Blood on the Moon (8 page)

4

Detective Sergeant Lloyd Hopkins celebrated the seventeenth anniversary of his appointment to the Los Angeles Police Department in his usual manner, grabbing a computer print-out of recent crimes and field interrogation reports filed by Rampart Division, then driving to the old neighborhood to breathe past and present from the vantage point of seventeen years of protecting innocence.

The October day was smoggy and just short of hot. Lloyd got his unmarked Matador from the lot at Parker Center and drove westbound on Sunset, reminiscing: over a decade and a half and the fulfillment of his major dreams–the job, the wife, and the three wonderful daughters. The job thrilling and sad in excess of fulfillment; the marriage strong in the sense of the strong people he and Janice had become; the daughters pure joy and reason for living in themselves. The exultant feelings were the only thing lacking, and in the magnanimity of nostalgia Lloyd chalked up their absence to maturity–he was forty now, not twenty-three; if his seventeen years as a policeman had taught him anything, it was that your expectations diminished as you realized how thoroughly fucked-up the bulk of humanity was, and that you had to go on a hundred seemingly contradictory discourses to keep the major dreams alive.

That the discourses were always women and in direct violation of his Presbyterian marriage vows was the ultimate irony, he thought, stopping for the light at Sunset and Echo Park and rolling up the windows to keep the street noise out. An irony that staunch, strong Janice would never understand. Feeling that his reverie was recklessly overstepping its bounds, Lloyd plunged ahead, anxious to voice it flat out, to himself and the vacant air around him: “It wouldn't work between us, Janice, if I couldn't cut loose like that. Little things would accumulate and I'd explode. And you'd hate me. The girls would hate me. That's why I do it. That's why I….” Lloyd couldn't bring himself to say the word “cheat.”

He stopped his musings and pulled into the parking lot of a liquor store, then dug the computer sheets out of his pocket and settled in to think.

The sheets were pale pink with black typescript, edged with seemingly random perforations. Lloyd fingered through them, arranging them in chronological order, starting with the ones dated 9-15-82. Beginning with the crime reports, he let his perfectly controlled blank mind drift through brief accounts of rapes, robberies, purse snatchings, shopliftings, and vandalism. Suspect descriptions and weaponry from shotguns to baseball bats were recounted in crisp, heavily abbreviated sentences. Lloyd read through the crime reports three times, feeling the disparate facts and figures sink in deeper with each reading, blessing Evelyn Wood and her method that allowed him to gobble up the printed word at the rate of three thousand per minute.

Next he turned to the field interrogation reports. These were accounts of people stopped on the street, briefly detained and questioned, then released. Lloyd read through the F.I.s four times,
knowing
with each reading that there was a connection to be made. He was about to give each stack of print-outs another go round when he snapped to the buried ellipsis that was crying out to him. Furiously shuffling through the pink rolls of paper, he found his match-up: Crime Report #10691, 10-6-82. Armed robbery.

At approximately 11:30 p.m., Thursday, October 6, the Black Cat Bar on Sunset and Vendome was held up by two male Mexicans. They were of undetermined age, but presumed young. They wore silk stockings to disguise their appearances, carried “large” revolvers, and ransacked the cash register before making the proprietor lock up the bar. They then forced the patrons to lie on the floor. While prone, the robbers relieved them of wallets, billfolds and jewelry. They fled a moment later, warning their victims that the “back-up” would be outside with a shotgun for twenty minutes. They slashed the two phone lines before they left. The bartender ran outside five minutes later. There was no back-up.

Stupid fools, Lloyd thought, risking half a dime minimum for a thousand dollars tops. He read over the F.I. report, filed by a Rampart patrolman: 10-7-82, 1:05 a.m.–“Questioned two w.m. outside res. at 2269 Tracy. They were drinking vodka and sitting on top of late model Firebird, Lic. #HBS 027. Explained that car was not theirs, but that they lived in house. Partner and I searched them–clean. Got hot call before we could run warrant check.” The officer's name was printed below.

Lloyd kicked the last bits of information around in his head, thinking it sad that he should have greater intimate knowledge of a neighborhood than the cops who patrolled it. 2269 Tracy Street was a low-life holdover from his high school days over twenty years before, when it had been a halfway house for ex-cons. The charismatic ex-gangster who had run the operation on State funds had embezzled a bundle from local Welfare agencies before selling the house to an old buddy from Folsom, then hightailing it to the border, never to be seen again. The buddy promptly hired a good lawyer to help him keep the house. He won his court battle and dealt quality dope out of the old wood-framed dwelling. Lloyd recalled how his high school pals had bought reefers there back in the late 50s. He knew that the house had been sold to a succession of local hoods and had acquired the neighborhood nickname of “Gangster Manor.”

Lloyd drove to the Black Cat Bar. The bartender immediately made him for a cop. “Yes, officer?” he said. “No complaints, I hope.”

“None,” Lloyd said. “I'm here about the robbery of October 6th. Were you tending bar that night?”

“Yeah, I was here. You got any leads? Two detectives came in the next day, but that was it.”

“No real leads yet. Do…”

Lloyd was distracted by the sound of the jukebox snapping on, beginning to spill out a disco tune. “Turn that off, will you?” he said. “I can't compete with an orchestra.”

The barman laughed. “That's no orchestra, that's ‘The Disco Doggies.' Don't you like them?”

Lloyd couldn't tell if the man was being pleasant or trying to vamp him; homosexuals were hard to read. “Maybe I'm behind the times. Just turn it off, okay? Do it now.”

The bartender caught the edge in Lloyd's voice and complied, creating a small commotion as he yanked the cord on the jukebox. Returning to the bar he said warily, “Just what was it you wanted to know?”

Relieved by the music's termination, Lloyd said, “Only one thing. Are you certain the two robbers were Mexican?”

“No, I'm not certain.”

“Didn't you…”

“They wore masks, officer. What I told the cops is that they talked English with Mexican accents. That's what I said.”

“Thank you,” Lloyd said, and ran out to his car.

He drove straight to 2269 Tracy Street–Gangster Manor. As he expected, the old house was deserted. Cobwebs, dust, and used condoms covered the warped wood floor, and sets of footprints that Lloyd knew had to be recent were clearly outlined. He followed them into the kitchen. All the fixtures were ripped out and the floor was covered with rodent droppings. Lloyd opened cabinets and drawers, finding only dust, spider webs, and mildewed, maggot-infested groceries. Then he opened a floral patterned bread basket and jumped into the air, dunking imaginary baskets and whooping when he saw what he found: a brand new box of Remington hollow point .38 shells and two pair of Sheer Energy pantyhose. Lloyd whooped again. “Thank you, o' nesting grounds of my youth!” he shouted.

Phone calls to the California Department of Motor Vehicles and L.A.P.D. Records and Information confirmed his thesis. A 1979 Pontiac Firebird, license number HBS 027 was registered to Richard Douglas Wilson of 11879 Saticoy Street, Van Nuys. R. & I. supplied the rest: Richard Douglas Wilson, white male, age thirty-four was a two-time convicted armed robber who had recently been paroled from San Quentin after serving three and a half years of a five year sentence.

Heart bursting, and snug in his soundless phone booth, Lloyd dialed a third number, the home of his one-time mentor and current follower, Captain Arthur Peltz.

“Dutch? Lloyd. What are you doing?”

Peltz yawned into the mouthpiece, “I'm taking a nap, Lloyd. I'm off today. I'm an old man and I need a siesta in the afternoon. What's up? You sound jazzed.”

Lloyd laughed. “I am jazzed. You want to take a couple of armed robbers?”

“All by ourselves?”

“Yeah. What's the matter? We've done it a million times.”

“At least a million–more like a million and a half. Stake out?”

“Yeah, at the guy's pad in Van Nuys. Van Nuys Station in an hour?”

“I'll be there. You realize that if this thing is a washout, you're buying me dinner?”

“Anywhere you want,” Lloyd said, and hung up the phone.

Arthur Peltz was the first Los Angeles policeman to recognize and herald Lloyd Hopkins's genius. It happened when Lloyd was a twenty-seven year old patrolman working Central Division. The year was 1969, and the hippie era of love and good vibes had dwindled out, leaving a backwash of indigent, drug-addicted youngsters floating through the poorer sections of Los Angeles, begging for spare change, shoplifting, sleeping in parks, back yards and doorways and generally contributing to a drastic rise in misdemeanor arrests and felony arrests for possession of narcotics.

Fear of hippie nomads was rife among solid citizen Angelenos, particularly after the Tate-LaBianca slayings were attributed to Charles Manson and his hirsute band. The L.A.P.D. was importuned to come down hard on the destitute minstrels of love; which it did–raiding hippie campgrounds, frequently stopping vehicles containing furtive-looking longhairs and generally letting them know that they were
personae non gratas
in Los Angeles. The results were satisfying–there was a general hippie move toward eschewing outdoor living and “cooling it.” Then five longhaired young men were shot to death on the streets in Hollywood over a period of three weeks.

Sergeant Arthur “Dutch” Peltz, then a forty-one year old Homicide detective, was assigned to the case. He had very little to work on, except a strong instinct that the murders of the unacquainted young men were drug related and that the so-called “ritual markings” on their bodies–an xed out letter H–were put there as subterfuge.

Investigation into the recent pasts of the victims proved fruitless; they were transients existing in a subculture of transients. Dutch Peltz was baffled. He was also an intellectual given to contemplative pursuits, so he decided to take his two-week vacation smack in the middle of his case. He came back from fishing in Oregon clearheaded, spiritually renewed, and pleased to find that there were no new victims of the “Hippie Hunter,” as the press had dubbed him. But dire things were happening in Los Angeles. The basin had been flooded with a particularly high-quality Mexican brown heroin, its source unknown. Instinct told Dutch Peltz that the heroin onslaught and the murders were connected. But he didn't have the slightest idea how.

On a cold night around this time, Officer Lloyd Hopkins told his partner he was hungry for sweets, and suggested they stop at a market or liquor store for cookies or cupcakes. His partner shook his head; nothing open this late except Donut Despair, he said. Lloyd weighed the pros and cons of a raging sweet-tooth versus the world's worst donuts served up by either sullen or obsequious wetbacks.

His sweet-tooth won, but there were no wetbacks. Lloyd's jaw dropped as he took a seat at the counter. Donut Despair (or Donut Deelite, open all nite!), as it was known to the world at large, hired nothing but illegal aliens at
all
its locations. It was the policy of the chain's owner, Morris Dreyfus, a former gangland czar, to employ illegals and pay them below the minimum wage, but make up the difference by providing them with flop-out space at his many Southside tenements. Now this!

Lloyd watched as a sullen hippie youth placed a cup of coffee and three glazed donuts in front of him, then retreated to a back room, leaving the counter untended. He then heard furtive whispers, followed by the slamming of a back door and the starting of a car engine. The hippie counterman reappeared a moment later and couldn't meet Lloyd's eyes; and Lloyd knew it was more than his blue uniform. He knew something was
wrong.

The following day, armed with a copy of the Los Angeles Yellow Pages, Lloyd, in civilian clothes, made a circuit of over twenty Donut Despairs, to find the counters manned by longhaired white men at all locations. Twice he sat down and ordered coffee, letting the counterman see–as if by accident–his off-duty .38. In both instances the reaction was cold, stark terror.

Dope, Lloyd said to himself as he drove home that night. Dope. Dope. But. But any streetwise fool would know that anyone as big as I am, with my short haircut and square look is a cop. Those two kids made me for one the second I walked in the door. But it was my
gun
that scared them.

It was then that Lloyd thought of the Hippie Hunter and the seemingly unrelated heroin influx. When he got home he called Hollywood Station, gave his name and badge number and asked to talk to a Homicide dick.

Dutch Peltz was more impressed with the huge young cop himself than he was with the fact that they had been thinking along almost identical lines. Now he had a hypothesis–that Big Mo Dreyfus was pushing smack out of his donut stands, and that somehow people were getting killed because of it. But it was young Hopkins himself, so undeniably infused with a brilliance of instinct for the darkness in life, that had him awestruck.

Peltz listened for hours as Lloyd told of his desire to protect innocence and how he had trained his mind to pick out conversations in crowded restaurants and how he could read lips and memorize with time and place any face that he glimpsed for only a second. When he went home, Dutch Peltz said to his wife, “I met a genius tonight. I don't think I'll ever be the same.”

It was a prophetic remark.