L.A. Confidential (40 page)

  Out the door, across an alley. The lab guy carried a flashlight; Bud stuck to the back.

  Lynn cocky--convinced she could beat truth juice with her brains.

  Dud probably had his own insider leads--but he still kept talking up niggers.

  The lab man said, "Note the dirt on the driveway. On the morning the bodies were found our tech crew discovered and photographed three sets of footmarks too shallowly placed to make exemplers from. Two sets walking ahead of a single set, which indicates a march at gunpoint."

  Over to a bungalow court. Dudley stone quiet--on the plane he hardly talked.

  Would _Whisper_ hit?

  Play the stiff under the house against Exley--HO W?

  Tape on the door--Hatcher peeled it off. The lab man opened up with a pass key. Lights inside--Bud squeezed in first.

  A shambles--all forensicked up.

  Blood spills on a wall-to-wall carpet--tape-marked. Glass tubes on the floor--circled, held in see-through evidence bags. Scattered around: photo negatives--dozens---cracked, scalded surfaces. Overturned chairs, a dumped dresser, a sofa with the stuffing ripped out. Tucked in the largest rip: a glassine bag tagged "Heroin."

  The lab guy spieled. "Those tubes contain chemicals that we've ID'd as antipsychotic drugs. The negatives were mostly too blurred to identify, but we were able to figure out that most of them were pornographic photographs. The images were mostly burned off with chemicals taken from the refrigerator in the kitchen: our boys owned a whole cornucopia of corrosive solutions. I'll hypothesize here: Peter and Baxter Englekling were tortured before they were shot to death--that we know. I think the killer showed them each negative individually, asked them questions, then burned them--and the pictures. What was he looking for? I don't know, maybe he wanted the picture participants identified. We found a magnifying glass under the couch, so I'm leaning toward that theory now. Also, note the plastic bag marked 'Heroin' extruding from the couch, the contents of which, of course, we locked up. Four bags total in a safe little hidey-hole. The killer left a small fortune in salable dope behind."

  Into the kitchen, more chaos, the icebox open--spilling tubes, bottles marked with chemical symbols. Stacked by the sink: something like printing press plates.

  The tech man pointed to the mess. "Another hypothesis, gentlemen. In my crime scene report you'll note that I've listed no less than twenty-six separate chemical substances found on the premises. The killer tortured Pete and Bax Englekling with chemicals, and he knew which chemicals would scald flesh. I'd call his torture method a means of opportunity, so I'm betting the man had an engineering, a medical or a chemistry background. Now the bedroom."

  Bud thought: PATCHETT.

  Back to the bedroom, blood drops in the hall along the way. A small room, a twelve-by-twelve slaughterhouse.

  Two body outlines-one on the bed, one on the floor, dried blood tape-to-tape both places. Clothesline sash wrapped around the bedposts; more sash on the floor; taped circles on the bedsheets, the floor, a nightstand by the bed. A bullet hole circled on one wall; a forensic display on a corkboard: more scalded negatives.

  Lab man: "Just glove prints and Englekling prints on the negatives, we dusted every one of them, then placed most of them back in their original locations. The ones on the board were found here in the bedroom, which as you can tell was where the torture and the killings took place. Now, those small circles on the bed and elsewhere indicate sections of torso, arm and leg tissue scalded off the Englekling brothers, and if you look closely at the floor you'll be able to see patches of singed carpet caused by chemical spills. Both men were shot twice with a silencerfitted .38 revolver. Baffling threads we took off the shells indicate the silencer and indicate why no shots were heard. The bullet hole in the wall is our one real lead, and it's easy to reconstruct what happened. Bax Englekling got free of his bonds, got ahold of the gun and fired a wounding shot before the killer got the gun back and shot him. The shell we took out of the wall had shredded Caucasian flesh and gray arm hair stuck to it, along with 0-plus blood. Both Englekling boys were AB-minus, so we know the perpetrator was hit. The blood drops leading out to the living room and the negatives that he took out to look at indicate that it wasn't a major wound. Lieutenant Hatcher's crew found a blood-soaked 0-plus towel in a sewer down the street, so that was his tourniquet. My last hypothesis is that this bastard really had a hard-on for those negatives."

  Hatcher spoke up. "And we've got nothing. We've canvassed two dozen times, we've got no eyewitnesses and those goddamned brothers did not have a single K.A. that we've been able to turn. We hit doctors' offices, emergency rooms, train stations, airports and bus stations looking for sightings of a wounded man and got nothing. If the brothers had an address book, it was taken. Nobody saw anything or heard anything. Like my science buddy says, our guy really had a boner for those negatives, which might--and I emphasize 'might'--have something to do with our victims coming forth on that Nite Owl case of yours years ago. They had a dirty-picture theory then, right?"

  Dudley said, "They did indeed, quite unsubstantiated."

  "And the L.A. papers said you just reopened the case."

  "Yes, that's correct."

  "Captain, I regret that we didn't decide to cooperate with you earlier, but put that aside. Have you got anything to give me on the new end of your case that I can use?"

  Dudley smiled. "Chief Parker has authorized me to secure a copy of your case file to read. He said that if I find evidential links to our homicides, he'll release a transcription of the Englekling brothers' 1953 testimony."

  "Which you say pertains to pornography, which our case sure as hell does."

  Dudley lit a cigarette. "Yes, if it doesn't pertain to heroin just as much."

  Hatcher snorted. "Captain, if our boy got his chops licked over white horse, he'd have stolen that stuff stashed in the couch."

  "Yes, or the killer was simply a frothing-at-the-mouth psychopath who evinced a psychopathic reaction to the negatives for unfathomable reasons of his own. Frankly, the heroin angle interests me. Have you any evidence that the brothers were either selling or manufacturing it?"

  Hatcher shook his head. "None, and as far as _our_ case goes, I don't think it plays. Have you got a pornography angle on the reopening?"

  "No, not as yet. Again, after I've read your case file I'll be in touch."

  Hatcher--ready to bust. "Captain, you came all the way up here for our evidence, and you got nothing to give in return?"

  "I came up here at the urging of Chief Parker, who pledges his full cooperation should your case warrant reciprocity."

  "Big words, sahib, that I don't like the sound of." Getting ugly--Dudley dug in with a big blarney smile. Bud walked out to the curb, dug in by their rental.

  Scared, standing on GO.

  Dudley walked out; Hatcher and the lab man locked the printshop. Bud said, "I don't follow you at all these days, boss."

  "Starting when, lad?"

  "Let's try last night with Hinton."

  Dudley laughed. "You were your old cruel self last night. It warmed my heart and convinced me that the extracurricular work I have planned for you remains within your grasp."

  "What work?"

  "In due time."

  "What happened to Hinton?"

  "We released him well-chastised and terrified of Sergeant Wendell White."

  "Yeah, but what were you pressing him on?"

  "Lad, you have your extracurricular secrets, I have mine. We'll hold a clarification session soon."

  GO. "No. I just want to know where we both stand on the Nite Owl. _Now_."

  "Edmund Exley, lad. We both stand there."

  "What?"--scared to his own ears.

  "_Edmund Jennings Exley_. He's been your raison d'être since Bloody Christmas, and he's why you don't tell me certain things. I love you, so I respect your omissions. Now reciprocate my love and respect my lack of clarification for the next twelve days and you'll see him destroyed."

  "'What are you--" a little kid's voice.

  "You've never accorded him credit, so I'll tell you now. As a man he's less than negligible, but as a detective he far exceeds even myself. There. God and yourself witness plaudits for a man I despise. Now will you respect my omissions--as I respect yours?"

  Past GO. "No. Just fucking tell me what you want me to do. Just explain it."

  Dudley laughed, smiled. "Do nothing for now but listen. I've found out that Thad Green will be retiring to take over the U.S. Border Patrol later this spring. Our new chief of detectives will be either Edmund Exley or myself. His upcoming inspectorship gives Exley the inside track, and Parker favors him personally. I plan on using certain aspects of our mutually withheld evidence to clear the Nite Owl posthaste, establish myself as the new front-runner and ruin Exley in the process. Lad, bear with me for a few more days and I'll guarantee you your own personal revenge."

  The deal was Exley/Dudley vs. Exley.

  No contest.

  Past GO: the crumbs he spilled to Exley, Exley's promise-- liaison, the hooker snuffs. "Boss, is there a carrot in this for me?"

  "Besides our friend's downfall?"

  "Yeah."

  "And in exchange for a full disclosure? Beyond what you gave Exley as part of your field runner agreement?"

  Jesus, what the man knew. "Right."

  Ho Ho Ho. "Lad, you drive a hard bargain, but will a Chief of Detectives' Special Inquiry suffice? Say 187 P.C. multiple, various jurisdictions?"

  Bud stuck out his hand. "Deal."

  Dudley said, "Stay away from Exley and treat yourself to a grand clean room at the Victory. I'll be by to see you in a day or so.,,

  "You take the car, I got business in Frisco first."

o        o          o

  He blew forty bucks on a cab, cruised the Golden Gate high on adrenaline. Double cross: a bad deal to survive, then a good deal to win--up from the minors to the majors. Exley had insider tips and sad Trashcan Jack; Dudley had insider juice that almost went psychic. Turnaround: he lied to Dudley to burn down Exley; five years later the man calls it in: lies forgiven, two cops, one torch. San Francisco bright in the distance, Dudley Smith's voice: "Edmund Jennings Exley." Chills just saying the name.

  Over the bridge, a stop at a pay phone. Long-distance: Lynn's number, ten rings, no answer. 9:10 P.M., a spooker--she should have been home from the Bureau by dark.

  Across town for the drop-off: San Francisco Police Department, Detective Division HQ. Bud pinned on his badge, walked in.

  Homicide on floor three--arrows painted on the wall pointed him up. Creaky stairs, a huge squad bay. Nightwatch lull: two men up by the coffee.

  They walked over. The younger guy pointed to his shield. "L.A., huh? Help you with something?"

  Bud held his ID out. "You've got an old 187, like one a pal of mine on the L.A. Sheriff's caught. He asked me to check out your case file."

  "Well, the captain's not here now. Maybe you should try in the morning."

  The older man checked his ID. "You're the guy that's bugs on prostie jobs. The captain said you keep calling up and you're a royal pain in the keester. What's the matter, you got another one?"

  "Yeah, Lynette Ellen Kendrick, L.A. County last week. Come on, ten minutes with the file and I'm out of your hair."

  The young guy: "Hey, catch the drift? The captain wanted you to see the file, he woulda sent you an invitation."

  The old guy: "The captain's a jack-off. What's our victim's name and DOD?"

  "Chrissie Virginia Renfro, July 16, '56."

  "Well then, I'll tell you what you do. You hit the records room around the corner, find your 1956 unsolved cabinet and go to the R's. You don't take anything out and you skedaddle before junior here has a migraine. Got it?"

  "Got it."

o        o          o

  Autopsy pictures: orifice rips, facial close-ups--pulp, no real face, ring fragments embedded in cheekbones. Wide-angle shots: the body, found at Chrissie's pad--a dive across from the St. Francis Hotel.

  Pervert shakedown reports--local deviates brought in, questioned, released for lack of evidence. Foot fuckers, sadist pimps, Chrissie's pimp himself--in the Frisco City Jail when Chrissie was snuffed. Panty sniffers, rape-o's, Chrissie's regular johns--all alibied up, no names that crossed to the other case files he'd read.

  Canvassing reports: local yokels, guests at the St. Francis. Six loser sheets, a grabber.

  7/16/56: a St. Francis bellhop told detectives he caught Spade Cooley's late show at the hotel's Lariat Room, then saw Chrissie Virginia Renfro, weaving--"maybe on hop"--walk into her building.

  Grabber--Bud sat still, worked it up.

  Grab Lynette Ellen Kendrick, DOD L.A. County last week. Grab an unrelated snitch--Lamar Hinton stooling everything in sight. Grabs: Dwight Gilette--Kathy Janeway's ex-pimp----supplied whores for Spade Cooley's parties. Spade was an opium smoker, a "degenerate dope fiend." Spade was in L.A., playing the El Rancho Klub on the Strip-a mile from Lynette Kenthick's pad.

  First glitch: Spade couldn't have a jacket, no way to check his blood type--he rode in Sheriff Biscailuz' volunteer posse--P.R. stuff--nobody with a yellow sheet allowed.

  Keep grabbing, check the M.E.'s report, "Bloodstream Contents." Page 2, a scorcher--"undigested foodstuffs, semen, a heavily narcotizing amount of food-dispersed opium further verified by tar residue in teeth."

  Bud threw his arms up-like he could reach through the roof and haul down the moon. He banged the ceiling, came back to earth thinking--this was not a solo job, he was hiding out from Exley, Dudley just didn't care. He saw a phone, hit the ceiling, came down with a partner:

  Ellis Loew--sex murders made him drool.

  He grabbed the phone.

CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX

  Hilda Lefferts tapped a mugshot. "There, that's Susan Nancy's beau. Will you take me home now?"