“I don’t like to interfere with my men’s investigations,” Lieutenant Grimsley said, hoping that Spermwhale Whalen wouldn’t see him and wink and muss up his hair.
“Well I took the liberty of going through his personnel package in your office, Lieutenant,” Chief Lynch said. “Do you mind if I have a try?”
“Not at all, sir,” Lieutenant Grimsley said, enormously relieved. “After all, you’re an old IAD man.”
And it was true that Chief Lynch was an old IAD man, it being pretty much agreed upon that Internal Affairs Division experience was the best springboard for promotion. Head-hunters made rank consistently better than other investigators, the regular detective bureau being a dead end for the ambitious.
His three years as a headhunter were the most pleasurable in Chief Lynch’s entire career. He understood certain things about policemen. He knew the polygraph worked extremely well on them because of their job-induced guilt feelings, whereas it was almost useless on guiltless sociopathic criminals. Also he knew that all men fear something and he guessed what a fifty-two year old patrol cop like Spermwhale Whalen probably feared most.
Five minutes later Deputy Chief Lynch was sitting across from Spermwhale, drinking coffee, offering Spermwhale none. Chief Lynch was smiling. “I’m not going to waste time on you, Whalen.”
“That’s good, Chief, because I got nothin to say and I don’t know what this is all about.”
“You’re a goddamn liar!” Chief Lynch suddenly said and Spermwhale’s little eyes narrowed. The furry eyebrows dipped dangerously and the Z-shaped scar showed very white through the eyebrow and across his red nose. Chief Lynch, despite himself, glanced anxiously toward the door and wished he’d have let one of the investigators sit with him here in the stark room, with the table and wooden chairs and tape machine hissing.
“I’m not going to try to fool an old veteran like you, Whalen,” Chief Lynch said, continuing more amiably. “Of course we’re going to tape your statement. I’m not going to try to fool you about anything.”
“That’s good,” said Spermwhale, “because I got nothin…”
“Quite a record you have,” Chief Lynch interrupted. “You have quite a history of being insubordinate. I see why you’ve remained in uniform patrol for twenty years.”
“I like uniform patrol,” Spermwhale said, sitting motionless, his big hands on his knees, wishing for a cup of coffee, his mouth dry as ashes.
“Did I say twenty years? Well not quite. You only have nineteen and a half years, don’t you? Less some bad time you have to make up. My, my, you were so close to that twenty year pension. Now you’ll get nothing.”
“Listen, Chief…”
“You listen, Whalen,” Chief Lynch snapped. “You listen good. Maybe Niles wasted that fruit practicing a quick draw. Or shooting at beer bottles. I don’t know how he did it and I don’t really care. But I’m going to get the truth from every man who was there. You can cooperate or I’ll push for at least involuntary manslaughter against Niles and I guarantee you’ll find your ass on trial as an accessory after the fact. Ever hear of the crime of harboring and concealing after a felony’s been committed?”
“Listen, Chief…”
“You listen, Whalen,” said Chief Lynch, warming up, leaning across the table, his breath smelling lemony from Theda Gunther’s douche powder. “You’re fifty-two years old. Fifty-two. Think of that. Look at you. You’re a crude, fat, aging man. You going to go out and get a job? Doing what? Flying airplanes? No chance. You aren’t going to be able to get a job cleaning out shithouses after you’re fired from the police department. How’re you going to live? I’ll bet after you serve your six months in jail, and after your whole career’s down the drain, without a dime of pension money that you end up on skidrow with the other bums. I’ll bet you’re begging for nickels or selling your blood for a few bucks. Know some of the other things the old winos do to make a few bucks, Whalen? Want me to tell you? Think it could never happen to you?”
And then Chief Lynch tried the inquisitor’s device of lie and half lie to get truth and half truth. “We found a very interesting fingerprint on a bourbon bottle there in the park. You have five minutes to make up your mind. I’m walking out this door right now. You either give us the full story on this killing or you’re on your way to a trial board and criminal prosecution. Then it’ll be too late to make a deal. Nineteen and a half years, huh? You almost made the pension, baby.”
Spermwhale Whalen found himself staring at a vacant chair. He didn’t move for three minutes. He had never felt more alone. He listened to the muffled voices outside. He listened to his heart and to the hissing tape machine. Sweat studded his upper lip. He heard it patting to the floor. Then the bravest and strongest choirboy, the veteran of three wars, the only Los Angeles policeman to fly combat missions while an active member of the department, the winner of a Silver Star, six Air Medals and two Purple Hearts, who feared no man, nor even death from any hand but his own, the bravest and strongest and oldest choirboy, found that he feared life. The horrifying life described by Chief Lynch. He feared it dreadfully He felt the fear sweep over him. His throat constricted and his scalp tingled from fear. The tape recorder was unbearable. Hissing. His big red hand almost slipped off the door-knob when he rushed to open the door. He stepped tentatively into the hallway where five men waited.
Deputy Chief Lynch looked into Spermwhale’s little eyes. Chief Lynch smoothed his toupee, his own scraggly hair curling behind his ears. He stepped back into the room smiling confidently. Spermwhale held the door for him.
By 11:00 A.M. that day eight choirboys were separately sitting in various offices on the fifth floor of Parker Center. By 4:00 P.M. that day Sergeant Nick Yanov, who by now knew the story from Captain Drobeck, who had gotten it from Commander Moss, was on the phone calling Lieutenant Rudy Ortiz who often defended accused officers at department trial boards.
Nick Yanov was raging into the telephone, hurting the ears of the defender. “The stupid goddamn idiots cooked up a story and stuck to it except Whalen who informed on himself and the others!”
“Christ!” Lieutenant Ortiz said. “All they had the others for was maybe cue-bow for getting drunk in the park. They just should’ve called the dicks and told the whole story at the scene. Niles was the only one in serious trouble, except for the dummy who was in uniform.”
“I know. I know. The idiots!” said Nick Yanov. “Now they’ve got them all for withholding evidence and lying to the investigators and insubordination.”
“They can fire their young asses behind this caper,” Lieutenant Ortiz said. “They could even prosecute them in criminal court.”
“I know. Can’t you help them?” Nick Yanov pleaded.
By 5:00 P.M., Deputy Chief Lynch was on the phone, chatting good naturedly with Assistant Chief Buster Llewellyn.
“Right, Buster, I wish we could fire them too. And throw them in the slammer. But that would attract attention. As it is we’ve got it under control.”
“Thank God the victim was just some fag. Imagine if it’d been someone decent,” said Assistant Chief Buster Llewellyn, sipping on his coffee, wondering for the hundredth time about the mysterious stain on his hand tooled blotter.
“Nobody decent would be in MacArthur Park at that time of night. Nobody except fruits. And this group of policemen.”
“Talk to the victim’s mother, Adrian?”
“Personally” smiled Chief Lynch. “She took it pretty hard. But you know, I think his old man was actually kind of relieved.”