THE BLACK DAHLIA by James Ellroy

“You get anything yesterday?”

Seeing my best friend looking like a new man made it easy to twist the truth. “You read my FI report?”

“Yeah, at University. Good work on the juvie warrant. You get anything else?”

I lied flat-out, a trim sharkskin figure dancing in the back of my head. “No. You?”

Staring through the one-way, Lee said, “No, but what I said about getting the bastard still goes. Jesus, look at Harry.”

I did. The mild-mannered stutterer was circling the interrogation room table, twirling a metal-studded sap, whacking it hard into the tabletop each time he circuited. “Ka-thack’s” filled the speaker; Red Manley, arms wrapped around his chest, quivered as each blow reverberated.

Lee nudged me. “Russ has got one rule–no actual hitting. But watch how–”

I shrugged off Lee’s hand and stared through the one-way. Sears was tapping the sap on the table a few inches in front of Manley, his stutterless voice dripping cold rage. “You wanted some fresh gash, and you thought Betty was easy. You came on strong, and that didn’t work, so you begged. That didn’t work, so you offered her money. She told you she was on the rag, and that was the final straw. You wanted to make her bleed for real. Tell me how you sliced her titties. Tell me–”

Manley screamed, “No!” Sears smashed the sap into the ashtray, the glass cracked, butts flew off the table. Red bit his lip; blood spurted out, then dribbled down his chin. Sears sapped the pile of broken glass; shards exploded all over the room. Manley whimpered, “No no no no no”; Sears hissed, “You knew what you wanted to do. You’re an old cunt chaser, and you knew lots of places to take girls. You plied Betty with a few drinks, got her to talk about her old boyfriends and came on like a pal, like nice little corporal willing to leave Betty to the _real men_, the men who saw combat, who deserved to get laid with a fine cooze like her–”

“No!”

Sears hit the table, ka-thack! “_Yes_, Reddy-poo, _yes_. I think you took her to a toolshed, maybe one of those abandoned warehouses out by the old Ford plant in Pico-Rivera. There was some twine and lots of cutting tools lying around, and you got a hard-on. Then you shot your load in your pants before you could stick it in Betty. You were mad before, but now you were _really_ mad. You started thinking about all the girls who laughed at that tiny little dick of yours and all the times your wife said, ‘Not tonight, Reddy-poo, I’ve got a headache.’ So you hit her and tied her down and beat her and cut her! Admit it, you fucking degenerate!”

“No!”

Ka-thack!

The table jumped off the floor from the force of the blow. Manley almost jumped out of his chair; only Sears’ hand on the back slats kept him from toppling over.

“Yes, Reddy-poo. _Yes_. You thought of every girl who said ‘I don’t suck,’ every time your mommy spanked you, every evil eye you got from real soldiers when you played your trombone in the army band. Goldbrick, needle-dick, pussy-whipped, that’s what you were thinking. That’s what Betty had to pay for. Right?”

Manley dribbled blood and spittle into his lap and gurgled. “No. Please, as God is my witness, no”; Sears said, “God hates liars,” and sapped the table three times _Ka-thack! Ka-thack! Ka-thack!_ Manley lowered his head and began to dry sob; Sears knelt by his chair. “Tell me how Betty screamed and begged, Red. Tell me, then tell God.”

“No. No. I didn’t hurt Betty.”

“Did you get another hard-on? Did you come and come and come the more you cut her?”

“No. Oh God, oh God.”

“That’s right, Red. Talk to God. Tell God all about it. He’ll forgive you.”

“No, please God.”

“Say it, Red. Tell God how you beat and tortured and ripped up Betty Short for three fucking days, then cut her in two.”

Sears smashed the table once, twice, three times, then hurled it over onto its side. Red fumbled himself out of his chair and onto his knees. He clasped his hands and mumbled, “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want,” then started weeping. Sears looked straight at the one-way, self-loathing etched into every plane of his flabby juicehound face. He gave the thumbs-down sign, then walked out of the room.

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