Джеймс Эллрой - Clandestine

“Right.”

Wacky took off and I returned to my note-taking. It was just a homey middle-class apartment, clean and comfortable looking, not the kind of place that even a desperate hophead would burglarize, but that was what this looked like. Further investigation revealed a blood-soaked terry cloth bathrobe on the floor in the little dining room that separated the living room and kitchen. At the end of the kitchen was a door that led downstairs to what looked like a laundry room; there were bloody footprints on the rickety wooden steps.

I went through the apartment looking for the murder weapon and found nothing, no sharp instruments of any kind. I checked the victim again. She was a pretty brunette and looked to be in her middle twenties. She had a slender body and very light green eyes. She was wearing dark red toenail polish and lipstick that matched perfectly the color of her dried blood. Her body was sprawled in what seemed like reluctant acceptance of death, but her face, with its open mouth and bulging eyes, seemed to be screaming, No!

I went through the rooms again, looking for more details that might mean something. I found a bloody partial fingerprint on the hallway wall near the bedroom door. I circled it with my pen. There was a telephone stand in the living room with no phone on it, just an ornate crystal ashtray filled with matchbooks. One of them caught my eye — a colorful orange job with three stars on it, all arranged around a martini glass. The Silver Star. I poked in the ashtray. All the matchbooks were from bars and nightspots in the central L.A.-Hollywood area. I looked around for smoking materials — pipes, cigarettes, or tobacco. Nothing. Maybe the woman was a barhopper or matchbook collector.

I heard loud footsteps thumping up the stairs. It was Wacky, followed by two plainclothes cops and an old guy I knew to be an assistant medical examiner. I nodded them in the direction of the bedroom. They went in ahead of me. I heard whistles, moans, disgusted snorts, and declarations of awe:

“Oh, God. Oh, shit,” the first detective said.

“Holy Jesus,” the second detective said.

The medical examiner just stared and exhaled slowly, then walked over and knelt beside the dead woman. He poked and prodded at her skin, then ran a thumbnail over the caked blood on her legs. “Dead at least twenty-four hours, fellas,” he said. “Cause of death asphyxiation, although the stomach and breast wounds could have been fatal. Look at her eyes and tongue, though. She died gasping for breath. Look for a switchblade knife — and a fucking lunatic.”

“Who found the body?” the first detective asked. He was a tall, burly guy I had seen around the station.

“I did,” Wacky said.

“Name and shield number?” he asked.

“Walker, five eighty-three.”

“Okay, Walker. I’m DiCenzo, my partner’s name is Brown. Let’s get out of here, stiffs depress me. Brownie, call the lab guys.”

“I did, Joe,” Brown said.

“Good.”

We all walked into the living room, except for the doctor, who stayed with the body, sitting on the bed and rummaging through his black bag.

“Okay, Walker, tell me about it,” DiCenzo said.

“Right. My partner and I were at the market around the corner when the lady who lives in the downstairs apartment comes running in, hysterical. She leads us back here. That’s it. After we discovered the stiff and called you guys, I got the dame calmed down. She said she had a feeling something was wrong. The stiff was a friend of hers, and she didn’t show up at work yesterday or today. They both work at the same place. She’s got a key to the stiff’s apartment, because sometimes the stiff went away for the weekend and she fed her cat. Anyway, she had this feeling and went up and unlocked the apartment. She found the stiff and went running for the cops. The woman’s name is June Haller, the stiff’s name is Leona Jensen. She was employed as a secretary at the Auto Club downtown. She was twenty-four. She’s got parents someplace up north, near ’Frisco.”

“Good, Walker,” DiCenzo nodded. We were interrupted by a team of three guys from the crime lab. They were in plainclothes and were carrying cameras and evidence kits.

Brown pointed toward the bedroom. “In there, guys. The doc’s waiting for you.”

DiCenzo started scanning the living room, notebook in hand. I tapped him on the shoulder and motioned him to the kitchen. “Holy shit,” he said when he saw the blood-splattered linoleum floor.

“Yeah,” I said. “He sliced her in here, then got her into the bedroom and strangled her. She resisted as he dragged her through the living room — that accounts for the overturned furniture and broken glass. There’s a door leading downstairs at the end of the kitchen. There are bloody footprints going down. He had to have come and gone that way. There’s a bloody fingerprint in the hall near the bedroom. I circled it. What do you think?”

DiCenzo was nodding along with me. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Underhill,” I said.

“You a college man, Underhill?”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

“Well, I’d say that nothing you learned in college is gonna help us with this here homicide. Unless that print is complete and belongs to the killer. That’s college stuff — scientific. It looks to me like a botched-up burglary. When we find out what the lab report says, which ain’t gonna mean much, we’re gonna get stuck with hauling in every known burglar, dope addict, and degenerate in Los Angeles. What I’m hoping is that the dame was raped — rape-o-burglar is a rare M.O. Not too many of those bastards around. Is this your first murder victim?”

“Yes.”

“Is it getting to you?”

“No.”

“Good. You and your partner go back to the station and write your reports.”

“Right, Sergeant.”

DiCenzo winked at me. “It’s a shame, ain’t it, Underhill? That tomato had it all, you know what I mean?”

“Yeah, I know.”

I found Wacky in the bedroom. Flashbulbs were popping and he was writing in his notebook, shielding his eyes from the glare, casting occasional glances at the late Leona Jensen. He was getting angry looks from the lab men, so I pulled him into the hallway.

“Let’s go. We’ve got to get back to the station and write our reports.”

Wacky continued scribbling in his notebook. “There,” he said. “I’m finished. I wrote a poem about the stiff. It’s a masterpiece. It’s dedicated to John Milton. It’s called ‘Piece of Ass Lost.’”

“Forget it, Wacky. Let’s just get out of here.”

We drove north on Hoover in silence.

“You think they’ll find the guy who croaked her?” Wacky finally asked.

“DiCenzo thinks there’s a chance.”

“Frankly, I’m pessimistic.”

“Why?”

“Because death is going to be the new fad. I can feel it. It’s going to replace sports. I’m writing an epic poem about it. All forty-eight states are going to have the atom bomb and drop them on each other. L.A. is going to drop the A-bomb on ’Frisco for stealing tourists. The Brooklyn Dodgers are going to A-bomb the New York Giants. I can feel it.”

“You’re crazy, Wack.”

“No, I’m a genius. Freddy, you gotta call Big Sid. I loved Hill-crest. I want to play it. It’s a shot-maker’s course. I could shoot sixty-eight there.”

I laughed. “That’s a riot. You just want to throw the salami to Siddell again. Tell me, Wack, did you ever get to finish with her?”

“Yeah, but I’ve been calling her to try to fix up another date, and every time I call some maid answers and says, ‘Miz Siddell ain’t at home, officer.’ I think she’s giving me the bum’s rush.”

“Maybe, but don’t worry. There’s lots of other fat girls around.”