Shears, chainsaw, axe—bloody, propped in a corner.

The rug—soaked bubbling.

His pants down.

Castrated—his penis in an ashtray.

The women:

Cut/sawed/snipped—limbs dangling by skin shreds.

Bloody walls, windows sprayed—kids looking in.

Artery gout red: the floor, the ceiling, the walls. Plainclothesmen oozing shell shock.

A framed photo spritzed: handsome daddy, grown daughters.

Peeper kin.

“Fuuuck”/”My God”/Hail Marys. I skirted the blood and checked access.

Rear hall, back door, steps—jimmy marks, meat scraps, drool.

One high-heel pump just inside.

Work it:

He pries in quiet, throws the meat, waits outside.

The dogs smell it, eat it, quease.

He walks in.

Shoots Herrick.

Finds the tools, kills the dogs.

The girls come home, see the door, run in. One shoe lost—scattered tools—he hears them.

CRAAAZY shooting/mutilation—leaded windows kill the noise.

Homicide/symbolic destruction—he probably didn’t steal.

Snap guess: the girls showed up unexpected.

I looked outside—trees, shrubs—hiding spots. No blood drip—say he stole clean clothes.

Blues and a mailman smoking—brace them. “Did the Herricks have a son?”

The mailman nodded. “Richard. He escaped from Chino something like September of last year. He went up on dope charges.”

Mom—“pen pals/same city”—lamster Richie explained it. “Spurred you/rash thing”—he waltzed minimum-security Chino.

Nervous blues jabbering: Richie caught/convicted/gassed—their instant suspect.

Killer Richie?—NO—think it through:

The Red Arrow Inn—Richie’s peep spot B&E’d. His bed ripped—with Kafesjian 459 silver. Dead cert—this killer/that burglar—one man—broken bottle/smashed record/snuffed dog confirmation. Richie—passive watcher—someone watching and pressing him. Tommy K. chasing him outright, flirt with the notion: Tommy stone psycho, Tommy trashes his own house, now THIS.

Back inside:

Blood drops—dark, fading—the main hallway off the den. I followed them upstairs—red into pink, a bathroom—stop.

Floor water—the toilet bowl full—a knife floating in piss water. Pink water in the shower, bloody hair clots.

Reconstruct it:

Bloody clothes ripped and flushed—the toilet floods. A shower then?—check the towel rack—one towel sodden.

Recent—broad-daylight killings.

I checked the hallway—wet footprint indentations on the carpet. Easy tracks—straight to a bedroom.

Drawers open, clothes scattered. A wallet on the floor—turned out, no cash.

A driver’s license: Phillip Clark Herrick, DOB 5/14/06. The ID pic: “Fuck me Daddy” bland handsome.

Wallet sleeves—a photo—Lucille naked. A fake license: Joseph Arden—Herrick stats, a fake address.

I checked the window: South Arden was roped off. Bluesuit cordons held reporters back.

Other bedrooms—

One hallway, three doors. Two open—girlish bedrooms—undisturbed. One door locked—I shoulder-popped it.

A snap make: Richie’s room preserved.

Neat, mothball-reeking.

Jazz posters.

Books: music bios, sax theory.

Kid-type paintings: Lucille softened, demure.

A graduation pic: Richie, peeper sketch perfect.

Doors slamming-check the window—IA swarming in.

Lucille—idealized, a madonna.

Books: all jazz.

Funny—no tech stuff—and Richie knew bugging.

Running footsteps—Exley in my face, catching breath. “You should be downstairs. Ray Pinker briefed me, but I wanted your interpretation first.”

“There’s nothing to interpret. It’s Richie Herrick, or it’s the guy who broke into his motel room. Check my early reports, I mentioned him then.”

“I remember. And you’ve been avoiding me. I told you to call me after you forensic’d Stemmons’ apartment.”

“There was nothing to report.”

“Where have you been?”

“People keep asking me that.”

“That’s not an answer.”

Bloody wing tips—he got close.

“So what now? That’s a question.”

“I’m issuing an APB on Richard Herrick.”

“Think it over first. I don’t think this is him.”

“You obviously want me to prompt you. So, Lieutenant?”

“So I think we should haul in Tommy K. I’ve got a strong tip that he’s been looking for Richie Herrick. Richie’s a damn good hider, but Tommy knows him. He’s got a better chance of finding him than we do.”

“No direct approach on the Kafesjians. And I am issuing that APB, because the Kafesjians are under blanket Fed surveillance, which somewhat impedes their ability to search for Herrick. Moreover, these deaths are front-page news. Herrick will read about them and act even more furtively. We can only control the press so far.”

“Yeah, which must really gall you.”

“Frankly, it does. Now surprise me or anticipate me. Tell me something I don’t know.”

I jabbed his vest—hard. “Johnny Duhamel’s dead. He’s a Sheriff’s John Doe down near Compton, and I think you two are dirty together. You’re running me on the Kafesjians, and it ties in to Duhamel. I’m not thinking so straight these days, and I’m getting to the point where I’m going to fuck you for it.”

Exley stepped back. “You’re detached to Homicide and in charge of this investigation. You can do anything you want except approach the Kafesjians.”

Chimes streetside—ice cream trucks.

Chapter Thirty-Four

3rd Street, Bureau bound. A stoplight at Normandie—Plymouths cut me off and boxed me in.

Four cars—Feds piled out aiming shotguns. Radio mike loud: “You are under arrest. Get out with your hands up.”

I killed the engine, set the brake, complied. Slooow: grip the roof, arms spread.

Swamped/frisked/cuffed-crew-cut shitbirds loving it.

Milner poked me. “Reuben Ruiz said he saw you dump Johnson.”

Three men tossed my car. A skinny hump checked the glove compartment.

“Milner, look. Looks like white horse to me!”

Lying snitch fuck Ruiz.

Heroin jammed in my face.

Downtown—the Fed Building—manhandled upstairs. Shoved into an office—

Four walls paper-draped—graph lines visible underneath.

Noonan and Shipstad waiting.

Milner sat me down; Shipstad took my cuffs off. My dope passed Fed to Fed—whistles all around.

Noonan: “Too bad Junior Stemmons is dead. He could have been your alibi on Johnson.”

“You mean you know Ruiz is lying? You know he was sleeping when Johnson jumped?”

Shipstad: “There’s no evidence sticker on this bag of white powder, Lieutenant.”

Milner:”I think he’s got a habit.”

His partner: “Stemmons sure as hell did.”

Noonan tugged his necktie-his underlings walked out.

Shipstad: “Do you wish to examine the arrest warrant, Mr. Klein?”

Noonan: “We’ll have to amend it to include violation of Federal narcotics statutes.”

I threw a guess out: “You rigged the warrant with a friendly judge. You told Ruiz to lie, then recant when you turned me. You told the judge what you were doing. It’s a Federal warrant on some trumped-up civil-rights violation, not a California Manslaughter One paper, because no Superior Court judge would sign it.”

Noonan: “Well, it got your attention. And of course we have binding evidence.”

“Release me.”

Noonan: “I said ‘binding.’”

Shipstad: “Shortly after we released you early this morning, Abe Voldrich was released to take care of some personal business. He was found murdered this afternoon. He left a suicide note, which a graphologist examined and said was written under physical duress. Voldrich had agreed to testify as a Federal witness, on all matters pertaining to the Kafesjian family and this perhaps tangential burglary investigation that you and the late Sergeant Stemmons were involved in. An agent went by his house to pick Voldrich up for more questioning and found him.”