I cracked the drawers—paper piles bulged the boxes wide. RIGHT THERE on top:
A revolver—evidence bagged. Powder-dusted prints on the grips and barrel housing—protective glazed.
Henstell picking his nose.
Quick:
Unwrap the gun—bury it—paper-pile cover.
Henstell: “What have we got?”
“Folders and paperwork so far.”
“Noonan wants it all, and I wouldn’t mind being out of here by lunchtIme.”
I dropped my hands; the handkerchiefs fell out. Block his view—wipe the piece—
Three times—Glenda—make sure.
I handed it over. “Henstell, look at this.”
He twirled the gun and snapped quick draws—bad déjà vu.
“Pearl grips—this Stemmons guy must have had a cowboy fetish. And look, no numbers on the barrel plate.”
I pulled the drawers out. “Do you want to look through these for narcotics?”
“No, but Noonan wants it all when you’re finished. He said I should pat-search you afterwards, but that’s not my style.”
“Thanks.”
“You’re going to love Federal custody. Noonan pops for steak lunch every day.”
Fake grunts: “You want to give me a hand with this?”
“Come on, they can’t be that heavy.”
Good fake out—I moved on it—over to a catty-corner cubicle. One table, one chair, no inside lock—I jammed the chair under the doorknob.
Dump the drawers, check the contents:
Folders, photos, odd papers—I stacked them on the table.
Four keys on a fob—”Brownell’s Locksmiths, 4024 Wabash Aye, East Los Angeles.”
Loose newspaper clippings—I smoothed out the crumples.
Go—skim it all:
Typed depositions—Glenda Bledsoe/Dwight Gilette—Murder One. My evidence suppression—detailed in longhand.
Georgie Ainge’s statement: a typed original and five carbons.
Photo blow-ups: Glenda’s juvie print strip and the gun prints. A fingerprint analysis report; photo glossies with comparison points checked.
Witness Disposition Report:
“Mr. Ainge is currently living under an assumed name at an undisclosed location in the San Francisco area. I have telephone access to him and have given him money so that he might hide out and escape potential reprisals from Lieutenant David D. Klein. He remains available to me should he be called as a witness in the matter of the County of Los Angeles vs. Glenda Louise Bledsoe.”
My bullshit detector clicked in—Ainge bugged out on his own—I’d bet money.
Handwritten pages—doodles, scrawls—half-legible hieroglyphics:
(Unreadable)/”I’ve got a trail worked out on paper”/(unreadable)/ “He’s spent a fortune so far”/(unreadable)/ink smears. “So he’s spent a fortune operating Officer John Duhamel”—smears—”But of course he’s a rich kid policeman whose father died (April 1958) and left him millions.”
Scribbles/penis drawings-doped-up homo Junior. “Rich kid” Exley—easy make—working Johnny D.—no huge surprise. Doodles/gun drawings/indecipherable gobbledygook. “Operating this guy whose story you won’t believe.” Coffee stains/smears/cock drawings/”See file marked Evidence #1.”
Check the stack—there—a folder:
Newspaper clippings: mid-April ‘58. Human-interest schmaltz:
Johnny Duhamel turns pro-his “wealthy” parents died penniless and USC dunned their estate. Johnny: attending grad school, three jobs—no pro fight career plans. USC cracks down: repay your college debt or drop out.
That piece—the L.A. Times, 4/18/58. Three recaps—the Herald/Examiner/Mirror—4/24, 5/2, 5/3.
Weird:
Four L.A. dailies/four stories—no new facts exposited, no new angles probed. Gallaudet’s file check confirmed: Duhamel’s parents died broke.
More “Evidence #1”: num6ered document photos. I flashed back to Junior’s pad—that Minox camera.
Photos 1, 2, 3: Security First National Bank forms. Checking and savings accounts opened: Walton White, 2750 N. Edgemont, Los Angeles. Two thirty-grand deposits coming off hinky: Edgemont stopped at 2400.
Notations on the back:
#1—”Manager described ‘Walton White’ as ‘familiar somehow,’ 6’2”, 170, blond-gray hair, glasses, late thirties.”
#2—”Manager shown magazine photograph of Edmund Exley. Confirms that E.E. opened the ‘Walton White’ accounts.”
#3—”Manager stated that ‘Walton White’ (E.E.) requested blank bank checks immediately so that he could begin fulfilling transactions.”
Hot now—I started sweating.
Photos 4, 5, 6—cancelled “Walton White” checks. Four grand, four grand, five grand—4/23, 4/27, 4/30/58.
Made out to:
Fritzie Huntz, Paul Smitson, Frank Brigantino.
Bingo: the bylines on those copycat articles.
Photo #7—a cancelled check. Eleven grand and change paid out to: the USC Alumni Debt Fund.
“So he’s spent a fortune operating Officer John Duhamel.”
“Operating this guy whose story you won’t believe.”
Reporters bribed.
Johnny bought.
Junior glomming bank records—intimidation prowess and charm preCRAAAZY.
Sweating—dripping on my file swag:
Duhamel fight clippings.
A deposition—Chuck “the Greek” Chamales—matchmaker, Olympic Auditorium.
“Revealed under the threat to expose his liaison with Lurleen Ruth Cressmeyer, age 14”:
Johnny D. tanked his one pro fight.
Ed Exley paid him to do it.
Duhamel told Chamales this—“one night when he was drunk.” The Greek to Junior, verbatim: “He didn’t get specific. He just told me on the QT that that Exley guy had special work for him.”
Odd pages left—gibberish/doodling. One sheet block-printed:
As former Academy evidence instructor I was invited to the October 16th retirement party for Sgt. Dennis Payne. Talked about my recent sergeantcy and transfer to Ad Vice with Capt. Didion, who told me my father had old Dep. Chief Green move Dave Klein up to the Ad Vice command as only a Lieutenant partially to grease things for my ultimately taking a spot there. Capt. Didion told Dave “The Enforcer” stories for half an hour, and I only listened because I wanted to tap the grapevine for information on Johnny. Capt Didion told me that Exley personally requested that Johnny graduate early (the 7/10/58 cycle) in order to fill a potential Wilshire Patrol vacancy, which made no sense to him. Also, Dennis Payne confirmed what I suspected when Johnny was yanked early from my evidence class: that Exley urged those undercover assignments on him personally, asking Capt. Didion that he be assigned to them while still technically a cadet.
Exley and Duhamel—operating partners—operating WHO?
Suspects:
The Kafesjians.
Narco.
“This guy whose story you won’t believe.”
“This guy”—singular A semantic fuck-up——maybe, maybe not.
Single-o suspects:
Tommy K.
J.C.
Dan Wilhite.
Skewed—I couldn’t link them directly to Johnny.
Crack the door—Henstell on the walkway, pacing. Shove the chair back, jam the knob shut, go—
I lit a match and torched a file page: faggot artwork sizzled. More matches, more pages—a contained blaze right there on the table.
Smoke out the floor crack—
Henstell banged on the door. “Klein, Goddamn it, what the hell are you doing!”
Flames, charred paper, smoke. I kicked the table over, stomped the blaze out.
“Klein, Goddamn it!”
Jerk the door open, shove him back, coughing smoke—
“Tell Noonan it was personal. Tell him I’m still his witness, and now I owe him one.”
Out to East L.A., light-headed—light smoke inhalation. Custody fortyseven hours off—two days to GET it:
“LONG HISTORY OF INSANITY BOTH OUR FAMILIES.”
Olympic east—rain clouds dousing smog. Chasing/chased/partnered up/partner fucked: