Hollywood Crows (3 page)

Superman was there, of course, and the Hulk, but not Spider-Man, who was in jail. Porky Pig waddled across the street, followed by Barney the dinosaur and three of the Beatles, the fourth staying behind to guard the karaoke equipment. Everyone was jabbering and pointing up at the top of the vacant building, formerly a bank, where a young man in walking shorts, tennis shoes, and a purple T-shirt with “Just Do It” across the front sat on the roof railing, a dozen stories above the street below.

In the responding unit were Veronica Sinclair and Catherine Song, both women in their early thirties who, as far as Nate was concerned, happened to be among the better cops on midwatch. Cat was a sultry Korean American whose hobby was volleyball and whose feline grace made her name a perfect fit. Nate, who had been trying unsuccessfully to date her for nearly a year, loved Cat’s raven hair, cut in a retro bob like the girls in the 1930s movies that he had in his film collection. Cat was a divorced mother of a two-year-old boy.

Ronnie Sinclair had been at Hollywood Station for less than a year, but she’d been a heartthrob from the first moment she’d arrived. She was a high-energy brunette with a very short haircut that worked, given her small, tight ears and well-shaped head. She had pale blue eyes, great cheekbones, and a bustline that made all the male cops pretend they were admiring the shooting medals hanging on her shirt flap. The remarkable thing about her was that her childless marriages had been to two police officers named Sinclair who were distant cousins, so Flotsam and Jetsam called her Sinclair Squared. Most of the midwatch officers over the age of thirty were single but had been divorced at least once, including the surfer cops and Hollywood Nate.

The two women were met at the open door of the vacant building by an alarm company employee who said, “I don’t know yet how he got in. Probably broke a window in the back. The elevator still works.”

Ronnie and Cat hurried inside to the elevators, Nate right behind them. And all three stood waiting for the elevator, trying to be chatty to relieve the gathering tension.

“Why aren’t you circling the station about now?” Ronnie said, looking at her watch. “You’re almost end-of-watch and there must be a starlet waiting.”

Nate looked at his own watch and said, “I still have, let’s see, forty-seven minutes to give to the people of Los Angeles. And who needs starlets when I have such talent surrounding me?”

When Nate, whose womanizing was legendary at Hollywood Station, shot her his Groucho leer, Ronnie said, “Forget it, Nate. Ask me for a date sometime when you’re a star and can introduce me to George Clooney.”

That caused Hollywood Nate to whip out his badge wallet and proudly remove the SAG card tucked right underneath his police ID, holding it up for Ronnie and Cat to see.

Ronnie looked at it and said, “Even O.J. has one of those.”

Cat said, “Sorry, Nate, but my mom wants me to date and marry a rich Buddhahead lawyer next time, not some oh-so-cute, round-eyed actor like you.”

“Someday you’ll both want me to autograph an eight-by-ten head shot for you,” Nate said, pleased that Cat thought he was cute, more pleased that she’d called him an actor. “Then I’ll be the one playing hard to get.”

During the ride up in the elevator they didn’t speak anymore, growing tense even though the location of the jumper call, here in the heart of Hollywood tourism, made it likely that it was just a stunt by some publicity junkie. The three cops were trying their best not to take it too seriously. Until they climbed to the observation deck encircling the cupola and saw him, shirtless now, straddling a railing with arms outstretched, tennis shoes pressed together, head slightly bowed in the crucifixion pose. This, as tourists, hustlers, tweakers, pickpockets, cartoon characters, and various Hollywood crazies were standing down below, yelling at him to stop being a chickenshit and jump for Jesus.

“Oh, shit!” Cat said, speaking for all of them.

The three cops walked very slowly toward him and he turned around on the railing to face them, wobbling precariously, making onlookers down below either scream or cheer. His sandy, shoulder-length hair was blowing in his face, and his eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses were even more pale blue than Ronnie’s. In fact, she thought he looked a lot like her cousin Bob, a drummer in a rock band. Maybe it was that, but she took the lead and the others let her have it.

She smiled at him and said, “Hey, whadda you say you come on down here and let’s talk.”

“Stay where you are,” he said.

She held up her hands, palms forward, and said, “Okay, okay, I’m cool with that. But how about coming down now?”

“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?” he said.

“Of course not,” Ronnie said. “I just wanna talk to you. What’s your name? They call me Ronnie.”

He did not respond, so she said, “Ronnie is short for Veronica. A lot of people see my name somewhere and think I’m a guy.”

Still he did not respond, so she said, “Do you have a nickname?”

“Tell them to go,” he said, pointing at Nate and Cat. “I know they want to kill me.”

Ronnie turned around, but the others had immediately retreated to the door when they heard his demand, Cat saying, “Be careful, Ronnie!”

Then Ronnie said to him, “See, they’ve gone.”

“Take off your gun belt,” he said. “Or I’ll jump.”

“Okay!” Ronnie said, unfastening her Sam Browne and lowering it to her feet, close enough to grab for it.

“Step away from the gun,” he said. “I know you want to kill me.”

“Why would I kill you?” Ronnie said, taking a single step toward him. “You’re getting ready to kill yourself. You see, that wouldn’t make sense, would it? No, I don’t wanna kill you. I wanna help you. I know I can if you’ll just get down from that railing and talk to me.”

“Do you have a cigarette?” he said, and for a few seconds he swayed in the wind, and Ronnie sucked in a lungful of air, then let it out slowly.

“I don’t smoke,” she said, “but I can have my partner find you a cigarette. Her name’s Cat. She’s very nice and I bet you’d like her a lot.”

“Never mind,” he said. “I don’t need a cigarette. I don’t need anything.”

“You need a friend,” Ronnie said. “I’d like to be that friend. I have a cousin who looks just like you. What’s your name?”

“My name’s Randolph Bronson and I’m not crazy,” he said. “I know what I’m doing.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy, Randolph,” Ronnie said, and now she could feel sweat running down her temples, and her hands felt slimy. “I just think you’re feeling sad and need someone to talk to. That’s why I’m here. To talk to you.”

“Do you know what it’s like to be called crazy? And schizophrenic?” he asked.

“Tell me about it, Randolph,” Ronnie said, walking another step closer until he said, “Stop!”

“I’m sorry!” she said. “I’ll stay right here if it makes you feel better. Tell me about your family. Who do you live with?”

“I’m a burden to them,” he said. “A financial burden. An emotional burden. They won’t be sorry to see me gone.”

After six long minutes of talking, Ronnie Sinclair was fairly certain that the young man was ready to surrender. She found out that he was nineteen years old and had been treated for mental illness most of his life. Ronnie believed that she had him now, that she could talk him down from the railing. She was addressing him as “Randy” by the time backup arrived on the street, including a rescue ambulance and the fire department, whose engine only served to clog traffic. Still no crisis negotiator from Metropolitan Division had arrived.

And the first supervisor to show up at the scene was Sergeant Jason Treakle, who’d been on a suck-up mission to buy two hamburgers and an order of fries for the night-watch lieutenant. Sergeant Treakle had gotten a brainstorm the moment he’d heard the call. The idea actually made him say “Wow!” aloud, though he was alone in the car. Then he looked at the bag of burgers next to him, turned on his light bar, and sped to the location of the jumper call.

The young sergeant had recently read about an attempted suicide where a jumper had been talked down by a crisis negotiator who’d bought him a sandwich that they shared while talking at length about the people, real and imagined, who were tormenting him. The crisis negotiator had gotten her photo in the
L.A
.
Times
and had done several TV interviews.

When the midwatch supervisor ascended to the tower, carrying the bag of burgers, and brushed past Cat Song and Hollywood Nate, Cat said, “Sergeant Treakle, wait! Ronnie’s talking to the guy. Wait, please.”

Hollywood Nate said, “Don’t go out there, Sergeant.”

The sergeant said, “Don’t tell me my job, Weiss.”

Nate Weiss, who had several years in age and job experience on his former supervisor, said, “Sergeant, nobody should
ever
bust in on a suicide standoff. This might be Hollywood but this is not a movie, and there’s no air bag down there.”

“Thanks for your wise counsel,” Sergeant Treakle said with a chilly glance at Nate. “I’ll keep it in mind if you ever become my boss.”

Ronnie turned and saw him striding confidently along the deck and said, “Sergeant! Go back, please! Let me handle—”

The anguished moan from Randolph Bronson made her spin around. He was staring at the uniformed sergeant with the condescending smile and the bulging paper bag in his hand, into which he was reaching.

The boy’s pale eyes had gotten huge behind the eyeglasses. Then he looked at Ronnie and said, “He’s going to kill me!”

And he was gone. Just like that.

The screams from the crowd, a gust of wind, and Cat’s and Nate’s shouts all prevented Ronnie from hearing her own cry as she lunged forward and gaped over the railing. She saw him bounce once on the pavement. Several bluesuits immediately began holding back the most morbid of the boulevard onlookers.

A few minutes later, there were a dozen more uniforms in the lobby of the building who observed Ronnie Sinclair, eyes glistening, yelling curses into the face of Sergeant Jason Treakle, who had gone pale and didn’t know how to respond to his subordinate.

Ronnie didn’t remember what she’d yelled, but Cat later said, “You started dropping F-bombs and it was beautiful. There’s nothing Treakle can do about it, because now he knows he was dead wrong. And now that kid is just plain dead.”

When they got out to the street, they were amazed to see that Randolph Bronson’s wire-rimmed glasses were still affixed to his face and only one lens was broken. He had not blown apart, as some of them do, but there was a massive pool of blood.

Cat put an arm around Ronnie’s shoulder, squeezed it, and said, “Gimme the keys to our shop. Let me drive us to the station.”

Ronnie handed Cat the car keys without objection.

Compassionate Charlie Gilford, who never missed a newsworthy incident, especially with carnage involved, arrived in time to observe them picking up the body, and he offered his usual on-scene commentary.

The lanky veteran detective sucked his teeth and said to the body snatcher driving the coroner’s van, “So, one of our patrol sergeants thought he could keep this looney tune from a back flip by feeding him a meal, right? Man, this is fucking Hollywood! Everybody knows you can walk a couple blocks to Musso and Frank’s and dine with movie stars on comfort food. And Wolfgang Puck’s got a joint right inside the Kodak Center with some of the trendiest eats in town. But what does our ass-wipe sergeant do to cheer up a depressed wack job? He brings the dude a fucking Big Mac! No wonder the fruitloop jumped.”

Later that night, Compassionate Charlie Gilford saw Ronnie Sinclair in the report room massaging her temples, waiting for the interrogation from Force Investigation Division, knowing that this one would be handled just like an officer-involved shooting.

The detective said merrily, “I hear you really carpet bombed Chickenlips Treakle, Ronnie. Hollywood Nate told me you wouldn’t hear
that
many ‘motherfuckers’ at a Chris Rock concert. Way to go, girl!”

I
T WAS A FEW WEEKS
after the jumper incident that Ronnie Sinclair decided she’d had enough of the midwatch and Sergeant Treakle, who had only received an official reprimand for barging into her crisis negotiation and, in Ronnie’s opinion, causing the demise of young Randolph Bronson. She’d discussed her situation with an old sergeant for whom she’d worked at Newton Street Division, now officially called Newton Street Area, since the current LAPD brass had decided that
division
sounded too militaristic. The working cops said the brass were full of shit, and they kept right on referring to police divisions even in the LAPD union’s monthly newspaper.

Ronnie’s former sergeant suggested that in these repressive times, supervisors like Treakle were harder to get rid of than Rasputin and jock itch. He thought she ought to have a talk with the boss of the Hollywood Division Community Relations Office, or CRO, pronounced “Crow” by the cops. “CRO is a good job, Ronnie,” he told her. “You’ve done enough hard-core police work for a while. Being a senior lead officer in CRO will give you a leg up when you take your sergeant’s oral.”

It had surprised Hollywood Nate to learn that Ronnie Sinclair was seeking the job that had opened up at the Community Relations Office, a job that Nate coveted. The CRO was composed of eighteen cops and two civilian workers led by a twenty-two-year sergeant. Eleven of the officers, both men and women, were senior lead officers, or SLOs, pronounced “Slows,” and were given a pay bump and wore two silver chevrons on their sleeves with a star beneath them. The SLOs acted as ombudsmen or community liaisons for the Hollywood Division captain. Five were Hispanics and could translate Spanish as needed, and three others were foreign born and could communicate in half a dozen other tongues, but that was only a fraction of the languages spoken in Hollywood. The coppers called their bailiwick Babelwood Division.

The Community Relations Office was housed in a one-story rambling old structure just a wedge shot across the police parking lot. It was dubbed Hollywood South by the troops in the main station, to which the Crows referred as Hollywood North, and which, like all LAPD police facilities, had the architectural charm of a parking garage in Watts.