by James Ellroy
Rice made frantic flagging motions and fell to his knees as if wounded, holding the piece inside his right jacket pocket, knowing the silencer would cut down his range to close to nothing. When the patrol car decelerated and braked, he held his ground, knowing they had to have seen him; when it did a final fishtail, he counted to ten, got to his feet and pointed his .45 at the windshield.
The cops inside were less than four feet away and about to come out the doors with shotguns when he squeezed the trigger seven times, the gun at chest level. The windshield exploded, and Rice flung himself to the ground and rolled toward the passenger door, ejecting the spent clip, jamming in another. When both doors remained shut, he stood up, saw two blood-soaked blue uniforms and gasping faces and fired seven more times, all head shots. Blood and bone shrapnel sprayed his face, and in the distance he could hear other sirens screaming.
Suddenly he felt very calm and very much in control. He ran through the bank parking lot and down the alley that paralleled Graystone Drive, then vaulted a chain link fence, coming down into a cement backyard. The driveway led him out to the street, and there were Joe and Bobby, standing by the ’81 Chevy Caprice. No neighbors; no nosy kids; no eyeball witnesses.
Rice walked across front lawns to the Chevy and unlocked the driver’s-side door, then the passenger’s. The brothers got in the back with the briefcases and huddled down without being told. Rice started the car and backed out, then drove slowly down Graystone to Westholme, then across Pico to the freeway. When they were headed north on the 405, the sudden screech of sirens became deafening. The fifty-foot freeway elevation gave him a perfect view of the bank and the street in front of it. It was bumper-to-bumper cop cars spilling shotgun-toting fuzz. Choppers were starting to fly in from the east. It looked like a war zone.
Rice drove cautiously in the middle lane; the challenge of holding down panic in an unfamiliar vehicle kept his mind off the past ten minutes. Moving out of the area, the cop noises subsided, except for occasional black-and-whites highballing it past in the opposite direction. Then when he hit Wilshire, it sounded like choppers and sirens were right there inside the car, and he remembered he wasn’t alone.
The copter/siren noise was the combination of Joe Garcia sobbing and wheezing, and Bobby trying to talk. Rice thought of freeway roadblocks and pulled onto the Montana Avenue exit. He turned to look at the brothers, and saw that they were still on the floor, with their arms around each other, so he couldn’t tell who was who. The sight was obscene, and the dried cop blood he felt on his face made it worse. Coming down onto a peaceful, noiseless street, he scrubbed his cheeks with his sleeve and said, “Act like fucking human beings and we’ll walk from this.”
Bobby untangled himself from his brother and the collection of briefcases. Rice checked the rearview and saw him lean into the backseat, then help Joe up. When he saw their unglued beards, he ripped off his own and sized them up for survival balls. Joe was twitching and sitting on his hands to control his shaking; Sharkshit looked like he was two seconds from a giggling fit that would last until his lungs blew. Knowing they were punk partners at best, he said, “Take off your beards, and your jackets and shirts. We’re going to ditch the car, then go to my motel and chill out. Bobby, you do your shark act and you are one dead greaser.”
Bobby winced. His voice was low, nothing like a giggle. “I had to, Duane. I knew what that bitch was gonna say, and only priests can say that to me.” He started mumbling in Latin, then grabbed one of the briefcases off the floor. His garbled rosaries were hitting fever pitch as he reached in and pulled out a packet of hundreds and yanked the tab.
Black ink exploded from the wad of bills, sharp jets that hit Bobby in the face and deflected off his chest to cover the back windows. A second series of sprays burst over Joe, and he threw himself on top of the briefcase and smothered the residual jets with his body. Rice pulled to the curb and screamed, “Take off your shirts and roll down the windows!” and Bobby wiped ink from his eyes and ripped off his beard and starting pawing with it at the window beside him.
Leaning over into the backseat, Rice threw an awkward right fist at Bobby’s face, a glancing blow that forced him to stop his scrubbing and reflexively flinch away, leaving the window handle exposed. Rice pushed himself toward it and cranked it down, just as Joe, his torso soaked jet black, lowered the opposite one. Hissing “The back,” Rice struggled from his suitcoat and ripped off his white shirt. He passed them to Joe, who pushed them into the back window and let them absorb ink until they were saturated. When they were useless sopping rags, he pulled them away and let the remaining ink soak down into the top of the seat. Then he stripped to the waist and started pulling off his brother’s clothes, murmuring, “Easy, Bobby. Easy. The watchdog is here.”
Rice looked at the ink-streaked window and saw that it could pass for a bad “smoky tint” job; he looked at the Garcias and knew that the tagalong had bigger balls from the gate. “We’re going to Hollyweird, homeboys,” he said. “Just three bare-chested studs out for a ride.”
A half hour later, Rice stopped in front of an abandoned welfare hotel on Cahuenga, two blocks from the Bowl Motel. He turned off the engine, got out and checked the trunk. No spare clothes, only a ratty-looking sleeping bag. He grabbed it, then shoved it through the side window at Joe Garcia, who was still baby-talking Bobby. “Wrap the briefcases up in this, and walk your brother down to my pad. Act like Chicano punks on the stroll and you won’t get rousted. I’ll take the money and catch up with you.” He looked at the black film on their chests, then walked back to the garage that he hoped to fucking God was still deserted.
It was.
Rice cleared an entry path, kicking away mounds of empty T-bird bottles, and then walked to the car. Joe and Bobby were standing mutely beside it, the sleeping bag rolled erratically at their feet. Rice said, “Move,” then backed the car into the garage and closed the rickety door on it.
Returning to the street, he started feeling good. Then he picked up the sleeping bag, and two dimes and a penny fell out of the folds and hit the pavement. Ahead of him, he saw the Garcias turn into the alley behind the motel. He tried to think of Vandy and the rescue mission, but the chump change on the ground wouldn’t let him.
15
Driving out Wilshire to the West L.A. Federal Building, Lloyd knew that the street scene was somehow off, that something was missing. Passing the Winchell’s Donut joint that the local cops favored, it hit him: he hadn’t seen a black-and-white since Beverly Hills, and that one was B.H.P.D. Flipping on his two-way, the dispatcher told him why: “Code Four. Code Four. All patrol units at Pico and Westholme and bank area not directly involved in crowd control or house-to-house search resume normal patrol. Code Four. Code Four.”
Lloyd attached his red light and turned on his siren, then hung a U-turn and sped to Pico and Westholme. “Bank” flashed “Them,” and “house-to-house search” meant violence. When he was two blocks from the scene, he passed a string of patrol cars driving slowly north with their headlights on.
Feeling a wave of nausea, Lloyd floored the gas, then decelerated as Pico, a barricade of sawhorse detour signs and a streetful of nose-to-nose black-and-whites, appeared in his windshield. He braked and parked on the sidewalk, then ran the remaining block, pinning his badge to the front of his suit coat.
Two young officers with shotguns noticed him and stepped over a sawhorse, turning the muzzles of the .12 gauges downward when they saw his badge. Catching their red faces and rubber knees, Lloyd said what he already knew: “One of ours?”
The taller of the young cops answered him in a voice trying hard to be detached. “Two of ours, two dead inside the bank. No suspects in custody. It happened forty-five minutes ago. What division are you—”
Lloyd pushed the officer aside and stepped over the detour sign, then walked around the corner to Pico, elbowing his way through the most crowded crime scene he had ever witnessed. Knots of plainclothes cops were huddled together, conferring ove
r notepads, straining to hear each other above the radio crackle put out by dozens of official vehicles; young patrolmen were standing by their units looking fierce, scared and about to burst with rage. Cherry lights were still whirling, and the sidewalk was packed with forensic technicians carrying cameras and evidence kits. Shouted conversations were competing with the radio noise, and Lloyd picked out bits and pieces and knew it was Them.
“ … guy inside said .45 autos, suppressors and—”
“ … this spic was talking dirty to this teller and then just fucking offed her and—”
“One woman said one white, two Mexican, another said all white. This is the—”
In the distance, Lloyd could see the top of a forensic arc light reflecting a red shimmer. He shoved past a team of paramedics on the sidewalk directly in front of the bank, steeling himself when he saw a black-and-white sitting under the light, dried blood covering the back window.
A technician was standing beside the car, dusting a bullet clip; another S.I.D. man was squatting on the hood, his camera up against the shattered windshield, snapping pictures. Lloyd knew that he had to know, and walked over.
The remains of two young men were death frozen in the front seat. Every inch of their uniform navy blue was now the maroon of congealing blood. Both bore high-caliber entry wounds on their faces, and gaping, brain-oozing holes where the backs of their heads used to be. The driver had his service revolver unholstered on the seat beside him, and the other officer had his right hand on the butt of the unit’s Remington pump, his index finger on the trigger at half pull.
Wiping tears from his eyes, Lloyd stumbled through the “Official Crime Scene” rope in front of the bank’s double glass doors. A technician dusting the door handles muttered, “Hey, you can’t,” and Lloyd grabbed him by the lapels and shoved him toward the sidewalk, then covered his hands with his coat sleeves and pushed the doors open. Inside the bank, a cordon of Detective Division brass saw him, then stepped aside, casting worried looks among themselves.
Standing on his tiptoes, Lloyd surveyed the bank’s interior, straining to see something other than the plainclothes officers who were eclipsing almost the entire floor space. By craning his neck he could pick out an S.I.D. team marking the outline of a woman’s body behind the tellers’ counter, and another team in front of the counter vacuuming for trace elements. A deputy medical examiner was scooping the woman’s brains off the wall and into a plastic bag, and at the back of the bank, near the vault, Peter Kapek and a half dozen feds were talking to distraught-looking people.
Lloyd threaded a path in Kapek’s direction. More snatches of conversation hit him, a woman whimpering, “The tall Mexican was so scared and sweet-looking,” a young cop in uniform telling another, “The security guy was a real wacko, he used to talk this weird shit to me. Hey, that’s Lloyd Hopkins—you know, ‘Crazy Lloyd.’”
Hearing his name, Lloyd swiveled and looked at the officers, who turned around and backed into a crowd of plainclothes-men. Again standing on his tiptoes for sight of Kapek, he saw the crowd part and create a space. A second later two M.E. assistants carrying a sheet-covered stretcher walked through it, and when he saw blood seeping through the white cotton, he walked over and yanked the sheet off.
Lloyd ignored the stretcher bearers’ shocked exclamations and stared at the corpse of a middle-aged white man. His chest and stomach bore three large cavities circumscribed by burned and shredded tissue, obvious high-velocity exit wounds.
Shot in the back.
.45-caliber quality holes.
Them.
Before he could redrape the dead man, Lloyd felt a hard tap on his shoulder. When he turned around, Captain John McManus was standing there, legs spread, hands on hips, his face beet red, working toward purple. They locked eyes, and Lloyd knew that backing down was the only way to win. He raised his hands, and was groping for crow-eating words when McManus stepped forward and breathed in his face: “You fucking necrophile. I told you you weren’t to involve yourself in any homicide investigations, collateral to your liaison assignment or otherwise. You’re off that assignment as of now. This is a double cop killing, and I don’t want trigger-happy vigilante shitheads like you anywhere near it. One word of protest, and I’ll have Braverton suspend you. You meddle in this case and I’ll have your badge and file on you for obstruction of justice. Now go home and wait for my call.”
Lloyd shouldered the captain aside and pushed his way out to the sidewalk. A TV mini-cam crew was now inside the barricades, interviewing a group of Community Relations brass. Someone shouted, “That’s Lloyd Hopkins, get him!” and suddenly a microphone was in his face. He yanked the mike out of the man’s hand and hurled it in the direction of the patrol car cradling the wasted bodies of two young men, then ran through the crowd to his own official vehicle, with no intention of going home.
Too angry to think beyond Them, Lloyd drove to Louie Calderon’s place, slamming the wheel when he saw federal surveillance vehicles stationed across the street and in the alley near the back service entrance. Parking down the block by a mom-and-pop market, he defused his tension by gripping the wheel until the strain numbed his brain and a semblance of calm hit, allowing him to answer his own questions rationally.
Roust Calderon? Probe, poke, threaten and scare the shit out of him? No—the Buddy Bagdessarian/warrant approach was still best.
What happened at the bank?—“This spic was talking dirty to this teller and then just fucking offed her”; “The tall Mexican was so scared and sweet-looking.” Why was the man on the stretcher shot in the back? Did the Shark or the white man shoot the two cops?
The only sane answer was insanity; the only strategy for now was to wait for Louie Calderon to leave, then trash his pad from top to bottom. The only easy question was whether or not to obey McManus.
No.
Lloyd settled in to wait, eyeing the surveillance unit parked a block in front of him. One hour, two, three, four. No movement except a stream of customers and mechanics leaving the garage. At dusk, he walked to the market and bought the evening editions of the Times and Examiner. The Pico Boulevard slaughter headlined both papers, and the Times featured the complete story of the first two robberies, complete with names, mention of the girlfriend angle and heavy speculation that the kidnap assaults were tied in to the stickup that had left four dead. The names of the two dead officers were omitted, and the bank victims were listed as Karleen Tuggle, twenty-six, and Gordon Meyers, forty-four, a recently retired L.A. County Sheriffs deputy and the bank’s “Security Chief.” California Federal was offering a $50,000 reward for information leading to the capture of the killer-robbers, and the L.A. City Council was putting up an additional $25,000. Predictably, Chief Gates announced “the biggest manhunt in Los Angeles history.”
It all brought tears to Lloyd’s eyes. He imagined himself squeezing Likable Louie’s fat neck until either his brains or three names popped out. Then he saw Calderon walk out the garage door in the flesh and get into a Dodge van at curbside. When he drove off, the fed unit was a not-too-subtle three car lengths behind.
Lloyd started getting his B&E shakes and eyed the door of the house. Then the surveillance car from the alley pulled up. The driver got out, sat down on Calderon’s front steps and lit a cigarette. Lloyd hit the wheel with his palms, sending shock waves up his bad hand. Kapek, hipped by McManus to his penchant for burglary, was safeguarding the investigation from hot-dog action. Feeling wasted, powerless and unaccountably exhausted, Lloyd drove home to think.
Going through the front door, he heard coughing coming from the direction of the living room. He drew his .38, pinned himself to the entrance foyer wall and moved down it, then hit the overhead light and stepped forward, his gun arm extended and braced with his left hand. When he saw who was sitting in his favorite leather chair, he said, “Jesus Christ.”
“Don’t act surprised,” Captain Fred Gaffaney said. “You know why I’m here.”
Lloyd reholstered h
is .38. “No, I don’t.”
“Address me as ‘sir.’”
Lloyd studied the witch-hunter. Gaffaney looked colder than his deep-freeze norm; drained of everything human. “What are you doing here, Captain?”
Gaffaney fingered his cross and flag lapel pin and said in the most emotionless voice Lloyd had ever heard, “My son, Officer Steven D. Gaffaney, was shot and killed in the line of duty this morning. He was twenty-two. I saw his body. I saw his brains all over the backseat of his patrol unit, and half of his scalp hanging off his head. I forced myself to look, so I wouldn’t back away from coming to you.”
Standing motionless in the doorway, Lloyd saw where Gaffaney was going. For a microsecond, it seemed like salvation, then he gasped against the thought and said, “I swear to you I’ll find them, and if it comes down to me or them, I’ll take them out. But you’re thinking execution, and I’m no killer.”
Gaffaney took a manila folder from his jacket pocket and laid it on the end table beside him. “Yes, you are. I know a great deal about you. In the summer of ’70, when you were on loan out to Venice Vice, you befriended a young rookie who had never been with a woman. One night you borrowed a drunk wagon from Central Division and rousted a half dozen Venice hookers and brought them to the rookie’s apartment. You made them a variety of offers: service the two of you, or suffer arrest for needle tracks, or outstanding warrants, or plain prostitution. They agreed to party, and you smoked marijuana with them, and fucked several of them, and the whores went away with a good deal of your money when you started feeling guilty. I have sworn depositions from three of those whores, Hopkins. I know you’re trying to reconcile with your family. Think of how they’ll feel when the Big Orange Insider runs the depositions on their front page.”