Authors: Joseph Wambaugh
And that was when Hector’s resolve collapsed. He said, “I swear I don’t know for sure, but one time a girl from the massage parlor did some kind of party in Koreatown. She said there’s a condo above some restaurant called Kimchi Heaven. An old buckethead babe lives there who knew Kim from back in whatever fucking country he lived in before coming here. Her name is Tang. And that’s all I know, so help me! I wouldn’t tell you this if I was somehow involved with the guy, would I?”
Flo Sanders left the interview room without a word, to make a call that would send arrest teams heading for Koreatown.
Hector said, “Can I go home now, sir? I told you all I know.”
“You’ll keep yourself available for me, won’t you, Hector?” Bino Villaseñor said.
“Absolutely, sir,” Hector promised. Then he added, “I hope you catch Kim, if he’s the one that did the crime, but I’d like to offer a piece of advice, if you wanna hear it.”
“By all means.”
Hector said, “Anyone who’d kill a girl in the house of the Lord is beyond dangerous and beyond reasoning with. That kinda guy will no doubt be armed, and I think you should tell your officers to shoot him down on sight, like a mad dog.”
“Thank you for that advice, Hector,” Bino Villaseñor said, for the first time showing a hint of a smile under the bushy white mustache. “Dead men tell no tales, do they?”
That afternoon, there was something taking place on Eighth Street in San Pedro, across the street from Mary Star of the Sea Catholic Church, that would bring about the conclusion of their investigation more directly than anything the detectives themselves had done. And a resident of Harbor View House was the one who made it happen.
Franklin Abernathy was a senior-citizen resident of the intermediate-care facility, with which none of the Los Angeles news gatherers was familiar. He was always well groomed and well dressed, and nobody noticed the room key Franklin Abernathy wore around his neck on a shoelace. Nor did they know that he often roamed the streets close to the facility with General Douglas MacArthur, and they certainly had no reason to doubt his claim of being a professor emeritus at the University of Southern California. It did not take more than twenty minutes for the word to spread that there was an eyewitness who could identify the killer, after Franklin Abernathy approached the first television news crew with the exciting news that he’d seen a man run from the church at the time of the murder and speed away in a car.
When asked to describe the car the killer drove, the eyewitness simply said that he’d been concentrating so hard on the license number, upon realizing that something was amiss, he’d failed to be aware of the make or model. He said that the sun had been in his eyes, but he thought the car was dark in color. When asked to give the license number during an on-camera interview, he said that he’d written it down, but he wished to have it cleared with the police before the number was given out to the public.
That interview with the seventy-six-year-old resident of Harbor View House would be broadcast on the 5:00 television news before a print journalist and a detective from Harbor Station had the opportunity to interview the “eyewitness.” Franklin Abernathy told the print journalist and the detective that the number he’d written on a Taco Bell napkin was the license number of the killer, and he gave the napkin to the cop. The license number he’d written down was “666 Antichrist.”
Unlike the reporter, the detective noticed Abernathy’s shining eye, and he asked the witness what he’d taught as a professor at USC.
Franklin Abernathy answered, “Microbiology. And I think I’ve recently discovered a DNA sequence that can be altered to turn bulldogs into mice.”
The detective congratulated Franklin Abernathy on his discovery and verified his in-patient residential address. But before anyone bothered to alert the local television channel about its eyewitness, the on-camera interview went on the air. The broadcast news program later apologized for airing the interview, and had to endure much derision and horse laughs from the cable-channel newsies, but the damage had already been done.
One of the residents of Koreatown, whose name and address were on the registration of the black Mercedes with chrome wheels, received an unexpected phone call that afternoon as a result of the information given to Bino Villaseñor by Hector Cozzo. The woman who called herself Madame Jin-Sook Tang was alerted by employees of the downstairs restaurant she owned that half a dozen cars containing police officers were converging on the building. Madame Tang immediately called the cell number of her lover, telling him not to return to her condominium under any circumstances, and suggested that he might be wise to leave Los Angeles as soon as possible, after he dropped her car at the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel.
When LAPD cops with shotguns arrived in force at the condo of Madame Tang and demanded admittance, she opened the door with the same serenity she showed when she acted as hostess at Kimchi Heaven on weekend nights. She stood back and watched big-footed cops swarming through her immaculately tidy condominium, and expressed what she thought was appropriate shock in hearing that her longtime companion, Joo-Chan Lee, aka William Kim, was a wanted man. She said she was horrified by the news and wished to be fully cooperative and to tell all that she knew of Joo-Chan Lee and his possible whereabouts, and she said she was concerned for her car, which he had borrowed. Madame Tang told the police a great deal that afternoon, almost none of it true.
After receiving that phone call from Madame Tang, Kim had to breathe deeply and exercise great discipline in order to observe the speed limit while driving to the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel. He parked in front, leaving the car with the valet, and checked in for one night, intending to lie low until he could find out what was happening and how the police could have discovered where he lived.
Kim sat at the bar of the Hollywood Roosevelt Hotel drinking brandy for almost two hours. He was trying to decide if he should risk calling Madame Tang even from a public telephone, but he decided against it. Soon he felt himself getting a bit drunk and thought he should go to his room and lie down, but when he reached for his wallet, which he normally kept in the inside pocket of his suit coat, he realized that the wallet was in the pocket of his trousers. He had forgotten that the inside coat pocket contained the crumpled silk necktie that he’d used to garrote the Mexican dancer. Before going to his room he went to the men’s restroom and buried the necktie under paper towels in the trash receptacle, and readjusted the holster of the 9-millimeter pistol attached to his belt in the small of his back.
At 5:00
p.m
. he turned on the TV in his room and channel-surfed for the local news to see if the murder in San Pedro would be covered. It was, and, in fact, it was the lead story. Kim heard words like “horror” and “outrage” and “sacrilege” from the lips of the news anchor, and then he watched interviews with San Pedro locals, including “Professor” Franklin Abernathy, who was questioned by a breathless blond reporter with expressive television eyebrows. Kim learned that a license number had been written down by this strange little man, whom Kim had not noticed when he’d fled from the church.
After watching the news coverage, Kim paced the room and pondered. He thought he should wait until dark before he dared drive from the hotel in a car whose license number must be known by now to every cop in Los Angeles. His hands would not stop sweating, and he decided he needed another drink. He had a sudden and irrational urge to buy a new necktie, as though appearing in the hotel bar in a tailored suit and dress shirt but without a necktie would mark him as the church killer. But he did go to the bar, and he did have another brandy, several of them.
The midwatch roll call at 5:00
p.m
. was not the jolly morale lifter that Sergeant Murillo always preferred for his personnel before he sent them to the streets. The reason for this became apparent when Detective Bino Villaseñor entered the roll call room for a prearranged visit right after Sergeant Murillo had assigned the cars.
“Detective Villaseñor has some important information for you,” Sergeant Murillo said, and Bino stepped up and stood next to the table where the sergeant sat facing the troops.
Bino said, “You all know about the strangled dancer from Club Samara who was recently found in a dumpster, but you may not have heard about a similar murder of another former dancer from the same club that happened in San Pedro this afternoon. We believe both murders were committed by a Korean national who calls himself William Kim or Joo-Chan Lee. He’s the guy who drives the black car with chrome wheels that I told you about the other day. Well, now we’ve received the license number of that black Mercedes from the registered owner, and we think he could be hiding out either in Koreatown or here in Hollywood, the two places where he’s lived and worked. The principal owner of Club Samara lives up on Mount Olympus, and I’ll give you his name and address just in case you spot the Mercedes anywhere near there.”
Everyone in the room listened attentively and jotted down notes as the detective gave them a rundown on the afternoon murder in the Catholic church and a description of the suspect, who had no criminal record under either name. Bino was unusually intense during the briefing, and it was apparent that the murder of the Mexican dancer, as well as where and how she had been killed, had disturbed the usually placid veteran.
Bino concluded by saying, “Watch for the black Mercedes, and please stay on the air as much as possible. At this moment, Kim’s longtime squeeze is being interrogated, but she’s a real dragon lady and I don’t expect we’ll get much out of her. If I receive any further information that’ll help you locate this guy, I’ll get it out to you right away. It goes without saying that a guy like Kim will be armed.”
Sergeant Murillo said to his people, “There’s a Hollywood moon tonight, so be extra alert. All the crazies will be out there howling and prowling.”
A Hollywood moon always made each cop more careful to touch the picture of the Oracle before heading for the streets.
TWENTY-THREE
I
t was Kim’s
longest day. He sat in the bar of the Hollywood Roosevelt, not wanting to be alone in his hotel room, and he continued ordering brandies. He couldn’t risk driving the Mercedes until after dark, now that the police had the license number. He wondered if they had discovered his criminal record yet. He’d been arrested twice in San Francisco fifteen years earlier, for pimping and pandering under the name Chung-Hee Park. He’d paid a Chinese lawyer plenty, and had gotten only probation both times. But then he thought, What difference does it make if they had verified his criminal record? Regardless of which name he used, he was a wanted man. No matter how he tried to rationalize his choice of action, and no matter how many brandies he drank, he had to run.
Kim had learned as a young man, living in both Macao and Hong Kong, that a wise man always carried a passport with him, and he had his under the name Joo-Chan Lee. But he was concerned that the police might have alerted airline ticket counters and customs agents at LAX, so he decided it would be safest to drive to San Francisco International Airport. He could fly out of the country from there, less noticeable among thousands of other Asians coming and going.
But first he needed more money and a different car, and there was only one place he could think of to get them now. That was from the man who had been his financial partner in everything, from the massage parlor and the nightclub to the ill-fated human trafficking. He could only turn to the man who had provided the information that had led him to the Mexican dancer and to his being a wanted fugitive. They were in everything together, and his partner owed him.
As soon as he figured it was dark enough in the skies over Hollywood, he left the bar and walked unsteadily to the entry doors and outside. There were three taxis waiting for hotel guests to emerge for the evening, and he signaled to the first in line. He looked up and was sorry to see the white glow of a full moon. He felt as though he were standing in a spotlight, like all of those whose names were displayed in brass and marble on the sidewalks around him, many of them already faded, irrelevant, and forgotten.
William Kim was not the only participant in the recent deadly event near the harbor of Los Angeles to have seen the 5:00 news. As soon as the news hour ended, Pedrag Marcovic, aka Pavel Markov, locked all the doors in his house, struggling against a surging panic attack.
He made a phone call to Bakhva Ramishvili, the Georgian whose name was on the liquor license at Club Samara. He asked the retired pawnbroker if he would like to buy the business for half of what it was worth. Before the conversation ended, Markov said he was willing to let the business go for 30 percent of what it was worth, and that he’d throw in Shanghai Massage for an additional fifty thousand dollars, adding that it had been a good little cash cow for the past two years. Markov settled for 20 percent of what he thought the business should fetch, and said that the sale and leasing documents would be handled by his lawyer in the coming week. Markov asked that the Georgian cooperate with the lawyer to forward the money via wire transfer as soon as the documents were signed and he got settled at a new address, which likely would be outside the United States.
After all the terms were agreed upon, Markov had to begin the wrenching job of deciding which items in his extensive wardrobe would have to be left behind, and he wondered if there might be time to set aside some minor objets d’art to be shipped at a later time. He wondered how long William Kim could possibly remain free, and he cursed the fool for the deplorable way in which he had disposed of the Mexican dancer. Kim had promised him that he would be patient and make her death appear to be a result of random violence, even if her Croat boyfriend had to be terminated along with her to make it believable. But to strangle her the same as Daisy! And in a church, of all places! If only the brainless Korean could get himself killed by the police. Then Markov realized that he did not dare do the packing until daybreak. Kim might actually drive here this very night in desperation. He turned out all the lights in the house and sat in the back bedroom, hoping in vain that the darkness might make him sleepy.
Kim asked that the taxi drop him half a block away from Markov’s leased home on Mount Olympus. He paid the driver and walked to the house, cursing when he saw that all the lights were out. But when he was standing in front he saw a glimmer flash in the kitchen, where he and Markov had often sat discussing business. It was light from the opened refrigerator door! Markov was home with all the lights out, even though he was a man who stayed up until well after midnight, reading or watching television. This could only mean that he didn’t want visitors, especially one as desperate as his partner was this night. Kim reached under his suit coat and touched the pistol for comfort.
The Korean was feeling the full effect of the brandies then, and he knew it. Whatever he was going to do, he’d have to do it quickly. He walked up the driveway to the portico and rang the bell. Then he moved as fast as he dared, in his unsteady condition, around to the back of the house, almost tripping over a wheelbarrow the gardener had left out. He stood by the rear door, which opened onto a well-kept garden, the charmless home’s best attribute.
As he’d expected, there was no movement in the house. Markov did not go to the door, wherever he was hiding. Kim could see well by the light of the full moon and used his elbow to break the pane of glass beside the dead-bolt lock. Then he drew his pistol from its holster and reached a meaty hand inside, turning the bolt. He opened the door and entered without stealth, knowing that Markov had probably heard the glass shatter.
The tension was broken and he uttered a braying laugh when Markov called out tremulously, “William, is that you?”
“Is me, my friend!” Kim called back. “Where are you at? Your friend William must have a drink.”
“You better get out, William!” Markov said. “The police are looking for you!”
“Yes,” Kim said, lurching toward the hallway leading to the sound of Markov’s voice. “I must go away from here. You got to help me.”
“I cannot help you!” Markov said. “Get out while you can, William!”
When he got to the back bedroom, he turned the knob quietly, but the door was locked, and he heard Markov let out a sound like the muffled wail of a baby.
“Do not make me call the police!” Markov shouted.
That made Kim laugh drunkenly, until he began to cough. When he stopped, he said, “Yes, call police. I talk to them, too. We go to prison and live in same cell. I sleep on bottom bed, okay?”
Then Kim let out a maniacal cackle that made Markov expel a dozen milliliters of urine. The Serb felt it running down the leg of his satin pajamas, and he began to whimper.
He finally said, “What do you want, William?”
Kim said, “Money and your car.”
Markov said, “The money you have coming is in the account that one of us cannot deplete without the approval of the other. You know that!”
“You get my money tomorrow. I am sleeping here tonight.”
“No!” Markov said. “What if the police come here looking for you? William, the murder of the Mexican dancer was all over the news!”
“Yes,” Kim said sleepily.
“Why did you walk into a church in broad daylight where you could be so easily seen? That was not smart!”
“I . . . want . . . money . . . tomorrow,” Kim said. “But I got to sleep now.”
The Korean’s speech was slurred and halting, and Markov began thinking furiously about the handgun in the closet of the master bedroom, and of what he might do with it. Finally, he said, “Go into the living room and sleep on the sofa, William. I will go to the bank tomorrow with a letter from you and withdraw all that we have.”
“And a car,” Kim said.
“Yes, yes,” Markov said. “I will get you a car tomorrow. Now go to sleep.”
Markov stayed beside the bedroom door and heard Kim shuffling along the hallway to the living room. Still, Markov stayed where he was. After a full two minutes, he turned the knob very slowly and opened the door.
He had drawn the drapes in the living room, and none of the bright light from the full moon illuminated the hallway. Markov kicked off his bedroom slippers and crept barefoot in his pajamas toward the master bedroom. There was only one option open to him. He had to kill Kim and claim that his former business associate had entered his house in the night obviously intending to rob him. Killing an intruder, especially one who was a wanted killer, might even get him accolades from the authorities.
Markov was ecstatic to hear what sounded like a snore coming from the living room. When he reached the door of the master bedroom he ran inside and scrambled to the closet, fumbling around the shelf where he had a Smith & Wesson .38-caliber, six-inch revolver. He got it down and held it in both trembling hands as he crept in darkness down the parquet hallway to the expansive living room. Now he wished he hadn’t drawn the drapes. The moonlight would have helped him.
He was only ten feet away from the sofa when he was able to peer over the high back cushions and see that Kim was not there!
“I am here!” Kim said from somewhere to his left, and Markov spun and fired three wild rounds, the muzzle flashes lighting a moving figure who fired back twice.
Markov dove for the floor, crying in terror, but there was not a sound from Kim. No moans, no movement, nothing. Markov heard the neighbor’s dog barking wildly, and he knew the shots would have the neighbors on both sides calling the police. He prayed that the police would get there in time to save his life. Even if he was arrested with Kim and indicted, that would be better than dying here in the darkness. Anything would be better than that.
Then he heard Kim chortling again. The Korean wasn’t just drunk; he’d come unhinged. Markov realized that he was in a gunfight with a madman.
“I want your car!” Kim said from somewhere in the darkness across the room.
“Take it!” Markov shouted. “The keys are on the table by the front door. Take it and get out!”
“You will shoot me, I think,” Kim said, and he fired two more rounds, one of which broke the ceramic lamp on the table behind the sofa, sending shards showering down on Markov.
“William, the police are coming!” Markov yelled. “The neighbors must have called them by now. Get out while you can!”
“Is too late, I think,” Kim said. “Too late.”
Mount Olympus was not a neighborhood from which “shots fired” calls emanated, not even on New Year’s Eve, let alone on a summer night under a lovely Hollywood moon. Shop 6-X-32 received the code 3 call with Flotsam driving and Jetsam unlocking the shotgun rack.
When 6-X-66 heard the call, Hollywood Nate said to Britney Small, “Mount Olympus is where the owner of Club Samara lives!”
Marius Tatarescu, of 6-X-72, asked his senior partner, Sophie Branson, “How fast shall I drive, Sophia? Code two and a half?”
“At least,” she answered, unlocking the shotgun rack.
Mel Yarashi and Always Talking Tony were right behind 6-X-72, and Fran Famosa was so close behind them that her new partner was more afraid of her driving than of a murderous Korean fugitive.
Within three minutes the entire midwatch was speeding toward Mount Olympus, hoping that the shots-fired call had something to do with the wanted killer William Kim.
“You are insane!” Markov cried from his place behind the sofa table. “Put down your weapon and run, William! Take my car and run!”
Kim fired two more rounds just for effect and said, “Too late.”
Then they both heard the siren wail as 6-X-32 roared up the winding streets, with cypress trees streaming past, ascending a new Mount Olympus where no gods lived.
“Here they come!” Markov yelled, making a dash to the front door, but Kim fired two more rounds and Markov threw himself to the floor again.
He heard glass breaking to his right, but movement came from the left, and then he smelled brandy and garlic and Kim was on top of him, twisting the revolver from his fingers.
“NO, WILLIAM!” Markov screamed, but Kim dropped his own gun and grabbed Markov by the throat with both of his powerful hands.
Everyone on the Job knew that there were two kinds of cops at the LAPD. This, after they’d lived for years under federal judges and outside auditors, following the Rodney King beating and the so-called Rampart scandal. After the chiefs were stripped of civil service protection and bureaucratic autonomy. After the Department was taken over by East Coast carpetbaggers and homegrown hacks. After the LAPD was forced to lower the drawbridge and surrender Excalibur forevermore.
These days, there were plenty of risk-averse cops who wanted to get through their closely supervised careers safely, and be promoted if possible, preferring to work hours and assignments that would let them lead lives similar to those of their middle-class counterparts. But then there were the retro, action-oriented risk takers, who always ran straight to the sound of guns, craving those moments when the belly and brain felt like they were pulling five g’s in an F-14. The midwatch was composed of that latter group, which was why they’d chosen to work the busy hours of Watch 5 in the first place.
So when those midwatch cars arrived at the Markov house, nobody talked about setting up perimeters, or requesting a SWAT team, or tear gas, or stinging hot gas, or a K-9 unit, or a hostage negotiator, or a remote-controlled “BatCat” to tear down the house piece by piece, or, God forbid, a
supervisor
! The arrival of a boss could result in an eighteen-hour standoff involving scores of people and a fortune in mechanized assistance, without anyone even knowing for sure if a barricaded suspect was dead or alive. Those Department-approved tactics would deprive the cops of the opportunity to take down the kind of vicious and dangerous killer that they might never get a chance at again.
So they deployed by silently surrounding the house in the moonlight, the only sounds coming from the creak of Sam Browne leather and the ripple of bootsteps. None of the midwatch cops bothered to shout surrender commands, which they thought would be superfluous and foolish in a situation like this. What Watch 5 of Hollywood Station wanted to do was simply handle the matter the same way self-starting LAPD coppers had done during decades past. That is, attack with the zeal of a holy warrior and either capture William Kim or kill him.