WHITE

by Neal Arbic

  Jack walked over to the battered French table where his notes were scattered: white pages, black typed lyrics, some circled in red, others with scribbled annotations cramming the margins. “Now if I went through these lyrics and found nothing, I’d look somewhere else, but I found plenty.” He grinned down at the mess of paper. “This is his blueprint. It tells us about our guy and what to look for.”

  Delware walked to the table. “So we’re just following unproven procedure and…your gut? Like a pair of Wild West sheriffs?”

  “Fuck that. I’m the sheriff, you’re a goddamn deputy.” Jack sat. “So, you gonna join the posse, or what?”

  Delware spun a chair around and straddled it, surveying the notes between them.

  Jack grinned. “Saddle up!”

  He began to organize the pages. Delware glanced across the table at Jack with the same apprehension as when Jack sped through stop signs.

  Jack frowned. “This album is full of violence. Look at this song, Piggies. It was stumping me.” He slipped a piece of scribbled paper towards him, and shook the page in the air. “I always thought this was about cops, but it’s about rich capitalist pigs: City Hall, the rich, the Hollywood elite.” Jack kept his eyes on the page. “My granddaughter says that all we - the establishment – only care about is money and power. Now listen to this, will ya. It says the pigs need a ‘whacking’, mob slang for murder. It even mentions forks and knives – the murder weapons!”

  A laugh escaped from Delware. “Jack, you can’t be serious.”

  Jack leaned forward. “Piggies was written in Sharon Tate’s blood. So, yes, I’m dead serious. Look at these titles: Revolution #1, Helter Skelter, Revolution #9, Happiness Is a Warm Gun - the only time a gun is warm is when you just shot somebody.”

  Delware leaned back in his chair. “Jack, that song’s sarcasm.”

  “Not to our psycho. He’s a true believer, an all-or-nothing type. There’s a total lack of sexual fetish at the crime scene. We got ourselves a man on a mission: making a statement, taking revenge on the society that rejected him.”

  Delware’s eyes went wide. “Jack, how can you read so much into this? So you’re saying it’s political?”

  Jack stared down Delware. “Our guy’s obsessed with the Apocalypse. This is religious!”

  Delware shook his head.

  “You think I’m outta my skull, don’t ya?” Jack sat back and reframed his partner. “Our psycho lives by his own twisted code, and that’s what will lead us to him. We need to find that code. It’s a riddle, a whisper the sane can barely hear.” Jack pulled another sheet. “Look at this song - this is where the Apocalypse comes in. Rocky Raccoon mentions the Bible - says Gideon's Bible checks out.” Jack tossed the page. “and the last word in the song: revival - to revive, to rise, to rise up.”

  Delware blinked at the mad logic. “Revolution? To revolt?”

  “Psychos see meaning where no one else does. Our guy thinks he’s a soldier. That murder scene, the moment I saw it, I thought of a slaughter house. Think about it: these rich, famous, good looking victims – the establishment - slaughtered with knives like pigs.” Jack grabbed another sheet. “The song Revolution, the singer says count me out of destruction, but then he whispers ‘in.’” Jack tossed the sheet aside. “A secret message: count me in for destruction.”

  Delware looked doubtfully across the table. “Jack, the Beatles are not-”

  “Revolution #9! This is not even music.” Jack plowed on. “It’s just sound effects, but listen to it: machine-gun fire, the oinking of pigs. This song is the revolution - underway. At one point someone is screaming ‘rise’ over and over again.” Jack starting looking for another page, but couldn’t find it. “It also appears in this song Blackbird, the lyrics say something like this is the moment to rise.”

  Delware protested. “Jack!”

  Jack raised a finger. “Shut up, will ya!” He glared down at a sheet. “In the whole album only one city is mentioned. Hollywood. In Honey Pie, it’s sung twice.” He glanced up. “Which brings us back to our crime scene: the Hollywood Hills. The only city mentioned in the entire album!” Jack stood. “It’s a map. The whole record is a plan, a message.” Jack slammed his hand on the table. “This is what our guy hears: Helter Skelter, The Apocalypse! It’s coming down fast! Gideon checks out, this is the time to rise! To destroy the pigs. To start the revolution!” Jack paced around the table in quick strides. “Somewhere in all this is another clue to where he’s hiding, I know it! And he’s damn close. He won’t run, ‘cause he believes God is on his side.”

  Delware threw up his arms. “This is all crazy!”

  Jack calmly pulled a cigar from his jacket and lit it. Strolling to his chair, he gave Delware a long side look. “You’re finally catching on, kid.” Sitting, he took a long puff and nodded to himself. “Crazy.” Exhaling a long cloud of smoke, he gazed through it at Delware and grinned. “That’s what we’re looking for.”

  Wednesday, September 3rd, 1969, 10:32 AM

  10:32, the call came in to Pat’s desk, Dirk yelling. Their main suspect, the missing groundskeeper from the Tate residence, had been ID-ed! A snitch had spotted Ray Claborn at a North Hollywood bus station. Dirk was out of county; Pat had to nab him. By 10:43. Homicide was buzzing with plainclothesmen slinging pump-action shotguns. At 10:45, Pat burst out of City Hall’s backdoor loading a shotgun. Half of Homicide followed him into the parking lot.

  Jack and Delware, newly arrived, hadn’t even closed the doors of the Packard when Pat whistled and headed for them. “Claborn’s been spotted. We’re going now. He’s in North Hollywood boarding a bus to Mexico.”

  Pat stepped onto the running board of the Packard and turned to the circling officers. “No uniforms, don’t even whisper to any patrolmen who may be at the scene. It’s too important. Pack everyone into as few cars as possible; I don’t want this to turn into a parade. Everyone follows my car. We’ll take the Hollywood Freeway to Chandler. I’ll pull over just before Laurel Canyon. Our bus station’s right on the corner.”

  Detectives piled into the Packard before Delware could even take a step. Suddenly, a dozen officers disappeared into three cars, leaving Pat and Delware standing in the lot. Pat looked at the packed cars, then waved to Delware. “You’re with me. C’mon!”

  Pat felt awkward, sitting beside the officer whose career he had done so much to stymie. He felt a tinge of guilt, but looking over at how young Delware was, he felt even if he was white, he might not have made it into Homicide yet.

  They got onto the Hollywood Freeway. Jack’s Packard was right behind them - followed by two unmarked Ford LTDs. Delware sat silent. The awkwardness got to Pat. “That was a good find at the Tate residence. The LSD.”

  Delware nodded. “Thanks.”

  “Jack must not have liked it.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, it strengthens Dirk’s theory that it was a drug deal.”

  Delware shrugged. These old guys just didn’t get it. It was 1969. Drugs were everywhere. Dentists, accountants, even lawyers were experimenting. If they started kicking down doors they’d find LSD and pot in living rooms all over LA.

  Exits came and went: Flower St., Harbor Freeway, Echo Park. Delware’s silence continued.

  Pat kept glancing at him. “So how you like working with Jack?”

  Taking a long side look at Pat, Delware didn’t know how to play this. Should he kiss ass and say everything’s fine? But how could the head of Homicide not know what type of cop Jack was?

  Delware decide to just say it. “Well, he doesn’t fit with all the Department’s talk about the new professionalism.”

  Pat laughed. “Jack and I come from another era, the last of a dying breed. Hell, when we started out, there wasn’t even an academy. They just handed you a billy club and let the streets teach you.”

  “Isn’t it dangerous to keep him in the Department? I mean, I’m pretty sure you don’t run Homicide like he works cases.”

  Pat shook
his head. “Hell, he’s only got a few months to go.” LA passed in Pat’s windshield. “He may be just some old cop to you, but Jack was king once. Jack was Homicide. The guy started out as one of the toughest street cops I’ve ever seen, and I’ve seen ‘em all. Served in WWII and came back a war hero, he almost bled to death bringing in a shot-up plane full of wounded men. A national hero, that’s what he was. Not that anyone remembers now. When he made detective, he solved every major case from the late forties to the end of fifties. He was a star, troubleshooting cases other detectives couldn’t even make headway on - reported directly to Chief Parker himself! Forget about section heads, he was his own section and could get anyone he wanted assigned to him.”

  Delware remembered an old picture at Jack’s house: he was Humphrey Bogart handsome in a sharp suit. Delware had never thought of it, but Jack cut quite the figure in his day. He smiled. It was hard to think of the old man as once being at the peak of his profession and being ‘cool.’

  “What happened?”

  Pat caught the ramp to Chandler and glanced at Delware. “Time.”

  The streets passed in Pat’s eyes. “The Department changed, Chief Parker had that heart attack. Jack lost his political and Departmental connections as the old guard retired. He got older, drank too much, worked too late, slowed down. Yet while everyone else was retiring, he kept at it. But then his wife died. Knocked the wind out of his sails and it never came back. The bottle ruined what was left.”

  Delware understood the reverence he had heard in Pat’s voice. Despite his racism and drinking on the job, the old man still had that air of power, that light of confidence. Delware had weighed all his options the night after his humiliation at the morgue. He boiled down everything he knew about Jack and the case. In the end, it was Jack’s confidence that swayed him. Even though he couldn’t believe Jack’s theory for a second, his gut told him that Jack could solve the case.

  Pat pulled a file wedged beside his seat and passed it to Delware. “Take a look at that mug.”

  Delware flipped the file open. Clipped to the first page was a mug shot of Ray Claborn.

  Seeing Laurel Canyon ahead, Pat pulled to the curb. The other cars followed. Pat and Delware got out. Detectives filed out onto the sidewalk. Jack led the group to Pat. “How should we take him?”

  “We’re going to take him as he’s boarding.” Pat glanced at his watch. “We got ten minutes.” He waved a finger at his men. “He’s not boarding. We take him in the line up.”

  Pat surprised everyone. “Delware goes in.”

  Jack looked at Pat like he was crazy. Pat relished using Jack’s own line on him. “He’ll never see him coming.”

  Pat turned to Delware in his jean vest and t-shirt. “You look nothing like a cop. I want you to go buy a ticket to Tijuana, sit right beside this ugly sonvabitch. I want you directly behind him as the passengers line up to board. I’ll make the pinch, but I want your .38 in his back the moment I do. Do you understand?”

  Delware nodded. “Yeah.”

  Pat waved a finger. “Don’t fuck this.”

  ***

  The old bus station from the golden age of Hollywood: tall swank ceilings, art deco walls and BIG. Forty years ago the place said ‘Welcome to Hollywood, the dream capital of the world!’ now it just said ‘old.’ It was packed with grimy drifters, GIs, sailors, long hairs looking lost, or hustling. Delware navigated through blacks, Latinos and raggedy white folk. Poor families lined wooden benches. Runaways with stars in their eyes headed for the streets. Then he spotted him: Ray Claborn sitting on a long crowded bench. Without turning his head, Delware looked him over. Ray sat, trying to play it cool, but his foot was tapping and his eyes darted: the guy was high.

  Delware walked right past him, so close he could smell the marijuana smoke still on his clothes. He sauntered to the ticket booth and leaned on the counter. “One way to Tijuana.”

  The fat, bald man behind the counter gave him a grunt and a dirty look. Delware wanted to ask him what his problem was, but thought, no time for this racist honky now. Without looking, the man handed him a ticket and gave a resentful, “Dock 13.”

  Delware turned. Ray was gone. His seat was empty. Delware’s eyes swept the station. It was chaos, hundreds of people walking in every direction. He took a few steps from the counter, his heart pounding in his ears.

  His eyes raced, but still…nothing. Had Ray made him for a cop? Did he go for the door? Had he just gone to line up? Delware had to gamble. He headed for the boarding area, moving fast, his eyes doing double time. Delware rounded a corner, still no Ray. He ran to the doors to the busses, but slowed and entered causally. There were forty buses and hundreds of people and enough diesel fumes to choke everyone on the platform. He made his way through the crowd, bumping into luggage, his feet shuffling and skipping. His eyes scanned the crowd and for the sign ‘Dock 13.’ He saw him.

  Delware looked with disbelieving eyes. His orders were to be right behind him in the line up, but Ray was practically at its head. The long line was all white sailors, probably headed for whorehouses south of the border. He would have to bud ahead of them all and worse, right behind Ray was a pretty white woman and her blonde three year old girl. The sailors were all eying her and giving her daughter polite smiles. He would have to cut directly in front of them.

  Shuffling by the line of sailors, Delware tried to look casual. A few less than sober eyes followed him. He paused. The two sailors directly behind the young mother and daughter were laughing and looking the other way. He nudged in front of the woman. She stepped back with a grunt of protest. Two sailors in midline caught the move and eyeballed Delware hard. This was going to blow everything. One sailor elbowed the other. They stepped out of line and headed for Delware. Everything was about to get fucked up. Delware glanced at the woman with a weak smile. She gave him the evil eye. This was no time to be black in America. The little girl started to whine. The sailors were closing in. Delware’s mind raced. He had to do something. He slipped his jacket back just enough so the sailors could see his holstered .38. They stopped in their tracks, then retreated towards a uniformed cop on the dock. The uniform would have no clue of what was about to happen.

  Tempted to just pull out his revolver and take Ray down right there and then, Delware unclipped his holster.

  Like a flash, Jack rounded the front of the bus with daggers in his eyes; coming from the side was Pat, his gun drawn down by his side. Ray saw Jack’s gun and turned to run, almost knocking Delware over. Delware pulled his gun, grabbed Ray and pushed him to the ground. He got his knee on Ray’s back and his gun to his head and was about to yell ‘freeze police’ when someone yelled those words at him. He looked up and found the uniform cop pointing his gun at his head. Delware stared down the barrel, his badge still under his jacket. The young cop was panicked, his pistol shaking, his finger way too tight on the trigger. Delware winced, expecting a bullet. He could almost hear the gun go off.

  Jack yelled out, “Don’t shoot that coon!”

  The patrolman looked up at Jack and Pat with their gun trained on him. Other plainclothes detectives came running with shotguns and .38s in their fists shouting and waving, “Police! Police!” The uniform gave them the deer-in-the-headlights look.

  Delware slapped the cuffs on Ray. Ray twisted his neck to look up. In amazement, he groaned at Delware, “You a cop?”

  Delware smiled. “That’s right, mothafucka!”

  ***

  The hall outside the interrogation rooms was tense. Every detective in Central Division was squeezed in with the brass and the DA. No one would leave and no one would tell anyone to. The whole Department was on the case and more would be arriving the longer they stood there. A moment of truth was coming and everyone had the right to see it. The air conditioning was out. Men sweated and vied to peer through the one-way glass. The only space was inside the cubical where the suspect was being held. Ray Claborn sat cuffed in a bolted down chair in front of a bolted down table. His fac
e was bruised, swelling and bleeding. He hunched over in pain. The only man in there with him: Dirk.

  Vince, the District Attorney, and Pat were at the glass, their eyes locked on Claborn.

  Vince looked worried. “What are you doing? Where’s the polygraph?”

  Pat growled, “We’ll polygraph him later! Right now, I want answers and I’m going to get ‘em.”

  Dirk unlocked Ray’s cuffs and offered him a cigarette. With a shaking hand the suspect accepted the smoke. His other hand lay limp at his side. He winced. “I didn’t do nothing. I told that old cop that beat me in the car again and again. He broke my finger. I need a doctor.”

  “Then who killed them?”

  “Fuck if I know. They never talked to me - why would they? - except if they wanted something fixed. But I’ll tell you this, they brought it on themselves. Those Hollywood types, you know?”