Authors: James Ellroy
Lloyd signed a crime lab chit for the three rounds taken from the bodies of the liquor store victims and brought them, in a vinyl evidence bag, to Artie's office. Artie placed them on the left plate of a large, double-eyepieced microscope, then placed the three ballistics tank rounds on the right plate and studied both sets, individually and collectively, for over half an hour. Finally he got up, rubbed his eyes and voiced his findings: “Discounting the fact that the set of rounds fired at the liquor store were flattened by their contact with human skulls, while the tank rounds were intact, and the fact that the impact of the liquor store rounds altered the rifling marks, I would say that the basic land and groove patterns are as identical as slugs fired from two different guns can be. Nail the bastard, Lloyd. Give him the big one where it hurts the most.”
Bruno's Serendipity was a singles bar/backgammon club on Rodeo Drive, in the heart of Beverly Hills' boutique strip. The club's interior was dark and plush, with a long sequin-studded black leather bar dominating one half of the floor space, and lounge chairs and lighted backgammon boards the other. A sequined velvet curtain divided the two areas, with a raised platform just inside the doorway that was visible from both sides of the room. Lloyd smiled as he approached the bar. It was a perfect logistical setup.
The bartender was a skinny youth with a punk haircut. Lloyd sat down at the bar and took out his billfold, removing a ten dollar bill and his Identikit portrait and letting the bartender see his badge all in one motion. When the youth said, “Yes, sir, what can I get you?” Lloyd tucked the ten into his vest pocket and handed him the photocopy.
“L.A.P.D. Have you seen this man here before? Take it over to the light and look at it carefully.”
The bartender complied, switching on a lamp by the cash register. He studied the picture, then shook his head and said, “Sure. Lots of times. Kind of an intense dude. I think he swings both ways, I mean I've seen him in these really intense conversations with both men and women. What did he do?”
Lloyd gave the youth a stern look. “He molests little boys. When was the last time you saw him?”
“Jesus. Last week sometime. This guy's a chicken hawk?”
“That's right. What time does he usually show up?”
The bartender pointed in the direction of the backgammon tables. “You see how dead it is? Nobody shows up here much before eight. We only open up this early because we usually get some businessmen boozehounds in the late afternoon.”
Lloyd said, “I noticed that you don't have a parking lot. Have you got any kind of valet parking setup?”
The youth shook his head. “We don't need one. Plenty of street parking after the boutiques close.” He pointed to the platform inside the doorway. “You'll be able to see him real good, though. After dark, every time the door opens disco music goes on and colored lights flash down from the ceiling, white, then blue and red, you know, to let people know who's arriving. You'll be able to see him real good.”
Lloyd put a dollar bill on the counter, then walked to a stool at the far end of the bar. “Ginger ale with lime. And bring me some peanuts or something. I forgot to eat lunch.”
For six hours Lloyd drank ginger ale and plumbed logic for something to explain his two cases converging into a single narrative line. Nothing but a sense of his own fitness for the unraveling emerged from his ruminations, which were accompanied by a disco light show at the club's front door. From six o'clock on, every person who entered was centered in a flashing light show that was stereo-synced to upbeat arrangements of tunes from
Saturday Night Fever.
Most of the people were young and stylishly dressed and did a brief dance step before heading for the bar or backgammon tables. Lloyd scrutinized every male face as the first white light hit it; no one even vaguely resembled his suspect. Gradually the male and female faces merged into an androgynous swirl that made his eyes ache, combining with the noise of subtle and blatant mating overtures to tilt all his senses out of focus.
At eleven o'clock, Lloyd went to the men's room and soaked his head in a sink filled with cold water. Revived, he dried himself with paper towels and walked back into the club proper. He was about to take his seat at the bar when the Identikit portrait walked past him in the flesh.
Lloyd's skin prickled and he had to ball his gun hand to kill a reflex reach for his .38. The men's eyes locked for a split second, Lloyd averting his first, thinking:
Take him outside at his car.
Then he heard a hoarse gasp behind him, followed by a clicking of metal on metal.
Both men turned at the same instant. Lloyd saw the Identikit man raise his monster handgun and sight it straight at him. He ducked to his knees as the muzzle burst with red and the report of the shot slammed his ears. Bottles exploded behind the bar as the shot went wide; screams filled the room. Lloyd rolled on the floor toward the sequined divider curtain, drawing his .38 and attempting to aim from a backward roll as odd parts of frantic bodies blocked a shot at his target. Two more thunderous explosions; the bar mirror shattering; the screaming reaching toward a crescendo. Lloyd rolled free of the curtain, crashing into a backgammon table. He got to his feet as another shot hit the curtain housing and sent the curtain crashing to the floor. People were huddling under tables, pressing together in a tangle of arms and legs. Muzzle smoke covered the bar area, but through it Lloyd could see his adversary arcing his pistol, looking for
his
target.
Lloyd extended his gun arm, his left hand holding his wrist steady. He fired twice, too high, and saw the Identikit man turn and run back in the direction of the restrooms. Stumbling over an obstacle course of trembling bodies, Lloyd pursued, flattening himself to the wall outside the men's room, nudging the door inward with his foot. He heard strained breathing inside and pushed the door open, firing blindly at chest level, jerking himself backwards just as a return shot blew the door in half.
Lloyd slid to the floor, counting expended rounds: five for psycho, three for himself. Charge him and kill him. He fumbled three shells from his belt into the chamber of his snub nose, then fired into the bathroom in hope of getting a return shot in panic. When none came, he pushed through the half-destroyed door, catching a blurry glimpse of a pair of legs pulling themselves up and out of a narrow window above the toilet.
Stripping off his jacket, Lloyd leaped up and tried to squeeze out the window. His shoulders jammed and splintered the woodwork, but even by squirming and contracting every inch of his body he wouldn't fit. Jumping down, he ran back through the club proper, now a wasteland of shattered glass, upended furniture, and shelter-seeking mounds of people. He was only a few feet from the entrance promenade when the door burst open and three patrolmen with pump shotguns came up in front of him and aimed their weapons at his head. Seeing the fear in their eyes and sensing their fingers worrying the triggers, Lloyd let his .38 drop to the floor. “L.A.P.D.,” he said softly. “My badge and I.D. are in my jacket pocket.”
The middle cop poked Lloyd in the chest with the muzzle of his shotgun. “You ain't got a jacket, asshole. Turn around and put your hands on the wall above your head, then spread your legs. Do it real slow.”
Lloyd obeyed in the slowest of slow motion. He felt rough hands give him a thorough frisking. In the distance he could hear the wail of sirens drawing nearer. When his hands were pinned behind his back and cuffed, he said, “My jacket is in the bathroom. I was here on a homicide stakeout. You've got to issue an A.P.B. and a vehicle detain order. It's a yellow Japanâ”
A heavy object crashed into the small of his back. Lloyd twisted around and saw the middle cop holding his shotgun, butt extended. The other two cops hung a few feet back, looking bewildered. One of them whispered, “He's got a cross draw holster. I'll check the bathroom.”
The middle cop silenced him. “Shitcan it. We'll take him in. You check these people, look for anyone wounded, take statements. The meat wagon will be here in a second, so you help the paramedics. Jensen and I will take asshole in.”
Lloyd squinted and read the leader cop's nameplateâBurnside. Straining to keep his voice steady, he said, “Burnside, you are letting a mass murderer and probable cop killer walk. Just go into the bathroom and get my jacket.”
Burnside spun Lloyd around and shoved him out the door and into a patrol car at curbside. Lloyd looked out the window and saw other Beverly Hills' black-and whites and paramedic vans pull up directly on the sidwalk. As the patrol car accelerated, he looked in vain for a yellow Japanese import and felt his whole body smolder like dry ice.
The ride to the Beverly Hills Station took two minutes. Burnside and Jensen hustled Lloyd up the back stairs and led him down a dingy hallway to a wire mesh holding tank. Shoving him inside, still cuffed, Burnside said to his partner, “This bust feels like fat city. Any legit L.A.P.D. dick would have taken one of our guys with him on a stakeout. Let's go get the skipper.”
When the two cops locked the cage door and ran off down the hallway, Lloyd leaned back against the wire wall and listened to the laughing and shouting coming from the drunk tank at the far end of the corridor. Letting his mind go blank, he gradually assimilated a mental replay of the events at Bruno's Serendipity. One thought dominated: Somehow the Identikit man had instantly seized upon him as his enemy. True, his size and outdated business suit would alert any streetwise fool; but the I.K. man had glimpsed him for only a brief moment in a crowded, artificially lighted environment. Lloyd held the thought, testing it for leaks, finding none.
Something was way off the usual criminal ken.
“You fucked up, Sergeant.”
Lloyd shifted his gaze to see who had spoken. It was a Beverly Hills captain, in uniform. He was holding his suit coat and .38 and shaking his head slowly.
“Let me out and give me my jacket and gun,” Lloyd said.
The captain shook his head a last time, then slid a key into the cage door and swung it open. He took a handcuff key from his pocket and unlocked Lloyd's cuffs. Lloyd rubbed his wrists and took his coat and gun out of the captain's hands, realizing that the man was at least a half dozen years his junior. “Yeah, I fucked up,” he said.
“Nice to hear the legendary Lloyd Hopkins admit to fallability,” the captain said. “Why didn't you notify the head of our detective squad of your stakeout? He would have given you a backup officer.”
“It happened too fast. I was going to wait for the suspect outside by his car. I would have called for one of your units to assist me, but he made me for a cop and freaked out.”
“What are you, six-four? Two-twenty five? It doesn't take a genius to figure out what you do for a living.”
“Yeah? Your own officers couldn't figure it out too well.”
The captain flushed. “Officer Burnside will apologize to you.”
Lloyd said, “Goody. In the meantime a stone psychopathic killer drives out of Beverly Hills a free man. An A.P.B. and a vehicle detain order might have gotten him.”
“Don't try my patience, Hopkins. Just be grateful that no one at Bruno's was hurt. If you had been responsible for the injury or death of a constituent of mine, I would have crucified you. As it stands, I'll let your own Department deal with you.”
Lloyd's vision pulsed with red. He shut his eyes to keep the throbbing localized and said, “Do you want to hear the whole story?”
“No. I want a complete report, in triplicate. Go upstairs and find a desk and write it now. I've informed your superiors at Robbery/Homicide. You are to report to the Chief of Detectives tomorrow morning at ten. Good night, Sergeant.”
Fuming, Lloyd watched the captain walk away. He gave himself ten minutes to cool down, then took an elevator to the third floor vehicle registration office. A night clerk gave him a yellow legal pad and a pen, and over the next two hours he block printed three reports detailing the events at Bruno's and summarizing his investigations into the liquor store homicides and the disappearance of Officer Jack Herzog, copying over his unsubmitted memo to the Chief of Detectives verbatim in hopes that it would be construed as an effort at “team play.” When he finished, he left the pages with the night desk officer and headed for the parking lot. He was almost out the door when an intercom voice jerked him back in. “Urgent call for Sergeant Hopkins. Paging Sergeant Hopkins.”
Lloyd walked to the night desk and picked up the phone. “Yes?”
“It's Dutch, Lloyd. What happened?”
“Lots of shit. Who told you?”
“Thad Braverton. You're supposed to see him tomorrow.”
“I know. Is he pissed?”
“Depends on what you have to say. What
happened
?”
Lloyd laughed through his anger and fatigue. “You won't
believe
what happened. The same guy did the liquor store job and killed Jack Herzog. I'm sure of it. He fired on me with his liquor store piece. We did our best to destroy a Beverly Hills singles bar. It was wild.”
Dutch shouted, “
What!
”
“Tomorrow, partner. I'll call you after I talk to Braverton.”
Dutch's voice was soft. “Jesus fucking Christ.”
Lloyd's was softer. “Yeah, on a popsicle stick. You got any good news for me? I could use some.”
Dutch said, “Two items. One, I checked around on that weird name you asked about. Doctor John the Night Tripper. He was a rock bimbo from years ago, and it's also the nickname of a psychiatrist who does lots of counseling of hookers and court-referred criminal types. He's very well respected. His real name if John Havilland and his office is in Century City. Two, you're in good shape with I.A.D. I called Fred Gaffaney this morning and reported Herzog missing. I took the grief, which consisted of Gaffaney screaming âfuck' a few times.”