by Neal Arbic
Jack froze. His eyes fixed on two words: Bottomless Pit. There it was! What he had never seen.
Suddenly, Jack was at Spahn Ranch in Death Valley watching his father and a ten-year-old Jack dropping stones into a deep well. Beside the well, a sign: The Bottomless Pit.
It all flashed back: the Free Clinic, Doctor Ellroy’s office, her mentioning a commune at Spahn Ranch. He even remembered their leader’s last name: Manson.
Unexpectedly, an evil energy awoke in the room. Feeling a menacing presence, Jack looked up and saw a shadow rising in the air. He knew where it was from: Death Valley. The shadow became a man with wild murderous eyes. The staring eyes of Evil Jesus knew Jack had found him. The centurions were coming. The prophecy would be fulfilled.
Yoko Ono spoke from the stereo, “...then...you become naked.”
***
The walls took hours to stop moving, but finally the floors became solid again. Jack fumbled with the phone and, after many attempts, dialed Delware’s number. Twenty rings later, Delware picked up. After five minutes of fragmented sentences, Delware realized the strange voice was Jack’s and he was saying: he knew where the killers were. Delware arrived expecting to find Jack stoned drunk, but was surprised to see a mellow Jack lying on the floor listening to The Beatles’ Honey Pie.
Jack looked up with glazed, lysergic eyes. “You know…this song isn’t so bad.”
In the car, Jack explained while Delware drove. Years in Narcotics allowed Delware to decipher Jack’s incoherent ramblings. Ten minutes into the drive, Delware realized it all made sense. The killers were at Spahn Ranch.
***
They found Homicide empty. Delware had no choice. Without permission and sidestepping chain of command, he jumped on the phones to organize a raiding party. Arriving officers were shocked to see a black officer in Homicide and it took them a moment to realize they had just followed his orders. Jack sat quietly watching the commotion with wide innocent eyes, seeing men he had known for years, as if for the first time. Pat arrived, demanding an explanation. He got the rundown from Delware, and got on the phone. “We’ll need a Helicopter. I don’t want anyone getting away.”
Pat called Dirk, “Better get down here. We have a suspect. We’re going to pick him up.”
Dirk protested, “I want a name!”
Pat handed the phone to Delware. “He wants a name.”
Delware grabbed the receiver. “Manson, Charles. Records is pulling his file right now. It should be up here anytime-.”
“Tell Records to hold that file, I’ll be there in five minutes, I’m picking that file up myself. Goddamn Delware, I got nothing against you, but if this is just a wild goose chase…” Dirk hung up.
Pat turned to Delware and pointed at a dog-eared Rolodex. “Get on the phone to County. Tell them we’re coming and where we’re going.”
District Attorney Vincent Burgess barged in at full steam, blustering through officers arming themselves with shotguns. “Pat! Calling a raid without me? You looking for photo ops? Goddamn thing in the middle of the night!” He barked, “Who called this raid and who thought I wouldn’t find out about it?!” Vince was genuinely stunned to find a black man conferring with Pat at the center of Homicide. He asked with surprising sincerity, “Who the hell are you?”
“Officer Hicks, I called the raid on orders of Detective Middleton.”
Vince leaned past Delware to see Jack. He did a consternated double take. “Jack, what the hell is the matter with you? You lookY@ he searched for the words, “…relaxed.”
Vince snapped at Pat, “I thought you threw him off this case?”
Delware stared at Jack, his eyes demanding him to say something. Jack was daydreaming. Delware stepped up. “We’ve broken the Tate and the La Bianca murders.”
Vince’s eyebrows shot up. “Holy Christ! They are connected?” He inched back and blinked - realizing an unknown black officer had just informed him of the most important news he might hear in his whole career.
Waylon Hampton, Mr. Ku Klux Klan, came up with a group of officers carrying pump-action shotguns. He was two hundred and fifty pounds of puffing flesh and led tactical operations for all LAPD raids. He saw Delware, phone still in hand, at the center of activity. Approaching him like a steam train, he eyed Delware giving orders. Waylon turned a few shades of red, his puffing face about to explode, his massive body tensing, fists balling. He spit out the words into Delware’s face. “What the fuck is this nappy headed coon doing on the third floor giving orders! No self-respecting officer gonna take order from no uppity cotton picker!!”
Delware took a step back and the busy room fell absolutely silent. Waylon eyed Delware for a murderous minute, their hands inching towards their guns.
It was as loud as a gun shot and just as startling: the crash of breaking glass. The whole room jumped and turned. There in the corner, sat Jack, a toppled water cooler at his feet. His grin said he had purposely kicked it over. Broken shards lay about, the now large pool of water expanded slowly like blood across the dirty linoleum.
Jack spoke quietly, but with such intensity his words could be heard clearly to the back of the room. “Waylon. Sit down, before I knock you down.” He stood slowly.
Forty men watched Jack and he defiantly eyed each and every one. Then his eyes narrowed. “Waylon!” He pointed at Delware. “That’s a black man!”
In a single swift motion, Jack drew his gun. Everyone gave a collective “whoa.” The men closest to Waylon took cover. The rest of the room bobbed and weaved to stay out of the wavering gun sight.
Jack walked slow, closing in on Waylon. “And he’s an officer of the LAPD acting on my orders.”
Waylon remained frozen; amazed that Jack was casually waving a gun in his direction.
Jack sneered. “You know, I never liked you. And I’ve known you for twenty years…so that’s saying something.”
Waylon snapped out of it and spat. “You’re smashed out of your head, you goddamn drunk!”
“Maybe, but tomorrow I’ll be sober and you’ll still be stupid.”
Vince was about to step in when Pat made a small hand motion, warning Vince to keep out of it.
Grimacing at the now nervous Waylon, Jack shook his gun like a scolding finger. “You know that story you tell about your father burning down that church full of coloreds? And the other Klansmans locking the doors so they couldn’t get out? That story always made me sick…it’s the way you tell it too, like you were proud of it: killing a bunch of defenseless women and children and old men.” He shook his head. “Bunch of men in sheets, covering their faces - always struck me as cowardly.”
Jack made a lazy glance at Delware. “You see Officer Hicks? He’s a better cop then you’ve ever been, Waylon. And that’s why you hate coloreds…because you’re afraid, given half a chance, they might prove themselves better than you.” He closed his eyes in disgust. “I’d kill you, but I don’t like you that much.” Jack sat and slid his .38 back into his holster, slow, like he was dreaming.
Waylon grabbed for his gun on his hip, but found the holster empty. He spun around to find Delware pointing his own gun at him. His finger wound tight around the trigger, his eyes filled with the rage of four hundred years of slavery, white brutality and segregation.
A voice from the back of the room startled everyone. “Jack, you’re a disgrace!”
Every head turned to find Dirk standing in the doorway, black-eyed, swollen faced, his head bandaged - a large file in his hand. Jack glanced up, then dropped his eyes.
Dirk entered the room. “You are a drunk, Jack! I hope you’re enjoying this night up here because it’s your last.”
Jack bowed his head - no comeback, no dirty looks - a silent confession. Dirk just stared at the old man.
Turning to Pat and Vince, Dirk weighed the heavy file in his hand. He spoke under his breath, “They found our killer.”
The pair of men stood astonished. Pat stepped forward and barked. “Dirk! Jack! Waylon! In my office!
”
As Pat marched past Delware, he whispered, “You’d better come too.” He stopped at Waylon who stood dangerously still, containing his rage, his eyes murderous. “Waylon, you’re in the office with us.”
The motley crew filed into the small room: blood-shot middle-of-the-night eyes, crooked ties, unshaven faces. Pat sank into his seat. Vince perched on the desk. Dirk and Delware straddled chairs at opposite sides of the room. Jack slumped into a corner chair where a dozen clipboards hung on the wall.
The moment Waylon closed the door, he turned his eyes on Delware. “I’m not staying in an office with him!”
The declaration hung in the air. With every second, the pressure in the room increased. Pat dropped his head. Everyone did side glances to take a read on his face, but it was down, out of sight. Vince felt the temptation to throw his weight around, but resisted. It was Pat’s Division, his call.
Finally, Pat surged out of his chair, red faced. “Well, then get the fuck out, Waylon!”
Waylon was shocked, so was everyone else. In the stunned silence, Waylon remained wide-eyed.
Pat pointed a finger in Waylon’s face. “Do you know where the killers are?”
Waylon’s face was blank. His shoulders shrugged.
Pat frowned fiercely. “Then get the fuck out!”
Dumbly, Waylon turned and exited.
Jack spoke softly to no one in particular, “One day I’m going to put his head right….with a baseball bat.”
Dirk pointed at Jack, protesting, “He’s not officially in the Bureau!”
Jack laughed. “Yeah, but I’m the only cop in this room who found our killers.”
Pat spoke softly, but with authority, “I’ll decide who’s on the force or not.”
Jack jabbed, “While the rest of you were running around like chickens with their heads cut off.”
Pat’s voice cut the air. “Which one of you wants to be the next holding his balls outside with Waylon?!”
Dirk rose and dropped the heavy file on a desk. The boom made everyone flinch.
“That’s the jacket right there. I’ve gone through it. Jack’s not fit to wear a badge, but he is right. This is our killer.”
Vince got up from the edge of the desk. “Jesus Christ! It’s thick as a Bible.”
Dirk threw open the file and tapped on the mug shot clipped to the first page. “That’s our guy.”
Jack stood very slowly. The room melted away and everyone in it. For Jack, he faced the picture – alone: that was his man, the one he’d been hunting. He would have recognized him anywhere, even though he had never seen him before, he would have been able to pick him out of any line up, or any busy street. Jack recognized the face; the hunter in him was fully awake now, fully in control. He read that face like ordinary people read a road map. This was a psychopath. Beyond his dirty good looks and boyish con-man grin, Jack read his story. A heartless childhood, abused, raised not by parents, but by institutions. Rejection and loneliness had destroyed all that was human in him - a man who saw other people only as puppets in his play. He could cut them as easily as a child tears apart paper dolls. He was the man Jack was always looking for, the question behind every unsolved murder: the man without motivation, except the need to destroy.
A ghoulish, devilish grin took possession of Jack’s face. He whispered, “You sumbitch.”
Delware’s eyes remained on the photo of the long haired criminal, amazed at the accuracy of five-year-old Cory Willett’s description. It was perfect: Evil Jesus.
Pat’s eyes came up wide. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” His fingers flipped through the bloated file. “Vince you should see this. The rap sheet alone is twenty pages. This guy’s no hippie. He’s been in and out of the system most of his life. First arrest when he was ten for arson!” He pulled a sheet and gawked. “He actually begged the parole board at his last hearing not to release him!”
Delware looked to Jack, but his partner stood silent, staring into another world. Delware piped in, “This lunatic’s out there now, in control of a hippie commune. He’s their leader.”
Vince asked Pat, “Who is this guy?”
Pat read it off the file to make sure he got it right, “Manson, Charles.”
Vince started pulling pages.
Pat turned to Dirk. “You really think this is our guy?”
“If this man has followers, LA’s not safe.”
Vince gasped, his hands full of arrest reports. “Where the hell is this maniac?”
Jack whispered. “I know.”
Everyone turned. Jack seemed to tower over all of them. “I know exactly where he is.”
***
Waylon popped his head in. “The team’s ready to go.”
Vince, Dirk and Delware filed out. Pat grabbed his jacket and was halfway out the door, when he stopped and turned. Jack sat in the corner, head bowed.
“Jack! You coming?”
“Yeah, I just wanted to say something.”
Pat gave him a curious look and closed the door. The two men faced each other in the empty room.
Jack half mumbled, “Sorry…for the last ten years.”
Pat’s jaw dropped. He tried to say something, but just mouthed. Once he got his air back, he asked. “Jack? What the hell did you do tonight?”
Friday, October 3rd, 1969, 2:01 AM
Delware drove the Packard along a dirt road that wound into a big nowhere, the great abandoned heart of Death Valley. Jack looked out at the shadowy dunes. In the moonlit night, he glanced back at the caravan following them: a long line of police cars raising dust into the silvery sky.
Jack was coming down, but still had uncontrolled flashes of powerful, vivid imagination. He saw the Manson family winding down this same road on their way to Cielo Drive: a tall hippie with a beard driving a pickup into the desert night, three smaller hippie girls squeezed in beside him. He imagined no talk as their faces glowed by the dashboard light, knowing where they were going and what they planned to do. They would leave the crime scene that would draw him back down this very same road.
Jack knew the officers following him were silent. He pictured those men. They too had plans.
The Packard came to a turn in the road where the dunes rose high. Jack’s hand shot up. “Stop!”
The car halted throwing up a cloud of dust. In the headlights, a dilapidated sign: three planks of rotting wood. The bottom plank hung lopsided by a single nail. The faded letters: Spahn Ranch.
Jack peered through the windshield. “I remember that sign, the ranch is just over the hill.”
The caravan slowed behind them, closing ranks. Jack’s imagination flashed the Manson family slowing their pickup down the road from Cielo Dr. - far enough away to take their victims by surprise. He saw the pickup pull to the side of the canyon road. Its headlights died.
Pat appeared at the window.
Jack rolled it down. “This is it.”
Pat nodded. “We’ll set up a perimeter.”
As Jack watched in his rearview mirror the officers getting out of their cars, his mind flashed: the tall hippie and the three girls getting out of their truck. As he watched a young officer checking his gun, Jack saw the tall hippie popping out the cylinder of his revolver, making sure the chambers were loaded.
Delware opened his door. “Come on, Jack. We’re going to miss it.”
Jack snapped from his vision. “No, wait. Close that door.”
Delware slammed it shut. “Damn it, Jack. What is it?!”
“Hey, wait a minute, will ya. We won’t miss a thing.”
Delware tried to sit, but fidgeted. “Come on, Jack!”
“I have to tell you something.”
“What!”
“You’ve made it.”
“What?”
“I overheard Patty and Vince talking in the parking lot. They’ve been watching you. They’re going to give it to you. You’re going to make detective, kid.”
Delware sat back stunned, his eyes wide, his head swaying
as if he didn’t know what hit him.
A whisper of a smile crossed Jack’s lips as he watched. “You’re going to be LAPD’s first neg-…black - Homicide detective.” Jack smiled. “Kid, your commune hunch, it was right as rain. That was some good hunting.”
Jack turned, pretending to look out the window.
Delware looked over at him. A long silent minute passed. He was about to ask Jack what was wrong when the words escaped Jack’s lips. “Now I can…go out…” Jack whispered so close to the window, his words left fog on the glass. “Thanks…partner.”
