by Neal Arbic
Tuesday, August 12th, 1969, 8:00 AM
The next morning, Delware made his way to Homicide only to be stopped at the door. The same young detective who had questioned him the day before stood in the doorway smoking a cigarette. He leaned an arm on the door frame, blocking Delware. “The old guy said to meet him out front. Look for a black Packard - real old-fashioned.”
Delware descended from the third floor and emerged out the main doors of LA’s white-towered City Hall. He stood by a column looking for the Packard.
Inside his car, Jack glanced at the young black man and honked the horn.
Delware sauntered over and opened the door.
Jack grinned. “How are you this morning?”
Delware sat, looking frustrated. “I’d be a whole lot better if you hadn’t set me up in front of my sergeant yesterday.”
“Yeah? You woulda figured a way out of it, huh?”
“Yes.”
“I bet you would have too. Let that be a lesson to you: don’t fuck around with me.” Jack started the car. “You can fuck around with your sergeant. You can fuck with the whole Department for all I care. Been with the Department for over thirty years and I’m sick of its bullshit. But you fuck around with me…I’ll kill you…and make it look like an accident. And that’s no figure of speech there. Back in the Forties when we couldn’t close a case because of weak evidence, we didn’t bother with no judge and jury. We shot the sumbitch and made it look like an accident. And that’s what I’ll do to you, if you fuck around with me.”
Delware sneered, defiant. “Yeah? Well, what do I get if I don’t fuck around?”
Jack pulled the car away from the curb and into traffic. “I’ll teach you how to shoot someone and make it look like an accident.”
On Spring Street, Jack sped through a red light, then ran all the stop signs along Temple. He only glanced before speeding through a red that lead to the highway where he raced through traffic.
Delware looked over at Jack, amazed. “You just went through three stop signs and two red lights. Don’t you ever stop?”
Jack stomped on the brakes. The tires squealed. Delware flew forward, bracing the dashboard. The car skidded, stuttering to a stop in the middle of the 101. Jack turned off the car and took the keys out of the ignition. He stared at Delware. “Is this what you want?”
Speeding cars came from behind, swerving, tires screeching, horns blaring. Delware looked at Jack like he was crazy.
Jack eyed Delware with an eerie calm. “Happy now? Have we stopped long enough? OK? Can we get to where we’re going?”
Delware looked nervously behind at the oncoming traffic doing its best to miss the parked Packard. “Yeah! Go! Go! GO!”
Jack pulled out a large silver flask from his inside jacket pocket, casually unscrewed the lid and swigged.
He handed the flask to Delware. “You look like you need some of this.”
Starting the car, Jack punched the gas petal down to the floorboards. The car jolted forward. In seconds, they were flying past other motorists.
Jack kept his eyes on the road as he weaved through traffic. “Look. I get it. Youse blacks want to be equal with us whites. Fine. But you ain’t my equal. I don’t care if you’re white, black, or fuckin’ blue; I’m your senior officer. You can ask questions, but I don’t want an earful of your thoughts on how I do my job. Do what I say and leave the rest to me. I’m going to solve this case…and you’re going to watch and hopefully goddamn learn something.”
***
Pulling off the 101, the Packard slowed onto Santa Monica headed for the Hollywood Hills. Jack hung an arm out the window, took a side street to enjoy one of LA’s most affluent neighborhoods. Soon, towering palm trees lined the road. White Spanish mansions passed in the windows: tiled roofs, long driveways, sculptured landscapes.
Delware sulked, but played it like indifference. Jack surveyed his silent, slouching partner: tight white t-shirt over his muscular chest, a wide belt with a brass buckle shaped like an American eagle, a brown leather vest covering his clipped holster and tight blue jeans with flared bottoms. In Jack’s eyes, his partner looked like he should be cuffed and in the back seat.
Underneath Delware’s cool exterior, he was watching his plans go to shit. Forget senile, the old man was insane, even deadly. With every glance out the window, he sunk lower in his seat, embarrassed to be on the street with this fossil. The car might pass as vintage cool, but the old man was as square as they came with his brown 1940s three-piece tweed suit, tie and matching fedora hat.
Jack glanced at Delware’s afro. “So you don’t get your hair processed? You like it all nappy like that?”
Delware drilled Jack with his eyes. “Yeah, man, haven’t you heard? Black is beautiful. I let it grow natural. I’m black and proud. I don’t want to look like no white man. Dig?”
Jack pointed to an outline in Delware’s pants pocket. “What’s that?”
Delware pulled out a comb. “You never seen an afro comb before?”
Jack frowned. “I have, but never got a chance to ask what it’s called.”
Delware looked away. “Well, now you know.”
“So, you into that Black Power horseshit?”
Delware glanced at the old man. “What am I? A suspect?”
Jack shrugged. “Hey. We’re just talking…right?”
“OK.” Delware shrugged. “Yeah, man.”
“Then let me ask you something, kid. You support that cop killer Huey Newton?”
“If you ask me, and you are… Newton’s a political prisoner. I don’t see any real evidence that says otherwise. He’s in jail because he’s a Black Panther, not a killer.” Delware slipped on big black sunglasses. He oozed black militant cool. He slid down in his seat, adjusted the bulge in his tight jeans and…relaxed.
Jack eyed him with disgust. “Take those things off.”
Delware sat up. “What?”
“Take off your fuckin’ sunglasses!”
“Why?”
“You look like a Panther, f’christsakes. You ain’t a narc on the street no more. This is plain clothes, not undercover. You dress decent. Tie and jacket next time!”
Delware laughed, “Decent, man?”
“Yeah, like a cop.” Jack dug in. “Jeans are for farmers.” He shook his head. “How can you go around looking like that?”
Delware grinned behind his thick shades and spoke smooth and slow, “Cause I look gooood.” He slid back down in his seat. “Look man, people aren’t so uptight anymore.” His eyes drifted to a young blonde in a mini-skirt and low-cut blouse walking a dog. Delware leered. “And the ladies like to let it all hang out.”
Jack caught Delware’s eyes on the white girl. He sneered, gritting his teeth behind tight lips, glancing at the girl now in the rearview mirror. “It’s getting hard to pick out the prostitutes. Don’t girls know they look like hookers?”
Jack fumbled in his jacket for a cigar.
Delware grinned. “If you weren’t so old, you’d dress a little better yourself, get out of those raggity ass threads.”
Jack gave a vicious smile, holding back his rage. “You’re fuckin’ lucky I need you. I wanted some fuckin’ hippie cop and now I’m sitting beside one. Fuck, it’s shittier than I thought.”
Delware bit back. “I ain’t no hippie.”
Jack wasn’t buying it. Pulling out the cigar, he nodded sarcastically. “Oh yeah. You’re not into that peace and love?”
“No man, I’m into loving myself a piece of ass.”
“How can you be a cop and support the Panthers?”
“Hey, if a white man can carry a shotgun, why can’t a brother?”
Jack tossed the cigar into his mouth and talked around it. “Yeah, but you’re a cop, you want that shotgun pointed at you?”
When Jack glanced away to turn onto Sunset Blvd, Delware gave him the finger. “A brother won’t have no reason to point his gun at me. Shit man, you don’t get it. When a racist cop rousts someone beca
use he’s black and then that brother shows up shot-in-the-back, what’s a brother to do? What’s LAPD ever done to stop it. Nothing! A community has a right to protect itself. No black man is going to the seventy-seventh crying ‘Police brutality.’ What do you think is going to happen to him? What all-white jury is going to believe a brother over a white cop? Hell, they’re turning dogs and fire hoses on my people for exercising their right to free speech.”
Jack took the cigar out of his mouth and waved it at Delware. “Listen kid, you better decide which side you’re on.”
“Justice. That’s the side I’m on. Like all cops should be.”
“Then why you dress like an eastside nigg-”
Delware whipped off his sunglasses. His eyes could have left two smoking bullet holes in the old man’s head.
Jack blinked. The deadly look in Delware’s eyes was unmistakable; the kid was dangerous, maybe even a killer. Jack smiled. “You got a good stare, kid. I’ll give you that. That actually got my heart pumping.”
Jack turned his eyes to the road while he fished for matches. “I know it ain’t fashionable to talk about youse - blacks -like we used to. But I ain’t fashionable. See?”
Delware shook off the adrenalin, sat back and gave Jack’s rumpled suit a once over. “Yeah, I see.”
Jack turned off Sunset onto Benedict Canyon, a winding canyon road above Hollywood, uphill all the way.
They passed three teenaged white girls under a palm tree selling Maps to the Stars. Delware’s head turned, eyeing the attractive scenery. The back of Jack’s hand slapped him across the chest. “What the fuck are you looking at!”
Delware’s natural instinct was to return the blow, but his mind was so stunned by the sudden burst of violence that he just stared in disbelief.
Jack’s face was turning all shades of red. “I won’t stand for that! Listen, kid, I’m not into that free love horseshit! That’s where I draw the line: the mixing of the races! I don’t care if the Supreme Court did strike down the miscegenation laws last year. You ask me, the races don’t belong together. Every time they are, there’s some sort of trouble. And who do you think ends up in the middle? Us. I got all types of tolerance for youse people, but if you ever leer at a white woman in my presence, I’ll fuckin’ pop your eyes out of your head.”
Delware was jumping in his seat, his hands clutching the dash and his seat so his arms wouldn’t start swinging at Jack. “You’re unbelievable, old man! You got some serious hang ups. Man, you ain't got issues....you got the whole damn subscription! You gotta get with it. Get where it’s at, man!”
“I ain’t asking you to believe me and I ain’t getting with anything. Just do what I say!”
Delware shifted in his seat. “You need to get laid, gramps. And why should I? Why should I do what you say?”
Jack grinned knowing he was playing the card he had been holding back. “Cause I know you’re tired of pounding the pavement, walking that beat in that sweaty wool uniform - that goddamn Sam Browne belt digging into your back! Think you’d be happy in Narcotics, but no, you got to be at the top of the food chain with the white boys in Homicide. Well, you ain’t got a snowball’s chance in Hell, but if you do: I’m it! I’ll fuckin’ write you up and you’ll be back in uniform directing traffic. And the only way you’ll ever get near the third floor again is if you become a janitor. That’s why you’re going to do exactly what I say.”
Delware slouched deep in his seat. “Sh-iiiitt.”
Jack dug in a jacket pocket and smiled at his matches. “Stop talking eastside, kid. I heard you talk normal yesterday. What’s the matter with you?”
Delware muttered, “I been undercover for six months, man. You just can’t wash the streets off you in a single day.”
The truth of those words hit Jack. He spit out his window, lit a cigar and left the car to steer itself for a dangerous moment. After three long puffs, he looked over at the young man and softened his tone. “You been working undercover a bit too long….but you’re in a car now, not on the street.”
Jack turned onto Cielo Drive.
9:02 AM
Police sawhorses corralled the gate at Cielo’s dead end. A lone black and white stood guard. A bored officer leaned against the car, cigarette butts circling his feet.
The Packard pulled up.
Jack got out and slammed the door. He leaned in the window. “We’re going up.”
Delware remained slouched in his seat, his defiant eyes following Jack to the gate. He muttered, “Up yours, you crazy fuckin’ fool.” He shoved his door open.
Delware followed Jack up the long driveway. The grounds looked peaceful, normal. Jack looked over at Delware. The kid looked edgy. Good. Jack liked his partners on their toes.
Jack looked up at the mansion. “There were far too many dicks and techs here the other day. It’s like sending in a football team to commit a burglary. Can’t really think or see with so many people around. You and me, we’re going to take our time. You know drugs and all that hippie shit; that’s our key. You tell me what you see, OK kid? We’ll find something Dirk and his team missed.”
Delware, hands in pockets, kept a pace behind. “Yeah, you’re sure of that? We’re going to find what thirty other detectives missed.”
“I guarantee it.”
“Why you so sure?”
“Cause they always miss something.”
***
Jack circled around to the back of the house following a low hedge. A guest house came into view, then the lawn sloped down to the service entrance. “They came in through here.”
Jack pointed to a window above a stone stairway with a slashed screen. The pair paused before the torn mesh.
Delware stared unimpressed. As a patrolman, he’d responded to plenty of burglary calls. A slashed screen was typical and indicated an experienced burglar who knew better than to jimmy a door - hardly the work of a madman. If anything, this weakened Jack’s theory. The only thing that stood out was the shape of the cut - unusual. It was L-shaped.
Jack tilted his hat back with a finger. “You ever see a screen cut like that?”
Delware shook his head. “Can’t say I have.”
Jack walked away. “You should see this. It’s a bit of a mystery.”
Turning a corner, a large in-ground swimming pool came into view. The majestic oaks gave way; the lawn dropped, revealing a sweeping view of a desert canyon.
Jack led Delware to a patio door, the white curtains behind the sliding glass doors were spattered with blood. He pointed to the ground. “Those bloody shoe prints belong to goddamn patrolmen, but look at this one.”
Both men squatted. There on the stone step was a bloody barefoot print.
Jack asked, “What can you tell by that?”
“Female. Small. Maybe even a teenager.”
Jack nodded.
Delware’s fingers touched the stone and traced the bloody print. “One of the victims?”
“Doesn’t match a single one.”
“Someone got away?”
Jack and Delware’s eyes followed the fading trail of barefoot prints on the patio. They led across the manicured lawn to the wild desert beyond.
Jack studied the wilderness. “Perhaps there’s a living witness.”
“Any idea who?”
“No one’s come forward. We’ve searched the brush and the desert. No bodies out there. The guess is: someone got away, maybe only slightly wounded.”
Jack scanned the trees on the western slope. “She’s out there somewhere. I just can’t figure out why she hasn’t made contact.”
“Do you think they might have kidnapped her?”
Jack stood and stared into the canyon. “Maybe.”
***
They checked out the guest house where Ray Claborn once lived. Jack wasn’t interested. His gut told him the missing groundskeeper wasn’t their man. They circled around the house, passing the swimming pool.
Jack snapped his fingers at Delware. “You got th
ose lyrics?”
Delware pulled a folded dog-eared paper from his pocket, held it out.
Jack gave the rumpled page a dirty look and snatched it. His voice a perfect mix of disgust and sarcasm, “Well, Officer, this sure looks like some Grade A - Number One paperwork here.” He waved the sheet in Delware’s face. “Thanks for this.”
Jack stopped and read. Delware braced himself as he tried to look causal.
