He went there. He found detailed notes on White’s prostitutekilling investigation. The notes were a limited man reaching for the stars, puffing most of them down. Limits exceeded through a briffiantly persistent rage. Absolute justice–anonymous, no rank and glory. A single line on the Englekling brothers that told him their killer still walked free. Room 11 at the Victory Motel–Wendell “Bud” White seen for the first time.
Ed knew why he sent him there–and followed up.
A phone company check, one interview–all it took. Confirmation, an epigraph to build on it: Absolute Justice. The TV news said Ray Dieterling walked through Dream-a-Dreamland every day-casing his grief in a deserted fantasy kingdom. He’d give Bud White a full day of his justice.
o o o
Good Friday, 1958. The A.M. news showed Preston Exley entering St. James Episcopal Church. Ed drove to City Hall, walked up to Ellis Loew’s office.
Still early–no receptionist. Loew at his desk, reading. Ed rapped on the door.
Loew glanced up. “Inspector Ed. Have a chair.”
“I’ll stand.”
“Oh? Is this business?”
“Of sorts. Last month Bud White called you from San Francisco and told you Spade Cooley was a sex killer. You said you’d put a D.A.’s Bureau team on it, and you didn’t. Cooley has donated in excess of fifteen thousand dollars to your slush fund. You called the Biltmore Hotel from your place in Newport and talked to a member of Cooley’s band. You told him to warn Spade and the rest of the guys that a crazy cop was going to come around and cause trouble. White braced Deuce Perkins, the real killer. Perkins sent him after Spade, he probably thought he’d kill him and save him from the rap. Perkins was warned by you and went into hiding. He stayed out long enough to turn White into a vegetable.”
Loew, calm. “You can’t prove any of that. And since when are you so concerned about White?”
Ed laid a folder on his desk. “Sid Hudgens had a file on you. Contribution shakedowns, felony indictments you dismissed for money. He’s got the McPherson tank job documented, and Pierce Patchett had a photograph of you sucking a male prostitute’s dick. Resign from office or it all goes public.”
Loew–sheet white. “I’ll take you with me.”
“Do it. I’d enjoy the ride.”
o o o
He saw it from the freeway: Rocketland and Paul’s World juxtaposed–a spaceship growing out of a mountain, a big empty parking lot. He took surface streets to the gate, showed the guard his shield. The man nodded, swung the fence open.
Two figures strolled the Grand Promenade. Ed parked, walked up to them. Dream-a-Dreamland stood hear-a-pin-drop silent.
Inez saw him–a pivot, a hand on Dieterling’s arm. They whispered; Inez walked off.
Dieterling turned. “Inspector.”
“Mr. Dieterling.”
“It’s Ray. And I’m tempted to say what took you so long.”
“You knew I’d be coming?”
“Yes. Your father disagreed and went on with his plans, but I knew better. And I’m grateful for the chance to tell it here.”
Paul’s World across from them–fake snow near blinding. Dieterling said, “Your father, Pierce and I were dreamers. Pierce’s dreams were twisted, mine were kind and good. Your father’s dreams were ruthless–as I suspect yours are. You should know that before you judge me.”
Ed leaned against a rail, settled in. Dieterling spoke to his mountain.
o o o
1920.
His first wife, Margaret, died in an automobile accident–she bore his son Paul. 1924–his second wife, Janice, gave birth to son Billy. While married to Margaret, he had an affair with a disturbed woman named Faye Borchard. She gave him son Douglas in 1917. He gave her money to keep the boy’s existence secret–he was a rising young filmmaker, wished a life free of complications, was willing to pay for it. Only he and Faye knew the facts of Douglas’ parentage. Douglas knew Ray Dieterling as a kindly friend.
Douglas grew up with his mother; Dieterling visited frequently, a two-family life: wife Margaret dead, sons Paul and Billy ensconced with himself and wife Janice–a sad woman who went on to divorce him.
Faye Borchard drank laudanum. She made Douglas watch pornographic cartoons that Raymond made for money, part of a Pierce Patchett scheme-cash to finance their legitimate dealings. The films were erotic, horrific–they featured flying monsters that raped and killed. The concept was Patchett’s–he put his narcotic fantasies on paper, handed Ray Dieterling an inkwell. Douglas became obsessed with flight and its sexual possibilities.