WHITE

by Neal Arbic

  Owsley grinned wide like Cheshire Cat. “The only obstacles are in your mind, dig? Don’t trust your mind, man.”

  Jack looked confused.

  Owsley, with a slight-of-hand, made the vial vanish. “Don’t worry, man. You’ll find them - when you’re ready, when you’re ready.”

  ***

  Delware led Jack out the back door of the club. The dark narrow alley stank like urine and garbage. The brick walls muffled the roaring club music. Jack stopped and stared. Spray painted on the wall in red: Don’t trust anyone over thirty.

  Jack spit on the ground. “Hold up, kid. You were in Narcotics. Didn’t you want to bust that guy?”

  Delware turned and wrinkled his nose at the stinking trash cans around them. “Nah, that’s why I wanted out of Narcotics.”

  “Why?”

  “Cause we used to bust heroin pushers, I mean real gangsters destroying the youth in Watts. Now we bust teenagers for smoking a joint, and once you get all the marijuana off the street - know what comes in? All the hard stuff. We’re making it worse, Jack. The most harmless stuff is what we’re focusing on and all the real criminals are getting a free pass. It’s stupid politics.”

  They headed for the car. A street lamp lit the end of the alley.

  “He’d be a big catch.” Jack’s sharp eyes turned on Delware. “You did LSD.”

  “I told you, Jack, in ‘65 before I was a cop, before it was illegal. It was my last year of college.”

  Jack lit a cigar. “So tell me that story again?”

  “The trip I had?”

  “Yeah, what happened?”

  Delware grinned to himself. “A lot of things…but I had that vision, saw myself with a gun and a badge. It blew my mind, opened my mind. I applied to the academy that week.”

  Jack scratched his unshaven chin. “You ever do it again?”

  “Acid? No. But I’ve smoked pot. Look, I’d rather be trapped in a room of potheads than drunks. Drunks are loud and violent. Dopers are lethargic. Believe me, the streets would be safer if pot was legal and alcohol was off limits.”

  Delware smiled at Jack as they turned the corner back to the street. “But I don’t even drink now.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Being a cop is my high.”

  Jack muttered to himself, “You’d be better off drinking.”

  Delware jumped into the car. A young hippie on the sidewalk called out to Jack. “Hey, man! You’re missing a bumper!”

  Jack put his foot on his front bumper and imitated Owsley’s stoned smile and cadence, “No, man. I found one. Dig?”

  The kid smiled and gave the power-to-the-people fist salute. “Right on!”

  Jack slid into the car, grinning. Delware kicked his boots up on the dash and continued their conversation. “My high is having a clear head, catching the bad guys.”

  Jack dropped the key into the ignition. “If you had a clear head, you’d get a hair cut.”

  Wednesday, September 10th, 1969, 3:49 PM

  The next morning was another of paperwork in triplicate. Every aspect of the shooting was typed and retyped. Jack resented the way cops were now treated like criminals whenever they discharged their weapons, even in self-defense. Jack and Delware escaped by mid-afternoon and headed for Hollenbeck, the location of LA’s Free Clinic.

  On the way, Delware thought about the door in Jack’s home. The one he wasn’t allowed to open. The one not even Jack would open. He wanted to ask Jack what was behind the door. Why he never went in there. Playing out conversations in his mind that might lead to that question - he never saw the answer coming. When Jack let down his walls, it was rare, but always on his terms and only in a way where Delware could not pry further. Still, Delware would not relent, in his head he continued to play with the maze of words that might lead to an answer.

  Along a rundown block of closed stores, they pulled up in front of a small storefront. The weathered sign above still read Bill’s Shoes. A smaller hand painted sign in the window read Free Clinic. Cramped inside the grimy waiting room were a few hippies, blacks, but mostly weary Latino mothers with sniffling kids.

  Delware and Jack scoped the reception window. No one around. An attractive young blonde in a white smock rushed down a narrow hall. Delware hailed her. “Nurse!”

  She turned, and he flashed his badge. Approaching, she gave an impatient, “Can I help you?”

  Delware put his badge away. “We’re looking for Doctor Ellroy.”

  She blew a stray strand of hair from her face. “I’m Doctor Ellroy.”

  Delware, meeting his first woman doctor, fell silent. Jack was caught off guard, but recovered quickly. He dropped a hand on Delware’s shoulder. “Excuse my young partner, Doctor; he’s not ‘with it’.”

  ***

  She made them wait as she attended her most needy patients. Jack and Delware remained standing in the crowded waiting room. The paint was peeling; the ceiling light had exposed wires. They gave half smiles to the staring mothers and sniffling kids.

  A half hour later, Dr. Ellroy admitted them into her small office lined with filing cabinets. She flopped down into a creaky chair and drew her long straight hair behind her ears. “How can I help you?”

  Jack sat. “We’re investigating hippie communes in greater LA. We’ve heard you were involved with them.”

  Her blue eyes examined the men before her. “There are over a hundred and fifty around LA alone. I’m heading up a study. I’ve provided health care to a number of communes since I left med school. I know some of the communities quite well - why are you interested in them?”

  Jack pulled out a small black notebook. “We believe one of them may be involved with a homicide.”

  Laughing, Dr. Ellroy gave Jack a disbelieving once-over. Delware was embarrassed. She was a good looking woman, and here he was coupled with a bigoted old man.

  The doctor gave Jack a dirty look. “Detective, these are subsistence farmers, following various gurus – albeit most are self-appointed. But they’re often religious communities, ashrams, covens.”

  Jack waved off her condescending tone. “So a bunch of weirdos.”

  She gave Jack a long look. “America has a long history of communal living Detective: the Mennonites, the Amish.”

  Jack looked up from his notes. “So you see anything unusual?”

  “Unusual? By what standards? Hippie communes can be categorized into general types: crash pads, drug and non-drug families, group marriages, and self-contained rural communities. But each is unique. There is no usual.”

  “We’re looking for a group that might have a history of violence. Did you see any guns, knives, other weapons? Maybe wire cutters?”

  Dr. Ellroy glanced at Delware. The look said – is he for real? She gave Jack a dirtier look. “Well, I suppose some might have rifles, most have knives. They are living off the land. Knives are a necessity.”

  “But are all of them peaceful?”

  She was amused by Jack’s persistence. “I think you have the wrong idea about communes, Detective. These are kids looking for freedom - to wear their hair long and smoke dope without…facing police brutality. These young people are looking for support and are very loving to one another. Believing they are moving the human race forward, they do drugs, expanding their consciousness, exploring and changing themselves, trying new ways of living. Wanting to get back to the land, they are mostly farming co-ops struggling to get away from the materialistic values of a consumer society. They pick isolated locations to escape society’s norms and values, but they don’t want to harm society - they want to create their own.”

  Jack was unimpressed. “So do all these communes have leaders?”

  “Most have a spiritual leader or leaders. But there are many democratic co-ops.”

  “Tell me about the ones with leaders.”

  “They’re so many.” She looked confused by Jack’s line of questioning. “There’s a gay community of men living in geodesic domes. Their guru is…a very chari
smatic gentleman. There’s another commune - the Hog Far, a man called Wavy Gravy– maybe twenty, thirty people on a perpetual acid trip. They live in converted school buses and have a pig mascot they call Pigasus.”

  Delware grinned. She smiled at him, then frowned at Jack. “There is a nudist colony, Elysium Fields in Topanga Canyon. Their leader, Ed Lange, allows-” Her lips broke into a slightly embarrassed smile. “orgies, sometime consisting of almost a hundred people.”

  Jack grew impatient. “Where are most of these located?”

  “In the Santa Monica mountains, but they’re scattered far and wide. I just came back from one in Death Valley near Chatsworth. An old movie ranch.”

  Jack looked up from his notes, surprised. “Spahn Ranch?”

  “You know it?”

  Jack nodded. “By the Bottomless Pit.”

  She nodded.

  Delware asked. “Bottomless pit?”

  She smiled at Delware. “It’s a very deep well - an old tourist attraction.”

  Jack laughed. “My dad took us out there as kids. We’d go horseback-riding.” Jack smiled.

  The doctor relaxed a bit. “Yes, the commune supports itself by renting horses. They run what’s left of the dude ranch in return for living quarters – which are mostly broken down westerns movie sets.”

  Jack’s memories flooded back, he turned to Delware. “After riding, my dad would take me to that old well. It was huge - all dried up. It scared me. You look down and there was nothing to see. Just darkness. Couldn’t even see the bottom with a flashlight. And if you dropped a rock into it, it would disappear, without so much as a whisper – like it never hit bottom.” Jack caught himself excitedly rambling and spoke apologetically, “I was just a kid.”

  Dr. Ellroy smiled. “Well, you don’t want to go there now.”

  Delware asked. “Why?”

  “This heat wave. Death Valley is the hottest desert in the world and its bottom is Spahn Ranch. The commune members say the only things that can live out there are rattlesnakes and scorpions.”

  The thought of a bunch of long hairs running around the ranch soured Jack’s reminiscing. He turned to the doctor. “What’s that group like?”

  She pulled a file off the top of a cabinet and scanned it. “Age range about 16 to 34, the core group consists of approximately 20 people, mostly women. Although there are a few with a college education, most members disapprove of formal education. They believe it’s “brain washing”. Manson feels that people should be “open to change” and not indoctrinated by society.”

  Jack took notes. “Wait a minute. Who’s Manson?”

  “Their leader - a father figure of sorts. Manson is thirty-five - has a mystical philosophy, but he’s not involved in Eastern religion. He’s more of a psychedelic philosopher. Manson preaches letting go of all hang-ups from society.” She scanned further down one page. “They refer to themselves as ‘The Family,’ but it’s a group marriage - polygamous sexual relations. The members feel no need for conventional marriage. Of the 14 females, two were pregnant at the time of my observation. Another girl gave birth to her son in the group's bus. The child was fairly healthy and did not see a physician until about four months after delivery. He was treated at the Haight-Ashbury Free Clinic.

  Jack glanced up from his notes. “A group marriage?”

  Dr. Ellroy gave a tolerant smile. “Everyone is free to make love to anyone within the group.” She went back to her notes. “Some use of LSD, marijuana. We gave one of the children born at the ranch a check up. They refused immunization, resist an official birth certificate.”

  Jack sat back. “Would you hand over your files?”

  She slid the file closer to her. “I’m not sure I want to.”

  “Why?”

  “Doctor-patient confidentiality.”

  Jack knew she wanted to say more. He coaxed her, “Yeessss…”

  Dr. Ellroy remained silent. Jack locked his eyes on hers. “In the State of California, the Rules of Evidence does not recognize doctor-patient privilege in criminal proceedings.”

  She gave a forced sigh and shot Jack a hateful look. “These groups are positive and creative; you want to paint them like they’re homicidal. Why should I help you?”

  “Ma’am, have you studied psychology?”

  “No, but my study is part of a degree I’m working on in sociology.”

  Jack leaned back in his chair and stared her down. “Then, you’re not qualified to detect a psychopath when you see one. A psychopath is a chameleon. He knows how to fit in with his environment. They can be quite charming and persuasive. Only a trained eye can pick one out. Even police officers can be fooled by these dangerous offenders. You could have been in the company of these killers and not even know it. Now you can refuse us the files for now, but…can you live with yourself if my killers are in your files, if innocent people die…because you did not cooperate?”

  She looked hurt and resentful. After a long minute, the hardness in her eyes surrendered.

  Cursing under her breath, Dr. Ellroy stood up and looked at her filing cabinets. “I have files on 154 that I’ve come in contact with. You can make copies. But I have got to say officers, it’s mostly cases of VD, general health issues; a few drug ODs, pregnant mothers. No violence related treatments. I don’t even recall a fist fight…hippies detest violence.”

  Delware stood up. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

  Dr. Ellroy collected her files and filed them neatly into a cardboard box.

  Delware took the box and headed for the door. “We’ll get the files back to you as soon as they’re copied.”

  Jack stared at the pretty young doctor. He pointed to the waiting room. “Why are you treating these people…for free?”

  “Health care is a right, Detective, not a privilege.”

  Jack shook his head. “You just make ‘em lazy if they don’t have to pay for it.”

  Saturday, September 13th, 1969, 11:11 AM

  The Santa Monica Mountains were wild. A few minutes off the main road and suddenly you were in a Wild West movie: a mountainous desert of rock, sand and cactus.

  The Packard blew up a cloud of dust as it climbed the dirt road. Delware was nervous. Jack had let him pick their first commune to investigate.

  “So Delware, why this one?”

  “Well, it’s remote, but not far from The Tate residence. Just head east and in forty minutes you’ll be in the canyons above Hollywood. This commune has a ‘back to nature manifesto,’ but with an anarchist bent. Real tough talk - used the words “rich capitalist pigs.”

  “Pigs.”

  “It’s pretty common talk, but it did strike me.”

  “No. That’s good.”

  The road leveled off. A plateau opened before them and the sun hit their eyes. A circle of small wooden buildings lay ahead. Large tents dotted the adjacent mountain slope to the south, a sweeping view of the desert opened on the north.

  Jack dropped one hand onto a shotgun fastened between them. “Better unclip your holster. We don’t know what type of reception we’re in for.”

  They passed tarpaper shacks with roofs of plastic sheet, exposed electric wiring ran from shack to shack.

  Jack saw an accident waiting to happen.

  Delware squinted in the sunlight and saw the hopeful beginnings of a new America, but unclipped his .38 - just in case.

  The Packard stopped in front of a large log ranch house: an old pioneer structure standing sturdy since the Old West. Jack stepped out and found hippies peering from tent flaps and doorways. It was a hot day in LA, it was hotter here. Jack’s tongue felt dry. He saw a small scorpion scurry by his foot for the cool shade under his car. He wouldn’t be surprised to see a rattle snake under there by the end of their visit.

  Delware came around from his side of the car. Everyone stood still. Delware noticed three tall men with very long hair and beards coming down from gardens on the mountain’s slope. With a purposeful stride, they headed towards the t
wo officers.

  All three bore a passing resemblance to Jesus Christ, except they wore tight blue jeans and beads. They even towered over Jack. One asked, “What’s your scene, man?”

  Jack watched their faces as he flashed his badge. “Police business. We’re here to talk to a Timothy Benton.”

  The three men looked at each other, silently debating whether to comply. Reluctantly, the tallest, dirty blonde Jesus spoke, “Wait here.”

  Jack pointed after the departing hippie. “Delware, you go with him. Make sure he’s not going for a shotgun.”