Tissues on the floor–Madge fretted a whole box to shreds.
“Would you call that ‘everything,’ Lieutenant?”
“I don’t know.”
“Then you’re a very curious man.”
“Do you know the name Wylie Bullock?”
“No.”
“Who killed Junior Stemmons?”
“I did. He was browbeating Abe Voidrich at one of our cleaning shops. I was afraid he’d find out the truth about Richie and Lucille, and I wanted to protect them. I attacked him rather foolishly, and Abe subdued him. We knew Dudley would protect us if we killed him, and Abe knew he was an addict.”
“So Abe shot him up and dumped him at Bido Lito’s.”
“Yes.”
“And you told Tommy, and he burned the place down. He hung out there, and he was afraid we’d find evidence on him.”
“Yes. And I don’t feel bad about that young man Stemmons. I think he was in as Side 229
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much pain as Richie and Lucille were.”
I emptied my pockets–big wads of cash.
“You’re naive, Lieutenant. Money won’t make J.C. and Tommy go away.”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
“EVERYTHING” = “MORE” = “BULLOCK.”
Back to the trailer dump–a two-tone Packard in the lot. I jammed up behind it, spewing smoke.
Voices, feet kicking gravel.
Thick fumes–I got out coughing. Exley and two IA men–packing shotguns.
“Everything” means “more” means–
Fumes, gravel dust. Shotgun flankers, Exley sweating up a custom-made suit.
“Bullock killed the Herricks and trashed the Kafesjian place. How did you know–”
“I called Chino to get my own roster. That woman in the warden’s office told me you went crazy over Bullock.”
“Let’s take him. And get those guys out of here–I _know_ he’s got stuff on Dudley.”
“You men wait here. Fenner, give the lieutenant your shotgun.”
Fenner tossed it–I pumped a shell home.
Exley said, “All right then.”
Now:
We ran three rows over, six trailers down-civilians watched us slackjawed. That Airstream–radio hum, the door open–
I stepped in aiming; Exley squeezed in behind me. Two feet away: Wylie Bullock in a lawn chair.
This bland geek:
Smiling.
Raising his hands cop-wise slow.
Spreading ten fingers wide–no harm meant.
I jammed the shotgun barrel under his chin.
Exley cuffed his hands behind his back.
Radio hum: Starfire 88’s at Yeakel Olds.
“Mr. Bullock, you’re under arrest for the murders of Phillip, Laura and Christine Herrick. I’m the LAPD chief of detectives, and I’d like to question you here first.”
Monster’s den: _Playboy_ pinups, mattress. Bullock: Dodger T-shirt, calm brown eyes.
I goosed him: “I know about you and Richie Herrick. I know you told him you’d get him revenge on the Kafesjians, and I’ll bet you know the name Dudley Smith.”
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“I want a cell by myself and pancakes for breakfast. If you say that’s okay, I’ll talk to you here.”
I said, “Make like you’re telling us a story.”
“Why? Cops like to ask questions.”
“This is different.”
“Pancakes and _sausage?_”
“Sure, every day.”
* * *
Chairs circled up, the door shut. No Q&A/no notebooks–Maniac speaks: June, 1937–Wylie Bullock, almost twelve-“I was just a kid, you dig me?”
An only child, nice parents–but poor. “Our flop was as small as this trailer, and we ate at this gin mill every night, because you got free seconds on the cold cuts.”
June 22:
A crazy blind man enters the tavern. Random shotgun blasts: his parents get vaporized.
“I got hospitalized, ’cause I was in some kind of shock.”
Foster homes then–“some nice, some not so hot”–revenge dreams minus a bad guy–the shotgun man killed himself. Trade schools–a knack for cameras–“Old Wylie’s a born shutterbug.” Camera jobs, curiosity: 6/22/37–why?
Amateur detective Wylie-he kept pestering the cops. The brush-off: “They kept saying the case file was lost.” Newspaper study: Sergeant Dudley Smith, investigating officer. Calls to now-Lieutenant Smith–none returned.
He haunted that tavern. Rumors haunted the place itself: bad bootleg trashed the shotgun man’s eyes. He chased rumors: who sold bootleg whiskey back in ’37?
Bad leads–years’ worth–“like impossible to verify, you know?” Two rumors persistent: “dry-cleaning-cut hooch,” “this Armenian guy–J.C.”
He made a logical jump: the E-Z Kleen shops/J.C. Kafesjian. “I didn’t have any proof–it just felt right. I kept a scrapbook on the blind man case, and I had this picture of Sergeant Smith from ’37.”