Earthmovers, dump trucks–LAPD guards standing by.
More:
The main drag cordoned off: Reuben Ruiz dancing a samba. Fans pressing close, wet-eyed women. Fed bodyguards–disgusted.
Two-way boom:
“Code 3 all units vicinity 249 South ARDEN repeat 249 South ARDEN multiple homicides 249 South ARDEN Detective units Roger your locations 249 South ARDEN
on-call Homicide units that vicinity Roger your locations!”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Side 160
Ellroy – White Jazz
Rolling Code 3.
South Arden/Joseph Arden/street name/trick name. A Hancock Park address–
affluent–a strong maybe.
“Request animal disposal unit 249 South Arden. Be advised all units now standing.”
I hit the mike: “4-ADAM-31 to Bureau base urgent. Over.”
“Roger, 4-A-31.”
“Urgent. Repeat urgent. Lieutenant D.D. Klein seeking Chief Exley. Over.”
“Roger, 4-A-31.”
Makeshift code: “Urgent. Advise Chief Exley homicides at 249 South Arden likely _major_ case connected. Request permission to seal under IA autonomy. Urgent that you find Chief Exley. Over.”
“Roger, 4-A-31. State your location.”
“3rd and Mariposa westbound. Over.”
Dead air, speeding–
“4-A-31, please Roger.”
“Roger, this is 4-A-31.”
“4-A-31, assume command 249 South Arden IA autonomy. Over.”
“4-A-3 1, Roger, over.”
3rd westbound–siren earaches. Arden Boulevard–right turn, right there: A big Tudor house swamped–prowl cars, morgue cars.
Civilian cliques on the sidewalk–nervous.
Ice cream trucks, kids.
I jammed in curbside. Two brass hats on the porch, looking queasy.
I ran up. One lieutenant, one captain–green. A hedge behind them dripping vomit.
“Ed Exley wants this sealed: no press, no downtown Homicide. I’m in charge, and IA’s bagging the evidence.”
Nods–queasy–nobody said, “Who are you?”
“Who found them?”
The captain: “Their mailman called it in. He had a special-delivery package, and he wanted to leave it at the side door. The dogs didn’t bark like they usually do, and he saw blood on a window.”
“He ID’d them?”
“Right. It’s a father and two daughters. Phillip Herrick, Laura and Christine.
The mother’s dead–the mailman said she killed herself earlier this year. Hold your nose when you–”
In–smell it–blood. Flashbulbs, gray suits–I pushed through.
The entrance foyer floor: two dead shepherds belly-up, dripping mouth foam.
Tools nearby–spade/shears/pitchfork–bloody.
Side 161
Ellroy – White Jazz
Meat scraps/drool/puke trails.
Stabbed and cut and forked–entrail piles soaking a throw rug.
I squatted down and pried their jaws loose–tech men gasped.
Washrags in their mouths–stelfactiznide-chloride-soaked.
Match it up–Kafesjian 459.
Walk/look/think–plainclothesmen gave me room: The front hallway–broken records/tossed covers. Christmas jazz wax-confirm the Mom-peeper letters.
The dining room:
Booze bottles and portraits smashed–another K.-job match. _Family pictures_: a dad and two daughters.
Mom to peeper: “Your sisters.”
Suicide talk/suicide confirmation.
A tech stampede-follow it–the den.
Three dead on the floor: one male, two female.
Details:
Their eyes shot out–powder-black cheeks, exit spatter.
Ripped cushions on a chair–bullet mufflers.
Shears, chainsaw, axe–bloody, propped in a corner.
The rug–soaked bubbling.
His pants down.
Castrated–his penis in an ashtray.
The women:
Cut/sawed/snipped–limbs dangling by skin shreds.
Bloody walls, windows sprayed–kids looking in.
Artery gout red: the floor, the ceiling, the walls. Plainclothesmen oozing shell shock.
A framed photo spritzed: handsome daddy, grown daughters.
Peeper kin.
“Fuuuck”/”My God”/Hail Marys. I skirted the blood and checked access.
Rear hall, back door, steps–jimmy marks, meat scraps, drool.
One high-heel pump just inside.
Work it:
He pries in quiet, throws the meat, waits outside.
The dogs smell it, eat it, quease.
Side 162
Ellroy – White Jazz
He walks in.
Shoots Herrick.
Finds the tools, kills the dogs.
The girls come home, see the door, run in. One shoe lost–scattered tools–he hears them.
CRAAAZY shooting/mutilation–leaded windows kill the noise.
Homicide/symbolic destruction–he probably didn’t steal.
Snap guess: the girls showed up unexpected.
I looked outside–trees, shrubs–hiding spots. No blood drip–say he stole clean clothes.
Blues and a mailman smoking–brace them. “Did the Herricks have a son?”
The mailman nodded. “Richard. He escaped from Chino something like September of last year. He went up on dope charges.”
Mom–“pen pals/same city”–lamster Richie explained it. “Spurred you/rash thing”–he waltzed minimum-security Chino.
Nervous blues jabbering: Richie caught/convicted/gassed–their instant suspect.
Killer Richie?–NO–think it through:
The Red Arrow Inn–Richie’s peep spot B&E’d. His bed ripped–with Kafesjian 459
silver. Dead cert–this killer/that burglar–one man– broken bottle/smashed record/snuffed dog confirmation. Richie– passive watcher–someone watching and pressing him. Tommy K. chasing him outright, flirt with the notion: Tommy stone psycho, Tommy trashes his own house, now THIS.