by Neal Arbic
Delware turned to Jack “Why won’t they take something?”
Jack opened a file. “‘Cause they wanted to remain under the radar - no major crime, no major investigation.”
Rollins nodded. “Well, they got that right.”
***
Delware and Jack sorted a dozen reports at a single desk. Every file was not more than a page or two and many were hardly filled out. Rollins sat at his desk, shouting at one of his men over the phone.
Jack dropped a file on his desk. “A real waste of paper! No one saw anything and the one that did-” He pulled out a sheet and held it above his head. “This description’s horseshit!”
Rollin’s covered the receiver. “Maybe the witness didn’t see much.”
“Malarkey! This guy didn’t take more than a second on this. All it says is the old lady made a sighting, the description is BLANK!”
Rollins spit out his gum into a waste paper basket. “Jack, nothing was stolen. What do you expect? We fingerprint the place? Call in the FBI?”
Jack threw the file at Rollins. “Look at that! There’s not even a badge number on it! Who’s the reporting officer?”
Rollins perused the single sheet report and placed the hand writing. He yelled across the office, “Koufax!”
An impossibly thin detective turned his head and Rollins waved him over.
Delware came up beside Jack. Jack whispered out of the side of his mouth. “This is the best we’ve got, happened a few months ago. We’ll go up and re-interview the witness ourselves after we talk to this clown.”
Koufax sat at the desk facing Delware and Jack. He shrugged. “You really think this is important? Honestly, I didn’t think it was much.” Koufax’s eyes roamed the scattered reports. “Figured it’s just a bunch of kids. They left every window in the house open, every drawer pulled opened in the kitchen - counters filled with every fork and knife, all laid out. Very strange.”
Jack grumbled, “A bunch of kids? Why ya guys keep saying that?”
Koufax nodded. “Yeah, it’s not a one man job, and the one sighting: a group of kids.”
Jack frowned at Koufax. “Details, Detective!”
“An old lady, gets up real early, saw a group of kids running away in the morning.”
Jack growled, “A group! That’s not much of a description!” Jack waved the report in front of him. “And you left it blank. Why?”
Koufax shrugged, embarrassed. “All she said was long hair and ripped jeans - very dirty. What was I suppose to write? Fucking hippies?”
Delware and Jack exchanged glances.
Rollins at his desk shouted, “It’s a school project, kids out on a field trip.”
Koufax laughed.
Jack turned on Rollins. “What?”
Rollins swirled in his wooden chair. “It’s a division joke. Since nothing is taken and it’s a group, we came up with a theory that someone is giving burglary lessons.”
Koufax smiled. “A class on how to break into highline mansions.”
Rollins grinned. “Yeah, that’s how the joke started, they’re not stealing. It’s a class…someone’s teaching them.”
Koufax grinned at Rollins.
Rollins shook his head at Jack. “It’s not burglars, Jack. Burglars always make sure no one’s home. This group always makes sure owners are home. Doesn’t make sense.”
A passing detective with a loose tie and coffee overheard the conversation and whispered at Jack, “Creepy Crawly.”
Jack turned his head and watched the detective vanish out the door. “What the hell was that?”
Rollins tried not to laugh. “Just another joke. That’s what we call this supposed school of burglars. The School of Creepy Crawly.”
Delware asked, “Why?”
“A piece of vandalism they left behind. In one mansion, in the kitchen, they took a jar of strawberry jam and wrote on the wall, ‘Creepy Crawly.’”
Koufax laughed. “Pretty funny, huh? When I first walked into the kitchen I thought it was blood.”
Thursday, September 4th, 1969, 2:15 AM
The moon had completely disappeared. Smog covered the stars. The only light was from the street lamps outside. In Jack’s living room, he sat asleep in his chair. There was a sound like someone walking on the old creaky floors. A shadow passed over his face. His face twisted as if haunted by a nightmare. Jack heard whispering in his dreams. He tried to speak. Suddenly, he shot up in his chair, his eyes wide open like he’d seen a ghost.
Thursday, September 4th, 1969, 10:45 AM
The Packard pulled up to a chateau-style mansion, three stories high with a veranda over the main doors. Its white fountain glowed behind the iron rod fence in the morning sunlight. The gate was open. Two landscaping trucks blocked the driveway. Sweaty, sun burnt workmen loaded up their mowers.
Jack and Delware weaved through the workers and walked up the long drive. The front lawn was a carpet of deep green grass freshly mowed in a crisscross pattern. It looked like a vast checkerboard. The smell of clippings still hung in the air. Once off the drive, they passed under palm trees and could see a shaded patio.
Jack wiped his shoes on the mat and rang the bell. Delware stared at the mahogany doors. They reminded him of the huge church doors his mother would drag him through every Sunday. The door opened revealing a gray haired woman in a white gown. She still cut an attractive figure, despite the make-up caked on her wrinkles.
She batted her eyes and looked up, admiring Jack. “I should send my butler on errands more often. Look who shows up when I answer the door. My, you are a tall one.”
Jack shuffled in place, seeming to forget why he rang.
She turned to Delware, her voice oozing privilege. “You’re not bad yourself, but a little young. I’d guess you’re father and son, but there’s no resemblance.”
Jack flipped his badge. “Ma’am, I’m Detective Middleton. We’re here on police business.”
She studied the badge, impressed. “Are you?”
“Are you Mrs. Eleanor Powell?”
She nodded and stepped back to let them in, whispering “A lieutenant? I like a man who's good…but not too good.”
Two stairways swept down to a marble floor behind her. She sized up the men. “Wellll, you didn’t have to show your badge Lieutenant. You have ‘cop’ written all over you.”
Delware eyeballed the vast branching hallways and a massive silver chandelier.
She stepped close to Jack, her expensive Paris perfume wafted. “Am I under arrest? I hope.”
Jack ignored the remark. “Ma’am, we’re here to follow up on the burglary report you made.”
Her eyes hardened. “Oh yes. They didn’t take a thing.” Her voice continued to sour. “The other officer took it as some type of college prank. I told him, they were very professional and there was nothing funny about it.”
Jack pulled out a pad. “They didn’t steal anything?”
Delware pulled his eyes away from the rich decor. “What did they do?”
“They re-arranged the furniture…badly.”
She focused on Delware. “Look for hippies with poor taste.”
Jack questioned. “Hippies?”
“I’m being rude, please come, have a seat.” She led the officers into an even larger living room with even taller doors. Wide plate glass windows overlooked LA. The white walls towered over thick white shag. Delware surveyed the shelves and paintings, and found it hard to believe that anyone could break in and not take a thing.
She motioned to a couch with round red pillows. “Please sit. I’ve been away. We’re just getting back to business around here.”
She motioned to a bar. “Wellll, can I get you a drink?”
Jack replied, “No, thanks, we’re on duty.”
As Jack passed, she smelled the scotch on him. She sniffed loudly and gave him a knowing, “Yes, you are.” She turned without lifting her feet and glanced back over her shoulder. “Wellll, I’m not.” She sauntered to a decanter a
nd poured a drink.
Delware was doing inventory on the room: trophies and treasures. Welcome to White America.
Jack looked at his notes. “Mrs. Powell, was your husband home at the time?”
She frowned at her drink. “My husband? His mother should have thrown him out and kept the stork.” She turned, stirred her drink and studied Jack. “Lieutenant Middleton, you were doing so well and now you’ve just ruined the mood. Isn’t it part of your job to make sure witnesses are…co-operative?”
Jack just stared and waited.
She gave up with a sigh. “No. He’s never home if you must know. We divorced a few years ago. A senator’s life: serves the public day and night. Well, serving some…more than others - especially at night.”
She caught Delware gawking at her view of LA. As if speaking kindly to a child, she asked, “Do you like what you see?”
Delware snapped out of it, but before he could answer she spoke. “When I look at the city, I think of ancient Rome.”
Delware raised an eyebrow. “Rome?”
She turned to the window. “Ancient Rome was surrounded by hills, just like Los Angeles. I often wonder if the senators’ wives of Rome had the same feeling about their city as I do mine.” She advanced on him quickly. Holding out her hand, demanding, “May I see your badge?”
Delware pulled back his vest.
Her fingers curled, beckoning the badge to her. “Can you unpin it from your T-shirt? I’d like to take a closer look.”
Delware glanced at his partner. Jack nodded. Delware handed the badge over. Turning, she walked away, staring at its metal.
She stopped at the window. “Officer Hicks. You’re not a detective. I suppose you’re being trained by Lieutenant Middleton. So you’re just a centurion?”
She turned back to Delware. Delware shrugged.
“Oh surely - a colored man in the police force - I’m assuming you went to college. You must have studied some history. Do you not know the history of your own badge?” She walked over and showed him the badge. “Your badge, Officer Hicks - notice its oval shape. It’s modeled on the centurion’s shield of ancient Rome. That’s why it’s called a ‘shield.’ The border design is based on the fasces, a symbol of ancient Roman authority.” She handed it back to Delware, addressing him, “Centurion.”
She turned to stare out over LA, the hills sloping down to the city blanketed in smog, the tops of distance office towers floating above the haze. “My husband, or should I say my ex-husband is a corrupt, but wealthy senator who plays to the mob, placating them by building coliseums for their sports and entertainment. That is his role.” She turned back to the Delware. “As an officer of the law, I’m sure you’re well acquainted with the decadence and depravity of Hollywood. So you see, we still live in Rome, it is just neon this time.”
Jack cleared his throat.
She snapped around. “Oh, yes.” Gracefully dropping in a chair, she smiled at Delware. “He’s not much of a conversationalist, is he?”
Only the corners of Delware’s mouth smiled.
Flashing a diamond, she fixed her hair. “You want to know about the break-in.” She turned her full attention on Jack. “Soooo, Lieutenant, go ahead…drill me.”
Jack bowed his head and let the remark pass. He came up sober as a judge, his eyes locked on her like a pair of handcuffs. Even Delware could feel the air pressure in the room increase. If he had not seen Jack sneaking shots on the way over, he would have sworn the whole drunk policeman was an act.
Jack’s voice rang. “In the initial report it said you caught a glimpse of the burglars as they fled.”
The woman stiffened. Delware too had been held under Jack’s supernatural stare. You knew if you lied, those eyes would see it. The only way out from that unrelenting stare was to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
She cleared her throat and straightened up. “Yes, I did. I didn’t hear them, but I do get up frightfully early.” Trying to escape Jack’s eyes, she winked at Delware. “Something that comes on with age.”
Delware nodded politely.
Jack pressed on. “The description in the report was vague; I’d like to go over it with you.”
“Of course Lieutenant, the other officer did seem to lose interest once I told him nothing was stolen. I believe he thought I was crazy, you know, just amusing myself by attracting the company of younger men.”
Jack’s voice grew graver. “Are you saying you got a good look at them?”
She met Jack’s gaze. “Well, it was still dark enough, but yes. I had several seconds to observe them as they fled across the back lawn - into the valley. One man was tall, with blonde hair, another shorter with black hair, very dirty looking, and a beard. The girls looked dirty too.”
Jack’s and Delware snapped a look at each other. Jack said it. “Girls?”
“Yes, Detective, there were two men and three young girls.”
Jack leaned forward. “Wait a minute. Are you sure they weren’t men. Young men today have long hair.”
Offended, she gave a cynical, “Do young men also wear dresses now? I hadn’t realized fashion had changed so much.”
“They wore dresses?”
“Yes, and bare feet. They all had bare feet.” She turned her head toward the backyard. “They slashed a screen to get in. It’s in the garden shed.”
****
Jack headed for the door. “Kid, this is the break we’ve been looking for! C’mon!” He whispered under his breath. “We got ‘em now.”
Delware chased after him, but Mrs. Powell caught his arm at the threshold. “You’re the first Negro to come in here not dressed as a butler. Be careful. You’re walking on thin ice. Listen intently, so you’ll hear if it’s cracking under your feet.”
***
Jack and Delware walked to the back of the mansion. Ivy climbed the walls. They skirted bushes and another set of yard workers. Jack led the way with a wild look in his eye. Delware lagged behind, worried.
Jack glanced back. “What’s the matter, kid?”
Delware looked at Jack like the old man had gone mad, but he shook his head and kept quiet.
“Kid, don’t listen to that dame, calling you a centurion. Does the LAPD look like a legion of Roman soldiers to you?! Jesus Christ! Imagine us walking around in sandals with shields?” His lips curled with a vicious distain. “Ha! Centurions – now I’ve heard it all! Goddamn lefty with a college degree talking some horseshit about ancient history.” Jack held up his head proud as a true patriot and looked over LA. “This is America, kid. This ain’t Rome, it’s the goddamn Wild West!”
Delware couldn’t hold back any longer. “Jack, this makes no sense.”
“What?”
“Teenagers! Girls! Young girls are not exactly your typical multi-murderers, let alone psycho killers.”
“Are you kidding? That finally explains the bloody female barefoot prints at the scene! There is no missing witness. It belongs to one of the murderers.”
Delware’s jaw dropped.
Jack marched on.
Delware yelled after him. “What’s next, Jack? Flying saucers? Some mad man controlling their minds?” Delware gave a tense laugh. “This is getting too far out, man! I mean, science fiction far out!”
Jack kept marching, but grinned to himself. “Why? Because it doesn’t make sense?”
Delware waved an arm, catching up. “Yeah, that’s exactly it, Jack. It doesn’t make any goddamn sense!”
Stopping, Jack looked down at his shoes. He turned on Delware. “That’s why you can’t understand…you think all this should make sense!”
Jack shook his head. “You were a rookie. You must have done prisoner transfers to Folsom. You’ve seen how full the jails are. You know how many low-life punks we find dead in the gutter every morning. How many people we incarcerate daily. Gangbangers, whores, pushers –they crowd the emergency rooms every night of the week maimed, scarred for life by other hustlers. How many get away
scot-free? What percent? What are the odds of success in their racket? Even a degenerate gambler won’t put money down on their type ‘cause sooner or later, kid, criminals fuck up - or get fucked up.” Jack rolled his eyes to the sky and scratched his head, his voice imitating a dreamy, perplexed man. “Now what type of person would risk the two most important things: their life and their liberty…with those kinds of odds?”
He jabbed Delware’s chest with his finger. “I’ll tell you who. Idiots and psychos!” Jack paced, waving his arms. “You know what an idiot is? That’s a guy who thinks he’s smart. Knows it for a fact! Sees everyone else getting caught or killed and thinks – what a bunch of suckers, but not me. He’s smarter than all of us - the only shitbird criminal on God’s Green Earth who isn’t gonna get caught. That, my friend, is a genuine, blue-blooded idiot. Certified and guaranteed! And the jails are full of them.” Jack stopped and whispered directly into Delware’s face. “Know what a psycho is? A guy who doesn’t care about death, and doesn’t care about jail. Know why?” Jack didn’t wait for an answer. “Cause he’s a psycho!” He crowded Delware with a wild look in his eyes. “Now you tell me, kid, with those kinds of odds – does crime make any sense?”