One Day You'll Burn

by Joseph Schneider

  The words felt like a slap. “I’m really sorry you feel that way,” Jarsdel said. “We’ve been doing this for years now, almost every time we get together. Years. It’s nuts. Tell me what I need to do to convince you my job isn’t some personal thing I did to you.”

  Darius gave a bitter laugh. “How can we not take it personally? You’re our son. This thing you do, it could kill you, or you might kill someone else. It’s no joke.”

  “Okay, now we’re onto this part. Part two, the gravitas. Well, I’m not gonna kill anyone, Baba. You have any idea how rarely that actually happens?”

  “And your partner? What about him? He ever kill anyone?”

  “That’s not something you ever ask. It’s actually considered very rude.”

  “He ever get shot?”

  Jarsdel struggled to form a reply.

  “I take it by your silence that he has. Bravo. Makes me feel so much better.”

  “We love you, Tully,” said Robert. “We love your heart, who you are, and we don’t want to lose you. We don’t want to lose you physically, and we also don’t want to lose what makes you so special. You’re not a parent, so you have no idea what it’s like. Just try to put yourself in our position. One day, your son, who’s one of the smartest people you know, comes to you and says he wants to be a policeman. You think he’s joking, then you realize no, he’s gone crazy. When will you say enough and come back to us?”

  “I never left. I can’t keep doing this. I’m sorry you guys feel like my job is an act of rebellion. I’ve told you a thousand times it has nothing to do with you, but you’re not going to listen. I genuinely think what I do is important. I love you, but I’m not all of a sudden gonna go back to academia. Why does it have to be all or nothing with you guys?”

  Robert wiped away a tear.

  “Tully,” said Darius. “You know what every parent’s greatest wish is?”

  Jarsdel sighed. “That their kids be happy, I know. And I am happy.” He thought about the silence of his apartment at Park La Brea, about his solitary dinners at the Farmers Market, and added, “Happier than I’d be teaching.”

  Darius shook his head. “No. What all parents hope for is that the world will somehow come to love their children as much as they do. It’s totally impossible, but there it is. And what you’re doing, putting yourself out there as a cop, it hurts us on a level you can’t imagine. People hate cops. And not just criminals. Everyday people too. We have reason to be not so fond, you know. Your dad was beaten with a nightstick. Gassed in protests. And I knew a boy who was killed in a terrible way by police in Tehran. You went from something in which you were universally appreciated to something that could snatch you away from us at any moment, and for what? For a society that loathes you. The thought of it breaks our hearts.”

  Tully rubbed his face with his hands. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  “Say you’ll at least think about finishing your PhD,” said Robert. “It’s all we ask. Get your doctorate. We’ll support you while you work on it. If afterward you still feel that teaching isn’t for you, we can explore other options. You could travel, join a research team, translate books.”

  “Just what the world needs. Another edition of The Aeneid.”

  “We’ll figure something out. The three of us. Please.”

  Jarsdel stood. “The murder I told you about at dinner? Guy was tortured. Cooked alive. Cooked alive, Baba.”

  Robert closed his eyes. “Oh God, be careful. Please, my sweet son.”

  “We got another guy called the Dog Catcher. His idea of fun is poisoning dogs on the day their owners are getting married. Charming, right? I mean, don’t you remember what you always told me?” Jarsdel asked Darius. “That it was a privilege to be born here and in this time. You’ve said that ever since I was a kid. It’s one of the things that got me interested in history in the first place. How much better everything is now compared to the way it used to be. That in spite of what’s all over the news, people are measurably more loving, more compassionate.”

  “So?” said Darius.

  “So if we’re really going to move forward, you know, as a species… I mean, ‘to be among those who renew the world…to make the world progress toward perfection.’”

  “Ah. That. And you’re a hero on a mission.”

  “Someone has to be. I can’t go back knowing the stuff I know now. There’s too much to be done. I don’t want to sit on the sidelines.”

  “You’re actually idealistic. You think that badge and gun have put a big S on your chest. It’s a kind of idiocy. I never thought I’d say that, not to you.”

  Jarsdel remembered how when he was a boy, they would go to Seal Beach on weekends. During the winter months, the town would erect a berm—a tall, beach-wide dune—to protect the homes on the boardwalk from the higher tide. He and Baba would wrestle on the berm, and over and over again, Jarsdel would lose, getting tossed down the gentle slope, the sand packing itself deep in his hair, and he would laugh with a child’s unique, wild joy. Baba was a force then, a titan to the young Tully, and Jarsdel loved the exhilarating helplessness he’d feel when he tried matching his own meager strength against him.

  As Jarsdel grew, Baba remained a titan, but one of the mind instead of the body—one so certain of his authority that it was never a question of whether he was right or to what degree. There was no compromise. When Professor Darius Jahangir spoke, his words dropped with the finality of steel doors, and Jarsdel found he was as helpless battling him as he’d been on the berm.

  “I’m gonna take off,” said Jarsdel.

  “Okay,” said Darius. “Be well.”

  “We love you,” said Robert. “Please don’t be angry with us.”

  “He’s fine,” said Darius. “He knows what he’s doing. Must be a terrific feeling.”

  Jarsdel turned and left. When he made it to his car, he looked back at the house he’d grown up in, marveling at how much comfort it had given him, how warm his life in there had been. And now, he felt that the structure itself—its broad porch, polished wooden beams, and intricate joinery—had divorced him somehow, had let him go.

  As he pulled away, Jarsdel didn’t think he’d ever felt quite so alone.

  Chapter 10

  Jarsdel took Friday to immerse himself as much as possible in Grant Wolin’s life. He located the victim’s car in the Edgemont apartment complex parking lot but found nothing of interest—no more spent shell casings and no red quarters. He then drove to Hollywood, where he walked up and down the boulevard, in and out of shops, pop culture exhibitions, and cafes. Of the people he spoke to, only a scant few recognized Wolin’s picture, and no one was able to tell him anything he didn’t already know. He spoke to the managers at Ripley’s and at the Hollywood Museum, both of whom recalled Wolin as the one who’d approached them as prospective distributors of Genuine Hollywood Dirt.

  He had two more stops to make, but he thought he’d leave one of them—the office of Fantasy Tours—for next week. That left the Cinema Legacy Museum on Las Palmas, the place whose owner had repeatedly alerted the police when Wolin set up his wares.

  From the street, Jarsdel could see it was a small showroom, nothing like the space at the Wax Museum, and the layout was more like that of an art gallery, subdued and elegant and devoid of any of the ubiquitous showbiz paraphernalia. It also looked to be empty.

  A homeless man, dressed in a green, hooded parka, occupied an unused doorway to the left of the entrance. He was dug in and probably intended to stay awhile. A shopping cart was parked nearby, loaded with plastic bags stuffed with cans and bottles, and the doorway itself was heaped with blankets. As Jarsdel passed him, getting a strong whiff of urine, the man growled.

  A security guard sat on a stool just inside the front door of the museum, reading a copy of Helter Skelter. He looked up when Jarsdel entered.

 
“How’s it goin’?” He had an eager smile and close-cropped blond hair. His uniform strained around his midsection, and despite the coolness of the room, the armpits of his shirt were dark with sweat.

  “Great,” said Jarsdel. “I was hoping—”

  “Good afternoon,” said another man, this one emerging from behind a display wall. “Welcome to Cinema Legacy.” He crossed the room and stood behind a small desk just to the left of the front door. On it were stacks of souvenir guides to the museum’s collection, priced at fifteen dollars apiece. Next to these, arranged in a fan, were an assortment of brochures for area attractions and restaurants—the Egyptian, Mashti Malone’s Ice Cream, Wacko, the Hollywood Experience, and the Tiki-Ti.

  “Our requested donation is twenty dollars,” the man said.

  “Actually, I’m here to ask a couple questions,” said Jarsdel, pulling out his badge.

  Before he could introduce himself, the security guard spoke up. “Hey, can I see that?” Jarsdel showed him the badge, and the guard grinned widely. “Crucial, man. That’s crucial. A detective shield. Never seen one in real life before.”

  Jarsdel turned back to the man behind the desk. He too regarded Jarsdel with a kind of naked fascination, as if until now, they’d both thought of policemen as semi-fictional. “Of course,” the man said finally. “We’re happy to answer any of your questions.” He wore a dark-brown suit and a pendant of some sort featuring a smooth, startlingly white stone. He looked to be in his late forties, but his hair was raven black without a single streak of gray. A dye job, and one that made a startling contrast with his alabaster skin. When he spoke again, Jarsdel thought he detected a hint of an accent.

  “Raymond Stevens, proprietor.” He held out his hand, and Jarsdel shook it.

  “Detective Jarsdel. I’m with Homicide. I’m wondering if you’ve—”

  “Homicide—whoa!” said the security guard.

  Jarsdel ignored him and produced Wolin’s picture. He showed it to Stevens. “Do you recognize this man?”

  Stevens took the picture. “Hmm. He looks like the man… What do you think, Brayden?”

  The guard stepped over. “Yup, that’s the guy.”

  “What guy?” asked Jarsdel, directing the question at Stevens.

  “He tried to interest me in selling his product. Some sort of scam for tourists. Selling dirt, if you can imagine. I mean that literally. Dirt.” Stevens shook his head. “When I refused, he tried peddling his goods out front. It’s a prime spot. Lots of foot traffic and none of those costumed absurdities that parade out front of the once-great Chinese Theatre.”

  Now Jarsdel was certain the man had an accent, but he couldn’t place it.

  “I would say that at best,” Stevens went on, absently rubbing his pendant, “we have an adversarial relationship. And since I’m well-liked by many of the patrolmen in your department, I’m frequently the victor in our little squabbles.”

  “Can you recall the last time you saw him?”

  “Oh, I’d say it’s been at least four weeks. Has he gotten himself into some sort of trouble? Because he did seem to have that air of desperation about him.”

  “Yeah,” added Brayden. “A real dirtbag. A dirtbag who sells dirt.”

  Stevens held his hands out to Jarsdel, palms up, as if saying What more do you need?

  “Actually,” said Jarsdel, “this man is our victim. Grant Wolin. He was found a few miles from here, down in Thai Town. You may have seen it on the news a few weeks ago. It got a lot of coverage.”

  “Oh,” said Stevens. His eyes widened, and he put a hand to his cheek. “That. Yes, I did. I’m very sorry. I didn’t mean to be making light of the matter. My goodness.”

  “Our interest at this time is as to whether or not he had any enemies. Other than yourself, of course.”

  Stevens frowned. “He was no enemy. I regret having given that impression. He was just a sad Hollywood man, and there are so many of them. I bear them no ill will. It’s natural that this town attracts that type.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You know, those without talent themselves, who use Hollywood to supply them with a vicarious allure. The business with the dirt, for instance. And now this disgusting thing happens, and it just drags the city down more. It’s the last thing we needed for our image.”

  Jarsdel noticed that Brayden had drifted again to his place by the door and to Helter Skelter. He turned back to Stevens. “And you say you hadn’t seen the victim in four weeks, is that correct?”

  “Approximately, yes, though I can’t be sure. Brayden? Would you say that’s about right?”

  Brayden grunted his assent but didn’t look up from the book.

  Stevens shrugged. “I think that’s probably as much use as we’ll be to you. I’m sorry we can’t do more.”

  Jarsdel took out one of his business cards and was about to hand it over when he glimpsed a nearby exhibit. Affixed to the wall was a long, weathered spear.

  “Is that a pilum?”

  Stevens followed his gaze. “Ah yes! A pilum. Well, not an authentic one. This was a prop used in the film Spartacus. You’re familiar?”

  Jarsdel nodded, fascinated.

  “Please, feel free to have a look.”

  Jarsdel stepped through the turnstile and approached the piece. The spear was taller than he was, consisting of a long wooden shaft and a cruel, two-foot iron shank with a leaf-shaped head. Hung nearby was a series of stills from the film, presumably depicting the scene in which the weapon had appeared. During the gladiatorial contest, the one that precipitated the great slave revolt, the spear was used to kill the Ethiopian gladiator Draba when he attacked the audience of Roman aristocrats.

  “Not many know to call it a pilum,” said Stevens. “You’re interested in history?”

  “Used to teach it,” said Jarsdel.

  “Really?” Stevens stepped closer. “Hard to believe something so simple practically conquered the world. Well, I suppose it’s not so much the spear as the will behind it. Anyway, feel free to peruse the rest of our collection. We may have other pieces you’d find of interest.”

  Jarsdel gave the room a quick scan. It was large by Hollywood’s standards, especially considering how old the building was. Prewar, probably. Space was at a premium, and Jarsdel thought the rent must be astronomical.

  “Quite a place,” he said.

  “Hmm? Oh,” said Stevens. “Yes. When I first came here, I rented out this floor to a souvenir shop, if you can imagine. It was a few years yet before I could afford to kick them out.”

  “You own the property?”

  “I do, but I save a bit of money by not maintaining a separate home. I keep rooms right here, in the basement. It’s quite comfortable, and that way, I can keep a close eye on my collection. To tell you the truth, it would be difficult to be away from it. These things are as much a part of me as my fingers and toes.”

  “I know what you mean,” said Jarsdel.

  “Do you? Perhaps so. Well, please, I’d certainly be curious to know what you think of my little gallery.”

  Jarsdel shook his head. “Maybe some other time.” And now he did hand over his business card. “I know it’s a long shot, but if you happen to think of anything that might help, please give us a call.”

  “Of course,” said Stevens.

  “Can I get one too?” asked Brayden. Jarsdel gave him a card, and he ran his thumb over the embossed LAPD logo. “Crucial.”

  Jarsdel was about to step around, but Brayden got off the stool and intercepted him.

  “I gotta shake your hand. You guys’re heroes, far as I’m concerned.”

  Jarsdel reddened but extended his hand.

  Brayden pumped it enthusiastically. “I was gonna be a cop, but I had this misdemeanor cocaine thing. I do stunt work, though, when I’m not here at the museum.”
<
br />   Jarsdel nodded, as if those two thoughts made any sense together.

  Brayden finally released him. “If there’s anyone in your department,” he said, “maybe like Media Relations? You know, if they’re planning on making a movie about cops, I’d really appreciate a shot at doing some stunt work on it. Maybe I could call you?”

  Stevens broke in. “Brayden, the detective isn’t involved with things like that. Let the man go about his job.” He turned to Jarsdel. “Forgive him. He gets excited.”

  “What’s not to get excited about?” said Brayden. “Life is awesome.” He clapped Jarsdel on the arm and went back to his stool.

  Jarsdel waited an uncomfortable moment, then gave the two men a parting nod before exiting the museum. His cell phone buzzed—it was Morales.

  “Got some news you’re gonna want to hear. It’s about your shell casings.”

  Jarsdel perked up. “What is it?”

  “For most of ’em, nothing. But ballistics confirmed one of the cartridges featured breech markings identical to those found at the scene of a double homicide. Congratulations.”

  “But—what does that mean? Was Wolin there?”

  “Don’t know. We got a meeting first thing Monday with two detectives from Hollenbeck Division. Until then, they’ve asked us not to talk about it with anyone. So it should be interesting.”

  “But do we have a suspect? I don’t want to lose any time on this.”

  “That’s the thing. Suspect’s a banger out of Ramona Gardens called Delgadillo, first name Bonifacio. But the case is closed. Hasn’t gone to trial yet—guy’s in lockup down at the Twin Towers, probably rubbing shoulders with our buddy Lawrence. So we don’t have to worry. Not like he’s going anywhere.”

  Jarsdel took in the new information, not sure what it all meant. “I don’t wanna just sit on my thumbs. Three days is a long time not to have any movement. Can we bump the meeting to tomorrow?”

  “Hey, you try coordinating between two different divisions, see if you can do better. Besides, I’m takin’ my kids to the zoo tomorrow, and I’m not movin’ that for the world, let alone for your fussy ass.”