Hollywood Station

SIX

THIS WAS SUPPOSED to be a routine interview of a missing juvenile, nothing more. Andi McCrea had been sitting in her little cubicle in the detective squad room staring at a computer screen, putting together reports to take to the DA’s office in a case where a wife smacked her husband on the head with the side of a roofing hammer when, after drinking a six-pack of Scotch ale, he curled his lip and told her that the meat loaf she’d labored over “smelled like Gretchen’s snatch.”

There were two things wrong with that: First, Gretchen was her twice-divorced, flirtatious younger sister, and second, he had a panic-stricken look on his face that denuded the feeble explanation when he quickly said, “Of course, I wouldn’t know what Gretchen’s…” Then he began again and said, “I was just trying for a Chris Rock kind of line but didn’t make it, huh? The meat loaf is fine. It’s fine, honey.”

She didn’t say a word but walked to the back porch, where the roofer kept his tool belt, and returned with the hammer just as he was taking the first bite of meat loaf that smelled like Gretchen’s snatch.

Even though the wife had been booked for attempted murder, the guy only ended up with twenty-three stitches and a concussion. Andi figured that whichever deputy DA the case was taken to would reject it as a felony and refer it to the city attorney’s office for a misdemeanor filing, which was fine with her. The hammer victim reminded her of her ex-husband, Jason, now retired from LAPD and living in Idaho near lots of other coppers who had fled to the wilderness locales. Places where local cops only write on their arrest reports under race of suspects either “white” or “landscaper.”

Jason had been one of those whom several other women officers had sampled, the kind they called “Twinkies,” guys who aren’t good for you but you have to have one. Andi had been young then, and she paid the price during a five-year marriage that brought her nothing good except Max.

Her only child, Sergeant Max Edward McCrea, was serving with the U.S. Army in Afghanistan, his second deployment, the first having been in Iraq at a time when Andi was hardly ever able to sleep more than a few hours before waking with night sweats. It was better now that he was in Afghanistan. A little better. Eighteen years old, just out of high school, he had gotten the itch, and there was nothing she could do to keep him from signing that enlistment contract. Nothing that her ex-husband could do either, when for once Jason had stepped up and acted like a father. Max had said he was going into the army with two other teammates from his varsity football team, and that was it. Iraq for him, tension headaches for her, lying awake in her two-story house in Van Nuys.

After getting her case file in order, Andi was about to get a cup of coffee, when one of the Watch 2 patrol officers approached her cubicle and said, “Detective, could you talk to a fourteen-year-old runaway for us? We got a call to the Lucky Strike Lanes, where he was bowling with a forty-year-old guy who started slapping him around. He tells us he was molested by the guy, but the guy won’t talk at all. We got him in a holding tank.”

“You need the sex crimes detail,” Andi said.

“I know, but they’re not here and I think the kid wants to talk but only to a woman. Says the things he’s got to say are too embarrassing to tell a man. I think he needs a mommy.”

“Who doesn’t?” Andi sighed. “Okay, put him in the interview room and I’ll be right there.”

Five minutes later, after drinking her coffee, and after getting the boy a soft drink and advising him for the second time of his rights, she nodded to the uniformed officer that he could leave.

Aaron Billings was delicate, almost pretty, with dark ringlets, wide-set expressive eyes, and a mature, lingering gaze that she wouldn’t have expected. He looked of mixed race, maybe a quarter African American, but she couldn’t be sure. He had a brilliant smile.

“Do you understand why the officers arrested you and your companion?” she asked.

“Oh, sure,” he said. “Mel was hitting me. Everyone saw him. We were right there in the bowling alley. I’m sick of it, so when they asked for our ID I told them I was a runaway. I’m sure my mom’s made a report. Well, I think she would.”

“Where’re you from?”

“Reno, Nevada.”

“How long have you been gone?”

“Three weeks.”

“Did you run away with Mel?” Andi asked.

“No, but I met him the next day when I was hitchhiking. I was sick of my mother. She was always bringing men home, and my sister and me would see them having sex. My sister is ten.”

“You told the officer that Mel molested you, is that right?”

“Yes, lots of times.”

“Tell me what happened from when you first met.”

“Okay,” the kid said, and he took a long drink from the soda can. “First, he took me to a motel and we had sex. I didn’t want to but he made me. Then he gave me ten dollars. Then we went to the movies. Then we had Chinese food at a restaurant. Then we decided to drive to Hollywood and maybe see movie stars. Then Mel bought vodka and orange juice and we got drunk. Then we drove to Fresno and parked at a rest stop and slept. Then we woke up early. Then we killed two people and took their money. Then we went to the movies again. Then we drove to Bakersfield. Then -”

“Wait a minute!” Andi said. “Let’s go back to the rest stop!”

Twenty minutes later Andi was on the phone to the police in Fresno, and after a conversation with a detective, she learned that yes, a middle-aged couple had been shot and killed where they’d obviously been catching a few hours’ sleep en route from Kansas to a California vacation. And yes, the case was open with no suspects and no evidence other than the.32 caliber slugs taken from the skulls of both victims at the postmortem.

The detective said, “We just don’t have any leads.”

Andi said, “You do now.”

When Andi’s supervisor, D3 Rhonda Jenkins, came in late that afternoon after a long day in court testifying in a three-year-old murder case, she said, “My day sucked. How was yours?”

“Tried to keep busy on a typical May afternoon in Hollywood, USA.”

“Yeah? What’d you do?” Rhonda asked, just making conversation as she slipped off her low-heeled pumps and massaged her aching feet.

Deadpan, Andi said, “First I made calls on two reports from last night. Then I reread the case file on the pizza man shooting. Then I interviewed a banger down at Parker Center. Then I had some coffee. Then I cleared a double homicide in Fresno. Then I wrote a letter to Max. Then -”

“Whoa!” Rhonda said. “Go back to the double homicide in Fresno!”

“That bitch! You couldn’t find her heart with a darkfield microscope,” Jetsam complained to his partner.

Flotsam, who was attending community college during the day, said, “Dude, you are simply another victim of the incestuous and intertwined and atavistic relationships of the law-enforcement community.”

Jetsam gaped at Flotsam, who was driving up into the Hollywood Hills, and said, “Just shove those college-boy words, why don’t you.”

“Okay, to be honest,” said Flotsam, “from that photo you showed me, she was spherical, dude. The woman looked to me like a fucking Teletubby. You were blinded by the humongous mammary glands is all. There was no real melding of the hearts and minds.”

“Melding of the…” Jetsam looked at his partner in disbelief and said, “Bro, the bitch’s lawyer wants everything, including my fucking fish tank! With the only two turtles I got left! And guess what else? The federal consent decree ain’t gonna end on schedule because that asshole of a federal judge says we’re not ready. It’s all political bullshit.”

“Don’t tell me that,” Flotsam said. “I was all ready to yell out at roll call, ‘Free at last, free at last, Lord God Awmighty, free at last!’”

“I’m outrageously pissed off at our new mayor,” Jetsam said, “turning the police commission into an ACLU substation. And I’m pissed off at my ex-wife’s lawyer, who only wants me to have what I can make recycling aluminum cans. And I’m pissed off living in an apartment with lunging fungus so aggressive it wants to tackle you like a linebacker. And I’m pissed off at my former back-stabbing girlfriend. And I’m pissed off at the Northeast detective who’s boning her now. So all in all, I feel like shooting somebody.”

And, as it happened, he would.

The PSR radio voice alerted all units on the frequency to a code 37, meaning a stolen vehicle, as well as a police pursuit in progress of said vehicle.

Ever the pessimist, Jetsam said, “Devonshire Division. He’ll never come this far south.”

The more optimistic Flotsam said, “You never know. We can dream.”

Jetsam said, “Since our politician chief won’t let us pursue unless the driver’s considered reckless, do you suppose this fucking maniac has crossed the reckless-driving threshold yet? Or does he have to run a cop off the road first?”

They listened to the pursuit on simulcast as it crossed freeways and surface streets in the San Fernando Valley, heading in the general direction of North Hollywood. And within a few minutes it was in North Hollywood and heading for the Hollywood Freeway.

“Watch them turn north again,” Jetsam said.

But the pursuit did not. The stolen car, a new Toyota 4Runner, turned south on the Hollywood Freeway, and Jetsam said, “That one has a pretty hot six under the hood from what I hear. Bet he’ll double-back now. Probably some homie. He’ll double-back, get near his ’hood, dump the car, and run for it.”

But the pursuit left the Hollywood Freeway and turned east on the Ventura Freeway and then south on Lankershim Boulevard. And now the surfer team looked at each other and Jetsam said, “Holy shit. Let’s go!”

And they did. Flotsam stepped on it and headed north on the Hollywood Freeway past Universal City and turned off in the vicinity of the Lakeside Country Club, where by now a dozen LAPD and CHP units were involved, as well as a television news helicopter, but no LAPD airship.

And it was here that the driver dumped the car on a residential street near the country club, and he was into a yard, over a fence into another yard, onto the golf course, running across fairways, and then back into a North Hollywood residential street where nearly twenty cops were out on foot, half of them armed with shotguns.

Even though a North Hollywood Division sergeant was at the abandoned stolen car, trying to inform the communications operator that there was sufficient help at the scene, cars kept coming, as happens during a long pursuit like this. Soon there were L.A. Sheriff’s Department units as well as more CHP and LAPD cars, with the TV helicopter hovering and lighting up the running cops below.

Flotsam drove two blocks west of the pandemonium and said, “Wanna get out and go hunting for a while? You never know.”

“Fucking A,” Jetsam said, and they got out of their car with flashlights extinguished and walked through a residential alley behind family homes and apartment buildings.

They could hear voices on the street to their right, where other cops were searching, and Flotsam said, “Maybe we better turn our flashlights on before somebody caps one off at us.”

Then a voice yelled, “There he is! Hey, there he is!”

They ran toward the voice and saw a young cop with ginger hair and pink complexion sitting astride an eight-foot block wall dividing an apartment complex from the alley.

He saw them, or rather, he saw two shadow figures in blue uniforms, and said, “Up there! He’s in that tree!”

Flotsam shined his light high into an old olive tree, and sure enough, there was a young Latino up there in an oversize white T-shirt, baggy khakis, and a head bandana.

The young cop yelled, “Climb down now!” And he pointed his nine at the guy with one hand while with his other hand he shined his light on the treetop.

Flotsam and Jetsam got closer, and the guy in the tree looked down at the young cop straddling the wall and said, “Fuck you. Come up and get me.”

Flotsam turned to Jetsam and said, “Tweaked. He’s fried on crystal.”

“Ain’t everybody?” Jetsam said.

The young cop, who had “probationer” written all over him, pulled out his rover but before keying it said, “What’s our location? Do you guys know the address here?”

“Naw,” Jetsam said. “We work Van Nuys Division.”

Now, that was weird, Flotsam thought. Why would his partner tell the boot that they worked Van Nuys instead of telling the truth?

Then the young cop said, “Watch him, will you? I gotta run out to the street and get the address.”

“Just go out front and start yelling,” Jetsam said. “There’s coppers all over the block.”

Flotsam also found it strange that Jetsam had turned his flashlight off and was standing in deep shadow under a second tree. Almost as though he didn’t want the kid to be able to see him clearly. But why? That they had driven a short distance out of their division wasn’t a big deal.

After the rookie ran out onto the street in front, Jetsam said, “Fucking boot doesn’t know what to do about a thief in a tree.”

They stood looking up at the guy who squinted down at their light beams, and Flotsam said, “What would you do besides wait for backup?”

Jetsam looked up and yelled, “Hey asshole, climb down here.”

The car thief said, “I’m staying here.”

“How would you like me to blow you outta that tree?” Jetsam shouted, aiming his.40 caliber Glock at him. “I feel like shooting somebody tonight.”

“You won’t shoot,” the kid said. “I’m a minor. And all I did was joyride.”

Now Jetsam was really torqued. And not for the first time he noticed that the young cop had left his Remington beanbag shotgun with the bright green fore and aft stocks propped against the wall.

“Check this out, partner,” he said to Flotsam. “That probey grabbed a beanbag gun instead of the real thing. Now he’s probably looking for a chain saw to cut the fucking tree down.”

Touching his pepper spray canister, Flotsam said, “Wish he was closer, dude. A little act-right spray would do wonders for him.” Then Flotsam looked at Jetsam and Jetsam looked at Flotsam and Flotsam said, “No. I know what you’re thinking, but no. Stay real, man!”

But Jetsam said in a quiet voice, “That boot never saw our faces, bro. There’s coppers all over the neighborhood.”

“No,” Flotsam said. “A beanbag gun is not to be used for compliance purposes. This ain’t pit bull polo, dude.”

“I wonder if it would induce some compliance here.”

Flotsam said, “I don’t wanna know.”

But Jetsam, who had never shot anyone with a beanbag or anything else, reached into his pocket, put on a pair of latex gloves so as to not leave latent prints, picked up the shotgun, pointed it up into the tree, and said, “Hey vato, get your ass down here right now or I’ll let one go and blow you outta that tree.”

The muzzle of the gun looked big enough to hold a popsicle, but it didn’t scare the car thief, who said, “You and your puto partner can just kiss my -”

And the muzzle flash and explosion shocked Flotsam more than the kid, who let out a shriek when the beanbag struck him in the belly.

“Ow ow ow, you pussy!” the kid yelled. “You shot me, you pussy! Owwwwwww!”

So Jetsam let go with another round, and this time Flotsam ran to the street in front of the apartment complex and saw no less than five shadow figures yelling and running their way while the kid howled even louder and started climbing down.

“Let’s get the fuck outta here!” Flotsam said, after running back to Jetsam and grabbing him by the arm.

“He’s coming down, bro,” Jetsam said with a dazed expression.

“Toss that tube!” Flotsam said, and Jetsam dropped the shotgun on the grass and scurried after his partner.

Both cops ran back down the alley through the darkness toward their car, and neither spoke until Flotsam said, “Man, there’ll be IA investigators all over this one, you crazy fucker! You ain’t even allowed to shoot white guys like that!”

Still running, and gradually realizing that he’d just violated a whole lot of Department regulations, if not the penal code itself, Jetsam said, “The homie never saw us, bro. The lights were always in his eyes. The little boot copper didn’t see our faces neither. Shit, he was so excited he couldn’t ID his own dick. Anyways, this is North Hollywood Division. We don’t work here.”

“The best-laid plans of mice and rats,” Flotsam said. Then he had a panicky thought. “Did you go code six?” he said, referring to the safety rule of informing communications of their location when leaving the car. “I can’t remember.”

Jetsam also panicked for a moment, then said, “No, I’m sure I didn’t. Nobody knows we’re here in North Hollywood.”

“Let’s get the fuck back to our beat!” Flotsam said when they reached their car, unlocked it, and got inside.

He drove with lights out until they were blocks from the scene and heard the PSR voice say “All units, code four. Suspect in custody. Code four.”

They didn’t talk at all until they were safely back cruising Hollywood Boulevard. Then Jetsam said, “Let’s get code seven. Our adventure’s made me real hungry all of a sudden. And bro, your shit’s kinda weak lately. We gotta jack you up somehow. Why don’tcha get one of those healthy reduced-fat burritos swimming in sour cream and guacamole.” Then he added, “It musta been those two shots I gave that homie, but I feel mega-happy now.”

And Flotsam could only gape when Jetsam suddenly began to sing the U2 hit: “Two shots of happy, one shot of saaaaad.”

“You’re scary, dude,” Flotsam said. “You’re as scary as a doctor putting on one rubber glove.”

Jetsam kept on singing: “Two shots of happy, one shot of saaaaaad.”

Flotsam kept driving toward Sunset Boulevard and finally said, “I wanna take you up to the Director’s Chair first night we’re off together. Have a few beers. Shoot some pool or darts.”

“Okay, I got nothing better to do, but I never been fond of the joint. Don’t you wanna go someplace where there ain’t so many cops?”

Flotsam said, “I love a bar with a sign that says ‘No shirt, no shoes, no badge, no service.’ Besides, there’s always a few badge bunnies around that’ll pork any copper, even you.”

Jetsam said, “Thank you, Dr. Ruth. Why’re you so concerned with my sex life all of a sudden?”

Flotsam said, “It’s me I’m thinking about, dude. You gotta take your mind off your ex and her lawyer and that hose monster that dumped you. Either that or in order to protect my career and pension I gotta go find that Northeast detective she’s snogging.”

“What for?”

“To cap him. We can’t go on like this. You hearing me, dude?”

Cosmo Betrossian had always denied that he was even loosely associated with the so-called Russian Mafia. The federal and local authorities called everybody from the former USSR and eastern Europe “Russian Mafia.” That is, everyone Cosmo knew, because everyone Cosmo knew was involved in illegal activity of one sort or another. The designations didn’t make any sense to Cosmo, who, even though he had grown up in Soviet Armenia and spoke some bastardized Russian, was no more a Russian than George Bush was. He figured that American cops were just full of shit as far as eastern European immigrants were concerned.

But because of their obsession with Russian Mafia, he had to be careful when he had any business dealing with Dmitri, the owner of the Gulag, a nightclub on Western Avenue that wasn’t in the best part of town but had a well-lit, well-guarded parking lot. Young people from all over the west side, even Beverly Hills and Brentwood, were not afraid to drive east to Little Siberia, as some called it.

The Gulag’s food was good and they poured generous drinks and Dmitri gave them the recorded familiar rock sounds they wanted, which kept the dance floor jammed until closing time. And on the occasional “Russian Night” Dmitri advertised live entertainment: Russian dancers, balalaikas, violins, and a beautiful singer from Moscow. It brought Dmitri a very wealthy clientele who had emigrated to Los Angeles from all over the former USSR, whether or not they were into legitimate business or smuggling or money laundering. But this night was not going to be one of the Russian nights.

A week had passed since the robbery, and Cosmo felt confident going to Dmitri. The police were even less of a worry. Nobody he knew had even been questioned. Early in the evening, he drove to the Gulag, entered, and went to the bar. He knew the bartender whom the Americans called “Georgie” because he was from the Republic of Georgia, and asked to see Dmitri. The bartender poured him a shot of ouzo and Cosmo waited for the bartender to deal with two cocktail waitresses at the service bar who were giving the bartender more happy hour drink orders than he could handle.

The nightclub was typical for Hollywood in that there was an area set aside for private parties. In the Gulag the private area was upstairs, with plush green sofas lining walls papered in garish streaks of color-somebody’s idea of “edgy,” that favorite cliché of Hollywood scenesters, the other being “vibe.” The Gulag was edgy. The Gulag vibed mysterious.

On this evening, the jock was just setting up and he spun some soft-rock standards for the end of the extended happy hour. There were two guys repairing some strobes and spots before the crowd arrived and bodies got writhing in the dance-floor pit. Busboys and waiters were wiping off tables and chairs and dusting the seats in the cuddle-puddle booths on the raised level for those customers who tipped the manager Andrei.

After ten minutes, Cosmo was directed upstairs into Dmitri’s surprisingly spartan office where he found the club owner at his desk, slippered feet up, smoking a cigarette in a silver holder, and watching S &M porn on his computer screen. Everybody said that Dmitri indulged in all kinds of exotic sex. He was forty-one years old, not tall, had a slight build, soft hands, and bloodshot blue eyes, and was wearing a chestnut hair weave. He looked unexceptional and harmless in a white linen shirt and chinos, but Cosmo was very scared of him. He had heard things about Dmitri and his friends.

The club owner knew that Cosmo’s Russian was extremely poor and Dmitri adored current American slang, so he had always spoken English to Cosmo. Without getting up he said, “Here comes a happen-ink guy! A guy who always has it go-ink on! Hello, Cosmo!”

He reached out with one of those soft hands and slapped palms with Cosmo, who said, “Dmitri, thank you for this talk. Thank you, brother.”

“You got some-think I need?”

“Yes, my brother,” Cosmo said, sitting in the client chair in front of the desk.

“Not credit-card information, I hope. In gen-yural I am not into credit cards no more, Cosmo. I am moving into other directions.”

“No, brother,” Cosmo said. “I have brought for you something to show.” And with that he produced a single diamond, one of the larger stones from the jewelry store robbery, and put it gingerly on the desk.

Dmitri lowered his feet onto the floor and looked at the stone. He smiled at Cosmo and said, “I do not know diamonds. But I have a friend who knows. Do you have more?”

“Yes,” Cosmo said. “Much more. Many rings and earrings too. All very beautiful stones.”

Dmitri looked impressed. “You are grow-ink in America!” he said. “No more business with addicts?”

“Addicts do not have diamonds,” Cosmo said. “I think you shall buy all my diamonds and sell for big profit, my brother.”

“It is possible that I should be een-wolved with you again, Cosmo,” Dmitri said, smiling. “You are perhaps now a big man in America.”

“I wish to bring every diamond soon. I wish to sell for only thirty-five thousands. The news lady on TV say the diamonds worth maybe two, three hundred thousands.”

“The hand grenade!” Dmitri said with a grin. “So it was you! But thirty-five thousand? You must bring me high-quality stones for thirty-five thousand.”

“Okay, brother,” Cosmo said. “I shall bring.”

“I need perhaps one month to make my deal and to get so much cash for you,” Dmitri said. “And to make sure that police do not arrest you in meantime.”

“I am very sad to hear that,” Cosmo said, sweat popping on his forehead. “I must get money now.”

Dmitri shrugged and said, “You may take your treasure to somebody else, Cosmo. No problem.”

Cosmo had nobody else for something like this, and he knew that Dmitri was aware of it.

“Okay,” Cosmo said. “I wait. Please call me when you have money.”

“Now that you are grow-ink into a businessman,” Dmitri said as Cosmo bowed slightly and prepared to leave, “you should shave between the eyebrows. Americans like two eyebrows, not one.”

On the night that Jetsam fired two shots of happy with no shot of sad, another shooting would take place, this one in Hollywood Division, that would provoke several shots of sad for two of the officers involved.

The code 3 call was given to 6-A-65 of Watch 3, directing them to a residential street on the west side of Hollywood, an area that seldom was the source of such calls. Half the cars on the midwatch rolled on it when the PSR said the words “Man with a gun.”

The assigned car, thanks to lights and siren, got there seconds before the others, but two of the midwatch units roared in before the officers of 6-A-65 were out of the car. One of the midwatch units was driven by Mag Takara. Her partner, Benny Brewster, jumped out with a shotgun, and then another car from Watch 3 arrived. Eight cops, four with shotguns, approached the house from which the call had emanated. The porch lights were out, and the street was quite dark. The decision whether to approach the porch did not have to be made. The front door to the house swung open, and the cops at the scene could scarcely believe what they were seeing.

A thirty-eight-year-old man, later identified as Roland Tarkington, owner of the house, stepped out onto the porch. It would be learned that his father had once owned large chunks of commercial property in Hollywood but had lost it all in bad investments, leaving his only child, Roland, the house and sufficient money to exist. Roland was waving a document in one hand and had the other hand behind his back.

In the glare of half a dozen flashlight beams plus a spotlight trained on him by the closest black-and-white, Roland spoke not a word but held up the paper as though it were a white flag of surrender. He struggled down the concrete steps from his porch and advanced toward the cops.

The thing that had the cops amazed was Roland Tarkington’s size. He would be measured the next day during a postmortem at five feet six inches. His weight would be listed on the death report as just over 540 pounds. The shadow of Roland Tarkington thrown onto the walk behind him was vast.

After Benny Brewster shouted, “Let’s see the other hand!” there was a cacophony of voices:

“Show us your other hand!”

“Both hands in the air, goddamnit!”

“Get down on the sidewalk!”

“Watch that fucking hand! Watch his hand!”

A probationary cop from Watch 3 left his training officer and crept along the driveway forty feet from the standoff as the obese man stopped, still silently waving the white paper. The probationer was in a position to see behind Roland Tarkington’s back and yelled, “He’s got a gun!”

As though on cue, another Hollywood performance ended when Roland Tarkington showed them what he was hiding, suddenly aiming what looked like a.9-millimeter semiautomatic pistol at the closest cop.

And he was hit by two shotgun blasts fired by separate officers from Watch 3 and five rounds from pistols fired by two other Watch 3 officers. Roland Tarkington, despite his great bulk, was lit up by bright orange muzzle blasts, lifted off his feet, and thrown down on his back, where he bled out, dying within seconds, his heart literally shredded. Another five police pistol rounds that missed had riddled the front of the house as Roland Tarkington fell.

Neighbors then poured out of their homes, and voices were yelling, and at least two women across the street were wailing and crying. The Oracle, who arrived just as the rounds exploded in the night, picked up the blood-spattered paper lying on the grass beside the dead man. Roland Tarkington’s gun turned out to be a realistically designed water pistol.

The second cop to have fired his shotgun said, “What’s it say, Sarge?”

The Oracle read aloud: “‘I offer my humble apologies to the fine officers of the LAPD. This was the only way I could summon the courage to end my life of misery. I ask that my remains be cremated. I would not want anyone to have to carry my body to our family plot at Forest Lawn Cemetery. Thank you. Roland G. Tarkington.’”

None of the midwatch units had been in a position to fire, and Mag said to Benny, “Let’s get outta here, partner. This is bad shit.”

When they were back at their car putting the shotgun into the locked rack, Mag heard two cops talking to the Oracle.

One said, “Goddamnit! Goddamn this bastard! Why didn’t he take poison? Goddamn him!”

The Oracle said to the cop, “Get in your car and get back to the station, son. FID will be arriving soon.”

Another voice said to the Oracle, “I’m not a fucking executioner! Why did he do this to me? Why?”

The final comment was made by the night-watch detective Compassionate Charlie Gilford, who showed up as the black-and-whites were driving away. The RA was double-parked, a paramedic standing over the huge mound of bloody flesh that had been Roland Tarkington, glad that the crew from the coroner’s would be handling this one.

Compassionate Charlie picked up the water pistol, squeezed the trigger, and when no water squirted out said, “Shit, it ain’t even loaded.” Then he shined his light on the blasted gaping chest of Roland Tarkington and said, “You would have to call this a heartrending conclusion to another Hollywood melodrama.”