Joseph Wambaugh - Hollywood Moon

The lieutenant said, “Okay, the rock-throwing prowler generally fits the description of the guy that attacked the women, but there’re a lot of young Hispanics with curly hair that would also fit.”

“How about the light blue T-shirt and jeans?” Flo Johnson said.

The lieutenant replied, “Common clothing for young guys. And that girl Naomi isn’t even positive which day she met her guy.”

“How about the damaged fists following the day when our guy attacked the second victim and put her in the hospital?”

“That’s more… convincing,” the lieutenant said. “But we still have to be careful not to stir up any more complaints about minority-group harassment.”

Flo Johnson sighed and said, “My maiden name was Trevino, Lieutenant. I’m second generation from Sonora, and this isn’t about annoying the Hispanic community. This is about a vicious rapist who’s gonna kill somebody sooner or later.”

And so it went until someone with more rank and more spine listened to the detective and gave her the okay to proceed. D2 Flo Johnson went to the website that links cell numbers to their providers. Then she wrote a search warrant and faxed it to the district attorney’s weekend command post, which faxed it to an on-call judge at home, who signed it and faxed it back.

The cell provider had given the name of Madge Rojas, with an address on Maplewood Avenue in east Hollywood. It was early afternoon when four detectives went to the Maplewood address, but they found nobody at home. After that, Flo Johnson and her partner sat in their car on Maplewood Avenue and sweated in ninety-degree heat. Her D3 back at the office contacted a D3 at Major Crimes Division and explained the urgency of the case, and he agreed to go up to a satellite link and wait for whoever possessed that number to turn on his cell phone.

As this was going on, Madge Rojas enjoyed a matinee with popcorn and soda at a multiplex cinema while her son, Malcolm, worked his overtime shift on a busy Saturday at the home improvement center. Malcolm’s mother decided not to rush back to their apartment. He seldom came straight home from work anymore, especially on a weekend. She’d given up questioning him about where he went at night. He’d get so angry, he was starting to scare her. She made a mental note to contact one of the free clinics about psychological counseling for her son. Meanwhile, she thought there was no reason she couldn’t stay and see one of the other movies at the multiplex after this one. No reason at all.

At 3 P.M., when Dana Vaughn was about to get a shower and start preparing for work, her cell chimed.

“Dana? It’s Flo Johnson,” the detective said. “It’s been a real busy morning and afternoon. How come all the good stuff happens on weekends?”

“Did you get him?” Dana asked, trying not to sound disappointed for not having been in on it.

“Not yet,” the detective said. “The phone bill goes to a Madge Rojas at an address on Maplewood. Autotrac ran the name, and credit info indicates she lives with her nineteen-year-old son, Ruben Malcolm Rojas, who has no criminal record. We did get the license number of his Mustang, and I’ve already phoned the Hollywood watch commander to pass it on at roll call to Watch 3 and Watch 5. We’ll be waiting for the cell phone ping as soon as it’s turned on. I’ll personally ask your boss to let you help back us up if we ping it to a Hollywood location.”

“Too cool!” Dana said. “I’ll wear a fresh uniform. I work with Hollywood Nate Weiss, and he’ll figure a way to get us some press coverage if we’re in on this one.”

Flo Johnson chuckled and said, “A little extra color instead of our usual drab lipstick shows up better on TV.”

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN and those of you who do not fit either category, I have an announcement to make,” Sergeant Lee Murillo said by way of beginning roll call. “There is a real Hollywood moon tonight. And as you know, a full moon over Hollywood brings out the beast rather than the best in our citizens. The car that comes back with the weirdest encounter of the night will get an extra-large pizza with the works. And now to training material. Last time it was how to address our Hollywood citizens of various nationalities who speak many languages. This time it’s how to address our Hollywood citizens of various genders who speak our same language. For example, you must never address or refer to a transsexual as a tranny.”

R.T. Dibney raised his hand and said, “Is it okay to call them trans-testicles?”

After the guffaws died down, Sergeant Murillo said, “And you must not address or refer to drag queens as dragons.”

“If they’re ugly, can we call them drag-goons?” Flotsam asked.

Sergeant Murillo ignored him, saying, “And post-op transsexuals will be searched by female officers, pre-op by male officers. Booking in either the men’s or women’s jail will also depend upon their medical status and condition. And you will not refer to Santa Monica Boulevard as Sodom-Monica because of the number of male prostitutes there.”

Jetsam said, “Boss, it’s way confusing out there. We need an organization chart to know how to talk to these people.”

Flotsam pointed to young Harris Triplett, back from his loan to the vice unit, and said, “The last night Triplett was working for the vice unit, a deaf guy on Santa Monica Boulevard handed him a note that said, ‘Can I have a blow job?’ ”

That actually got people interested, and Hollywood Nate said, “Did you bust the poor guy, Harris?”

Reluctantly the young cop said, “Uh-huh.”

Then several of the saltier cops booed and chimed in with remarks like “Harris the Harsh!” and “Harris the Horrible!” and “Enemy of people with disabilities!”

While everyone was jeering and having a rollicking good time, R.T. Dibney leaned over to Harris Triplett and said, “Kid, always be careful how much you drink if you do the Hollywood nightclub scene. You might get hammered and pick up with what you think is some smokin’ hot chick and wake up with a hairy scrotum across your nose.”

Sergeant Murillo flapped his hands palms-down to get them quieted, then pointed to a license number and car description on the board behind him and said, “We do have some real police work to take care of tonight. Dana Vaughn has done some work that might result in the arrest of the box-cutter rapist who we think is Ruben Malcolm Rojas, Hispanic, nineteen, five eight, one forty-five, brown and brown. He lives with his mother on Maplewood, just west of Kingsley. West Bureau detectives, assisted by our gang units, are out there right now, waiting for cell phone pings that could very well track the guy right to your beat. Listen to the tac frequency and watch for that old red Mustang. I think it’d be just dandy if one of you midwatch units took him down. And remember, the Oracle said that doing good police work is the most fun you’ll ever have in your lives. So go out there under that Hollywood moon tonight and have yourselves some fun.”

At the end of the forty-five-minute roll call session, everyone touched the picture of the Oracle for luck as usual, like parishioners dipping their fingers into a font of holy water, and headed downstairs to the kit room to line up for their nonlethal weapons. When Hollywood Nate was loading the war bags into the trunk of their shop in the parking lot, he heard the surfer cops jawing with intensity.

“Did I or didn’t I?” Jetsam asked Flotsam.

“Dude, I wasn’t watching, but it’s, like, something you always do, so I’d say you did it.”

“Did what?” Dana Vaughn asked.

“Touch the Oracle’s picture,” Flotsam said.

“You were behind me, Dana,” Jetsam said. “Did I touch it?”