Parker and his wife never had children, and the chief remained aloof from most of his colleagues on the force. He did, however, take a special shine to the young officer who was assigned to be his personal chauffeur—Daryl Gates. Together the two men refined a theory of “proactive policing,” which featured relentless confrontations between heavily armed officers and the hostile populations they patrolled. Parker and Gates came of age in an era when white cops didn’t have to rein in their feelings about African-Americans. When Watts exploded in 1965—a rebellion set off by a confrontation between a black motorist and a uniformed officer of the California Highway Patrol—Parker compared the black rioters to “monkeys in a zoo.” A year later, a black man named Leonard Deadwyler was rushing his pregnant wife to the hospital when he was stopped by police for speeding. In the ensuing confrontation, the unarmed Deadwyler was shot dead. “Police are not supposed to stand by and watch a car speeding down the street at eighty miles per hour,” Parker explained. “[The officer] did something he thought would successfully conclude a police action. All he is guilty of is trying to do his job.”
True to the intent of the civil-service law, Parker served until he died, and Gates took over as chief in 1978. The selection process that led to Gates’s appointment seemed designed as a direct affront to the city’s black community: To head the internal review of candidates for the job, the LAPD brought in Curtis LeMay, the far-right-wing former air force general who had served as George Wallace’s running mate in 1968 and earlier had promised to bomb North Vietnam “back to the Stone Age.”
After Gates took over, the list of black victims of the LAPD grew ever longer. In 1979 Eulia Love, a thirty-nine-year-old black widow who was late in paying her gas bill, hit a meter reader on the arm with a garden shovel. The utility man summoned police officers, who, rather than defuse the situation, shot Love dead at pointblank range. In 1982, after a number of African-American men died from police choke holds, Gates observed that the deaths might have been caused by the distinctive physiology of the black victims: “We may be finding that in some blacks when [the choke hold] is applied, the veins or arteries do not open up as fast as they do on normal people.” It mattered little that Los Angeles had had a black mayor, Tom Bradley, since 1973. The LAPD answered to no one.
A raid on a suspected narcotics operation in August 1988 may have been the paradigmatic LAPD operation. About eighty police officers (and one helicopter) swooped in on four apartments in two small buildings at Thirty-ninth Street and Dalton Avenue, on the periphery of the South Central district. The officers, armed with shotguns and sledgehammers, barreled through the rooms. They tore plumbing out of the walls, ripped a stairway from its moorings, pulled carpet from the floor, destroyed furniture and appliances, and kicked and punched the stunned residents. For all the terror it unleashed, the raid netted only two minor drug arrests. Nevertheless, the officers on the scene did find reasons to take thirty-two residents of the complex back to the local precinct, where the captives were forced to whistle the theme song from the 1960s situation comedy The Andy Griffith Show. Before they left the Dalton homes, some officers had spray-painted the words LAPD RULES on the walls.
Less than three years later, a passerby videotaped LAPD officers beating unarmed motorist Rodney King. On April 30, 1992, the four officers who administered the beating were acquitted in a trial that had been moved from downtown Los Angeles to the rustic (and largely white) Simi Valley. As it had in 1965, the city once again erupted in a riot of protest, rage, and frustration. A blue-ribbon commission, headed by future secretary of state Warren Christopher, after studying the King beating and its aftermath, delivered a deadpan verdict that was many years in coming. “The problem of excessive force is aggravated by racism and bias within the LAPD,” the Christopher commission concluded. “These attitudes of prejudice and intolerance are translated into unacceptable behavior in the field.”
At 12:30 A.M. on June 13, Officer Robert Riske telephoned news of the two homicides to his supervisor, David Rossi, the sergeant in charge of the West Los Angeles station at the time. Rossi promptly made a half dozen phone calls around the LAPD chain of command, setting in motion the police response to the crimes. In an ordinary case, even a homicide, Rossi would probably have made only two calls—to the detective on duty, who would investigate the scene, and to his own commander. But Rossi’s supervisor immediately told him to reach higher in the command structure because of, as Rossi later put it, “the possible notoriety of this particular incident.”
A steady stream of officers began converging on the murder scene at 875 South Bundy. Sergeant Marty Coon was the first supervisor to arrive. Riske and his partner put up yellow crime-scene tape to block access to this block on Bundy and to the back alley. Additional officers came to make sure no one passed through the tape. A squad car arrived to take the two children to the West L.A. station, and two more officers began walking through the alley, searching garbage pails for possible evidence and knocking on doors in an effort to find witnesses. By the time David Rossi arrived at the scene at 1:30 A.M., the tape was up and the scene quiet. Moments later, Rossi’s boss, Captain Constance Dial, arrived as well. Riske took Coon and Rossi for a quick tour. Standing on the landing by the front door, Rossi saw what Riske had seen: the two bodies, the trail of blood heading toward the alley, the envelope, the knit hat, and the single leather glove.
Before leaving the station for the crime scene, Rossi had reached the chief of the West L.A. detective-homicide unit that would be in charge of the investigation, Ron Phillips, at home. A twenty-eight-year veteran of the LAPD, Phillips no longer investigated crimes himself; rather, it was his responsibility to visit the crime scene, talk with the uniformed officers who had discovered the bodies, and assign the case to one of the four homicide detectives who worked under him.
In the early morning hours of June 13, Phillips’s on-call detective for the next case was Mark Fuhrman, who would be assisted by his more junior partner, Brad Roberts. Phillips called Fuhrman and Roberts at their respective homes and told them to meet him at the West L.A. station. Roberts couldn’t get to the station as quickly as the other two, so when Phillips and Fuhrman met there at shortly before 2:00, they took an unmarked police car and proceeded together to the murder scene. They arrived at about 2:10 A.M. As Fuhrman approached the scene, he wore a shirt and tie but no jacket. According to the crime-scene log, Detective Mark Fuhrman was the seventeenth police officer to arrive at 875 South Bundy Drive.
Riske met Phillips and Fuhrman at the front of the house on Bundy and took them on a tour of the scene. They walked together toward the front door and hunched together in the shrubbery to the left of the pathway while Riske shined his high-powered flashlight on the female victim’s body. But because the front pathway was so covered with blood, the three men decided not to try to tiptoe around it and up the stairs, as Riske had done when he first discovered the scene, but instead walked around the block, via Dorothy Street, to the back alley. Rossi was waiting for them in the alley, and he pointed out some blood on the rear gate to Phillips. Riske, Phillips, and Fuhrman then entered the house through the garage, passing a black Jeep Cherokee and a white Ferrari, and then walked up a short flight of stairs. On the bannister next to the stairs there was a partially eaten cup of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream—Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough in flavor.
Riske led the two detectives through the house, including the second floor, and then back to the landing. There Phillips and Fuhrman could see the two bodies in front and the bloody shoe prints on the walkway leading to the back alley. Riske shined his flashlight around the scene once more, pointing out for the detectives the envelope as well as the hat and the glove, which were partially obscured by the foliage. They went back into the house and left through a door that opened onto the walkway that ran along the northern edge of the property. Riske showed them at close range the bloody shoe prints with the blood drops to the left. The three men then went out the back gate, which was, Riske pointed
out, also stained with blood, especially on the handle.
After they completed their tour, Phillips and Fuhrman split up. Phillips stayed outside to use his cellular phone. Fuhrman wanted to make some notes of what he had seen. He wasn’t writing a formal report at this stage, just his preliminary observations to refer to as his investigation proceeded. Fuhrman reentered the house through the garage and sat down on a couch in the living room to scribble down some of what he had seen and been told. Numbering his entries, Fuhrman noted that Riske had discovered the bodies and made the initial report. The causes of death were still unknown, and Fuhrman hadn’t gotten close enough to the bodies to make any definitive finding. The third item in his notes said the victims had “Possible GSW”—gunshot wounds. Fuhrman made reference to the two children who had been taken to the police station, the lit candles, the melting ice cream. Fuhrman noted the blood drops to the left of the shoe prints on the walkway. “Suspect ran through this area,” he wrote. “Suspect possibly bitten by dog.” He made several mentions of blood on the rear gate, including a note that said, referring to the handle that opened the gate from inside the property, “Possible blood smudge and visible fingerprint.” In all, Fuhrman listed seventeen items for follow-up. He was writing his last entry—“Ski mask, one glove by feet of male victim”—when he was interrupted.
Brad Roberts had arrived and was asking for an update. Fuhrman quickly walked his partner to the landing and showed him the bodies, the hat, and the glove, and then they went back along the walkway that was marked with the bloody shoe prints. Afterward, Roberts headed around the block toward the Bundy entrance, and Fuhrman returned to the couch to work on his notes. He was interrupted again. This time it was his boss, Ron Phillips. Phillips told Fuhrman that the West L.A. team was off the case. It was being turned over to Robbery-Homicide Division, the headquarters unit that handles especially complex or high-profile cases. Moments later, Fuhrman followed Phillips out of the house through the garage. It was about 2:40 A.M., and Mark Fuhrman’s tenure as lead detective on this double homicide was over. It had lasted about thirty minutes.
Shortly after arriving at Bundy, Phillips had received a cellular phone call from one of the highest-ranking officers in the entire LAPD. Keith Bushey was the commander of operations for the western quarter of Los Angeles, a region that included not only West L.A. but the Hollywood, Pacific, and Wilshire divisions as well. Bushey had an order for Phillips. Since one of the victims was the ex-wife of O.J. Simpson—and because children presumed to be his had been removed from the house—he wanted Simpson personally informed of the murder. Bushey said he wanted to avoid a “Belushi situation.” (When the actor and comedian John Belushi had died at the Chateau Marmont Hotel in 1982, the news media had learned of it almost instantaneously and broadcast the information before the LAPD had the chance to notify any family members in person. It had been painful for Belushi’s family and embarrassing for the LAPD.)
Phillips hadn’t had a chance to act on this order in his first half hour on the scene because he had, for the most part, been inspecting the evidence with Fuhrman. Then, at about 2:30 A.M., Lieutenant Frank Spangler, in charge of all detectives in West Los Angeles and thus Phillips’s boss, arrived bearing the news that Phillips and his team were to withdraw from the case in deference to the Robbery-Homicide Division. In light of this change, Phillips decided that he would hold off on notifying Simpson as well.
Fuhrman pointed out some of the evidence, including the single glove and the envelope, for a police photographer who had arrived on the scene, but for the most part Fuhrman and Phillips stood around and waited for the detectives who were going to replace them. They stood together on Bundy chatting for almost an hour and a half, although at one point Fuhrman and Spangler did approach the male victim from the adjacent property to the north and together stared at the body through a fence.
At 4:05 A.M., Philip Vannatter, a Robbery-Homicide detective, arrived. Phillips mentioned to Vannatter that Bushey had ordered him to tell O.J. Simpson in person about the deaths. What should he do? Vannatter brushed off the issue, saying he would worry about it after he had seen the crime scene. At that point, Phillips walked Vannatter through the crime scene as he had been introduced to it by Officer Riske. At 4:30, Vannatter’s partner, Tom Lange, arrived, and Phillips gave him the tour, too. The LAPD had about fourteen hundred detectives, and neither Phillips nor Fuhrman had ever previously met Vannatter or Lange.
When the two senior detectives had completed their walkthroughs, Phillips again raised the issue of Bushey’s order for an in-person notification of Simpson. He was concerned about not having followed a very specific order from a high-ranking official. When was O.J. going to be notified? Vannatter said that since it was Simpson’s ex-wife who had been murdered, he and Lange would need to interview him anyway. As Lange testified later, “I think it is very important to establish a rapport, especially with persons who are close to the victim, to get information.” And besides, Simpson might be able to help them identify the male victim, whose name the police did not yet know. There was also the matter of the children. Simpson, who was bound to be upset at the news of the murder, might well need some assistance in collecting the boy and girl from the police station. So Vannatter decided that all four detectives would make the trip to Simpson’s home. Vannatter and Lange would introduce themselves to Simpson, assist in the notification, and then return promptly to begin their investigation of the crime scene, while the two junior detectives would help Simpson retrieve his children. Before they left, they had to settle one obvious question: Where did Simpson live?
Fuhrman said he knew. He told Phillips that when he was a uniformed patrol officer in West L.A., he had gone on a radio call to the Simpson home. “I went up there a long time ago on a family dispute,” Fuhrman said. “I think I can find it.” He didn’t remember the exact address, but Riske, who had run the plates on the Jeep parked in Nicole’s garage, told Fuhrman that the plates had come back to 360 North Rockingham. In his report of the evening’s activities, Lange summarized Fuhrman’s information this way: “Mr. Simpson and victim had been embroiled in previous domestic-violence situations, one of these resulting in the arrest of Mr. Simpson.” (Phillips later testified he did not remember any such discussion that evening, although it is possible he simply did not hear what Fuhrman said to Lange.) So, at just about 5:00 A.M., Phillips and Fuhrman led Vannatter and Lange in a two-car caravan from Bundy to Rockingham. The two-mile trip took about five minutes.
As the two cars made a right turn off Sunset Boulevard onto Rockingham Avenue, the terrain changed and the houses grew larger, grander. Traveling uphill along the silent street, the detectives strained to see the house numbers painted on the curbs. Earlier in his career, Vannatter had spent four years as a detective in West L.A., yet he had never driven on or even heard of Rockingham. It was not the kind of street that generated much police activity. Still, on that night he noticed one of the customs of the neighborhood. Rockingham was not a major artery, but it did serve as the conduit to Sunset for many smaller streets, and residents tended to avoid parking on it so that traffic could move freely. On this night, Rockingham was empty—except for a single vehicle. Just before the detectives reached the intersection of Rockingham Avenue and Ashford Street, Vannatter noticed a white Ford Bronco by the curb. On closer inspection, it appeared that the vehicle was slightly askew, as if it had been hurriedly parked. As it turned out, this car was stopped directly in front of number 360, which occupied the corner lot. The detectives turned right onto Ashford and parked their two cars near an iron gate set in the brick wall that surrounded O.J. Simpson’s property.
A couple of lights were on in the house, and there were two cars in the driveway. Vannatter rang the buzzer by the gate. No answer. He rang some more, and then Phillips and Lange rang for a while. Still no response. A medallion posted near the house announced that it was protected by Westec, a prominent security firm in Los Angeles. By coincidence, a marked Westec car
happened to drive by, and the detectives flagged it down. They persuaded the security guard to give them Simpson’s home telephone number. (The guard also said that according to Westec records, a full-time housekeeper was usually on the premises.) At 5:36 A.M., Phillips began calling Simpson’s number on his cellular phone, but Simpson’s answering machine—“This is O.J.,” the message began—took the call each time.
Fuhrman hung back while the other three detectives tried to raise someone in the house. Though he had been a police officer for nineteen years, he was a level-two detective while the others were at level three; in the hierarchical world of the LAPD, it was therefore his place to defer. So, with nothing to do, Fuhrman wandered around the corner, back to Rockingham, and over to the Bronco. He shined his small pocket flashlight into the back and saw papers addressed to O.J. Simpson. Fuhrman then studied the driver’s door and noticed a small red stain just above the handle. Near the bottom of the door, on the exposed portion of the doorsill, he saw several more thin red stripes.
“I think I saw something on the Bronco,” Fuhrman called to Vannatter.
The senior detective came by to study the vehicle more closely, and the two men agreed that the stains looked like blood. Vannatter directed Fuhrman to run the license plates and see who owned the car. The plates came back to the Hertz Corporation, whose products Simpson had long endorsed.
The Run of His Life Page 4
