Brown's Requiem - James Ellroy [118]
Feeling returned to my shoulder. By Monday I could move it without too much pain. That morning I started to sweat out news of Cathcart’s death, buying all the local papers and hanging out in front of Walter’s newly-purchased T.V. set. There was nothing, just the usual rebop—Jimmy Carter had announced that he planned to campaign on “his record,” Reagan announced that he would run on “the issues,” and Walter offered a running commentary that kept me laughing until my shoulder ached.
I called Ralston Tuesday morning and gave him the good news.
“Cathcart’s dead,” I said into the phone, “it’s over.”
Ralston just said, “Thank God.” And let the line go dead.
On Tuesday night I dumped all the evidence of the killing into the Pacific Ocean: the gun, my bloody clothes, Cathcart’s clothes I had stolen, the tape deck, and the portraits of Anton Bruckner. I felt an impulse to keep the likenesses of lonely Anton, to give them a good, sane home, but they had become ghastly objects. I tore them into small pieces and fed them to the sea.
The next day, armed with a pocketful of dimes, I called the Welfare contacts on the list Ralston had given me. At the first sound of a voice on the other end of the line, I said “Cathcart is dead. The scam is dead. I have evidence linking you to fraud and extortion. Stop all payments now.” Before the listener could respond, I hung up. I connected with all but three of the people on the list. It was good enough. Ralston would take the brunt of their fear and grief, as well he should. He had gotten off easy.
News of Cathcart’s death hit the media Wednesday night. It was attributed to suicide. I was watching T.V. with Walter when I got the word: Haywood Cathcart, 56, Captain, Los Angeles Police Department, had died of a self-inflicted gunshot wound sometime over the weekend at his “fishing retreat” in Del Mar. He had been a twenty-eight-year veteran of the L.A.P.D., was considered an exemplary officer, and was famous for “single-handedly cracking the famous Club Utopia firebombing case in 1968 that sent the slayers of six bar patrons to the gas chamber.” His superiors said that he had left no suicide note, but had been distraught recently over family matters.
As the somber-voiced newsman concluded his report, I started to weep. The fix was in. The L.A.P.D. had some inkling of what was up and had stonewalled it. If Cathcart had left no records. I was free.
Walter was dumbfounded at my tears. He had never seen me cry and had no idea of their origin. But he did his best to comfort me, embracing me and clumsily pawing my head. “What is it, Fritz?” he asked. “Did you know that cop who shot himself? Was he your buddy?”
I didn’t answer him, I just let myself be comforted. It was over. That night I went home to my pad, expecting to find it ransacked. It wasn’t. It was intact, waiting for me like an old friend. I looked at the calendar above my desk. On the space for June 30, I had marked, “Fred Baker—one week at one hundred twenty-five dollars per day.” It was now August 1. I had been in limbo for five weeks, had killed three men, had learned truths that few would know. I had been correct on the morning it all started. My life had been about to change, irrevocably.
The next morning I took a cab to the storage garage and got my old Camaro. I was reunited with another old friend, who had been washed and polished during my absence.
I called the Kupferman residence. It was time for the only reunion that mattered. The maid answered, distraught. “Mr. Kupferman had a heart attack last night. He’s in the hospital. He be real sick maybe gonna die.”
She started to ramble, but I cut her off: “What hospital?” I yelled.
“Cedars Sinai,” she said.
I hung up and tore out. The hospital was in West Hollywood, on Beverly near La Cienega, and by running lights and taking side streets I was there in fifteen minutes. I parked illegally and ran inside, flashing some absurd piece of fake I.D. at the reception lady and