by James Ellroy
I expected Dudley Smith to fix me with a stern, probing look. He didn’t. He just smiled crookedly and lit another cigarette. He exhaled smoke and laughed heartily.
“Well, lad,” he said, “you’ve got us a killer. That’s for damn sure. The Cadwallader dame, a certainty. The other woman, what was her name?”
“Leona Jensen.”
“Ahhh, yes. Well, there I’m not so sure. What was the cause of death, do you know?”
“The M.E. at the scene said asphyxiation.”
“Ahhh, yes. Who handled it for Wilshire dicks?”
“Joe DiCenzo.”
“Ahhh, yes. I know DiCenzo. Freddy, lad, what are your feelings about this degenerate Engels?”
“I think he knocked off Cadwallader and Jensen and God knows who else.”
“God knows? Are you a religious man, lad?”
“No, sir, I’m not.”
“Well, you should be. Ahhh, yes. Divine Providence is certainly at work in this case.”
Captain Jurgensen came onto the porch holding a beer.
“Ahhh, John. Thank you,” the lieutenant said. “Give us ten more minutes, will you, lad?”
The captain muttered, “Sure, Dud” and retreated again.
“I was about to say, lad,” Dudley Smith went on, “that I concur wholeheartedly with you. How old are you? Twenty-seven, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t call me sir, call me Dudley.”
“All right, Dudley.”
“Ahhh, grand. Well, lad, I’m forty-six, and I’ve been a cop for half my life. I was in the O.S.S. during the war. I was a major in Europe and I came back to my sergeancy in the department, expecting to rise very fast. I caught a lot of killers, and I killed a few myself. I made lieutenant, and I expect I’ll always be a lieutenant. I’m too tough and smart and valuable to be a captain and sit on my ass all day and read Shakespeare like our friend John.”
Dudley Smith leaned toward me and clamped his huge right hand over my knee. He lowered his tenor voice a good three octaves, and said, “In Ireland, the brothers taught me an abiding love and respect for women. I’ve been married to the same woman for twenty-eight years. I’ve got five daughters. There’s a lot of the beast in me, lad, God knows. What gentleness there is I owe to the brothers and the women I’ve known. I hate killers, and I hate woman killers more than I hate Satan himself. Do you share my hatred, lad?”
It was his first test, and I wanted to pass it with honors. I tightened my whole face and whispered hoarsely, “With all my heart.”
Smith tightened his grip on my knee. He wanted me to show pain in acquiescence, so I winced. He released my knee, and I rubbed it gingerly. He smiled. “Ahhh, yes,” he said. “Grand. He’s ours, Freddy. Ours. He’s claimed his last victim, God mark my words.”
Smith leaned back and slouched bearlike into his chair. He picked up his bottle of beer and drained it. “Ahhh, yes. Grand. Detective Officer Underhill. Do you like the sound of that, lad?”
“I like it fine, Dudley.”
“Grand. Tell me, lad, how did you feel after you gunned down those two pachucos who killed your partner?”
“I felt angry.”
“Did you weep, later?”
“No.”
“Ahhh, grand.”
“When do we start, Dudley?”
“Tomorrow, lad. There’ll be four of us. Two fine young protégés of mine from the bureau, and us. As of now, John is out. As of now, I am your commanding officer. During the war, we in the O.S.S. had a word we used to describe our activities: clandestine. Isn’t that a grand word? It means ‘in secret.’ That’s what our investigation is going to be—in secret. Just the four of us. I can get hold of anything, any file we need from within the department or any other police agency. The case is all ours, the glory all ours, the plaudits all ours, the commendations and advancements to be earned, all ours—once we get an airtight case and a confession from this monster Eddie Engels.”
“And then?”
“Then we go to the grand jury, lad, and let the people of our grand Republic of California decide the fate of handsome Eddie, which, of course, will be to send the dirty son-of-a-whore to the gas chamber.”
“He’s as good as in the little green room right now, Dudley.”
“Indeed he is, lad. Now you listen. Our command post will be at the Havana Hotel, downtown at Eighth and Olive. I’ve already rented us a room, number sixteen. You be there tomorrow morning at eight sharp. Wear civvies. Get a good night’s sleep. Say your prayers. Thank God that you’re free, white, twenty-one and a splendid young copper. You go home now. John will be miffed at not being in on this, and I want to soft-pedal his pride. Now, shoo.”
I got up and stretched my legs. I stuck out my hand to Dudley Smith. “Thanks, Dudley,” I said. “This means a lot to me.”
Smith shook my hand firmly. “I know it does, lad. I can tell we are going to be grand friends. God bless you. When you say your prayers, send one up for old Dudley.”
“I will.”
Smith laughed. “No, you won’t,” he said, “you’ll go out and find yourself some grand piece of tail and show her your badge and tell her you’re the next chief of police. Ha-ha-ha! I know you, lad. Now go and leave me to placate old John.”
I walked back to my car feeling touched by madness and wonder. Mad, wonderful laughter trailed after me as I drove off.
* * *
—
Mad laughter filled my sleep that night. Nagging doubts tore at me in the form of Wacky Walker and Dudley Smith twirling nightsticks and shouting obscene poetry at each other. Reuben Ramos watched, honking on his sax and offering cryptic comments like a hophead Greek chorus. Captain Bill Beckworth was there too, offering his two cents’ worth—“Caution, Freddy. Improve my putting stroke and I’ll make you the king of Wilshire Division. All the pussy and wonder you can stomach! I’ll bring back Walker from the dead and make him a nobel laureate. Trust me!”
I woke up with a headache and the certainty that Dudley Smith was going to screw me out of all the plaudits to be earned from the Eddie Engels case. He was the ranking officer, the decision maker, the one who would file with the district attorney’s office when Engels was arrested. I needed an insurance policy, and I knew exactly who to call.
I took my time dressing and eating breakfast. I fried Night Train a pound of hamburger. He wolfed it down greedily and licked the inside of his dish. I threw him a soup bone as dessert. He gnawed it while I called Information and got the number of the office of the district attorney, city of Los Angeles. It was still early. I hoped someone would be there.
I dialed. “District attorney’s office,” a woman’s singsong voice answered.
“Good morning,” I said, “may I speak to Miss Lorna Weinberg, please?”
“Your name please, sir?”
“Officer Fred Underhill.”
“One moment, Officer. I’ll ring.”
Lorna Weinberg came on the line a moment later, sounding harried. “Hello,” she said.
“Hello, Miss Weinberg. Do you remember me?”
“Yes, I do. Is this something about my father?”
“No, it’s not. It’s both personal and professional. I need to speak to you, as soon as possible.”
“What is it?” Lorna snapped.
“I can’t discuss it on the phone.”
“What is this, Mr. Underhill?”
“It’s something important. Something I know that you’ll think is important. Can I meet you tonight?”
“All right. Briefly. How about outside city hall, the Spring Street entrance, at five o’clock? I can give you fifteen minutes.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Good day, Officer,” Lorna Weinberg said, hanging up before I could deliver the witty remark I h
ad prepared.
It was a hot, smoggy day, and it didn’t faze me in the least. I drove downtown feeling buoyant with anticipation, and parked in front of the Havana Hotel, an old, one-story red brick building with a rickety elevator in its small entrance foyer. It was 7:59 by my watch, so I leaped the stairs three at a time, knocking on the door of room 16 at exactly eight o’clock.
A stocky blond man in a short-sleeved white shirt and a shoulder holster opened it. I held out my badge to gain entrance and he nodded me inside. Dudley Smith and another man were in the middle of the dingy little room, hunched over a folding card table.
Smith looked over his shoulder and greeted me. “Freddy! Laddy! Welcome! Let me make the introductions—gentlemen, this is Officer Fred Underhill, my newest protégé. Fred, meet Sergeant Mike Breuning.” He nodded toward the stocky blond man. “And Officer Dick Carlisle.” He nodded toward the other man, a tall, thin, sallow-faced man with wire-rimmed glasses. I shook hands with my new colleagues and exchanged pleasantries with them until Dudley Smith cleared his throat loudly and called for our attention.
“Enough horseshit,” he said. “Freddy, tell Mike and Dick your story. Omit nothing. Here, stand up in back of this table like a good toastmaster. Ahhh, yes, that’s grand.”
Breuning and Carlisle pulled up chairs while I assumed my position behind the folding table. Smith sat on the bed, smoking and sipping coffee and smiling at me. It took me fifteen minutes to recount my tale. I could tell that Breuning and Carlisle were impressed. They looked to Dudley Smith for confirmation, almost doglike in their deference to the big cop.
He smiled at them. “Ahhh, yes. A real live degenerate woman-killer. Comments, lad? Questions?”
Carlisle and Breuning shook their heads.
“Freddy?” Smith asked.
“Only one, Dudley. When do we start?”
“Ha-ha-ha! Grand! We start now, lad. Now listen: here are your assignments. Mike, you will go immediately to Horn Drive. You will tail Eddie Engels. You will go with him all day and all night until he returns home to sleep. If he picks up any women, you will stay very close. Do you get my meaning, lad? This beast must claim no more victims. Freddy, you will go to Horn Drive, too. You will question people on that street about their degenerate neighbor. I want names and addresses for any eyewitnesses to violence or abuse on Engels’s part. Take the whole day on this. Dick, you go to Wilshire Station and talk to Sergeant Joe DiCenzo. Talk to him about the Leona Jensen killing. Tell Joe that I’m working on this investigation on my own time—he’ll understand. Read the reports on the caper—coroner, dicks’ log sheets, property, everything. Take notes. I’ll be doing the digging into Eddie-boy’s background myself. We’ll meet here tomorrow, same time. Now go to work and God be with you!” Dudley Smith clapped his big hands, thunderously indicating dismissal.
Breuning and Carlisle filed out the door, looking grimly determined. I was about to follow them when Dudley Smith grabbed my arm. “You call me this afternoon at the bureau, lad. About four o’clock.”
“Sure, Dudley,” I said.
Smith squeezed my arm very hard, then gently shoved me out the door.
Breuning was standing on the sidewalk, apparently waiting for me. “Since we’re both going out to the Strip, I thought I could follow you,” he said.
“Sure,” I said. “Where’s your car?”
“Around the corner.” Breuning was doing a little nervous shuffle.
I could tell there was something he wanted to say. I tried to make it easy for him. “How long have you been on the job, Mike?”
“Eleven years. You?”
“Four.”
“That must have been a tough nut, shooting those two Mexicans.”
“I don’t think about it too much.”
“I was wondering. Dudley likes you, you know that?”
“I guess so. Why do you mention it?”
Breuning’s stolid German face darkened. “Because I noticed the way you were looking at him. Studying him like he was kind of a crazy man. A lot of people think Dudley’s nuts, but he’s not. He’s nuts like a fox.”
“I believe you. He’s just an actor, and a damn good one. He’s good at firing people up. That’s his gift.”
“Right. He wants this guy Engels, though. Bad.”
“I know. He told me. He hates woman-killers.”
“It’s more than that. You have to know Dudley. I know him real well. Since I was a rookie. He’s still pissed off about the Dahlia. He told me the Engels case is his penance for not catching the guy who sliced her.”
I gave that some thought. “He wasn’t in charge of the entire investigation, Mike. The whole L.A.P.D. and sheriff’s department couldn’t find the killer. It wasn’t Dudley’s fault.”
“I know, but he took it that way. He’s a religious man, and he’s taking the Engels thing real personal. The reason I’m bringing all this up is that Dudley wants to make you his number one man. He says you’ve got the stuff to go all the way in the department. That’s no skin off my ass, I like being a sergeant in the bureau. But you’ve got to play it Dudley’s way. I can tell you’re not scared of him, and that’s bad. If you cross him, he’ll fuck you for real. That’s what I wanted to tell you.”
I smiled at the admonition. It increased my respect for Dudley Smith, and my respect for Mike Breuning for mentioning it. “Thanks, Mike,” I said.
“You’re welcome. Now let’s hotfoot it over to the Strip. I’m getting itchy to start.”
Mike got his car and pulled up behind me. I drove straight out Wilshire, hoping that Eddie Engels was still a late sleeper, so that Mike would have someone to tail. I turned north on La Cienega. Mike was right behind me as I turned onto the Strip ten minutes later. Horn Drive came up, and I pulled over to the curb and pointed out Engels’s bungalow and Olds sedan. Mike smiled and gave me the thumbs-up sign. I waved and drove up the hill, parked the car and set out on foot to do my questioning.
* * *
—
I knocked on the doors of bungalow huts, well-tended cottages, French chateau walk-up apartments, artists’ dives, and miniature Moorish castles and got a succession of blank looks, yawns, and bored shakes of the head. “Sorry, I can’t help you, Officer.” Eddie the phantom. This consumed five hours. At two o’clock I walked down to the diner on the corner of Horn and Sunset and ordered two cheeseburgers, French fries, a salad, and a jumbo pineapple malt. I was famished—and nervous about my meeting with Lorna Weinberg.
The man who served me at the counter looked like a jaded soda jerk out of hell. He slouched in front of me while I tore into my salad, alternately picking his teeth and his nose. We were obviously destined to converse—it was only a question of who would speak first. It was me, out of necessity. “Get me some ketchup, will you?”
“Sure, buddy,” the counterman said, handing me a bottle of Heinz’s and leaning over to breathe on me. “You with the sheriff’s?” he asked. That was interesting.
“L.A.P.D.,” I said. “You an ex-con?”
“I been clean for six years. Topped out my parole, knock wood.” The guy made an elaborate show of rapping his knuckles on the counter top.
“I congratulate you,” I said. “How long have you been working this joint?”
“Two years on the job. Knock wood.”
“You know the locals pretty well?”
“Local yokels or regular customers?”
“Very astute. I mean people who live in the neighborhood who frequent this place.”
“Oh.” The man’s eyes narrowed into a con-wise squint. “You got any particular locals in mind?”
“Yeah. A guy named Eddie. A handsome guy about thirty. Curly brown hair. Brown eyes. Sharp dresser. A lover-boy. Always a good-looking tomato in tow. You know him?”
The counterman’s eyes remained impassive. When I finished,
he nodded, almost imperceptibly. “Yeah, I think so.”
I came on strong. “I’m a police officer and a big tipper. Tell me.”
He looked around for prying ears. There weren’t any. “Okay—you got it right. Smooth boy. Lover-boy. I should get the dames I seen that bastard with. Listen, Officer—”
I reached into my coat pocket for my photograph of Maggie Cadwallader. “Her?” I said. “This tomato?”
The counterman scrutinized the photo and shook his head. “Naw, lover-boy would never be seen with a beast like this. Ugh. What a—”
“Shut up. Tell me about the women you have seen him with.”
Chastened, he went on, his voice low: “Just movie star material. Real beauts. Class-A poontang hangin’ on to him like there’s no tomorrow.”
“Do you know any of these women? Are any of them regular customers?”
“Naw, I think he just brings ’em in for a quick burger, ’cause he lives around here.”
“How do you know that?”
“That’s kinda funny. Once he was in here with this good-lookin’ blond. She was teasin’ him about somethin’. He didn’t like it. She had her hand on the counter top. Eddie started squeezin’ it, real hard. The dame had tears in her eyes. She was hurtin’ bad. She said, ‘Not now, baby. You can give it to me good at the apartment, but not here. We’ll be back there in a minute. Please, baby.’ She looked scared, but kind of excited, too, you know?”
“When was this?” I asked.
“I dunno. Months ago.”
“Have you seen this woman again, with or without Eddie?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Did you see Eddie exhibit violence toward any other women?”
“Naw. But I wouldn’t call that violence.”
“Shut up.” I handed him a slip of paper from my notebook. “Write down your name and address,” I said.
The ex-con did it, his jaw quavering slightly. “Look, Officer…” he started.
“Don’t worry,” I said, smiling. “You’re in no trouble. Just keep it zipped about what we talked about. Capische?”