James Ellroy - Silent Terror

Your alibi is that you were home asleep at the time of the murders. The other tenants will corroborate you as an early riser, early returner and quiet tenant, and no one saw you on the street talking to Steve and Jill. No witnesses were present at the Mighty-Man office when you met Jill, and if she told people about meeting you and the police question you about it — you must deny it, because that line of questioning will, logically, follow their first routine questioning of all neighborhood residents. And if you change your story after first claiming not to have known her, you will become a major suspect.

The police will be taking down license numbers of every vehicle in the surrounding area, cross-checking the registration against the California Criminal Records Bureau’s files. Your burglary conviction and the fact that you recently completed your probationary term and moved here from Los Angeles will be noted, and you will be subjected to intense questioning and possible physical abuse. You must never waver in your denials of guilt, even under extreme duress, and you must refuse to take a polygraph test.

You are a murderer, Martin.

In the end, my scenario translated into reality with almost perfect fidelity. I shoplifted an ax identical to my old one at a hardware store in Sausalito and devastated the cutting edge on the site’s few remaking tree trunks. I continued my mop-up work for Mr. Slotnick, and the foreman came by and told me that on September 10 I was out of a job, because the site was going to be plowed, and the “Ecofreaks” had put the kibosh on Big Sol’s “Singles Paradise” tract. I maintained my business-as-usual plan, and the delay in discovering the bodies made my confidence grow in quantum leaps.

Then, fifty hours and ten minutes after the moment, I heard the sirens, and I looked out my front window and saw red twirling lights proclaim my name. I watched as the red was intensified by more and more police cars, then I went to bed and slept, and dream lights spelled out “You are a murderer, Martin.”

Loud knocks on my door awakened me at dawn. I put on a robe, walked over and yawned into the peephole. “Yeah? What do you want?”

A perfunctory voice answered, “Police, open up.”

In an instant I knew they had already run their vehicle cross-checks and had knowledge of my record. The thrust of my performance came to me, boldly embellished. I rubbed sleep from my eyes, opened the door and reverted to my old jailhouse persona. “Yeah, what is it?”

Three hard cases were on my doorstep. They were all as big as me, and they were all wearing crewcuts, cheap summer suits and scowls. The one in the middle, distinguishable only by a badly stained necktie, said, “Don’t you know what it is?”

“Fill me in,” I said. “It’s six-fucking A.M., and I’m dying to hear what you have to say.”

The cop on the left muttered, “Comedian,” and motioned for me to step aside. I complied with feigned reluctance, and the three filed into my living room, the necktie man immediately pointing to my ax and 3cythe propped up against the wall by the door. “What are those?” he asked.

I looked him straight in the eye. “An ax and a scythe.”

“I can see that, Plunkett. What do you use them for?”

I acted surprised at his mention of my name, and made myself hesitate three seconds, watching the other two fan out to search my apartment. “To trim my nails,” I said.

“Don’t fuck with me,” he said, easing the door shut.

“Then tell me what this is all about.”

“I’ll get to it. How long have you lived in San Francisco?”

“Since April.”

“Why do you possess those tools?”

“I’ve been working at a building site in Marin, and I use the tools to dig out tree stumps and brush.”

“I see. Who got you the job?”

“I got it off the bulletin board at S.F. State.”

“Are you a student there?”

“No.”

“Then what gave you the right to the job?”

“Being broke gave me the right. What’s—”

“Shut up. Are you sure you didn’t get the job at the Mighty-Man Agency?”

“I’m positive.”

“How many burglar.es have you pulled in San Francisco?”

“Three trillion at last count. I—”

“I said don’t fuck with me!”

I flinched backward and looked scared. Shifting performance gears, I said, “I pulled one B and E in L.A. five years ago, and I did a year, and I stayed clean and topped out my probation and moved here. I was a fucking kid when I pulled that B and E, and I haven’t done it since. Now what do you want?”

The necktie cop hooked his thumbs in his belt. The pose allowed me a view of his holstered .38, and staring straight into his eyes gave me glimpses of the low-voltage brain behind them. “You know this is serious,” he said,

I cinched the belt of my robe. “I know this is more than a burglary roust.”

“Smart lad. Did you see the police cars on this block last night?”

“Yes.”

“Wonder what was happening?”

“Yes.”

“Make any attempt to find out?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve had enough of cops to last me a lifetime. What—”

“I’ll tell you in due time. You like pussy?”

“Yeah, do you?”

“Had any lately?”

“In my dreams last night.”

“Cute. You like blondes or brunettes?”

“Both.”

“Ever get a woman to dye her hair for you?”

I laughed to cover my shock at the unanticipated question. “Snatch hair, you mean?”

The necktie cop snickered, then looked over my shoulder. I turned and saw his partners going through my kitchen drawers. When one of them gave a negative head shake, Necktie said, “Let’s change the subject.”

“How about baseball?”

“How about boys? You bisexual?”

“No.”

“Into three ways?”

“No.”

“You take it up the ass?”

“No.”

“Oh, you eat it then?”

I started to get angry for real, and my hands twitched at my sides. Necktie noticed my change of expression, and said, “Strike a nerve, cool cat? Maybe you got reamed doing your bullet in L.A.? Maybe your switch gets flipped by boys now, and you hate yourself for liking it. Maybe your switch flipped Monday night about nine o’clock when Steve and Jill suggested a party? Maybe you misinterpreted the whole scene, and when Jill wouldn’t put out you took it out on Steve with a meat mallet, and you chopped off Jill’s head because you didn’t like the way she was looking at you. How many people you killed, Plunkett?”

In the course of a microsecond, an astonishing thing happened. As I felt the color drain from my face I became my performance, my real anger became perfect real shock, and I was the innocent man falsely accused. Stammering, “Y-y-yyou mmean pppeople wwere mmurdered,” I knew that the necktie cop bought it straight down the line. When he said, “That’s right,” I saw his disappointment that I wasn’t guilty; when he said, “Where were you Monday night?” I knew the rest of the interrogation was just a formality. The revelation passed, and as I assumed a normal, sane sense of culpability, it took every ounce of my will not to gloat. “I... I w-was here,” I stuttered.

“Alone?”

“Y-y-yes.”

“What were you doing?”

“I... I got home from my job around eight-thirty. I ate dinner, then I read for an hour or so and went to bed.”

“A swinging evening. That what you usually do?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t you hang out with friends?”

“I haven’t really made any friends here.”

“Don’t you get lonely?”

“Sure. Who do you think—”

“I’ll ask the questions. Do you know a woman named Jill Eversail or a man named Steven Sifakis?”