by James Ellroy
“Yessir.”
“Good. Do it now.” Lloyd hung up. It was probably nothing–but at least it was movement.
Lloyd arrived at the restaurant early, ordering coffee and taking a booth with a view of the parking lot, the better to get a visual fix on Haines before their interview.
Five minutes later a sheriff’s black-and-white pulled in and a uniformed deputy got out, squinting myopically against the sunlight. Lloyd sized the man up–big, blonde, a strong body going to flab. Middle thirties. Ridiculously sculpted hair, the sideburns too long for a fat face; the uniform encasing his musclebound upper torso and soft stomach like a sausage skin. Lloyd watched him don aviator sunglasses and hitch up his gunbelt. Not intelligent, but probably street-smart; play him easy.
The deputy walked directly to Lloyd’s booth. “Sergeant?” he said, extending his hand.
Lloyd took the hand, squeezed it, and pointed across the table, waiting for the man to take off his sunglasses. When he sat down without removing them and picked nervously at an acne cluster on his chin, Lloyd thought: Speed. Play him hard.
Haines fidgeted under Lloyd’s stare. “What can I do for you, sir?” he asked.
“How long have you been with the Sheriffs, Haines?”
“Nine years.” Haines said.
“How long at the West Hollywood Station?”
“Eight years.”
“You live on Larabee?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m surprised. West Hollywood is a faggot sewer.”
Haines flinched. “I think a good cop should live on his beat.”
Lloyd smiled. “So do I. What do your friends call you? Delbert? Del?”
Haines tried to smile, involuntarily biting his lip. “Whitey. Whwh-what do you—”
“What am I here for? I’ll tell you in a moment. Does your beat include Westbourne Drive?”
“Y—yeah.”
“Have you worked the same car plan your whole time at the station?”
“S—sure. Except for some loan out time to Vice. What’s this all—”
Lloyd slammed the table top. Haines jolted backwards in his seat, reaching up and straightening his sunglasses with both hands. The muscles around his eyes twitched and tics started at the corners of his mouth. Lloyd smiled. “Ever work Narco?”
Haines went flush and whispered “No” hoarsely, a network of veins throbbing in his neck. Lloyd said, “Just checking. Basically, I’m here to question you about a stiff you found back in ’78. A wrist slash job. A woman on Westbourne. You remember that?”
Haines’s whole body went lax. Lloyd watched his muscles unclench into an almost stuporous posture of relief. “Yeah. My partner and I got an unknown trouble squeal from the desk. The old bag who lived next door called in about the stiffs record player blasting. We found this good lookin’ babe all bl—”
Lloyd cut him off. “You found another suicide in your own building the year before, didn’t you, Whitey?”
“Yeah,” Haines said, “I sure did. I got wasted from the gas, they had to detox me at the hospital. I got a commendation and my picture on the honor board at the station.”
Leaning back and stretching out his legs beneath the table, Lloyd said, “Both those women killed themselves on June 10th. Don’t you think that’s a strange coincidence?”
Haines shook his head. “Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t know.”
Lloyd laughed. “I don’t know, either. That’s all, Haines. You can go.”
After Haines had left, Lloyd drank coffee and thought. A transparently stupid cop strung out on speed. No guilty knowledge of the two murder-suicides, but undoubtedly involved in so much penny-ante illegality that a questioning on old homicides was like being spared the guillotine–he never asked why the interview was taking place. Coincidence that he discovered both bodies? He lived and patrolled the same area. Logically, it fit.
But instinctively it was somehow out of kilter. Lloyd weighed the pros and cons of a daylight breaking and entering. The pros won. He drove to 1167 Larrabee Avenue.
The mauve-colored apartment building was perfectly still, the doors of the ten units closed, no activity on the walkway leading back to the carport. Lloyd scanned the mailboxes at the front of the building. Haines lived in apartment 5. Running his eyes over the numbers embossed on the first story doorways, he spotted his target–the rear apartment. No screen door, no heavy brass hardware indicating security locks.
Working a short bladed pen knife and a plastic credit card in unison, Lloyd snapped the locking mechanism and pushed the door open. Flicking on a wall light, he shut the door and surveyed the tasteless living room he had expected to find: cheap naugahyde couch and chairs, a formica coffee table, a ratty “deep-pile” carpet going threadbare. The walls boasted velveteen landscape prints and the built-in bookcases held no books–only a pile of skin magazines.
He walked into the kitchen. Mildew on the chipped linoleum floor, dirty dishes in the sink, a thick layer of grease on the cabinets and ceiling. The bathroom was dirtier still–shaving gear scattered on a sidebar near the sink, congealed shaving cream on the walls and mirror, a clothes hamper spilling soiled uniforms.
In the bedroom, Lloyd found his first indicators pointing to character traits other than aesthetic bankruptcy and sloth. Above the unkempt bed was a glass-fronted mahagony gunrack holding a half dozen shotguns–one of them an illegal double barreled sawed-off. Lifting the mattress, he discovered a Browning .9 millimeter automatic and a rusted bayonet with a tag affixed to its handle: “Genuine Viet Cong Execution Sword! Guaranteed Authentic!” The drawers beside the bed yielded a large plastic baggie filled with marijuana and a bottle of Dexedrine.
After going through the closets and dressers and finding nothing except dirty civilian clothes, Lloyd walked back into the living room, relieved that his instincts about Haines had been validated, yet still troubled that nothing more had spoken to him. With a blank mind, he sat down on the couch and let his eyes circuit the room, trawling for anything that would perk his mental juices. One circuit; two circuits; three. Floor to ceiling, along the walls and back again.
On his fourth circuit, Lloyd noted an inconsistency in the color and shape of the wainscoting at the juncture of the two walls directly over the couch. He stood up on a chair and examined the area. The paint had been thinned, and some sort of quarter-dollar size circular object had been stuck to the wood, then lightly painted over. He squinted, and felt himself go cold all over. There were tiny perforations in the object, which was the exact size of a high-powered condensor microphone. Running a finger along the bottom ridge of the wainscoting, Lloyd felt the wire. The living room was bugged.
Standing on his tiptoes, he traced the wire along the walls to the front door, down the door jamb and through a bored-out floor runner to a bush immediately adjacent to the steps of the apartment. Once outside, the wire was covered with a mauve-colored stucco spackling identical in hue to the whole building. Reaching behind the bush, Lloyd found the wire’s terminus, an innocuous looking metal box attached to the wall at just about ground level. He grabbed at the box with both hands, and wrenched with all his strength. The cover snapped off. Lloyd crouched, then looked down the walkway for witnesses. None. He held the bush and metal cover to one side and looked at his prize.
The box contained a state-of-the-art tape recorder. The tape spool was not running, which meant that whoever was doing the bugging had to turn the machine on himself or, more likely, there was a triggering device at work, probably one that Whitey Haines unconsciously activated himself.
Lloyd looked at the door, a scant three paces from where he stood. It had to be the trigger.
He walked to the door, unlocked it from the inside, then closed it again, and walked back to the recorder. No movement of the spools. He repeated the procedure, this time opening the door from the outside, then closing it. Squatting by the bush, he admired the results. A red light was glowing, and the tape spools spun silently. Whitey Haines wo
rked day watch. Whoever was interested in his activities knew this and wanted his evenings recorded–the front-door-opening-inward trigger was proof of that.
Lloyd locked the door. Take the recorder with him, or stake out the apartment and wait for the bugger to come and pick up the tape? Was any of this even connected to his case? Again scanning the walkway for witnesses, Lloyd tried to make up his mind. When curiosity prickled up his spine and bludgeoned all his other considerations to death, he cut the wire with his penknife, picked up the tape machine and ran for his car.
Back at Parker Center, Lloyd donned surgical thin rubber gloves and examined the tape recorder. The machine was identical to a prototype he had seen at an F.B.I, seminar on electronic surveillance equipment–a “deep dish” model that featured four separate twin spools stationed on either side of self-cleaning heads that snapped into place automatically as each eight-hour increment of tape was used up, making it possible to record for as long as thirty-two hours without coming near the machine.
Probing inside the recorder, Lloyd saw that the primary spools and the three auxiliary spools all held tape, and that the tape on the primary spool was half on the blank side and half on the recorded side, meaning that there was no more than approximately four hours of recorded material contained in the machine. Wanting to be certain of this, he checked the compartment that stored the finished spools. It was empty.
Lloyd removed the auxiliary tapes and placed them inside his top desk drawer, thinking that the small amount of “live” tape was a mixed blessing–there would probably be very little information to be gleaned from four hours of bugging time, but assuming that the bugger had a good fix on Whitey Haines’s habits and some kind of shut-off device secreted inside his apartment to record only x number of hours per night, the absence of “live” tape would allow plenty of time to set up a stake-out to catch the bugger when he returned to put in fresh spools. Anyone clever enough to set up an electronic surveillance this complex would risk only a minimum number of tape pick-up forays.
Lloyd ran down the hall to the interrogation cubicle that bordered the sixth floor briefing room. He grabbed a battered reel-to-reel recorder from atop a cigarette-scarred table and carried it back to his office. “Be good”, he said as he placed the “live” tape on the spindle. “No music, no loud noise. Just be good.”
The tape spun, and the built-in speaker hissed, then crackled with static. There was the sound of a door being locked, then a baritone grunt followed by a noise Lloyd recognized immediately–the thud of a gunbelt dropped on a couch or chair. Next came barely audible footsteps, then another grunt, this one octaves higher than the first. Lloyd smiled. There were at least two people in Haines’s apartment.
Haines spoke. “You gotta feed me more, Bird; cut the coke with some of the bennies I glom from the narco guys, raise your prices, find some new fucking customers or some fucking thing. We got new fish coming in, and if I don’t lay some bread on them, all my fuckin’ juice ain’t gonna keep you and your asshole buddies outta the queens’ tank. You dig me, homeboy?”
A high-pitched male voice answered. “Whitney, you said you wouldn’t raise my nut! I’m giving you six bills a month plus half the dope action, plus kickbacks from half the punks on the street! You said—”
Lloyd heard a whirring sound dissolve into a sharp crack. There was silence, then Haines’s voice. “You start that shit again and I’ll hit you for real. You listen, Bird–Without me, you are shit. You are the king fucking dick of Boy’s Town because I got you to lift weights and build up your puny body and because I get the fucking kiddy bulls to roust the pretty boy juvie’s off your turf, and because I shoot you the dope and the protection that make you and your punk pals a class act. As long as I’ve got clout with Vice, you are safe. And that takes money. There’s a transfer-happy new day watch commander, and if I don’t grease his fucking palm I may end up busting nigger heads down in Compton. There’s two new fish rotating into Vice, and I got no fucking idea if I can keep them off your tight little ass. My nut is two grand a month before I see a fucking dollar profit. Your nut is going up twenty percent as of today. You dig me, Bird?”
The high voiced man stammered, “Sh-sh-sure, Whitey.” Haines chuckled, then spoke in a soft voice rich with insinuation. “I’ve always took good care of you. Keep your nose clean and I always will. You just gotta feed me more. Now c’mon in the back. I wanta feed you.”
“I don’t want to, Whitey.”
“You got to, Birdy. It’s part of your protection.”
Lloyd listened as the sound of footsteps metamorphosed into a silence inhabited by pitiful monsters. The silence stretched into hours. It was broken by the sound of muted sobbing and the slamming of a door. Then the tape went dead.
Fruit hustler shakedowns, vice pay-offs, dope dealing and a corrupt, brutal cop unfit to wear a badge. But was it connected to mass murder? And who had bugged Whitey Haines’s apartment, and why?
Lloyd made two quick phone calls, to the Internal Affairs Divisions of both the L.A.P.D. and Sheriffs Department. Using his reputation as a lever, he was able to get straight answers from the I.A.D. high brass. No, Deputy Delbert Haines, badge 408, was not under investigation by either Division. Disturbed, Lloyd ran down a mental list of probable parties interested in the affairs of Whitey Haines: rival dope rings, rival male prostitution combines, a fellow deputy with a grudge. All were possible, but none of the choices rang any bells. Some sort of homosexual tie-in to his killer? Unlikely. It violated his theory of the murderer having been chaste for years, and Haines had no guilty knowledge of the two June 10th suicides he had discovered.
Lloyd took the concealed tape recorder down to the third floor offices of the Scientific Identification Division and showed it to a data analyst who he knew was particularly enamored of bugging devices. The man whistled as Lloyd placed the machine on his desk, and reached over lovingly to touch it.
“Not yet, Artie,” Lloyd said. “I want it run for latents.” Artie whistled again, pushing back his chair and sending “Ooh la la” eyes heavenward. “It’s gorgeous, Lloyd. It’s perfection.”
“Run it down for me, Artie. Omit nothing.”
The analyst smiled and cleared his throat. “The Watanabe A.F.Z. 999 Recorder. Retail price around seven thousand clams. Available at only the very best stereo showrooms. Used primarily by two rather diverse groups of people: music lovers interested in recording rock festivals or lengthy operas in one fell swoop, and police agencies interested in long term clandestine bugging. Every component of this machine is the finest that money can buy and Jap technology can produce. You are looking at absolute perfection.”
Lloyd gave Artie a round of applause. “Bravo. One other question. Are there hidden serial numbers on the thing? Individual numbers or prototype numbers that can fix the date when the machine was sold?”
Artie shook his head. “The A.F.Z. 999 hit the market in the middle ’70s. One prototype, no serial numbers, no different colors–just basic black. The Watanabe Corporation has a thing about tradition; they will not alter the design on these babies. I don’t blame them. Who can improve on perfection?”
Lloyd looked down at the recorder. It was in perfect shape, not a scratch on it. “Shit,” he said, “I was hoping to narrow down the list of possible buyers. Look, is this thing listed in one of S.I.D.’s Retailer Files?”
“Sure,” Artie said. “Want me to compile a list?” Lloyd nodded. “Yeah. Do it now, will you? I’m going to take our baby down the hall and leave it for dusting. I’ll be right back.”
There was one fingerprint technician on duty at the S.I.D.’s Central Crime Lab. Lloyd handed him the tape recorder and said, “Latent prints, nationwide teletype. I want you to personally compare them to L.A.P.D. Homicide Bulletin 16222, Niemeyer, Julia L., 1/3/83, partial right index and pinky. Those prints were bloodstained; if you’re in doubt about a match-up on the bulletin, roll the new prints in a blood sample, then recompare. You got that?”
The t
echnician nodded assent, then asked, “Think we’ll find prints?”
“It’s doubtful, but we have to try. Be thorough; this is very important.” The technician opened his mouth to offer assurances, but Lloyd was already running away.
“Eighteen retailers,” Artie said as Lloyd burst through the door. “That’s up to date, too. Didn’t I tell you our baby was esoteric?” Lloyd took the printed list and put it in his pocket, looking reflexively at the clock above Artie’s desk. 6:30–too late to begin calling the stereo supply stores. Remembering his date with Kathleen McCarthy, he said, “I have to run. Take care, Artie. Some day I may tell you the whole story.”
Kathleen McCarthy closed the store early and went back to her living quarters to write and prepare for her evening with the big policeman. Her business day had been frustrating. No sales, and an endless series of browsers who had wanted to discuss feminist issues while she was on the phone trying to secure information toward the capture of a psychopathic woman-killer. The irony was both profound and cheap, and Kathleen felt a vague diminishing of selfhood in its aftermath. She had hated the police for so long that even though she was doing her moral duty in aiding them, the price was a piece of her ego. Bolstering herself with logic, Kathleen grabbed the ego fragment and killed it with words. Dialectic at the expense of helping others. Pride. Your intractable Irish heart. The rhetoric fell short of its mark, and Kathleen smiled at the real irony–sex. You want the cop, and you don’t even know his first name.
Kathleen walked into the bathroom and stripped before the full length mirror. Strong flesh, satisfyingly lean; firm breasts, good legs. A tall, handsome woman. Thirty-six, yet looking…Kathleen’s eyes clouded with tears, and she braced herself by maintaining eye contact with her image. It worked–the tears died, stillborn.
Throwing on a robe, Kathleen walked into her living room-study and arrayed pen, paper and thesaurus on her desk, then went through her prewriting ritual of letting random prose patterns and thoughts of her dream lover battle for primacy of her mind. As always, her dream lover won, and Kathleen plucked absently at the crotch of her robe and relinquished herself to the smell of the flowers that always came just when she most needed them, when her life was almost to some brink. Then, anonymously and in perfect psychic sync the flowers would be at her doorstep and she would be overwhelmed and wonder who, and look to the faces of strange men for signs of kinship or commiseration or special interest.