love of my life, but it is over. I cannot get through to you. I cannot stand any more of your obsessive behavior. It is over.”
As Janice dressed for her night of dancing she recalled the episode that had first given her the impetus to consider leaving her husband forever. It was two weeks ago. Lloyd had been gone for three days. She missed him and wanted him physically, and was even ready to make concessions about his stories. She had gone to bed nude and had left her bedside candle buring, hoping to be awakened by Lloyd’s hands on her breasts. When she finally did awaken, it was to the sight of Lloyd hovering above her in the nude, gently spreading her legs. She held back a scream as he entered her, her eyes transfixed by his hellishly contorted features. When he came and his limbs contracted spastically, she held him very tight and knew that she had finally been given the power to forge a new life.
Janice dressed in a silver lamé pantsuit, an outfit that would brilliantly reflect the swirling lights at Studio One. She felt little twinges of slavish loyalty, and reflexively defined her husband in coldly clinical terms: He is a disturbed, driven man. An anachronistic man. He is incapable of change, a man who never listened.
Janice rounded up her daughters and drove them over to George’s apartment in Ocean Park. His lover Rob would look after them while she and George discoed the night away. He would tell them kind, gentle stories and cook them up a big vegetarian feast.
Studio One was crowded, bursting to the rafters with stylish men undulating toward and away from each other under the benevolent distortions of stereo-synched strobe lights. Janice and George tooted some coke in the parking lot and imagined their entrance as one of the grandest, most closely scrutinized promenades in history. The only woman on the dance floor, Janice knew that she was the most desired body under the lights–desired not in lust but in desperate yearning for transference–tall, regal, tanned, and graceful, every man there wanted to be her.
When she returned home late that night, Lloyd was waiting in bed for her. He was especially tender, and she returned his caresses with great sorrow. Her mind ran disconnected images together to keep her from succumbing to his love. She thought of many things, but never came close to guessing that he had made love to another woman just two hours earlier; a woman who considered herself “something of a businesswoman” and who once sang unintelligible rock and roll lyrics; and that with her, as well as now with his wife, his thoughts were of an Irish girl from the old neighborhood.
That night Kathleen wrote in her diary:
Today I met a man; a man whom I think fate put in my path for a reason. To me he represents a paradox and possibilities that I cannot begin to access; such is his incongruous force. Enormous physically, fiercely bright–yet of all things, a man content to go through life as a policeman! I know that he wants me (when we met I noticed him wearing a wedding band. Later, as his attraction to me grew more obvious, I saw that he had slipped it off–a roundabout and very endearing subterfuge). I think that he has a rapacious ego and will–ones to match his size and self-proclaimed brilliance. And I sense–I know–that he wants to change me, that he sees in me a kindred soul, one to touch deeply but also one to manipulate. I must watch my dialogue and my actions with this man. For the benefit of my growth, there must be a give and take. But I must keep my purest inner soul apart from him; my heart must remain inviolate.
9
Lloyd spent the morning at Parker Center, putting in a ritual appearance to appease Lieutenant Gaffaney and any other superior officers who might have noted his prolonged absence. Dutch Peltz called early; he had already initiated informal inquiries on old homosexual assault cases, delegating two desk officers the job of phonin
g the entire list of retired Juvenile detectives in the L.A.P.D.’s “private” retired personnel file. Dutch would be telephoning current Juvenile dicks with over twenty years on the job himself, and would call back as soon as he had gleaned a solid pile of information for evaluation. With Kathleen McCarthy checking out the bookstore angle, there was nothing Lloyd could do but chase paper–read the suicide files over and over again until something previously missed or overlooked or misunderstood jumped out at him.
It took two hours and digestion of thousands of words to make a connection, and when the number 408 appeared in the same context in two different files, Lloyd didn’t know if it was a lead or a mere coincidence.
The body of Angela Stimka was discovered by her neighbor, L.A. County Deputy Sheriff Delbert Haines, badge #408, other neighbors having summoned the off-duty deputy when they smelled gas coming from the woman’s apartment. A year to the day later, officers T. Rains, #408, and W. Vandervort, #691, were called to the scene of the Laurette Powell “suicide.” Rains, Haines–a stupid spelling blunder; the identical badge numbers obviously denoted the same deputy.
Lloyd read over the file of the third West Hollywood “suicide”–Carla Castleberry, D.O.D. 6/10/80, the Tropicana Motel on Santa Monica Boulevard. Entirely different officers had filed this death report, and the names of residents of the motel who were interviewed at the scene–Duane Tucker, Lawrence Craigie, and Janet Mandarano–did not appear at all in any of the other files.
Lloyd picked up his phone and dialed the West Hollywood Sheriffs Substation. A bored voice answered. “Sheriff’s. May I help you?”
Lloyd was brusque. “This is Detective Sergeant Hopkins, L.A.P.D. Do you have a Deputy Haines or Rains, badge 408, working out of your station?” The bored officer muttered, “Yessir, Big Whitey Haines. Day watch patrol.”
“Is he on duty today?”
“Yessir.”
“Good. Contact him on his radio. Tell him to meet me at the pizza joint on Fountain and La Cienega in one hour. It’s urgent. You got that?”
