Destination: Morgue!: L.A. Tales

by James Ellroy

  The investigation continued, unsuccessfully. The September 11 terrorist bombings diverted the flow, as Federal agencies began a massive post-attack investigation of their own, aimed at uncovering terrorist cells in the Los Angeles area. LAPD detectives constantly monitored the FBI Task Force’s progress, but turned up no salient leads on the robbery-murder men. The investigation stagnated and assumed “open file” status.

  Detective Slatkin told the Times, “Our investigators have checked out over 400 tips, and Chief Tierney has now assigned the job to the Cold Case Unit. We’re making it our number-one priority. We’re about to check out an informant who has pledged to give us some important information. He seems to be plugged in to the Arab criminal network, so we’re guardedly optimistic.”

  Will the informant offer up data on terrorist activities? Detective Slatkin thinks not. “We think this is street crime, pure and simple,” he said. “The shouted slogans are most likely obfuscation. We’re treating this as a series of heinous, but nonpolitical, crimes.”

  Daily Variety, March 2, 2005. COP FLOP: “HOMICIDE HEAT” FIZZLES. DONAHUE SETS ON STAGE. By Bruce Balaban

  ABC has pulled the plug on the Donna Donahue starrer Homicide Heat after a scant six episodes. The L.A.-set cop-u-drama moped to miserable market shares and flat-out flopperooed. The show, which featured La Donahue as LAPD Detective Daisy Delphine, sunk despite proud production values, Ms. Donahue’s sin-tillating performance as a promiscuous diva cop and its status as LAPD Chief Joe Tierney’s favorite TV program. El Jefe’s bereft, but don’t look for Divine Donna at the unemployment office or Brentwood breadlines.

  No, she’s sternly stuck on the stage. She wants to eschew indie cheapies, sexploitation yukfests like Exit to Ecstasy and overblown oaters like San Laredo. Her plan? To commission a playwright and bomb the boards as pill-popping poetess Anne Sexton.

  Sexy Sexton succumbed to suicide in 1974. Deep Donna digs on her as a kool kindred soul. “I’ve had two seismic eruptions in my life,” she said. “One in ’83 and one last year. I want to transmogrify them into my role as Sexton.”

  Doe-eyed Donna does Sexton—whoa! It wends as one wild one-woman show. That Shakespeare shtarker is dead—ditto torrid Tennessee Williams. Who does Dishy Donna—currently flogging Barko Bits dog food with her Rhodesian ridgeback Reggie—see as her scribe?

  “There’s a young playwright I’ve got my eye on,” she said. “He’s stuck on ’70s culture, especially the SLA–Patty Hearst thing, but I think I can get him hooked on Sexton.”

  That sounds like savvy and sagacious Sextonism. Meanwhile, look for Dogophile Donna at the Barko Bits booth at the Beverly Hills Kennel Club trials. She’ll also be a presenter at this month’s Oscar fest, and that’s no dog of a show.

  Los Angeles Police Department/Psychological

  Evaluation Report/Official Routing Only: Commander,

  Robbery-Homicide Division & Personnel Division [file

  inclusion]. Reporting psychologist: Alan V. Kurland,

  Ph.D. Subject: Jenson, Richard W./Detective 3rd-

  Grade/currently assigned to Cold Case Homicide Unit.

  Date of submission: 3/6/05.

  Sirs:

  Between the dates 2/21 and 2/26/05 I conducted three one-hour sessions with Detective Jenson, who was referred to me (compulsory) by Captain Walter D. Tyndall, the Commander of Robbery-Homicide Division. Captain Tyndall’s reason for referral was his personal assessment of Detective Jenson: i.e., that he was suffering from nervous exhaustion and “some sort of ongoing personal crisis.”

  I found Detective Jenson to be a person of acute intellect and substantial insight, marred by the presence of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder (OCD), which by its debilitating long-term nature has led Detective Jenson into a state of excitability, pathological work habits and a disturbing need for mental stimulation. The underpinnings of Detective Jenson’s compulsiveness appear to be his romantic attachment to a 1965 murder victim (Stephanie Lynn Gorman, DOD 8/5/65, DR #65-538-991), an unsolved crime recently investigated by the Cold Case Unit, and his occasional involvement with a well-known actress (who Detective Jenson refuses to name), an intermittently intimate relationship that dates back over twenty years.

  Detective Jenson stated that he has eschewed marriage and long-term relationships with other women out of a sense of devotion to this woman, because “with her, everything is possible,” “she’s constantly with me, anyway,” and “I’ll never take a soft line on love.” Detective Jenson further stated that he has written two “novella-length” memoirs about his “wild-ass love” for this woman, and that they were both stylistically influenced by the alliterative prose style of Hush-Hush magazine. When queried about the content of the memoirs, Detective Jenson said, “It’s private shit. And, no, you can’t read them.” He went on to describe his writings as both “odes” and “hymns to the few times I’ve fully loved and felt incandescently alive.” Implicit in those statements: both memoirs described Detective Jenson and the unnamed woman in moments of violent intrigue. It should be noted that Detective Jenson’s admitted grandiosity and hoarding of “my righteous secrets with this woman” are consistent with the defining psychological guidelines of Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder.

  There are other deeply compulsive aspects of Detective Jenson’s fixation. He stated that he “only digs women who look like her,” “falls into” relationships with look-alike women and “axes them when they fall short of her.” Detective Jenson also employs “snitches” who direct him to the woman’s whereabouts so that he may “show up, accidentally on purpose.” When pressed on the desperation inherent in this, Detective Jenson stated, “So fucking what? I’m a cop. I use informants, and any man who won’t make a fool of himself for a woman is a fucking fruit.”

  Detective Jenson’s intransigence also extends to the Stephanie Gorman case. The victim (a 16-year-old girl from West Los Angeles) has, in Detective Jenson’s words, “constellated my need to yearn, live in the past, fuck myself up on unknowability and maybe get some righteous revenge.” With uncanny self-perception, he pointed to his use of informants and his hours parked outside Stephanie Gorman’s former house. “It’s a meditation,” he said. “It makes me feel tender. I sit still and figure things out about myself. I don’t have to fuck women to love them.”

  At this time, Detective Jenson is not amenable to entering therapy or taking medication that might serve to curb his obsessive-compulsive behavior. His physical condition—based on his last LAPD examination—is excellent, and his work performance is unimpaired. Detective Jenson (who has killed five armed suspects in the line of duty) does not seem to suffer from the post-traumatic stress disorders common to policemen. When asked about the state of nervous exhaustion and “ongoing personal crisis” described by Captain Tyndall, he replied, “If you’re not on the edge, you’re taking up too much space.” Detective Jenson has, despite his excitability, pathological work habits and need for stimulation, a grounding in the realities of his life. At this time, I believe there to be no cause for his suspension from duty. I would further recommend a second evaluation in six months’ time.

  Respectfully,

  Alan V. Kurland,

  Ph.D.

  1.

  The informant:

  Habib Rashad/male Arab/age 36/4823 S. St. Andrews.

  We humped the Harbor Freeway southbound. Cops call it the “Coal Chute.” It’s a jungle-bunny juggernaut and a sleaze sluice. It coonects Darktown with White Man’s L.A.

  Tim Marti drove. I daydreamed. Donna Standard Time tapped me. Homicide Heat—tanksville. No more impromptu set visits. No more Donna done up fetishistic: LAPD badge, gun, and cuffs.

  The blues blasted me. Donna deprivation, Stephanie still stamped unsolved and DEAD. My torch flared and billowed bipartite. Said torch now torqued Tim’s kid Brandon. My crush created his crush. He dug Donna delirious. He prized Stephanie as his prom date pristine.

  Darktown dipped by. Shit shacks, shine stands, Afriqued AMEs. The
Coal Chute ran elevated. I saw liquor-store layabouts lap Olde English 800. I saw hos pander poontang and cats cliqued up outside rib cribs.

  The ’01 murders. Three dead, Arab suspects, Southside locations. Habib Rashad—Southside habitué.

  He called the chief’s office. He said he had major shit. Joe Tierney bought in. Terrorists tickled Tierney. He hosannaed for Homeland Security. He called the Cold Case guys in.

  Three liquor-store snuffs. Brutal, brazen. Terrorist tie-ins— don’t bet on it.

  We hit the 10 freeway westbound. I Donna-dreamed. We mated in Malibu. We soixante-neuf’d at Sofitels. Reggie Ridgeback romped rambunctious and furred us up.

  Tim took the Normandie exit. We whipped west and south. There’s the address: a weathered wood-frame pad.

  We parked curbside. Jigaboos perched on porches checked our fuzzmobile out. We bopped to the front door. Tim rang the bell. A full-drag dune coon opened up.

  Designer threads. A Husseinesque house smock. A boss burnoose from Bin Laden’s Boutique.

  Tim laffed. I said, “Ahab the A-rab. Where’s your camel, motherfucker?”

  Daddy-o deadpanned us. We bopped in unbidden. The living room: a mad mini-mosque.

  Pricey prayer rugs. Wild wall tapestries. Freaky framed photographs—Al Qaeda-ish cats with big beards. All-star ayatollahs. Sacred Saddams and holy Hassims. A camel caravan supreme.

  Rashad said, “I have information. I give, and you give me good deal.”

  Beanbag chairs beckoned. Tim and I plopped in. Rashad paced. His burnoose billowed. Fuck this Scimitar Sid.

  The digs diverted me. Hookahs heaped on side tables. Chartreuse shawls covered with camel or cat hair. Those wall pix— beady-eyed Bedouins.

  Tim said, “The liquor-store jobs. Give on that, and we’ll talk to the D.A.”

  Big bugs rocked across the rugs. They lugged lamb hunks and shish-kebab shards. Southside centipedes loomed large—L.A. Laker–like.

  I said, “Is this terrorist shit we’re dealing with? Did those guys have some kind of political motive?”

  Rashad shook his head. “They wanted to show courage to a radical Islamic group. You know the term ‘sleeper cell’? They wanted to secure funds from the group and form a cell, but they had no intention of performing terrorist acts. They just wanted to enjoy themselves with the money. You know the term ‘party hearty’?”

  I saw it. Murderous Muslims maraud the Sunset Strip. Camels corralled by the Viper Room. Lamb roasts right by the Roxy.

  Rashad paced. His house smock swirled. His sandals slapped. Shit—a shot shook/a side window shattered.

  It ratched Rashad. It ricocheted. It hit a hookah and hammered his head twice. It chewed his cheekbones, his brains breezed, his scalp scattered.

  I dove. Tim dove. We rolled and ate prayer rug. Bugs crawled with falafel crumbs.

  Rashad palsied and pulsed pole-axed. He flew. He flatlined. He dropped DOA.

  I got up. Tim got up. We reached for our roscoes and ran out the door. Getaway car—a purple Pontiac peeling out.

  We ran. We got our car. Tim caught the key and goosed the gas. We tore tread, reamed the rims, and ripped rubber.

  We gained ground. We pounced on the Pontiac. We sheared shots off. We blasted the back window out.

  Glass shrapnelized. Our towelhead target boded, backlit.

  I fired. Tim fired. We tore towel fabric. His burnoose burned. His hair flared and flamed the headliner.

  He screamed. I heard it. He alakazamed to Allah. We banged his bumper. We climbed close in. His beard broiled down to bristles. His face went on fire.

  The Pontiac pulled right and popped over the curb. It hit a hydrant, stalled and stopped. Local losers poured off their porches. They whooped wild and cheered.

  The guy jumped from the car. His face was a four-alarm fire. A porch punk pulled a hose over. He laughed loud and lobbed water up.

  The guy sizzled and fizzled. The guy sputtered sparks and dipped dead.

  THE SHOOTING TEAM SHOWED. Ditto the lab. Ditto the coroner’s car and six bluesuits.

  They roped the street off. They perused the Pontiac. Fire Face—high up in hafiz heaven. The coroner’s cats cased his stiff.

  Filed fingertips. Scar tissue over print surface. One U.S. passport. Saudi Arabia stamps/Habib Rashad’s name/Fire Face’s unfried features. Sexy secular threads: color-coonordinated Tommy Hipnigger.

  Local louts loitered. Porch punks paraded. They hopped house to house and shared Schlitz malt liquor. Lab guys popped the Pontiac’s trunk. They found a Mach 10 machine gun, a copper kettle caked with couscous, four bug microphones.

  Bug mikes—whoa, why dat?

  The shooting team shoved shit at Tim and me. You shot that sharp sheik. Yeah, he killed Scimitar Sid—but justify it.

  We laid it out. The liquor-store snuffs. Rashad—righteous informant. He’s out to name names. He’s prepping his prelude. Bam— the sheik shoots, Sid leeches lead.

  The shooting guys got it. Internecine intrigue. Camelhead conspiracy. Some panicked Pan-Arab Pax.

  We tossed the pad. We roamed rooms, combed cubbyholes, and found this:

  Personal papers. Proud proprietor Rashad—owner of Falafel Fan, 34th and Vermont.

  Mucho mattresses stuffed in storage closets.

  Hate tracts. Arabic script. Gross graphics of insidious Israelis. Dig their fat fangs and big beaks. Dig their kike Cadillacs. Dig their six-point-star-meets-dollar-sign regalia.

  Five .44 Magnums. Fifteen 40-caliber Brownings. Appropriate ammo.

  Pandemic porno vids. Torrid and topical titles. Darsheika Does Damascus, Syrian 69, Golan Heights Gang Bang, Sexy Saddamites, and Cairo Cuties.

  Four spackle-coated cameras. Surefire surveillance cams.

  Link it large: the bug mikes and the cameras.

  Print techs whipped through and worked walls and windows. Tim and I rocked room to room and recorded details. A coroner’s canoe rolled Rashad and Fire Face off. I contemplated my kills, line of duty.

  The Garcia brothers—wicked wetbacks/choice cholos. Huey Muhammad 6X—rapacious rape-o. Shondell Dineen and Webster Washington—blasphemous black hoods. My bold body count—now six total.

  My cell phone rang. The display lit up. A Donna snitch snared me.

  I hit On. “It’s Jenson.”

  “Hi, Rhino. It’s Tom. You know, at Raleigh Studios.”

  “Yeah?”

  “She’s on Stage 6. She’s doing this dog food commercial.”

  DIG THE DICHOTOMY: dead dune coons to Dangerous Donna.

  I drove to Raleigh Studios. I circled Stage 6 and parked. Rowf fucking rowf—there’s Reggie Ridgeback’s huckster howls.

  The barks bid me inside. I cut down corridors and caught the commercial. There’s the director. There’s the crew. There’s Reggie and Donna.

  A flag fluttered behind them. Reggie rowfed in red, white, and blue dog duds. A right-wing conglomerate hawked Barko Bits. Donna parsed out patriotic pap.

  “Hi. This is Donna Donahue, with my dog, Reggie. Like all Americans, I’m concerned about the specter of terrorist attack. I stay healthy and vigilant by eating a well-balanced diet, and I feed Reggie Barko Bits All-American Dog Chow. I want a vigilant watchdog who’s alert 24–7. Barko Bits’ special blend of meat, vitamins, and minerals keeps Reggie up on his paws and sniffing out terrorist suspects. Speak, Reggie! Tell us how you feel about Barko Bits All-American Dog Chow!”

  Reggie went “Rowf!” Reggie dipped through his dog duds and dug into his dick.

  He bit, he licked, he tongued himself tumescent. Donna howled. The director yelled, “Reggie, you fucking lowlife, lay off your shvantz!”

  Reggie ignored him. Reggie dick-dug deeper. The crew yukked. I noticed a cool cat standing stage right. He oozed male-model machismo. He was fagged-out in Ferragamo and artfully arrayed in Armani. Resentment ripped me. He vibed Donna boy toy.

  The director yelled, “Cut! Let’s take five for now!”

  Boy Toy bopped toward Donna.
Reggie gggrrrowled at him. I hopped on stage. Donna hugged me. I said, “Who’s the fruit?” Donna said, “He’s a playwright, and I’m not sleeping with him.”

  My resentment rippled off. I un-machismoed and magnanimized. I Donna-disengaged and braced Boy Toy.

  “I’m Rick Jenson. Donna and I go back. I’m on LAPD, and I just dusted an A-rab.”

  Donna laffed. “Rick’s a xenophobe, and he tends to brag to impress me. It works sometimes.”

  Boy Toy bristled. “I’m Donny DeFreeze, and I’m not impressed. I support the PFL and all Middle Eastern wars of liberation. I told Donna this commercial was beneath her, but she insisted. She has a codependent relationship with her dog.”

  Reggie growled. His fur furled tailbone and torso. It was deep dog dislike and instant indictment.

  I said, “Donny DeFreeze? Like that SLA fool ‘Cinque’? Don’t tell me. You think he’s cool and relevant to this time of internal repression, and you regret that you were born white.”

  Donna poked me. Reggie flared his flaps and flashed his fangs. DeFreeze detoured and mowed down a mike stand.

  It toppled. I picked it up. Donna reached for Reggie and restrained him.

  “Donny’s going to write my Anne Sexton show. He’s written some plays and spec scripts that caught my attention.”

  Boy Toy/Butt Banger/Budding Bolshevik Bard—fuck him six ways from Sunday.

  “Watch out for Donna. She’s more dangerous than you’ll ever know. And watch out for Reggie and me, because we’re right behind you.”

  Reggie growled. His dick shot from the shaft. He vibed dog defiler and ridgeback rape-o.

  Donna said, “Rick, you asshole.”

  DeFreeze simpered sissified. His lips pursed perverted. Spit bubbles bipped out and spun.

  “My best work hasn’t been produced yet, but I think you’ll find it shocking when you see it.”

  Cryptic. Cruel. Fatalistically faggy. This hard-eyed homophile hiss.