Joseph Wambaugh: Hollywood Crows

“Oh, shit!” Cat said, speaking for all of them.

The three cops walked very slowly toward him and he turned around on the railing to face them, wobbling precariously, making onlookers down below either scream or cheer. His sandy, shoulder-length hair was blowing in his face, and his eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses were even more pale blue than Ronnie’s. In fact, she thought he looked a lot like her cousin Bob, a drummer in a rock band. Maybe it was that, but she took the lead and the others let her have it.

She smiled at him and said, “Hey, whadda you say you come on down here and let’s talk.”

“Stay where you are,” he said.

She held up her hands, palms forward, and said, “Okay, okay, I’m cool with that. But how about coming down now?”

“You’re going to kill me, aren’t you?” he said.

“Of course not,” Ronnie said. “I just wanna talk to you. What’s your name? They call me Ronnie.”

He did not respond, so she said, “Ronnie is short for Veronica. A lot of people see my name somewhere and think I’m a guy.”

Still he did not respond, so she said, “Do you have a nickname?”

“Tell them to go,” he said, pointing at Nate and Cat. “I know they want to kill me.”

Ronnie turned around, but the others had immediately retreated to the door when they heard his demand, Cat saying, “Be careful, Ronnie!”

Then Ronnie said to him, “See, they’ve gone.”

“Take off your gun belt,” he said. “Or I’ll jump.”

“Okay!” Ronnie said, unfastening her Sam Browne and lowering it to her feet, close enough to grab for it.

“Step away from the gun,” he said. “I know you want to kill me.”

“Why would I kill you?” Ronnie said, taking a single step toward him. “You’re getting ready to kill yourself. You see, that wouldn’t make sense, would it? No, I don’t wanna kill you. I wanna help you. I know I can if you’ll just get down from that railing and talk to me.”

“Do you have a cigarette?” he said, and for a few seconds he swayed in the wind, and Ronnie sucked in a lungful of air, then let it out slowly.

“I don’t smoke,” she said, “but I can have my partner find you a cigarette. Her name’s Cat. She’s very nice and I bet you’d like her a lot.”

“Never mind,” he said. “I don’t need a cigarette. I don’t need anything.”

“You need a friend,” Ronnie said. “I’d like to be that friend. I have a cousin who looks just like you. What’s your name?”

“My name’s Randolph Bronson and I’m not crazy,” he said. “I know what I’m doing.”

“I don’t think you’re crazy, Randolph,” Ronnie said, and now she could feel sweat running down her temples, and her hands felt slimy. “I just think you’re feeling sad and need someone to talk to. That’s why I’m here. To talk to you.”

“Do you know what it’s like to be called crazy? And schizophrenic?” he asked.

“Tell me about it, Randolph,” Ronnie said, walking another step closer until he said, “Stop!”

“I’m sorry!” she said. “I’ll stay right here if it makes you feel better. Tell me about your family. Who do you live with?”

“I’m a burden to them,” he said. “A financial burden. An emotional burden. They won’t be sorry to see me gone.”

After six long minutes of talking, Ronnie Sinclair was fairly certain that the young man was ready to surrender. She found out that he was nineteen years old and had been treated for mental illness most of his life. Ronnie believed that she had him now, that she could talk him down from the railing. She was addressing him as “Randy” by the time backup arrived on the street, including a rescue ambulance and the fire department, whose engine only served to clog traffic. Still no crisis negotiator from Metropolitan Division had arrived.

And the first supervisor to show up at the scene was Sergeant Jason Treakle, who’d been on a suck-up mission to buy two hamburgers and an order of fries for the night-watch lieutenant. Sergeant Treakle had gotten a brainstorm the moment he’d heard the call. The idea actually made him say “Wow!” aloud, though he was alone in the car. Then he looked at the bag of burgers next to him, turned on his light bar, and sped to the location of the jumper call.

The young sergeant had recently read about an attempted suicide where a jumper had been talked down by a crisis negotiator who’d bought him a sandwich that they shared while talking at length about the people, real and imagined, who were tormenting him. The crisis negotiator had gotten her photo in the L.A . Times and had done several TV interviews.

When the midwatch supervisor ascended to the tower, carrying the bag of burgers, and brushed past Cat Song and Hollywood Nate, Cat said, “Sergeant Treakle, wait! Ronnie’s talking to the guy. Wait, please.”

Hollywood Nate said, “Don’t go out there, Sergeant.”

The sergeant said, “Don’t tell me my job, Weiss.”

Nate Weiss, who had several years in age and job experience on his former supervisor, said, “Sergeant, nobody should ever bust in on a suicide standoff. This might be Hollywood but this is not a movie, and there’s no air bag down there.”

“Thanks for your wise counsel,” Sergeant Treakle said with a chilly glance at Nate. “I’ll keep it in mind if you ever become my boss.”

Ronnie turned and saw him striding confidently along the deck and said, “Sergeant! Go back, please! Let me handle-”

The anguished moan from Randolph Bronson made her spin around. He was staring at the uniformed sergeant with the condescending smile and the bulging paper bag in his hand, into which he was reaching.

The boy’s pale eyes had gotten huge behind the eyeglasses. Then he looked at Ronnie and said, “He’s going to kill me!”

And he was gone. Just like that.

The screams from the crowd, a gust of wind, and Cat’s and Nate’s shouts all prevented Ronnie from hearing her own cry as she lunged forward and gaped over the railing. She saw him bounce once on the pavement. Several bluesuits immediately began holding back the most morbid of the boulevard onlookers.

A few minutes later, there were a dozen more uniforms in the lobby of the building who observed Ronnie Sinclair, eyes glistening, yelling curses into the face of Sergeant Jason Treakle, who had gone pale and didn’t know how to respond to his subordinate.

Ronnie didn’t remember what she’d yelled, but Cat later said, “You started dropping F-bombs and it was beautiful. There’s nothing Treakle can do about it, because now he knows he was dead wrong. And now that kid is just plain dead.”

When they got out to the street, they were amazed to see that Randolph Bronson’s wire-rimmed glasses were still affixed to his face and only one lens was broken. He had not blown apart, as some of them do, but there was a massive pool of blood.

Cat put an arm around Ronnie’s shoulder, squeezed it, and said, “Gimme the keys to our shop. Let me drive us to the station.”

Ronnie handed Cat the car keys without objection.

Compassionate Charlie Gilford, who never missed a newsworthy incident, especially with carnage involved, arrived in time to observe them picking up the body, and he offered his usual on-scene commentary.

The lanky veteran detective sucked his teeth and said to the body snatcher driving the coroner’s van, “So, one of our patrol sergeants thought he could keep this looney tune from a back flip by feeding him a meal, right? Man, this is fucking Hollywood! Everybody knows you can walk a couple blocks to Musso and Frank’s and dine with movie stars on comfort food. And Wolfgang Puck’s got a joint right inside the Kodak Center with some of the trendiest eats in town. But what does our ass-wipe sergeant do to cheer up a depressed wack job? He brings the dude a fucking Big Mac! No wonder the fruitloop jumped.”