Paperwork is not your forte, but I need you to run records checks (two) for me. (Dr. Layman has identified the three patron victims.) Use the standard procedure I've taught you and first check bulletin 11 on the squadroom board: it updates the overall status of the case and details the duties of the other investigating officers, which will prevent you frow doing gratuitous and extraneous tasks.
1. Susan Nancy Lefferts, W.F., DOB 1/29/22, no criminal record. A San Bernardino native recently arrived in Los Angeles. Worked as a salesgirl at Bullock's Wilshire (background check assigned to Sgt. Exley).
2. Delbert Melvin Cathcart, a.k.a. 'Duke,' W.M., DOB 11/14/14. Two statutory rape convictions, served three years at San Quentin. Three procuring arrests, no convictions. (A tough ID: laundry markings and the body cross-checked against prison measurement charts got us our match.) No known place of employment, last known address 9819 Vendome, Silverlake District.
3. Malcolm Robert Lunceford, a.k.a. 'Mal,' W.M., DOB 6/02/12. No last known address, worked as a security guard at the Mighty Man Agency, 1680 North Cahuenga. Former LAPD officer (patrolman), assigned to Hollywood Division throughout most of his eleven-year career. Fired for incompetence 6/5 0. Known to be a late night habitue of the Nite Owl. I've checked Lunceford's personnel file and concluded that the man was a disgraceful police officer (straight 'D' fitness reports from every C. O.). You check whatever paperwork exists on him at Hollywood Station (Breuning and Carlisle will be there to shag errands for you).
Summation: I still think the Negroes are our men, but Cathcart's criminal record and Lunceford's cxpoliceman status mean that more than cursory background checks should be conducted. I want you as my adjutant on this job, an excellent baptism of fire for you as a straight Homicide detective. Meet me tonight (9:30) at the the Pacific Dining Car. We'll discuss the job and related matters.
D.S.
Bud checked the main bulletin board. Nite Owl thick: field reports, autopsy reports, summaries. He found bulletin 11, skimmed it.
Six R &I clerks detached to check criminal records and auto registrations; the 77th Street squad shaking down jigtown for the shotguns and Ray Coates' Mere. Breuning and Carlisle muscling known gun jockeys; the area around the Nite Owl canvassed nine times without turning a single extra eyewitness. The spooks refused to talk to LAPD men, D.A.'s Bureau investigators, Ellis Loew himself. Inez Soto refused to cooperate on clearing up the time frame; Ed Exley blew a questioning session, said they should treat her kid-gloves.
Down the board: Malcolm Lunceford's LAPD personnel sheets. Bad news-Lunceford as a free-meal scrounger, general incompetent. A putrid arrest record; cited for dereliction of duty three times. An interdepartmental information request issued; four officers who worked with Lunceford responded. Grafter! buffoon: Mal drank on duty, shook down hookers for blowjobs, tried to shake down Hollywood merchants for his off-duty 'protection service'-letting him sleep on their premises while he was locked out of his apartment for nonpayment of rent. One complaint too many got Lunceford bounced in June 1950; all four responding officers stated that he probably wasn't a deliberate Nite Owl victim: as a policeman he habituated all-night coffee shops-usually to scrounge chow; he was probably at the Nite Owl at 3:00 A.M. because he was hooked on sweet Lucy and sleeping in the weeds and the Nite Owl looked cozy and warm.
Bud drove to Hollywood Station-Inez on his mind, Dudley, Dick Stens along with her. Guts: she tried to claw herself off the gurney to get at Sylvester Fitch, strapped dead to a morgue cot; she screamed: 'I'm dead, I want them dead!' He hustled her to the ambulance, filched morphine and a hypo, shot her up while no one was looking. The worst of it should have been over-but the worst was still coming.
Exley would interrogate her, make her spit out details, look at sex offender pix until she cracked. Ellis Loew wanted an airtight case-that meant show-ups, courtroom testimony. Inez Soto: the first headliner witness for the most ambitious D.A. who ever breathed-all he could do was see her at the hospital, say 'Hi,' try to muffle the blows. A brave woman shoved at Ed Exley- fodder for a cowardly hard-on.
Inez to Stens.
Good revenge: Danny Duck masks, Exley whimpering. The photo good insurance; Dick still jacked up on blood-a taste that told him he was still on the muscle. His job at Kikey T.'s deli stunk-the dump was a known grifter hangout, a probation rap waiting to happen. Stens sleeping in his car, boozing, gambling-jail taught him absolutely shit.
Bud cut north on Vine; sunlight picked up his reflection in the windshield. His necktie stood out: LAPD shields, 2's. The 2's stood for the men he killed; he'd have to get some new ties made up-3's to add on Sylvester Fitch. Dudley 's idea: «esprit de corps» for Surveillance. Snappy stuff: women got a kick out of them. Dudley was a kick-in the teeth, in the brains.
He owed him more than he owed Dick Stens-the man frosted Bloody Christmas, got him Surveillance, then Homicide. But when Dudley Smith brought you along you belonged to him-and he was so much smarter than everyone else that you were never sure what he wanted from you or how he was using you-shit got lost in all his fancy language. It didn't quite rankle, but you felt it; it scared you to see how Mike Breuning and Dick Carlisle gave the man their souls. Dudley could bend you, shape you, twist you, turn you, point you-and never make you feel like some dumb lump of clay. But he always let you know one thing: he knew you better than you knew yourself.
No streetside parking-every space taken. Bud parked three blocks over, walked up to the squadroom. No Exley, every desk occupied: men talking into phones, taking notes. A giant bulletin boar-d all Nite Owl-paper six inches thick. Two women at a table, a switchboard behind them, a sign by their feet: 'R &I/DMV Requests.' Bud went over, talked over phone noise. 'I'm on the Cathcart check, and I want all you can get me, known associates, the works. This clown was popped twice for statch rape. I want full details on the complainants, plus current addresses. He had three pimping rousts, no convictions, and I want you to check all the local city and county vice squads to see if he's got a file. If he does, I want names on the girls he was running. If you get names, get DOBs and run them back through R &I, DMV, City/County Parole, the Woman's Jail. «Details». You got it?'
The girls hit the switchboard; Bud hit the bulletin board: paper tagged 'Victim Lunceford.' One update: a Hollywood squad officer talked to Lunceford's boss at the Mighty Man Agency. Facts: Lunceford patronized the Nite Owl virtually every early A.M.-after he got off his 6:00-to-2:00 shift at the Pickwick Bookstore Building; Lunceford was a typical wino security guard not permitted to carry a sidearm; Lunceford had no known enemies, no known friends, no known lady friends, did not associate with his fellow Mighty Men, slept in a pup tent behind the Hollywood Bowl. The tent was checked out, inventoried: a sleeping bag, four Mighty Man uniforms, six bottles of Old Monterey muscatel.
Adios, shitbird-you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Bud checked Lunceford's arrest record: nineteen minor felony pops in eleven years as a cop, scratch revenge as a motive, kill six to get one stunk as a motive anyway. Still no Exley, no Breuning and Carlisle. Bud remembered Dudley 's memo: check the station files for Lunceford listings.
A good bet: field interrogation cards filed by officer surname. Bud hit the storage room, pulled the 'L' cabinet-no folder for 'Lunceford, Officer Malcolm.' An hour checking misfiles 'A' to 'Z'-zero. No F.I.'s-strange-maybe Wino Mal never filed his field cards.
Almost noon, time for a chow run-a sandwich, talk to Dick. Carlisle and Breuning showed up-loafing, drinking coffee. Bud found a free phone, buzzed snitches.
Snake Tucker heard bupkis; ditto Fats Rice and Johnny Stomp. Jerry Katzenbach said it was the Rosenbergs -they ordered the snuffs from death row, make Jerry back on the needle. An R &I girl hovered.
She handed him a tear sheet. 'There's not much. Nothing on Cathcart's K.A.'s, not much detail besides his rap sheet. I couldn't get much on the statutory rape complainants, except that they were fourteen and blonde and worked at Lockheed during the war. My bet is they were transients. Sheriff's Central Vice had a file on Cathcart, with nine suspected prostitutes listed. I followed up. Two are dead of syphilis, three were underaged and left the state as a probation stipulation, two I couldn't get a line on. The remaining two are on that page. Does it help?'
Bud waved Breuning and Carlisle over. 'Yeah, it does. Thanks.'
The clerk walked off; Bud checked her sheet, two names circled: Jane (a.k.a. 'Feather') Royko, Cynthia (a.k.a. 'Sinful Cindy') Benavides. Last known addresses, known haunts: pads on Poinsettia and Yucca, cocktail lounges.
Dudley 's strongarms hovered. Bud said, 'The two names here. Shag them, will you?'
Carlisle said, 'This background check shit is the bunk. I say it's the shines.'
Breuning grabbed the sheet. 'Dud says do it, we do it.'
Bud checked their neckties-five dead men total. Fat Breuning, skinny Carlisle -somehow they looked just like twins. 'So do it, huh?'
Abe's Noshery, no parking, around the block. Dick's Chevy Out back, booze empties on the seat: probation violation number one. Bud found a space, walked up and checked the window: Stens guzzling Manischewitz, bullshitting with ex-cons-Lee Vachss, Deuce Perkins, Johnny Stomp. A cop type eating at the counter: a bite, a glance at the known criminal assembly, another bite-clockwork. Back to Hollywood Station-pissed that he was still playing nursemaid.
Waiting for him: Breuning, two hooker types-laughing up a storm in the sweatbox. Bud tapped the glass; Breuning walked out.
Bud said, 'Who's who?'
'The blonde's Feather Royko. Hey, did you hear the one about the well-hung elephant?'
'What'd you tell them?'
'I told them it was a routine background check on Duke Cathcart. They read the papers, so they weren't surprised. Bud, it's the niggers. They're gonna burn for that Mex ginch, Dudley's just going through this rigamarole 'cause Parker wants a showcase and he's listening to that punk kid Exley with all his highfalut-'
Hard fingers to the chest. 'Inez Soto ain't a ginch, and maybe it ain't the jigs. So you and Carlisle go do some police work.'
Kowtow-Breuning shambled off smoothing his shirt. Bud walked into the box. The whores looked bad: a peroxide blonde, a henna redhead, too much makeup on too many miles.
Bud said, 'So you read the papers this morning.'
Feather Royko said, 'Yeah. Poor Dukey.'
'It don't sound like you're exactly grieving for him.'
'Dukey was Dukey. He was cheap, but he never hit you. He had a thing about chiliburgers, and the Nite Owl had good ones. One chiliburg too many, RIP Dukey.'
'Then you girls buy all that robbery stuff in the papers?'
Cindy Benavides nodded. Feather said, 'Sure. That's what it was, wasn't it? I mean, don't you think so?'
'Probably. What about enemies? Duke have any?'
'No, Dukey was Dukey.'
'How many other girls was he running?'
'Just us. We are the meager remnants of Dukey-poo's stable.'
'I heard Duke ran nine girls once. What happened? Rival pimp stuff?'
'Mister, Dukey was a dreamer. He liked young stuff personally, and he liked to run young stuff. Young stuff gets bored and moves on unless their guy gets mean. Dukey could get mean with other men, but never with females. RIP Dukey.'
'Then Duke must've had something else going. A two-girl string wouldn't cover him.'
Feather picked at her nail polish. 'Dukey was jazzed up on some new business scheme. You see, he always had some kind of scheme going. He was a dreamer. And the schemes made him happy, made him feel like the meager coin Cindy and me turned for him wasn't so bad.'
'Did he give you details?'
'No.'
Cindy had her lipstick out, smearing on another coat. 'Cindy, he tell «you» anything?'
'No'-a little squeak.
'Nothing about enemies?'
'No.'
