I threw the paper out the car window and drove east. Near San Bernardino I glimpsed from the freeway a large, well-set-up municipal golf course. I got off at the next exit, found the golf haven, parked in the deserted lot, bought two dozen balls, and rented a set of beat-up clubs from the pro shop. After paying my green fee, I ducked past the starter’s cubicle and walked straight into the heart of the course.
I thought and thought–and thought. I tried not to think. I succeeded and I failed. I sailed a half-dozen well-hit 2 irons into deep nowhere and felt nothing.
Mea culpa, I said to myself. What went wrong? What really happened? What will happen next? Will the department back me up? Will I go back to patrol in Watts, humbled, singled out as a maverick destined to go nowhere? Logical fallacies. Post hoc, ergo propter hoc: after this, therefore because of this. Circumstantial evidence. A guilty man. Guilty not of murder, but of guilt. Poor queer Eddie. Gallant queer Clark Winton. Mea maxima culpa. Forgive me, father, for I have sinned. What father? Eddie Engels? Dudley Smith? Thad Green? Chief Parker? God? There is no God but the wonder. I tried to harden my heart against Lorna, and failed. Lorna, Loma, Lorna.
I slammed a furious succession of 3 irons straight into a grove of trees, hoping they would ricochet back and knock me dead. They didn’t; they just disappeared, never to be seen again, sacrifices to a golf god I had ceased to believe in.
I drove home. I could hear my phone ringing as I pulled into the driveway. Thinking it might be Lorna, I ran for it.
The ringing persisted as I unlocked my front door. I picked up the receiver. “Hello?” I said warily.
“Underhill?” a familiar voice queried.
“Yes. Captain Jurgensen?”
“Yes. I’ve been calling you since six o’clock.”
“I’ve been out. I drove out to San Berdoo.”
“I see. Then you haven’t heard?”
“Heard what?”
“Eddie Engels is dead. He committed suicide in his cell this afternoon. He was about to be released. Evidence came up to point to his innocence.”
“I . . . I . . .”
“Underhill, are you there?”
“Y-yes.”
“The chief himself asked me, as your last commanding officer, to inform you.”
“I . . . don’t . . .”
“Underhill, you are to report downtown at eight tomorrow morning. Central Division, room 219. Underhill, did you hear me?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, letting the receiver slip out of my shaking hands and fall to the floor.
14
There were three of us present in room 219. The two cops, my interrogators, were named Milner and Quinn. Both were sergeants from Internal Affairs and both were burly and sunburned and middle-aged. They had both doffed their suit coats as they had ushered me into the crowded little room. I strangely relished their fatuous attempt at intimidation, and was certain I could best them at any form of psychological warfare.
We were all wearing Smith and Wesson .38 police specials in shoulder holsters, which gave the proceedings a ritualistic air. I was nervous, high on adrenaline and phony righteous indignation. I was prepared for anything, including the end of my career, and that strengthened my resolve to defeat these two obdurate-looking policemen.
I pulled up a chair, propped up my feet on a ledge of recruiting posters, and smiled disarmingly while Quinn and Milner dug cigarettes and Zippo lighters out of their suit coats and lit up. Milner, who was the slightly taller and older of the two, offered the pack to me.
“I don’t smoke, Sergeant,” I said, keeping my voice clipped and severe, the voice of a man who takes trouble from no one.
“Good man,” Quinn said, smiling, “wish I didn’t.”
“I quit once, during the Depression,” Milner said. “I had a goodlooking girlfriend who hated the smell of tobacco. My wife don’t like it either, but she ain’t so good-looking.”
“Then why’d you marry her?” Quinn asked.
“‘Cause she told me I looked like Clark Gable!” Milner snorted.
Quinn got a big bang out of that. “My wife told me I looked like Bela Lugosi and I slugged her,” he said.