L.A. Confidential Part 5

Children: Mexican, Negro, Oriental--three male, two female--are found dismembered, the trunks of their bodies discovered in L.A. area storm drains. The arms and legs have been severed; the internal organs removed. The press dubs the killer "Dr. Frankenstein." Inspector Preston Exley heads the investigation.

He deems the Frankenstein tag appropriate: tennis racket strings were found at all five crime scenes, the third victim had darning-needle holes in his armpits. Exley concludes that the fiend is recreating children with st.i.tching and a knife; he begins hauling in deviates, cranks, loony bin parolees. He wonders what the killer will do for a face--and learns a week later.

Wee Willie Wennerholm, child star in Raymond Dieterling's stable, is kidnapped from a studio tutorial school. The following day his body is found on the Glendale railroad tracks-- decapitated.

Then a break: administrators from the Glenhaven State Mental Hospital call the LAPD--Loren Atherton, a child molester with a vampire fixation, was paroled to Los Angeles two months before--and has not yet reported to his parole officer.

Exley locates Atherton on skid row: he has a job washing bottles at a blood bank. Surveillance reveals that he steals blood, mixes it with cheap wine and drinks it. Exley's men arrest Atherton at a downtown theater--masturbating during a horror movie. Exley raids his hotel room, finds a set of keys--the keys to an abandoned storage garage. He goes there--and finds h.e.l.l.

A prototype child packed in dry ice: male Negro arms, male Mexican legs, a male Chinese torso with spliced-in female genitalia and Wee Willie Wennerhoim's head. Wings cut from birds st.i.tched to the child's back. Accoutrements rest nearby: horror movie reels, gutted tennis rackets, diagrams for creating hybrid children. Photographs of children in various stages of dismemberment, a closet/darkroom filled with developing supplies.

h.e.l.l.

Atherton confesses to the killings; he is tried, convicted, hanged at San Quentin. Preston Exley keeps copies of the death photos; he shows them to his policemen sons--so that they will know the brutality of crimes that require absolute justice.

Ed flipped pages: past his mother's obit, Thomas' death. Outside of his father's triumphs, the only time the Exleys made the papers was when, somebody died. He made the _Examiner_: an article on the sons of famous men fighting World War II. Like b.l.o.o.d.y Christmas, there was more than one version.

The _Examiner_ ran the version that won him his DSC: Corporal Ed Exley, sole survivor of a platoon wiped out in hand-to-hand combat, takes down three trenches filled with j.a.p infantry, twenty-nine dead total, if there were an officer present to witness the act he would have won the Congressional Medal of Honor. Version two: Ed Exley seizes the opportunity to make a scout run when a j.a.p bayonet charge is imminent, dawdles, comes back to find his platoon obliterated and a j.a.p patrol approaching. He hides under Sergeant Peters and Pfc Wasnicki, feels them buckle when the j.a.ps strafe bodies; he bites into Wasnicki's arm, chews his wrist.w.a.tch strap clean off. He waits for dusk, sobbing, covered by dead men, a tiny pa.s.sage between bodies feeding him air. Then a terror nm for battalion HQ--halted when he sees another slaughter scene.

A little Shinto shrine, tucked into a clearing covered with camouflage netting. Dead j.a.ps on pallets, jaundice green, emaciated. Every man ripped stomach to ribcage; ornately carved swords, blood-caked, stacked neatly. Ma.s.s suicide--soldiers too proud to risk capture or die from malaria.

Three trenches cut into the ground behind the temple; weaponry nearby--rifles and pistols rusted out from heavy rain. A flamethrower wrapped in camouflage cloth--in working order.

He held it, knowing just one thing: he would not survive Guadalca.n.a.l. He'd be a.s.signed to a new platoon; his scout run dawdlings wouldn't wash. He could not request an HQ a.s.signment--his father would deem the act cowardice. He would have to live with contempt--fellow LAPD men wounded, awarded medals.

"Medals" led to "Bond Tours" led to crime scene reconstructions. He saw his opportunity.

He found a j.a.p machine gun. He hauled the hara-kiri men to the trenches, put useless weapons in their hands, arranged them facing an opening in the clearing. He dropped the machine gun there, pointed toward the opening, three rounds left in the feeder belt. He got the flamethrower, torched the j.a.ps and the shrine past forensic recognition. He got his story straight, made it back to battalion HQ.

Recon patrols confirmed the story: fighting Ed Exley, armed with j.a.p ordnance, french-fried twenty-nine of the little f.u.c.kers.

The Distinguished Service Cross--the second highest medal his country could bestow. A stateside bond tour, a hero's welcome, back to the LAPD a champion.

Some kind of wary respect from Preston Exley.

"Read the family sc.r.a.pbook. Remember those precedents."

Ed put the book away, still not sure how he'd play b.l.o.o.d.y Christmas--but certain what the man meant.

Opportunities fall easy--you pay for them later.

Father, I've known it since I picked up that flamethrower.

CHAPTER NINE

"If it goes to the grand jury, you won't swing. And the D.A. and I will try to keep it from going there."

Jack counted favors on deposit. Sixteen G's to Loew's slush fund--Miller Stanton helped him lube the _Badge of Honor_ gang. He tweaked Brett Chase himself, a concise little threat--a _Hush-Hush_ expose on his queerness. Max Peltz coughed up large--Loew frosted out a tax audit. A Cupid favor--tonight the man meets pouty Joan Morrow. "Ellis, I don't even want to testify. I'm talking to some lAD goons tomorrow, and it is going to the grand jury. So fix it."

Loew played with his Phi Beta chain. "Jack, a prisoner a.s.saulted you, and you responded in kind. You're clean. You're also somewhat of a public figure and the preliminary depositions that we've received from the plaintiff's attorneys state that four of the beating victims recognized you. You'll testify, Jack. But you won't swing."

"I just thought I'd run it by you. But if you ask me to squeal on my brother officers, I'll plead f.u.c.king amnesia. Comprende, Counselor?"

Loew leaned across his desk. "We shouldn't argue--we're doing too well together. Officer Wendell White and Sergeant Richard Stensland are the ones who should be worrying, not you. Besides, the grapevine tells me you have a new lady in your life."

"You mean Joan Morrow told you."

"Yes, and frankly she and her parents disapprove. You are fifteen years older than the girl, and you've had a checkered past."

Caddy, ski instructor--an orphanage kid good at servicing rich folks. "Joanie offer details?"

"Just that the girl has a mad crush on you and believes your press clippings. I a.s.sured Joan that those clippings are true. Karen tells Joan that so far you've behaved like a gentleman, which I find hard to believe."

"That ends tonight, I hope. After our little double date, it's the _Badge of Honor_ wrap party and an intimate interlude somewhere."

Loew twisted his vest chain. "Jack, has Joan been playing hard to get or does she really have that many men chasing her?"

Jack twisted the knife. "She's a popular kid, but all those movie star guys are just fluff. Stick to your guns."

"Movie stars?"

"Fluff, Ellis. Cute, but fluff."

"Jack, I want to thank you for coming along tonight. I'm sure you and Karen will be superb icebreakers."

"Then let's. .h.i.t it."

Don the Beachcomber's--the women waiting in a wraparound booth. Jack made introductions. "Ellis Loew, Karen Morrow and Joan Morrow. Karen, don't they make a lovely couple?"

Karen said, "h.e.l.lo," no hand squeeze--six dates and all she put out were bland good-night kisses. Loew sat next to Joan; Joanie checked him out--probably sniffing for signs of Jewishness. "Ellis and I are good phone chums already. Aren't we?"

"We are indeed"--Loew working his courtroom voice.

Joan finished her drink. "How do you two know each other? Do the police work closely with the District Attorney's Office?"

Jack kiboshed a laugh: I'm Jewboy's bagman. "We build cases together. I get the evidence, Ellis prosecutes the bad guys."

A waiter hovered. Joan ordered an Islander Punch; Jack asked for coffee. Loew said, "Beefeater martini." Karen put a hand over her gla.s.s. "Then this b.l.o.o.d.y Christmas thing will strain relations between the police and Mr. Loew's office. Isn't that likely?"

Loew hit quick. "No, because the LAPD rank and file wish to see the wrongdoers dealt with severely. Right, Jack?"

"Sure. Things like that give all policemen a black eye."

The drinks arrived--Joan took hers down in three gulps. "You were there, weren't you, Jack? Daddy said you always go to that station party, at least since your second wife left you."

Karen: "_Joanie!_"

Jack said, "I was there."

"Did you take a few licks for justice?"

"It wasn't worth it to me."

"You mean there weren't any headlines to be had?"

"Joanie, be quiet. You're drunk."

Loew fingered his tie; Karen fingered an ashtray. Joan slurped the rest of her drink. "Teetotalers are always so judgmental. You used to attend that party after your _first_ wife left you, didn't you, Sergeant?"

Karen gripped the ashtray. "You G.o.dd.a.m.n b.i.t.c.h."

Joan laughed. "If you want a hero policeman, I know a man named Exley who at least risked his life for his country. Granted, Jack's smooth, but can't you see what he is?"

Karen threw the ashtray--it hit the wall, then Ellis Loew's lap. Loew stuck his head in a menu; Joanie b.i.t.c.h glowered. Jack led Karen out of the restaurant.

Over to Variety International Pictures--Karen bad-mouthing Joanie non-stop. Jack parked by the _Badge of Honor_ set; hillbilly music drifted out. Karen sighed. "My parents will get used to the idea."

Jack turned on the dash light. The girl had dark brown hair done in waves, freckles, a touch of an overbite. "What idea?"

"Well . . . the idea of us seeing each other."

"Which is going pretty slow."

"That's partly my fault. One minute you're telling me these wonderful stories and the next minute you just stop. I keep wondering what you're thinking about and thinking that there's so many things you can't tell me. It makes me think you think I'm too young, so I pull away."

Jack opened the door. "Keep getting my number and you won't be too young. And tell me some of your stories, because sometimes I get tired of mine."

"Deal? My stories after the party?"

"Deal. And by the way, what do you think of your sister and Ellis Loew?"

Karen didn't blink. "She'll marry him. My parents will overlook the fact that he's Jewish because he's ambitious and a Republican. He'll tolerate Joanie's scenes in public and hit her in private. Their kids will be a mess."

Jack laughed. "Let's dance. And don't get star-struck, people will think you're a hick."

They entered arm in arm. Karen went in starry-eyed; Jack scoped his biggest wrap bash yet.

Spade Cooley and his boys on a bandstand, Spade at the mike with Burt Arthur "Deuce" Perkins, his ba.s.s player, called "Deuce" for his two-spot on a chain gang: unnatural acts against dogs. Spade smoked opium; Deuce popped "H"--a _Hush-Hush_ roust just looking to happen. Max Pelts glad-handing the camera crew; Brett Chase beside him, talking to Billy Dieterling, the head cameraman. Billy's eyes on his twist, Timmy Valburn, Moochie Mouse on the _Dream-a-Dream Hour_. Tables up against the back wall--covered with liquor bottles, cold cuts. Kikey Teitlebaum there with the food--Pelts probably had his deli cater the party. Johnny Stompanato with Kikey, ex--Mickey Cohen boys huddling. Every _Badge of Honor_ actor, crew member and general hanger-on eating, drinking, dancing.

Jack swept Karen onto the floor: swirls through a fast-tune medley, grinds when Spade switched to ballads. Karen kept her eyes closed; Jack kept his open--the better to dig the shmaltz. He felt a tap on the shoulder.

Miller Stanton cutting in. Karen opened her eyes and gasped: a TV star wanted to dance with her. Jack bowed. "Karen Morrow, Miller Stanton."

Karen yelled over the music. "Hi! I saw all those old Raymond Dieterling movies you made. You were great!"

Stanton hoisted her hands square-dance style. "I was a brat! Jack, go see Max--he wants to talk to you."

Jack walked to the rear of the set--quiet, the music lulled. Max Pelts handed him two envelopes. "Your season bonus and a boost for Mr. Loew. It's from Spade Cooley."

Loew's bag was fat. "What's Cooley want?"

"I'd say insurance you won't mess with his habit."

Jack lit a cigarette. "Spade doesn't interest me."

"Not a big enough name?"

"Be nice, Max."

Peltz leaned in close. "Jack, _you_ try to be nicer, 'cause you're getting a bad rep in the Industry. People say you're a hard-on, you don't play the game. You shook down Brett for Mr. Loew, fine, he's a G.o.dd.a.m.n faigeleh, he's got it coming. But you can't bite the hand that feeds you, not when half the people in the Industry blow tea from time to time. Stick with the shvartzes-- those jazz guys make good copy."

Jack eyeballed the set. Brett Chase in a hobn.o.b: Billy Dieterling, Timmy Valburn--a regular fruit convention. Kikey T. and Johnny Stomp shmoozing--Deuce Perkins, Lee Vachss joining in. Pelts said, "Seriously, Jack. Play the game."

Jack pointed to the hard boys. "Max, the game is my life. You see those guys over there?"

"Sure. What's that--"

"Max, that's what the Department calls a known criminal a.s.sembly. Perkins is an ex-con wheelman who f.u.c.ks dogs, and Abe Teitlebaum's on parole. The tall guy with the mustache is Lee Vachss, and he's made for at least a dozen snuffs for Mickey C. The good-looking wop is Johnny Stompanato. I doubt if he's thirty years old, and he's got a racket sheet as long as your arm. I am empowered by the Los Angeles Police Department to roust those c.o.c.ksuckers on general suspicion, and I'm derelict in my duty for not doing it. Because I'm _playing the game_."

Pelts waved a cigar. "So keep playing it--but pianissimo on the tough-guy stuff. And look, Miller's bird-d.o.g.g.i.ng your quail. Jesus, you like them young."

Rumors: Max and high school trim. "Not as young as you."

"Ha! Go, you f.u.c.king gonif. Your girl's looking for you."

Karen by a wall poster: Brett Chase as Lieutenant Vance Vincent. Jack walked over; Karen's eyes lit up. "G.o.d, this is so wonderful! Tell me who everyone is!"

Full-blast music--Cooley yodeling, Deuce Perkins banging his ba.s.s. Jack danced Karen across the floor--over to a corner crammed with arclights. A perfect spot--quiet, a scope on the whole gang.

Jack pointed out the players. "Brett Chase you already know about. He's not dancing because he's queer. The old guy with the cigar is Max Pelts. He's the producer, and he directs most of the episodes. You danced with Miller, so you know him. The two guys in skivvies are Augie Luger and Hank Kraft--they're grips. The girl with the clipboard is Penny Fulweider, she couldn't quit working even if she wanted to--she's the script supervisor. You know how the sets on the show are so modernistic? Well, the blond guy across from the bandstand is David Mertens, the set designer. Sometimes you'd think he was drunk, but he's not-- he's got some rare kind of epilepsy, and he takes medicine for it. I heard he was in an accident and hit his head, that that started it. He's got these scars on his neck, so maybe that's it. Next to him there's Phil Shenkel, the a.s.sistant director, and the guy next to him is Jerry Marsalas, the male nurse who looks after Mertens. Terry Riegert, the actor who plays Captain Jeffries, is dancing with that tall redhead. The guys by the water cooler are Billy Dieterling, Chuck Maxwell and d.i.c.k Harwell, the camera crew, and the rest of the people are dates."

Karen looked straight at him. "It's your milieu, and you love it. And you care about those people."

"I like them--and Miller's a good friend."

"Jack, you can't fool me."