by James Ellroy
Snores drilled Homicide. The squadroom was otherwise still. No Teletypes, no phone blare.
Two boys just rolled to the Congo. A Negro named Jefferson snuffed a Negro named Washington. A Negress named Lincoln precipitated the event. Dudley nixed the job. “Go, lads. The Dudster will be with you in the spirit of impartial justice.”
Blanchard snored. Dudley had a small cubicle. The sound boomeranged. Jack Webb picked his snout and perched by the Teletype.
Dudley wrote Beth Short a letter. “Apply yourself more rigorously to your studies, my grand girl. Bring your blind chum Tommy Gilfoyle with you later this month. I will send you a second airplane ticket. I want to watch you describe a motion picture to him, that splendid trick of yours.”
Benzedrine still fueled him. A Hop Sing boy guarded the quicklime spill and the bubbling rape-o. He sent the four rapees red roses. He included tender regards.
Blanchard snored. The lad was a constant cuckold. Rumors reverberated.
Dudley picked up Screen World. The pages were frayed. He’d read the Bette Davis piece a trillion times. The paper was shredded. Bette’s face was ink-smeared.
Harry Cohn found Bette brittle. She refused to leave Warner’s for Columbia. Harry said, “I can’t understand it, Dud. She must be anti-Semitic.” He said, “All good women are. But aren’t all of you film moguls Yids?”
Harry roared. Harry was an honorary white man. He ran Columbia tightfisted. The studio scrape doc was a lez named Ruth Mildred Cressmeyer. Ruthie owned a dyke slave den with Deputy Dot Rothstein. Ruthie botched a scrape on Bill McPherson’s coon squeeze and lost her M.D.’s license. Ruthie’s son Huey pulled heists and went to Bund meetings. Huey snitched for him. Huey sniffed glue. Huey was a grand psychopath.
His phone rang. The red button glowed—Lieutenant Thad Brown.
He caught it. “Yes, Thad?”
“I need a favor. It’s menial, but you and Blanchard are the only warm bodies I’ve got.”
“Of course.”
“We’ve got a loud party squawk in Highland Park—2108 Avenue 45. The local desk’s swamped, and Central’s running light. Half the night watch is working that Army traffic grief.”
Dudley jotted the address. Static cut Brown off. Sleeping Beauty stirred.
“Rise and shine, lad. There’s a task at hand.”
Blanchard rubbed his eyes. Dudley fed him coffee. Blanchard dog-yawned.
He slept in his suit coat. He needed a shave. He was a chronic malcontent. He pulled a daring heist in ’39 and rescued a dubious maiden. He’d accomplished shit since then.
Dudley grabbed his holster. He steered Blanchard through the pen and watched him shake cobwebs. They elevatored down to the garage and shagged a K-car. They pulled out on Main, northbound.
The dashboard clock read 11:41. Blanchard yaaaaaawned and cracked his wind wing.
“Benny’s getting out soon.”
“Yes, lad. I know.”
“He’ll probably throw a party.”
“He escaped the gas chamber. That’s a feat to celebrate.”
Blanchard lit a cigarette. “He escaped, thanks to us.”
“Don’t make me prompt you, lad. Complete the thought that you wish to express.”
Blanchard shuddered. “I can still see his face. The canary, I mean. I get dreams sometimes.”
Dudley rolled down his window. Cold air juked the Benzedrine.
“Be still, lad. You’d be better served taxing your conscience for those who deserve your regret.”
Blanchard gulped and tossed his cigarette. Dudley took Broadway through Chinatown. They bypassed the parkway and caught Figueroa north. Memory Lane: Nightingale Junior High.
Spring ’38. A sex fiend holds a girls’ gym teacher hostage. The fiend makes her strip in the showers. He sneaks in and blows the fiend’s brains out. He sends the hostage lady flowers every Christmas.
They moved through Mextown. Midnight revelers shot dice outside cantinas. They cut over to Avenue 45. The cholos vanished. The street was white and clean.
Wood-frame houses, parkway views, a stiffs’ haven. That loud party—up on the right.
The house was bright. Music blared. Jarheads and Waves schmoozed on the porch. A petty officer ladled punch from a soup tureen. The Waves waved American flags on sticks.
Dudley parked. Blanchard got out and stretched. Somebody said, “Cops.” Somebody killed the music.
Blanchard walked up to the porch. The revelry froze. Blanchard went Sssssshhhhhhh. Nervous laughs went around.
A jarhead said, “I saw you fight this shine down in T.J.”
Blanchard bowed. A Wave fed him punch. Blanchard chugalugged it and went Wooooo! Church bells chimed midnight somewhere.
Dudley got out of the car. The bell echoes faded. He thought he heard something.
It was faint and high-pitched. It wasn’t street noise back on Figueroa.
Blanchard charmed the yokels. The Wave refilled his cup. That shrill noise. Like overlapping violins.
Clock it—one house to the right. A wood-frame job. Tidy. Two floors, covered porch. He pulled out his flashlight and walked over. Shapes crossed the porch.
Coyotes. High-pitched beasts.
Blanchard weaved back toward the car. Dudley crossed the lawn and beamed his light on the porch. Coyotes lapped at the bottom door crack.
The light spooked them. They scattered. Their snouts were bright red.
He checked his watch. It was 12:02 a.m. Blanchard saw him and cut over. Dudley stepped onto the porch.
He flashed the door crack. Of course—blood.
Leaking out the door crack. Stiffening blood.
Blanchard jumped on the porch. He wafted cheap rum. Dudley went Sssshhh. Blanchard tracked the flashlight beam and went queasy.
Dudley pulled his piece. “Shoulder the door. Watch where you place your feet.”
Blanchard aimed at a slack point midway up the jamb. One bump snapped the lock. The door swung in. A stench blew out.
Blood and flesh gout.
“Go inside, lad. Hug the wall and find a switch. Use your handkerchief. Watch your feet, and don’t touch anything.”
Blanchard covered his nose and went in. Deft boy—he flattened himself to the wall and inched sideways. The front room was midnight dark. Blanchard’s feet scraped hardwood.
Light.
A ceiling fixture, bright bulbs, white light on this:
A living room. A wall-to-wall Persian rug. Blood-soaked, blood-immersed. Blood from four dead heathens. A yellow brood—papa, mama, daughter, son.
Blanchard said, “Japs.”
They were supine. They were eviscerated. They were fully disemboweled. Their entrails flared on the floor. They laid four across. They seemed to be positioned. Four blood-caked swords lay beside them.
Long, hooked blades. Thick leather grips. Swords from Jap lore.
Blanchard teetered outside. Dudley heard him puke. He hugged the wall and circled the room. He studied the Japs.
Papa was fifty and trim. Sun-bronzed, rough hands—Jap farmer stock. Mama was plump and papa’s age. The boy was twenty-two or -three. He was muscular. He had an insolent spic haircut. The girl was svelte and about sixteen.
Jap lore. Seppuku, hara-kiri, ritual suicide. Dishonor mandates self-annihilation.
Blanchard hovered in the doorway. His knees trembled. A jump tune kicked on next door.
Dudley said, “Call the Bureau and the lab. Tell Lieutenant Brown what we have, and leave a call to Chief Horrall to his discretion. Get Ray Pinker over here, and tell him to bring that bright young Dr. Ashida.”
Blanchard talked through his handkerchief. “What about a canvass? You know, door-to-door on the neighbors?”
“Irrelevant, lad. I would say we have suicide. Have Pinker call Nort Layman at the morgue. He’s a crackerjack cause-of-death man.”
“What about ID’s? Do you make them?”
Dudley squatted on the floor strip. “They’re not criminals in the classic sense
. You don’t ‘make’ insane heathens who outwardly adhere to the white man’s law. Brace the owner of the house next door. Determine what he knows. Call the night clerk at the Hall of Records. Inquire about the ownership of this house and find out how long the Japs have rented or owned it.”
Blanchard took off. Dudley got out his notebook and pen.
He drew the living room. He eyeball-measured the floor strips and rug. He drew a sofa and two chairs. Blood halfway covered the legs. He called it two inches deep.
Wall décor:
Sepia photos of long-dead Japs and a framed map of Japan. The semblance of a sane family life.
A dining room adjoined the living room. Dudley drew the table, windows and chairs. The blood pools stopped short of the dining room. The living room rug had absorbed all the blood.
Their mouths were locked open. They died gasping for breath. They positioned themselves side by side.
He reached over and poked papa’s arm. It stayed rigid. Rigor mortis had settled in.
He walked into the kitchen. It was all white-tiled.
Dishes stacked on a drain board. Jap fare in the icebox. Vegetables, rice, eel and squid.
Dudley drew the kitchen and laundry room. Linoleum floor, washing machine, indoor clothesline. Damp clothes pinned to the line. Why wash clothes on your suicide day?
He walked upstairs and stood on the landing. Two bedrooms, left. One bedroom, right. Wall pix of long-dead Japs.
He entered the near left-side bedroom. It was the girl’s. It was pure female Jap.
The girl slept on a bamboo floor mat. The girl had a potted bonsai tree on her desk. She had slant-eyed stuffed animals. Her closets featured kimonos and normal school attire.
The connecting doorway was padlocked. He prickled at that. He cut around to the bedroom adjacent. It was pure male Jap.
The dead boy looked unruly. He sported that spic haircut. Call it—the girl locked the connecting door to keep him out.
The hallway doors had key locks. Two locks meant she could lock herself in.
The boy’s room—unruly and then some.
Two golf clubs propped in a corner. A Franklin High pennant above the bed. Scattered comic books. Note the Nazi-spy covers.
A pitcher by the bed. A piss stink wafting up.
No loos in missy’s room and junior’s room. No cohabitator’s privacy ensured.
Dudley went through the closet and dresser. This was revealed:
Innocuous male clothing. A Franklin letter sweater. Four zoot suits. More comic books. Two switchblade knives. Cheesecake mags and padded jockstraps.
He examined the jockstraps. They were padded with small Jap flags and female underwear. It matched little sister’s underwear.
One bedroom left—mom and pop’s kip.
He walked in. He checked the bathroom. He saw four toothbrushes in one holder. He saw pachuco hair oil on a sink ledge.
He checked the bedroom. He saw a sheet of paper taped to the wall.
Two lines. Japanese characters. The obvious suicide note.
The closet was packed tight. Mama wore kimonos. Papa favored dungarees and Jap warlord garb. A dresser was jammed into the closet. Dudley opened the top drawer.
Note: stacks of Jap yen and Kraut reichsmarks. Note: a pocket tract titled The L. A. Oppressor.
Dudley skimmed all eight pages. It was a goofball polemic. “Mr. Anonymous” assailed anti-Jap rage. He blamed “KKKorrupt faKKKtions within the L.A. political machine.” Their minions: “KKKorrupt KKKops within the Police Department and Sheriff’s Office.” Mayor Fletch Bowron was pummeled. Sheriff Gene Biscailuz took some shots. Ex-Chief Jim Davis and Chief C. B. “Jack” Horrall got drubbed. The author lashed out at the Jews, the Brits and the Chinks.
Blanchard walked in. He held his pocket notebook and a Lucky Lager. He fucked up downstairs. His shoes were blood-smeared.
“The family’s name is Watanabe. Daddy-o’s name is Ryoshi. Mom’s name is Aya, and the kids are named Nancy and Johnny. The house is in daddy’s name. He owns a produce farm out in the Valley, just like every other Jap who don’t peddle trinkets or run a fishing boat out of Pedro. The guy next door says they’re decent Japs who steer clear of white folks and keep to themselves, and they’re supposedly the only Japs in Highland Park.”
Doors slammed outside. Dudley walked to Johnny’s room and looked down. Two-car pile-out: Ray Pinker, Nort Layman. The Ashida kid and Lieutenant Thad Brown.
They ran up to the house. A big Oh Shit boomed. The suave Blanchard walked in. He pawed Johnny’s comic books. He belched Lucky Lager.
Dudley snatched his bottle. “Go downstairs and send the Jap up. Chop, chop, Leland.”
Blanchard scrammed. Dudley walked into mom and pop’s room. Dudley studied the note.
The Jap walked in. It was 1:30 a.m. He was groomed and bright-eyed.
“Do you read Japanese, Dr. Ashida?”
“Yes, Sergeant. I do.”
Dudley pointed to the note. Ashida studied it.
“ ‘The looming apocalypse is not of our doing. We have been good citizens and did not know that it was coming.’ ”
1:31 a.m.
Dudley Smith said, “Surely a suicide note.”
Ashida said, “Yes, most likely.”
“Are you Nisei, Dr. Ashida?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Have you insights born of your cultural background that might serve to enlighten me thus far?”
The body placement felt wrong. The house was too tidy. Domestic chaos often precipitated seppuku. There should be more disarray.
Ashida said, “The note justified rather than acknowledged dishonor or shame. ‘Looming apocalypse’ is ambiguous. Most Japanese mass-suicide notes are somewhat more specific and stress the concept of honor regained.”
Dudley Smith smiled. He was tall and fit. He had small brown eyes. His soft brogue seduced suspects. The gas chamber ensued.
“I appreciate your comments. I intend to remain in this room and ponder them while you assist downstairs.”
Ashida bowed and walked to the stairs. He made the stench: visceral fluids mixed with stale air. He walked down to the living room. Blanchard and Brown stood away from the carpet. They went P-U and lit cigarettes.
Ray Pinker snapped body pix. Nort Layman studied the bodies. He wore knee-high waders. He came prepared for liquid rot.
Blanchard said, “I like the girl. If she was alive and kicking, I’d give her a poke.”
Brown said, “This could go long. You think Ace Kwan would send up some chow?”
Blanchard said, “Hop Sing and Four Families are back in the shit. Ace has his hands full.”
Brown said, “Dudley has truck with Ace. He’ll get us some grub.”
Blanchard said, “Don’t tell Ace we got dead Japs here. The Japs and Chinks got some historical beef.”
Two morgue men lugged in blood cans. Layman wrote the time and date on adhesive labels. The morgue men wore rubber gloves and packed metal scoops. Layman pointed to the stiffs.
“Clear a path all around. Seal the cans with tape. Refrigerate the blood, so I can get a peek at the cells.”
The morgue men went to it. They scooped blood chunks and canned them piecemeal. Layman tossed them four more cans. The blood was full-caked now. It came loose half-dried.
One man dug a path to Ryoshi Watanabe. One man dug a path to Johnny. They filled six blood cans. They threaded their arms through the handles and hauled them back off the rug.
Blanchard said, “Holy shit.”
Layman walked over to the bodies. He picked up the swords. He placed them on the rug. He turned the bodies prone and pulled down trousers, skirts and underwear. Pinker tossed him four thermometers cinched by a rubber band. He inserted them into their rectums and counted seconds on his wristwatch.
Ashida counted off his watch. Layman removed the thermometers and checked the bars. He signaled the morgue men: Go now. They peeled off to their hearse.
Layman coughed. “
I’d say they’ve been dead for ten hours. They were disemboweled, so the food in their intestines might have partially dispersed through their blood, onto the rug. If I can get a handle on their digestion, I might be able to pinpoint the time of their death more precisely.”
The morgue men wheeled in four metal gurneys. The borders were blood-guttered. Pinker stood over the bodies and snapped posterior shots.
Brown said, “It’s suicide. I talked to the Chief. He said to wrap it up and shitcan it.”
Dudley Smith walked in. “I lean toward suicide, but we’ll make that determination in good time.”
The morgue men leaned on their gurneys. Layman signaled Resume. They formed a stiff line. The inside man hoisted the stiffs. The outside man grabbed the stiffs and swung them. Layman stretched them out on the gurneys, face-up.
Ashida observed. Ashida gulped and spoke.
“The practice of seppuku entails a ritual meal shortly before the disembowelings. Dr. Layman should be able to determine the amount of food in their digestive tracts.”
Layman laughed. “I like this kid. He could call me ‘Nort,’ but he calls me ‘Dr.’ ”
Pinker laughed. “He’s a doctor himself. He’s a goddamn Stanford Ph.D.”
Blanchard made the jack-off sign. Dudley Smith winked at Ashida.
He fluttered. His legs dipped. Eight white men looked at him.
He walked to the gurneys. He slipped on rubber gloves. The morgue men gave him Who’s this punk? looks.
Ashida turned Ryoshi over. Yes—instinct confirmed. Ashida turned Johnny over. Yes—there again. Ashida turned Aya and Nancy over. Yes—again, again.
He had the floor. Eight white men stared at him.
“We’ve got hesitation marks directly below the entrance punctures. It’s not surprising, given the enormity of the deed. What’s anomalous is the similarity of the marks, given that the four people allegedly eviscerated themselves. In seppuku cases, the hesitation marks are usually straight downward punctures. In all four cases here, the tears go side to side, as if the people were thrashing or resisting the urge to kill themselves, in some way that has never been evidentially recorded in any criminological journal.”
Pinker and Layman crowded up. Ashida pointed to the marks on Nancy and Johnny. Layman brushed off blood flakes. Pinker whistled. Layman said, “The kid’s right.”