There was a horrible kid marriage. His bride was a trollop. He did vile things to her. He cannot say the woman’s name. He confessed his vile acts to a priest and received absolution.
He got a Church annulment and married again. Helen Schultz was a prudently chosen wife. She was an ex-policewoman. His first wife was a tawdry drunk dream. Helen was probity defined.
He drove taxicabs and attended law school. He joined the Los Angeles Police Department in ’27. It was sickeningly corrupt. Protestant hoodlums ran the Department. He held his tongue and made rank. He became the hatchet man for Two-Gun Davis. The man was bone-dirty. He acceded to the man’s designs. He heard things he shouldn’t have heard and did things he shouldn’t have done. His brutal ambition was forged from this ghastly descent.
He began his ascent. It started with his law school degree and stunning bar-exam performance. Jim Davis taught him the law from a morally forfeited perspective. He changed the law to vouch his career path.
Jim Davis and Mayor Frank Shaw were ousted. Fletcher Bowron was elected mayor. Bowron was a dimwit and half-assed reformer. Bowron brought in and sacked Chief Art Hohmann. Chief Art squawked when Fletch tapped “Call-Me-Jack” Horrall. Call-Me-Jack was a hear-no-evil/see-no-evil Chief. He maintained a clean façade. He was buffered by hatchet men and bagmen. Captain William H. Parker was frozen in place. The promotion list was an ice floe. He deployed his legal knowledge to thaw himself out.
He crafted legal documents. They fortified civil-service statutes, curtailed political influence and buttressed police autonomy. He had reform-minded jurists introduce the measures. They were straw men and kept his name out of it. The first measures altered the L.A. City Charter and were voted into law. A final measure granted civil service protection to police chiefs. That law now protected Call-Me-Jack Horrall. It would protect him one day.
The Los Angeles Police Department was a snake pit. Rampant factionalism, feudal-warlord cops. City Hall was hot-wired. The Detective Bureau was full of mop-closet listening posts and wire-recording gadgets spackled to ledges and lamps. Cops talked heedlessly, cops kept tabs. Smart cops made their dirty calls from pay phones.
Like Dudley Smith.
They monitored one another. They played at civility. Their shared Catholicism served them there. They had monthly dinners with Archbishop Cantwell. Call-Me-Jack let Dudley peddle dope to southside Negroes. Call-Me-Jack cosigned Dudley’s loathsome theories of racial sedation. Dudley was a Coughlinite and America Firster. He was Irish-born. He hated the English. He smugly relished the Nazi bombing of London.
Parker leaned on his black-and-white. The northbound traffic was stacked down to Adams now. Soldiers whooped at Dorsey High girls. A girl flipped her skirt and displayed her undies. It created an uproar.
Traffic jam. Logjam in Traffic Division.
He ran the Accident Investigation Detail. It was boring work, crucial work, not a career booster. The L.A. boom continued. The automobile boom boomed exponentially. More cars, more car crashes, more injuries and fatalities.
Call-Me-Jack sent him to Northwestern U. last year. He matriculated at a school for ranking traffic cops. His professors predicted an “auto-wreck apocalypse.” He kept seeing a young woman on campus. She was tall, red-haired, about twenty-five. He asked a few students about her. They said she was a registered nurse and biology major. Her name was Joan something. She was from the Wisconsin boonies. She liked to drink.
It was 1:14 p.m. The convoy was impregnable. Wait—a northbound half-track stalled out.
Thread the needle. Hit the wiggle spot.
Parker got in the car and tapped his cherry lights and siren. Little kids on the sidewalk squealed. He gunned it and squeaked through the opening. He hit Wilshire Station at 1:16.
He parked and ran upstairs. Young cops gawked at the captain in full sprint.
Carl Hull had an office across from the squadroom. He ran the Red Squad in the ’30s and reformed it. The Department hired out cops as strikebreaker thugs. Hull kiboshed the practice and took on his file-keeper job.
Parker stepped into the office. Hull sat at his desk, with his feet up. A war map covered two walls. Blue and red pins denoted troops in Europe. Yellow pins denoted the Japs’ Pacific march.
Hull said, “You’re seventeen minutes late.”
Parker straddled a chair. “An auto theft and a drugstore heist pushed me back.”
“I’ve got scuttlebutt on that.”
“Tell me.”
Hull packed his pipe. “It’s off the Bureau pipeline. That Jap lab kid called Buzz Meeks. He got a fiber match to that rape-o MP.”
“Conclusive?”
“No, and the kid told Meeks that.”
Parker drummed the chair slats. “Who’d Meeks tell?”
“Dudley Smith.”
“And Dudley went to Call-Me-Jack, who said, ‘You take care of it, Dud.’ ”
Hull lit the pipe. “Yes, and in an ideal world, I’d prefer due process.”
Parker lit a cigarette. “As much as I despise rapists and heist men, so would I.”
A breeze buckled the war map. Parker studied the Russian-front pins. The resisting reds swarmed the advancing blues. It was a near rout.
“We’ll be up against Russia after the war, Carl.”
“Unless we intercede after Hitler bleeds them dry.”
Parker shook his head. “They’re our allies now. We need them to win this war, which hasn’t even started for us yet.”
Hull smiled. “Stalin will angle for a property split in eastern Europe. We’ll have to forfeit territories and hold on to some strategic possessions.”
Parker pointed to the map. “The conflict will be largely ideological then. It’s been that way since their goddamn revolution. They hate us, we hate them. We can’t let a momentary alliance blunt us to the fact that the world isn’t big enough for both of us.”
Hull twirled an ashtray. “You’re leading me, William.”
Parker smiled. “Here’s my cross-examination, then. Do you predict a U.S. versus Russia war of territorial chess, the moment that peace is declared?”
Hull said, “Yes, I do.”
“Then I’ll classify you as a friendly witness and capitalize on that concession. Do you consider our homegrown Fifth Column to be clever and farsighted enough to begin their subversive activities before our inevitable engagement in the current world conflict?”
Hull pointed to the map. “Yes. They know that Hitler can’t fight a two-front war and win, just like we do. They’ll play up the fact that Russian blood paved our way to victory, portray us as panfascists and ingrates, and roll out every cliché in the books from that point on.”
Parker pulled out a pocket-size tract. “Here’s some quotes from this. ‘A draconian policy of U.S. aggression against Russia, our current brave ally, after the war is won.’ ‘Escalating war hysteria and the racially inspired mass imprisonment of innocent Japanese citizens, a collusive tangle of the Los Angeles Police Department and the FBI.’ ”
Hull tamped his pipe. “Devil’s advocate, William. The Feds do have a Jap subversive list, and they will use us if any type of detentions are required. You can’t fault the bastards’ logic here.”
Parker said, “Their logic is specious, seditious, disingenuous and criminally defamatory. These shitheels allege to be antifascist, yet they give aid and comfort to our shared fascist enemy with the very writing and publication of this tract. And if you require further verification of the pervertedly circuitous logic of it all, the tract was printed by the same outfit that prints Gerald L. K. Smith’s hate tracts.”
Hull stared at the wall maps. Parker tossed the tract in his lap. Hull skimmed it.
“I know who wrote this. I’ve got her prose style and vocabulary memorized.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s a woman. She’s a socialite, for want of less kind descriptions, and she runs a Red cell. She lords it over some screenwriters and actors. They show up at rallies, make speeches
and cause a ruckus. The Feds have an informant in the cell. He’s a Beverly Hills psychiatrist that all the Reds spill their woes to. A pal on the Feds passes me the good doctor’s dirt. I’ll show you my file, if you quit leading me and come clean.”
Parker shook his head. “Give me some names first. Come on, Carl. I outrank you.”
Hull laughed. “The doctor’s name is Saul Lesnick. His daughter was riding a vehicular-manslaughter term at Tehachapi. The Feds sprung her on the proviso that he turn snitch.”
“The others?”
“The woman’s name is Claire De Haven. Her chief acolytes are a fairy actor named Reynolds Loftis and his inamorata Chaz Minear.”
No bells rang. The Urge hit out of nowhere. Come on—revoke The Pledge. One drink won’t kill you.
“These Reds are defaming our police department, Carl. We can’t have that.”
“You’ll be Chief one day, William. I look forward to that day, and I’ll serve proudly under you. For now, though, I’d be happy with an explanation.”
Parker stood up. “We’ll plant someone in the cell. Our own informant. Someone we’ve got a wedge on.”
Hull opened a drawer and pulled out four photographs. Parker leaned over the desk.
Hull laid the photos out. “I was checking my surveillance files a few weeks ago. These jumped out at me. I thought they might be useful at some point, so you might call this serendipitous.”
Four sneak snapshots. Group pix. Two indoor meetings, two outdoor rallies. Dates: mid-’37 to fall ’38. A young woman’s face circled, four times.
She had dark hair. She stared intently at something. She looked provocative.
“Who is she?”
“Katherine Ann Lake, age twenty-one. Here’s a hint. Her boyfriend was the bluesuit at your heist call a few hours ago.”
Bells rang. Provocative—sure.
The Boulevard-Citizens job. That persistent rumor: Lee Blanchard bossed the heist and framed a fall guy. Blanchard was allegedly tight with Ben Siegel. “Bugsy” was now in the Hall of Justice jail. He allegedly snuffed a hood named Greenie Greenberg. It was a Jew gang rubout—November ’39.
Siegel would be out soon. The prosecution’s key witness took a window dive. Last month—Coney Island, New York. Gangland thug Abe Reles falls to his death. NYPD men are guarding him. He fashions a bedsheet rope and attempts to escape. He plummets eight stories.
Katherine Ann Lake. The girl Blanchard met at the robbery trial. The prosecution’s stunning star witness.
Parker stared at the photos. “Blanchard’s a shitheel. You’ve heard the rumors.”
Hull coughed. “Yes, and I credit them. If you’re thinking of the Boulevard-Citizens caper for a wedge on the girl, you wouldn’t be far off.”
Parker said, “He wants to link up with Dudley and his boys. You’ve heard the rumors.”
Hull said, “Here’s something you haven’t heard. The NYPD Intelligence Squad spotted Blanchard in Coney Island, right before that witness in the Siegel trial jumped. The cops recognized him from his fight days.”
Parker stared at the photographs. The resolution was sharp. The Lake girl had fierce dark eyes.
2:16 p.m.
Lineup.
Five rape suspects, four rape victims, one-way glass between. A raised stage and height strips marked on the wall.
Chairs for eyeball witnesses. Standing ashtrays. A discomfiting wall poster.
It featured flags and dyspeptic eagles. It was a war-bond pitch. It supported intervention in this Jew-inspired war.
Dudley was America First. He loved Father Coughlin’s weekly broadcasts. He enjoyed Gerald L. K. Smith’s tirades. He shared a surname and no blood with Pastor Smith. The pastor was vilely antipapist.
Mike Breuning said, “The rape ladies are next door. They all say they could ID the guy, so we’re in luck there. The lineup guys are backstage. They’re all MPs from the Fort MacArthur battalion, and they all fit the suspect’s description.”
Dick Carlisle cracked his knuckles. Elmer Jackson flipped through his notebook. He’d worked the rape string from the start.
Dudley watched him read. Yes—the rapes felt consistent with the drugstore heist this a.m. That Jap lab whiz was right—the book-rack fibers do not assuredly place the rape-o at the drugstore. The possible two-crime parlay was irrelevant. Rape devastated women. The offense equaled murder. He told Call-Me-Jack that. Call-Me-Jack said, “You take care of it, Dud.”
Elmer chewed a cigar. Elmer ran whores with Brenda Allen. The Vice Squad phones were tapped. Everyone knew everyone’s shit. City Hall was one big listening post.
Carlisle lit a cigarette. Breuning stood poised. Elmer wagged his cigar.
“We’ve got four incidents. The victims all described the fucker as blond, medium-size and about twenty-five. Our guys fit that bill, and they were all on overnight leave when the incidents occurred. On top of that, they all had battery beefs involving women before they enlisted. For MO, we’ve got this. All four victims were out walking, alone, in West L.A. The rape-o abducted them, gagged them and drove them to four different vacant lots nearby. Here’s the crazy shit. The rape-o hits them twice, rolls on a rubber and cries out like he’s in pain when he’s giving it to them.”
Dudley smiled. Breuning leaned in close. Dudley put an arm around him.
“Call the infirmary at Fort MacArthur, lad. Get the names of all the soldiers treated for syph and the clap within the past six months, both in the MP battalion and the camp at large. Compile separate lists and report back within half an hour.”
Breuning vamoosed. Elmer said, “What gives, boss?”
“An instinct and a hypothesis, lad. Let’s say the MP’s armband was a ruse to foil identification, because wearing such an identifying item on a rape string is tantamount to suicidal. Let’s say he’s miffed at some long-ago woman for having given him a dose. Let’s say he’s a smart lad with scientific knowledge. He knows that we can determine blood type from pus or seminal discharge. Let’s say that for some fiendishly unfathomable reason, he wants the rapes to cause him pain.”
Elmer went Huh? Carlisle went Oh, yeah—I get it.
Dot Rothstein walked the women in. Dot was a Sheriff’s matron and a grand bull dyke. She ran six one, 240. Male cops stood tall around her.
The women had that schoolmarm look that rape-o’s found fetching. They wore church frocks to a lineup. Carlisle dispensed cigarettes and lights.
The room smoked up. The women eyeballed the stage and made faces. The Dotstress scrammed.
Dudley said, “You’re all grand and brave ladies for submitting to this ordeal, so we will do our best to ensure that it will be brief. Five men will walk in and stand on that stage, under the wall numbers one through five. You can see them, but they cannot see you. If you see the man who so heinously assaulted you, please tell me.”
The women gulped en masse. Elmer tripped a wall switch. Five soldiers walked onstage and faced the room. They wore olive drabs and red armbands. They ran to the rape man’s type.
Two women squinted. One woman leaked tears. One woman put on her glasses. They studied the stage. The moment built and fizzled. They all shook their heads no.
Elmer tapped the wall switch. The soldiers filed offstage. The women clustered around an ashtray and stubbed out their cigarettes.
One said, “They just weren’t him.”
One rubbed her eyes. “He was more mean-looking.”
One nodded.
One said, “He had mean eyes.”
Dudley smiled. Dudley touched their arms. It meant There, there.
Breuning returned. He was breathing hard. His shirt was wet. He waved a mug-shot strip.
Dudley walked over. Breuning leaned into the doorway.
“One case. The guy’s an MP corporal, and he fits the description. He was on overnight leave on the dates of all four incidents, and he got his dose treated after the last rape. The provost captain told me he was a suspect in a rape string in Seattle, but the Army to
ok him anyway. He’s on leave now. He’s a racetrack fiend, and the Oak Tree Meet’s at Santa Anita today. I’ve got a plate number for him.”
Dudley grabbed the strip. Aaaaaah—Jerome Joseph Pavlik. Young, blond, mean.
Two women hovered. Dudley flashed the strip. The women studied it.
One woman cried. One woman screamed.
Dudley pulled out two shamrock charms. They were fourteen-karat gold. He bought them bulk off a Yid jeweler.
He drew the women to him. He placed the charms in their hands.
He said, “I’ll take care of it.”
2:46 p.m.
The last race ran at 3:30. Santa Anita was off the Arroyo Seco Parkway. It was très tight.
They ran through the City Hall garage. Breuning owned a souped-up Ford. They piled in and peeled out.
Breuning drove. Dudley sat up front. Carlisle sat in back, with three sawed-off shotguns.
They were 10-gauge and twin-barreled. They were fitted for bear slugs and triple-aught buck.
They pulled onto Main Street and cut through Chinatown. They made the parkway, fast.
Breuning gunned it. The juice needle jumped to eighty. Dudley smoked and looked out his window. He caught a wreck on the southbound side.
Skid marks, road flares, collision. Impact—a Navy flatbed and shine Cadillac. Traffic grief. It brought to mind Whiskey Bill Parker. He had grand dirt on him.
You should not have indulged that youthful marriage. Did you think your misconduct would escape my scrutiny?
Whiskey Bill had remarried. His second union was plainly humdrum. Dudley had his own Irish-born wife and four daughters. He had a rogue fifth daughter in Boston. She was seventeen now. They exchanged frequent letters and phone calls.
Elizabeth Short. His child with a married woman named Phoebe. A scold with her own daughter brood.
The Short girls all looked like Phoebe. It cloaked Beth’s paternal blood. Phoebe was older than him. He was a mere nineteen when they coupled. He was a raw Irish conscript.
Joe Kennedy lived in Boston. Joe was filthy rich and donated money to Irish causes. Joe financed his citizenship. The price was strongarm work.