Of course, Derek Pearce would never admit to having been frightened or worried about the criminal charges he’d faced, not he who professed to thrive on stress. But during all those months when he’d been stripped of rank and authority and forbidden to associate with other police officers, there had been moments when his defenses wavered. Once or twice he’d even admitted to some vulnerability.
Besides police work, what he’d painfully missed was police officers’ mess on the first Monday of the month, wherein senior officers meet in formal dress for drinks and dinner. He’d bought himself a tailor-made dinner suit, and he loved the jokes and speeches and camaraderie, the sense of belonging to a band of brothers.
“It’s ever so grand,” he said, “to raise a glass of port and toast the queen.”
31
Churchyards
At the Narborough end of The Black Pad is an ancient church and cemetery. All Saints is High Church, with a mossy slate roof and granite turrets that glow rose and amber under curdled skies. On Sunday evenings church bells announce evensong, and in the summer, stained-glass panels emit ruby and emerald rays through a Gothic arch when the light nights bring bronze and copper sunsets to the Midlands. The old headstones are furry with moss and the footpath bricks laid on end have been worn smooth by the feet of villagers who have sought continuity there over the centuries.
Kath had never been one to visit graveyards. “I’m not much of a believer in grounds,” she said. “Still, it’s an outing, to visit the grave.”
Kath and Eddie Eastwood found they didn’t like living away from Leicestershire after all. When Lynda’s killer was finally captured they decided to return. They were still afraid to let their daughter, Rebecca, walk alone in the lanes, but at least the village felt like home.
Old reliable Mick Mason showed up at their door with a bottle of sherry to welcome them back.
By the motorway, on the east side of Enderby near Ten Pound Lane, is another churchyard and another age-blackened granite church that seems as enduring as time. There, brown sparrows and gray wheel on the wind only to plummet and perch on headstones. Black leaves scratch at the graves and the older headstones are covered with lichen, nature’s reminder that flesh is grass.
Inside that church the smell of hymnbooks, the sound of holy music, the casting of Rembrandt shadows in Midlands silver light all promise continuity. Though Robin and Barbara Ashworth were only occasional parishioners, the canon of St. John Baptist offered them a cemetery plot next to Dawn, and they took it gratefully.
Robin and Barbara reported that they’d begun changing in subtle ways. Robin said he didn’t need as much sleep anymore, and was no longer tense and nervous at work. He just didn’t let little things bother him. Robin had learned to sort out what was worth the worry.
Barbara said she’d learned to put herself on automatic pilot to get through some days. Dawn’s room remained just as she’d left it, but sometimes Barbara borrowed Dawn’s clothes.
“Once I needed a jumper to go with gray,” she said, “and Andrew told me to wear that one of Dawn’s. But because it was one she wore a great deal, I wouldn’t have wanted to wear it. I remember once when I wore something my mother handed down to me, Robin came in the kitchen and said, ‘Oh, I thought that was your mother standing there!’ I didn’t want to wear something of Dawn’s and give him the same feeling. So I won’t wear that jumper.”
Then she said, “But I secretly wear it sometimes.”
HARBOR
NOCTURNE
Joseph Wambaugh
Mysterious Press
an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
New York
Copyright © 2012 by Joseph Wambaugh
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove/Atlantic, Inc., 841 Broadway, New York, NY 10003 or [email protected].
Published simultaneously in Canada
Printed in the United States of America
FIRST EDITION
ISBN-13: 978-0-8021-2610-8
Mysterious Press
an imprint of Grove/Atlantic, Inc.
841 Broadway
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As ever, special thanks for the terrific anecdotes and great cop talk goes to officers of the Los Angeles Police Department:
Randy Barr, Jeannine Bedard, Jennifer Blomeley, Adriana Bravo, Kelly Clark, Pete Corkery, Dawna Davis-Killingsworth, Jim Erwin, Brett Goodkin, Jeff Hamilton, Brett Hays, Craig Herron, Jamie Hogg, Mark Jauregui (ret.), Rick Knopf, Rick Kosier (ret.), Fanita Kuljis, Cari Long, Rich Ludwig, Al Mendoza, Buck Mossie, Thongin Muy, Julie Nelson, Scarlett Nuño, Al Pacheco (ret.), Victor Pacheco, Bill Pack, Helen Pallares, Jim Perkins, Robyn Petillo, Kris Petrish (PSR ret.), Brent Smith, Bob Teramura, Rick Wall, Evening Wight
And to officers of the Los Angeles Port Police:
Kent Hobbs, Ken Huerta, Rudy Meza
And to officers of the San Diego Police Department:
Michael Belz, Matt Dobbs, Mike Fender, Doru Hansel, Fred Helm, Jeff Jordon, Charles Lara, Lou Maggi, Adam Sharki, Mike Shiraishi, Merrit Townsend, Steve Willard (S.D. Police Historical Association)
And to Debbie Eglin of the San Diego Sheriff’s Department
And to Erik Nava and Ken Nelson of the San Diego District Attorney’s Office
And to Mike Matassa (ret.) of the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives
And to Danny Brunac, longshoreman of San Pedro
HARBOR
NOCTURNE
ONE
“So NOW I’M like, a hottie hunk on account of my fake foot, is that what you’re telling me? I’m all irresistible or something?”
“It’s not that you’re irresistible,” the young sergeant said. “It’s what your prosthesis represents to certain people, those who suffer from a kind of paraphilia. Specifically, their disorder is called apotemnophilia.”
“And what’s that mean exactly?”
“The manifestation of a desire so intense that therapists have a hard time even explaining it, possibly a desire with a powerful sexual component. It’s a fascination with amputation that sometimes goes so far that the person wants to be an amputee.”
Sergeant Thaddeus Hawthorne was a twenty-eight-year-old UCLA graduate who, like thousands of Angelenos before him, had learned that his BA degree in the liberal arts had very little practical application in the job market of the twenty-first century. He had tested for, and joined, the LAPD just shy of his twenty-second birthday because of the good pay and job security. He had a very high forehead, and a sparse dark mustache crowded the limited space between his long, bulbous nose and upper lip. He anxiously looked from one blue uniformed cop to another as he spoke, both sitting across the table from him in a booth farthest from most of the bustle on this Friday evening at Hamburger Hamlet.
The recently appointed sergeant, who had just finished his probationary period at Van Nuys Division as a patrol supervisor before transferring to Hollywood Division, knew he should use “college talk” sparingly, if at all, in the company of street cops, especially this pair of weathered surf rats with their doubtful smirks and sea salt stuck to their eyebrows and lashes.
They were several years older than he, both being
divorced womanizers, and they unnerved him with their reputations for sneaky get-back when it came to supervisors they didn’t like, especially young supervisors.
“You mean there’s nobody else but him that can do it?” the taller one said, nodding toward his partner.
Sergeant Hawthorne knew that this tall one had been driving during the fateful pursuit a year prior where his partner had suffered a hopelessly smashed foot in a traffic collision. It had ended with the pursued killer in a stolen van being shot to death by Officer Britney Small, then a probationary boot, currently working Watch 5 along with these two.
The sergeant said, “Your partner happens to be one of the few law enforcement amputees in all of California. It would be greatly appreciated by everyone in the Hollywood vice unit if we could eventually get the guys bankrolling their operation, and I’d certainly write you a glowing commendation that would look good in your personnel package.”
Sergeant Hawthorne looked uncertainly at his massive burger, wishing he could cut it in half but not daring to, not when the tall cop across from him was effortlessly mashing his with one big paw and tearing into it like a wolf.
The taller of the suntanned cops scoffed at that lame enticement of a written attaboy but flashed a grin at his partner, saying, “See, dude? I told you when we got our new foot, fame would follow.” Then he told the sergeant with pride, “You should see when this crusher catches a juicy at Malibu. He can even, like, hang three inches of our fiberglass foot and rip that kamikaze just like always. My pard’s got a pair hanging on him!”
The sergeant was trying to figure out exactly what the hell the tall one had just said to him when the shorter one said, “Carbon, not plastic. The surfing skate is made from carbon and polyurethane, not fiberglass.” Then he told the sergeant, “I got two models. The on-duty foot is way different and fits real good in my boot, and it’s pretty easy to run on.”
The tall one said, “You should see all the Emmas in butt-floss bikinis start jiggling their chesticles when they ogle the robo kahuna with the bionic hoof. It’s all beer, bubble baths, and blow jobs for him. Me, I’m happy just to get his leftovers.”
“He’s always pimping me out at Malibu,” the shorter one said dryly. “He, like, tries to sell them on sympathy disrobing for a handicapped kahuna.”
Bewildered by the surfer-speak and opting instead for flattery, Sergeant Hawthorne said to the shorter one, “I think it was pretty gutsy of you not to take a medical pension and retire when the accident happened. A lot of officers would have.”
That didn’t work. Both cops shot the sergeant a snarky look that said, “We don’t quit, dude,” and the shorter one said, “What you want me to do is way twisted. Even for Hollywood, this is sick shit.”
“I can’t deny it,” Sergeant Hawthorne said, taking the first bite of his cheeseburger and sadly watching a dollop of ketchup squirt out onto the yellow L of the sky-blue UCLA sweatshirt he wore when working vice to make himself look less like a cop. The troops around Hollywood Station said he was so lacking in copper machismo that he could dress in an LAPD raid jacket and still nobody would ever make him for Five-Oh.
“Whose idea was this, anyways?” the shorter cop asked.
“Sort of my idea, I guess,” Sergeant Hawthorne said. “I talked to your watch commander as well as your midwatch sergeant about it before I decided to invite you here for a bite to eat.”
The shorter cop said, “Lemme lock in on this. Are you telling me that Sergeant Murillo actually thought I should do this demented shit?”
It was Sergeant Lee Murillo who’d pointed out that the young vice sergeant resembled the nineteenth-century writer Edgar Allan Poe, and had begun referring to him as “Sergeant Edgar.”
“Well, no,” Sergeant Hawthorne admitted. “Your sergeant said it was completely up to you and that nobody should try to influence you one way or the other.”
“Does the croaker who does the kind of freaky swashbuckling surgeries you talked about still practice around here?” the tall cop asked, starting on the second burger he’d ordered because, what the hell, little Sergeant Edgar with the big vocabulary was sponsoring the meal, wasn’t he? In fact, the tall cop had ordered the burgers with fries, plus a side of onion rings, and was even considering a piece of cherry pie with a double scoop of ice cream.
The vice sergeant said, “Not anymore. He’s a burned-out crack addict now. He was fairly notorious for doing various kinds of edgy operations in a certain Tijuana clinic. It’s an abattoir.”
“A what?” the tall one said.
“A slaughterhouse.” Sergeant Hawthorne instantly regretted using a word they might not understand. He was aware that everyone at Hollywood Station knew this pair by their surfing monikers of “Flotsam and Jetsam,” and he noted that Flotsam always referred to Jetsam’s prosthesis as our foot, so it appeared that these two were Velcroed. He began to think of possibly including the tall partner in the deal as a way to persuade Jetsam to accept the assignment.
Jetsam said, “He probably got one of those craigslist doctor degrees where they treat all ailments with leeches.”
“No, Dr. Maurice Montaigne’s medical degree is legitimate,” Sergeant Hawthorne said. “But his license to practice was pulled long ago.”
“What was that word you used to describe this creepy crap?” Jetsam asked.
“Apotemnophilia,” the sergeant said, this time leaning over the plate before taking a second bite of his burger. “I’ve been reading up on it.”
Flotsam said, “That’s the biggest word I’ve heard since ‘pica and pagophagia.’ We got a call about a dude from his momma. He used to get all weirded out when he got drunk, and he’d eat red clay and ice cubes. She got scared he was gonna clog his colon. He told his momma it was for an iron deficiency. I told her it was just fucking Hollywood.”
Sergeant Hawthorne stared at Flotsam for a moment before saying, “That’s very interesting.”
Jetsam asked the sergeant, “Why would anybody go all off the hook with fantasies of doing something like that to himself?”
“I told you, it’s truly incomprehensible,” the sergeant said, after chewing and swallowing a modest bite. “There aren’t many people in the entire world who have this condition.”
“And they all live around here, probably,” Flotsam said with a head shake. “Fucking Hollywood.”
The sergeant had been assigned to the station long enough to know that in these parts, cops always uttered the mantra “This is fucking Hollywood” to explain anything inexplicable, so he merely nodded and said, “It’s illegal to amputate a healthy limb in Mexico as well as the U.S., but of course it’s a lot easier to get it done across the border. So that’s why I’ve prepared a cover story for you about a place in T.J. called Clínica Maravilla.”
Jetsam said, “How could I fool anybody? Wouldn’t the quack see my amputation was, like, done by skilled surgeons?”
“No doctor will be seeing you at all. We’ve been told that Dr. Maurice is effectively retired, holed up somewhere smoking crack twelve hours a day. He’s harder to find than John the Baptist’s head.”
“Who the fuck’s looking for that?” Flotsam wanted to know, and Sergeant Hawthorne cursed himself again for using an obscure metaphor.
“Who’s the freak you’re dying to pop?” Jetsam asked.
“We’re not really dying to pop the Russian with paraphilia. He’s just a very important client being serviced by the collector and the big boss. The collector is the guy who takes the money and pays all the bills, and sets up the special dates, and arranges for the girls to get medical care when needed, and—”
“With the weird croaker we’re talking about?” Jetsam asked.
“At one time.” Sergeant Hawthorne nodded. “But now that the dangerous doctor’s a hopeless crackhead, they no doubt use somebody else these days. What we’re hoping you can do is to get enough info that we can jack the collector for a few felonies and use that to persuade him to trade up for his boss.
The collector’s name is Hector Cozzo. The girls call him Hector the collector, and he’s got a minor rap sheet for identity theft, forgery, and possession. The most time he’s ever done is sixty days in county jail. He’s a small-timer who somehow got this pretty good gig of collecting from massage parlor girls and from dancers working at a nightclub in east Hollywood that I’m sure you know about, Club Samara.”
“In other words, he’s a pimp,” Flotsam said.
“More or less,” Sergeant Hawthorne said.
“So who’s the boss?” Jetsam asked.
“That’s what we want to learn from Hector Cozzo. Our source said that massage parlor where Cozzo collects, is partly staffed by Asian girls who we now think were brought into the States as part of a human-trafficking ring, possibly with the help of Asian and Armenian or Russian gangsters. This could turn into a RICO indictment. You probably heard about the federal prosecutors indicting seventy members of Armenian Power last February?”
Both uniformed cops looked at each other with blank expressions, so Sergeant Hawthorne said, “No? Well, Armenian Power was working with Eurasian gangs here in Hollywood, Glendale, and other places, doing everything from identity-theft scams to kidnapping for ransom. The particular massage parlor and nightclub girls we’re interested in have to pay their masters for travel expenses from their home countries, plus room and board and living expenses. Not to mention the stiff prices they have to cough up for drugs, so they can tolerate their pathetic lives. They’re never able to pay back what they owe, and eventually, they either run away or just get cut loose with the clothes on their backs and a few bucks in their purses.”
“You mean, after they’re all thrashed and shot out?” Jetsam said.
“Exactly,” the sergeant said. “Some of them are underage, too, but they get supplied with good ID and Social Security numbers and the rest of it. It’s hard for ICE to prove they’re in the country illegally, and besides, the feds are more concerned with Department of Homeland Security task force jobs these days, especially anything that remotely smells like terrorism. They’re not much worried about illegal immigrants who get pimped out in Hollywood. We’re working this mission on our own.”
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