He found a box marked “FI’s ’41–’43,” thumbed back the first few cards and saw that they were–amazingly–in chronological order. He kept flipping; the late spring and summer of ’42 yielded eight names: eight white men aged nineteen to forty-seven stopped for being out after curfew, questioned and released.
The cards were filled out slapdash: all had the name, race and date of birth of the interrogee; only half had home addresses listed–in most cases downtown hotels. Five of the men would now be middle-aged and possibles for HIM; the other three were youths who could be the burned-face boy pre-burns–or–if he was tangential to the case–Thomas Cormier’s neighborhood kid wolverine lover.
Danny pocketed the cards, drove to a pay phone and called Jack Shortell at the Hollywood squadroom. The squad lieutenant put the call through; Shortell came on the line sounding harried. “Yeah? Danny?”
“It’s me. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing, except I’m getting the fisheye from every City bull in the place, like all of a sudden I’m _worse_ than worse than poison. What have you got?”
“Names, maybe a hot one right in the middle. I talked to that Cormier guy and hit Joredco, and I couldn’t put them straight together, but I’m damn sure our guy got kissing close to Cormier’s wolverines. You remember that old burglary accomplice of Marty Goines I told you about?”
“Yeah.”
“I think I’ve got a line on him, and I just about think he plays. There was a bunch of unsolved burglaries on Bunker Hill, May to August of ’42. Mickey Mouse stuff clouted, right near Cormier and Joredco. LAPD was enforcing curfew then, and I picked out eight possible FI cards from the area–May through August. I’ve got a hunch the killings stem from then–the Sleepy Lagoon killing and the SLDC time–and I need you to do eliminations–current address, blood type, dental tech background, criminal record and the rest.”
“Go, I’m writing it down.”
Danny got out his cards. “Some have addresses, some don’t. One, James George Whitacre, DOB 10/5/03, Havana Hotel, Ninth and Olive. Two, Ronald NMI Dennison, 6/30/20, no address. Three, Coleman Masskie, 5/9/23, 236 South Beaudry. Four, Lawrence Thomas Waznicki with a K-I, 11/29/08, 641 1/4 Bunker Hill Avenue. Five, Leland NMI Hardell, 6/4/24, American Eagle Hotel, 4th and Hill Streets. Six, Loren Harold Nadick, 3/2/02, no address. Seven, David NMI Villers, 1/15/04, no address. And Bruno Andrew Gaffney, 7/29/06, no address.”
Shortell said, “All down. Son, are you getting close?”
Another electric jolt: the Bunker Hill burglaries ended on August 1, 1942; the Sleepy Lagoon murder–_the victim’s clothes zoot stick slashed_–occurred on August 2. “Almost, Jack. Some right answers and luck and that fucker is mine.”
o
o
o
Danny got to Variety International Pictures just as dusk was falling and the picket lines were breaking up for the day. He parked in plain view, put an
“Official Police Vehicle” sign on his windshield and pinned his badge to his coat front; he walked to the guard hut, no familiar faces, pissed that he was ignored. The gate man buzzed him in; he walked straight back to Set 23.
The sign on the wall had _Tomahawk Massacre_ still in production; the door was open. Danny heard gunfire, looked in and saw a cowboy and an Indian exchange shots across papier-mâché foothills. Lights were shining down on them; cameras were rolling; the Mexican guy he’d seen outside the morgue was sweeping Side 153
Ellroy, James – Big Nowhere, The up fake snow in front of another backdrop: grazing buffalos painted on cardboard.
Danny hugged the wall going over; the Mex looked up, dropped his broom and took off running, right in front of the cameras. Danny ran after him, sliding on soap flakes; the moviemaking stopped; someone yelled, “Juan, goddamn you! Cut! Cut!”
Juan ran out a side exit, slamming the door; Danny ran across the set, slowed and eased the door open. It was slammed against him, reinforced steel knocking him back; he slid on phony snow, hauled outside and saw Duarte racing down an alley toward a chain-link fence.
Danny ran full out; Juan Duarte hit the fence and started climbing. He snagged his trouser legs; he kicked, pulled and twisted to get free. Danny caught up, yanked him down by his waistband and caught a hard right hand in the face. Stunned, he let go; Duarte collapsed on top of him.