by James Ellroy
The first shot caught Larry in the groin. He crashed into the dresser, then slid to the floor. The man stood over him and sang, “On, o’ noble Marshall, roll right down that field; with your banner flying o’er us, we will never yield.” Larry’s eyes came alive. He opened his mouth, and the man stuck the silencer-fitted barrel into it and squeezed off six shots. The back of Larry’s head and the dresser behind it exploded. He removed the spent clip and reloaded, then rolled the dead hustler onto his back and pulled off his pants and jockey shorts. He spread Larry’s legs and wedged the gun barrel into his rectum and pulled the trigger seven times. The last two shots ricocheted off the spinal cord and tore through the jugular as they exited, sending crisscrossed geysers of blood into the cordite-reeking air.
The poet got to his feet, surprised to find that he could hold himself steady. He held both of his hands in front of his face and noticed that they were steady, too. He pulled off his rubber gloves and felt symbolic life return to his hands. He had now killed twenty-three times for love, and once for revenge. He was capable of bringing death to man and woman, lover and rapist. He knelt beside the corpse and reached his hands into a pile of dead viscera and immersed them in blood, then turned on all the lights in the room and wrote on the wall in bloody finger strokes: “I am not Kathy’s Klown.”
Now that he knew it himself, he pondered the proper means of spreading the news to the world. He found the telephone and dialed “Operator,” requesting the number of the Homicide Division, Los Angeles Police Department. The operator gave it to him and he dialed, drumming bloody fingers on the nightstand as he listened to the dial tone. Finally, a gruff voice answered, “Robbery-Homicide, Officer Huttner speaking. May I help you?”
“Yes,” the man said, going on to explain that a very kind Detective Sergeant had rescued his dog. His daughter wanted to send the nice policeman a Valentine. She forgot his name, but remembered his badge number–1114. Would Officer Huttner get the word to the nice policeman?
Officer Huttner said “Shit” to himself and “Yes sir, what’s the message?” into the mouthpiece.
The man said, “Let the war begin,” then yanked the cord out of the wall and hurled the phone across the bloody motel room.
13
Lloyd drove to Parker Center at dawn, the possible ramifications of his outburst at the party banging in his head like cymbals gone mad. Whatever the upshot, from formal assault charges to departmental censure, he was going to be the object of an I.A.D. investigation that would result in his being immediately placed on a full-time specific assignment that would preclude investigating the killings. It was time to take his investigation underground, stay unavailable to the department in general and the I.A.D. witch hunters in particular, make his amends to Dutch later and get the killer, whatever the price to his career.
Lloyd ran the six flights of stairs up to his office. There was a note on his desk from the night officer downstairs: “Badge 1114. Let the war begin? Probably a crank—Huttner.” I.A.D. psychological warfare, Lloyd decided; religious fanatics were never subtle.
Lloyd walked down the hall to the junior officers’ lounge, hoping that there would be no night-watch dicks lingering there. He was going to be out on the street for a long stretch, and coffee alone wouldn’t do it.
The lounge was deserted. Lloyd checked the undersides of the lunch tables, the classic “Long term surveillance” cops’ hiding place. On his fourth try he was rewarded: a plastic baggie filled with Benzedrine tablets. He grabbed the whole bag. Thirty-one names on his stereo supply list and a one man stake-out of Whitey Haines’s apartment. Better too much speed than too little.
The Parker Center corridors were coming alive with early arriving officers. Lloyd saw several unfamiliar men with crew-cuts and stern looks give him the eye, and immediately made them for I.A.D. detectives. Back in his office, he saw that the papers on his desk had been gone over. He was raising his fist to slam the desk when his phone rang.
“Lloyd Hopkins,” he said into the mouthpiece. “Who’s this?”
A distressed male voice answered. “Sergeant, this is Captain Magruder, West Hollywood Sheriffs. We’ve got two homicides out here, separate locations. We’ve got a set of prints, and I’m certain they match the ones in your teletype on the Niemeyer killing. Can you…”
Lloyd went cold. “I’ll meet you at the station in twenty minutes,” he said.
It took him twenty-five, running red lights and siren all the way. He found Magruder at the Information Desk, in uniform, poring over a stack of folders. Noting his name tag, Lloyd said, “Captain, I’m Lloyd Hopkins.”
Magruder jumped back as if stung by a swarm of bees. “Thank God,” he said, sticking out a trembling hand. “Let’s go into my office.”
They walked down a hallway crowded with uniformed officers talking in animated whispers. Magruder opened his office door and pointed Lloyd to a chair, then sat down behind his desk and said, “Two homicides. Both last night. One woman, one man. Murder scenes a mile apart. Both victims blown to hell with a .32 automatic. Identical spent casings at both scenes. The woman was dismembered, probably with a saw. Her arms and legs were found in the swimming pool of the adjoining apartment building. Her head was wrapped up in a newspaper and placed on the hood of a car directly outside her apartment house. A nice girl, twenty-eight years old. The second victim was a fruit hustler. Worked out of a motel a few blocks from here. The killer stuck the .32 in his mouth and up his ass and blew him to shit. The night manager, who lives directly below, didn’t hear a thing. She called us when blood started dripping down through her ceiling.”
Lloyd, stunned beyond thought at the news of the male victim, watched Magruder reach into his desk drawer and pull out a fifth of bourbon. He poured a large shot into a coffee cup and downed it in one gulp. “Jesus, Hopkins,” he said. “Holy Jesus Christ.”
Lloyd declined the bottle. “Where were the prints found?” he asked.
“The fruit hustler’s motel room,” Magruder said. “On the telephone and the nightstand and next to some writing in blood on the walls.”
“No sexual assault?”
“No way to tell. The guy’s rectum was obliterated. The M.E. told me he’d never seen—”
Lloyd raised a hand in interruption. “Do the papers know about it yet?”
“I think so…but we haven’t released any information. What have you got on the Niemeyer killing? Any leads you can give my men?”
“I’ve got nothing!” Lloyd screamed. Lowering his voice, he said, “Tell me about the fruit hustler.”
“His name was Lawrence Craigie, A.K.A. Larry “The Bird,” A.K.A. “Birdman.” Middle thirties, blond, muscles. I think he used to hustle off the street down near Plummer Park.”
Lloyd’s mind exploded, then coalesced around an incredible series of connections: Craigie, the witness at the 6/10/80 suicide; the “Bird” in Whitey Haines’s bugged apartment. It all connected.
“You think?” Lloyd shouted. “What about his rap sheet?”
Magruder stammered, “We…We’ve run a make on him. All we got was unpaid traffic warrants. “We—”
“And this guy was a known male prostitute? With no record at all?”
“Well…maybe he paid a lawyer to get his misdemeanors wiped.”
Lloyd shook his head. “What about your vice files? What do your vice officers say about him?”
Magruder poured himself another drink and knocked it back. “The Vice Squad doesn’t come on duty until nightwatch,” he said, “but I’ve already checked their files. There’s nothing on Craigie.”
Lloyd felt widening connections breathing down his neck. “The Tropicana Motel?” he asked.
“Yes.” Magruder said. “How did you know?”
“Body removed? Premises sealed?”
“Yes.”
“I’m going over. You’ve got officers stationed there?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Call the motel and tell them I’m coming.”
<
br /> Lloyd stilled his mental tremors and ran out of Magruder’s office. He drove the three blocks to the Tropicana Motel, expecting rare glimpses of hell and his own destiny.
He found an upholstered slaughterhouse, reeking of blood and shattered flesh. The young deputy who guarded the door contributed gory details: “You think this is bad, Sergeant? You shoulda been here earlier. The guy’s brains were all over that dresser over there. The Coroner had to scoop them into a plastic bag. They couldn’t even mark the outline of the stiff with chalk, they had to use tape. Jesus.”
Lloyd walked over to the dresser. The light blue carpet next to it was still sopping wet with blood. In the middle of the dark red expanse was the metallic tape outline of a spread-eagled dead man. He ran his eyes over the rest of the room: a large bed with a purple velour coverlet, muscle boy statuettes, a cardboard box filled with chains, whips, and dildos.
Surveying the room again, Lloyd noticed that a large part of the wall above the bed had been covered with brown wrapping paper. He called to the deputy, “What’s with this paper on the wall?”
The deputy said, “Oh, I forgot to tell you. There’s some writing underneath. In blood. The dicks covered it up so the TV and newspaper guys wouldn’t see it. They think maybe it’s a clue.”
Lloyd grabbed a corner of the wrapping paper and pulled it free. “I Am Not Kathy’s Klown” stared down at him in bold, blood-formed letters. For one brief second, his computer jammed, whirled, and screeched. Then all the fuses blew out and the words blurred and metamorphosed into noise, followed by perfect silence.
Kathleen McCarthy and her court–“We had a following of equally bookish, lonely boys. Kathy’s Klown’s they were called.” Dead women who resembled wholesome early ‘sixties high school girls. A dead fruit hustler and his perverse, corrupt cop buddy and…and…
Lloyd felt the young deputy tugging at his sleeve. His silence became pure Satanic noise. He grabbed the deputy by the shoulders and pushed him into the wall. “Tell me about Haines,” he whispered.
The young officer quaked and stammered out, “Wh–What?”
“Deputy Haines,” Lloyd repeated slowly. “Tell me about him.”
“Whitey Haines? He’s a loner. He sticks to himself. I’ve heard talk that he takes dope. Th–thats all I know.”
Lloyd released the deputy’s shoulders. “Don’t look so scared, son,” he said.
The deputy swallowed and straightened his tie. “I’m not scared,” he said.
“Good. You keep quiet about our conversation.”
“Yes…Sir.”
The telephone rang. The deputy picked it up, then handed it to Lloyd. “Sergeant, this is Officer Nagler from S.I.D.,” a frenzied voice blurted out. “I’ve been trying to get you for hours. The switchboard at the Center tol—”
Lloyd cut him off. “What is it, Nagler?”
“Sergeant, it’s a match. The index and pinky on the Niemeyer teletype match perfectly with the index and pinky I got off the tape recorder.”
Lloyd dropped the receiver and walked out onto the balcony. He looked down at the parking lot filled with rubber-necking ghouls and sad curiosity seekers, then shifted his gaze to the street scene. Everything he saw was as awesome as a baby’s first glimpse of life out of the womb and into the breach.
14
Propelled by a whirlwind or interlocking fates, Lloyd drove to Kathleen McCarthy’s house. There was a note on the front door: “Buying books–Will return at noon–U.P.S. leave packages on steps.”
Lloyd snapped the lock on the door with a short, flat kick. The door burst open, and he closed it behind him and headed straight for the bedroom. He went through the dresser first; intimate apparel, scented candles, and a bag of marijuana were revealed. He checked the walk-in closet. Boxes of books and record albums covered every inch of rack and floor space. There was a shelf at the back, partially hidden by an ironing board and rolled up carpet. Lloyd ran a hand across it and hit smoothly finished wood that shifted at his touch. He reached up with both hands and pulled the object out. It was a large box of beautifully varnished oak with a brass hinged top. It was heavy; Lloyd strained as he lowered it first to his shoulders, then to the bedroom floor.
He pulled the box over to the bed and knelt beside it, wedging the ornamental gold lock off with his handcuff holder.
The box contained narrow, gold-bordered picture frames, arranged lengthwise on their edges. Lloyd pulled one out. Encased behind glass were shriveled red rose petals pressed on parchment. There was minute writing beneath the petals. He carried the frame over to a floor lamp and switched on the light and squinted to read it. Under the first petal on the left was written:
“12/13/68: Does he know that I broke up with Fritz? Does he hate me for my short interludes? Was he that tall man browsing through the Farmer’s Market? Does he know how much I need him?”
Lloyd followed the floral tributes across the picture frame and across time: “11/24/69: O’ dearest, can you read my mind? Do you know how I return your homage in my diary? How it is all for you? How I would forever eschew fame to continue the growth our anonymous rapport gives me?” “2/15/71: I write this in the nude, darling, as I know you pick the flowers you send me. Do you feel my telepathic poetry? It comes from my body.”
Lloyd put the frame down, knowing something was wrong–he should be more moved by Kathleen’s words. He stood very still, knowing that if he forced it, it would never come. He closed his eyes to increase the depth of the silence, and then…
Even as it hit him, he started to shake his head in denial. It couldn’t be, it was too incredible.
Lloyd emptied the oak box onto the bed. One by one, he held the picture frames to the light and read the dates beneath the withered petals. The dates corresponded with the murder dates of the women in his computer printouts, either exact matches or with a variance factor of two days at the most. But there were more than sixteen rose petals–there were twenty-three, going back to the summer of 1964.
Lloyd recalled Kathleen’s words at the power plant. “The first time there was a poem, the second time just the flowers. And they kept coming for over eighteen years.” He went through the glass cases again. The oldest rose fragments were dated 6/10/64–over eighteen years ago. The next oldest were dated 8/29/67, over three years later. What had the monster been doing during those three years? How many more had he killed, and Why? Why? Why?
Lloyd read over Kathleen’s words and recalled the dead faces that matched them. Jeanette Willkie, D.O.D. 4/15/73, caustic poisoning; flowers dated 4/16/73, “Darling, have you kept yourself chaste for me? I have now been celibate four months for you.” Mary Wardell, D.O.D. 1/6/74, strangled to death; flowers dated 1/8/74, “Thank you for my flowers, dearest. Did you see me last night by my window? I was nude for you.” And on and on through Julia Niemeyer, D.O.D. 1/2/83, heroin overdose, butchered after death; flowers dated 1/3/83, “My tears stain this parchment, my love. I need you inside me so much.”
Lloyd sat down on the bed, willing his raging mind silent. Innocent, romantic Kathleen, a mass murderer’s obsessive love object. “We had a following of equally lonely, bookish boys.”
Lloyd’s mind jerked his body upright. Yearbooks–the Marshall Baristonian. He tore through drawers, shelves, closets and bookcases until he found them, wedged behind a disused TV set. 1962, 1963 and 1964; pastel naugahyde bound. He flipped through ’62 and ’63–no Kathleen, Kathy Kourt, or Kathy Klowns.
He was halfway through 1964 when he hit paydirt–Delbert “Whitey” Haines, caught for posterity giving the raspberry sign. On the same page was a skinny, acne-faced boy named Lawrence “Birdman” Craigie, wittily denoted as “Bad news for L.B.J.’s Great Society.” Lloyd flipped through a dozen more pages of blasted innocence before he found the Kathy Kourt: four plain-pretty girls in tweed skirts and cardigan sweaters looking up in awe at a similarly attired, heartbreakingly young Kathleen McCarthy. When he saw what it all meant, Lloyd started to tremble. The dead women were all v
ariations of the girls in Kathy’s Kourt. The same wholesome features, the same fatuous innocence, the same incipient acceptance of defeat.
Lloyd’s tremors became full-out body shudders. Whispering “rabbit down the hole,” he dug the list of tape recorder purchasers from his pocket and turned to the index of the 1964 Baristonian. Seconds later the final connection sprung to life: Verplanck, Theodore J., member of the Marshall High School Class of 1964; Verplanck, Theodore, 1976 purchaser of a Watanabe A.F.Z. 999 recorder.
Lloyd studied the photograph of the genius killer as a smiling teenager. Intelligence formed the face; a terrible arrogance rendered the smile ice-cold. Theodore Verplanck had looked like a boy who had lived within himself, who had created his own world and armed it to the teeth with highly developed adolescent conceits. Shuddering, Lloyd pictured the coldness in the young eyes magnified by almost twenty years of murder. The thought filled him with awe.
Lloyd found the phone and dialed the California Department of Motor Vehicles Office in Sacramento, requesting a complete make on Theodore J. Verplanck. It took the switchboard operator five minutes to come back with the information: Theodore John Verplanck, D.O.B. 4/21/46, Los Angeles. Brown hair, blue eyes. 6’, 155 lbs. No criminal record, no outstanding traffic warrants, no record of traffic violations. Two vehicles: 1978 Dodge Fiesta Van, P-O-E-T, 1980 Datsun 280Z, DLX-191. Address, res. and bus.—Teddy’s Silverlake Camera, 1893 North Alvarado, L.A. 90048. (213) 663–2819.
Lloyd slammed down the receiver and finished writing the information in his notepad. His awe moved into a sense of irony: The poet-killer still lived in the old neighborhood. Taking a deep breath, he dialed 663–2819. After three rings, a recorded message came on. “Hi, this is Teddy Verplanck, welcoming your call to Teddy’s Silverlake Camera. I’m out right now, but if you’d like to talk about camera supplies, photo-finishing or my super-high-quality portrait photography and candid group shootings, leave a message at the beep. Bye!”
