Kleckner opened the door, passed him a folder. “Captain, Vincennes brought the Lefferts woman in. They’re checking out mugs, and he said you wanted these.”
Ed stepped outside. A thick folder–glossy-paper smut.
The top books: pretty kids, explicit action, colorful costumes. Some of the heads had been cropped and taped back on–per the deposition–Jack tried to ID the posers from mugshots and thought cropping would facilitate the effort. Ugly/arty stuff– just like Trashcan said.
The bottom books–plain black covers–Trashcan’s garbage can find. The first inked-in shots–embossed red streaming from disembodied limbs, posers linked orifice to orifice. The homicide match: a spread-eagled boy in sync to the Hudgens crime scene stills.
Past astonishing–and whoever posed the smut pics killed Hudgens.
Ed hit the last book, froze. A nude pretty boy, arms spread–ink/blood gouting off his torso. Familiar, too familiar, not from a Hudgens coroner’s shot. He turned pages and caught a foldout: boys, girls, offset limbs touching, ink designs linking them.
AND HE KNEW.
He ran down the hall to Homicide, found their 1934 records, found “Atherton, Loren, 187 P.C. (multiple).” Three thick folders, then the photos–shot by Dr. Frankenstein himself.
Children immediately after their dismemberment.
Their arms and legs arranged just off their torsos.
White waxed paper under the bodies.
Blood fingerpainted around their limbs, red on white, intricate designs identical to the pornographic ink shots, limb spreads identical to the Hudgens severings.
Ed mangled his fingers slamming the cabinet, Code 2’d to Hancock Park.
o o o
A party at Preston Exley’s mansion: valets parking cars, music in the back–probably a rose garden bash. Ed went in the front door and stopped short–his mother’s library was gone.
Replacing it: a long space eclipsed by a model–lengths of highway over papier-mâché cities. Directional markers at the perimeters–the entire freeway system.
Perfection–it jerked him out of his filth-picture haze. Boats in San Pedro Harbor, the San Gabriel Mountains, tiny autos on asphalt. Preston Exley’s greatest triumph on the eve of its completion.
Ed pushed a car–ocean to foothills. His father’s voice: “I thought you’d be working South Central today.”
Ed turned around. “What?”
Preston smiled. “I thought you’d be making up for your recent bad press.”
Non sequiturs–the Atherton photos came back. “Father, excuse me, but I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Preston laughed. “We’ve seen each other so seldom lately that we’ve forgotten the amenities.”
“Father, there’s something–”
“I’m sorry, I was referring to Dudley Smith’s statement to the _Herald_ today. He said the reopening investigation was being centered on the southside, that you’re looking for another Negro gang.”
“No, that’s not the way it’s going.”
Preston put a hand on his shoulder. “You look frightened, Edmund. You do not look like a ranking policeman and you did not come here to enjoy my completion celebration.”
The hand felt warm. “Father, outside of the Department, who’s seen the old Atherton photographs?”
“Now I’ll say ‘what?’ You’re referring to the photographs in the case file? The ones I showed you and Thomas years ago?”
“Yes.”
“Son, what are you talking about? Those photographs are sealed LAPD evidence, never released to the press or the public. Now tell me–”
“Father, the Nite Owl is collateral to several other major crimes, and Negro gangs have nothing to do with it. One of them is–”
“Then explain the evidence the way I taught you. I’ve had cases like–”
“Nobody has ever had a case like this, I’m a better detective than you _ever_ were and _I’ve_ never had a case like this.”
Preston clamped both hands down–Ed felt his shoulders go numb. “I’m sorry for that, but it’s true and I’ve got a five-year-old mutilation homicide connected to the Nite Owl case that says so. The victim was cut _identically_ to Loren Atherton’s victims and _identical_ to some ink-embossed pornographic photographs tangential to the Nite Owl. Which means that either somebody saw the Atherton pictures and took it from there or you got the wrong suspect in ’34.”
The man didn’t even blink. “Loren Atherton was incontrovertibly guilty, with a confession and eyewitness vertification. You and Thomas saw his photographs, and I doubt seriously that those photographs have ever left the Homicide pen downtown. Unless you hypothesize a policeman killer, which I find absurd, then the only explanation is that Atherton showed the photographs to some person or persons prior to his arrest. _You_ got the wrong men in your glory case–I did not make that error. _Think_ before you raise your voice to your father.”