Crazed

Perlmutter knew it was risky driving back to the murder site. Even though he didn’t get there until almost midnight last night, the moon had still been mostly full and there was a chance a neighbor might remember seeing his car. He didn’t care. He wanted this scene for his movie: His fictional filmmaker first calling the police anonymously to let them know about the Malibu Butcher’s latest murders (even though these happened in Culver City), and then driving to the scene so he could engage one of the cops in clever banter. In his mind, Perlmutter could picture the cop being too dense to pick up the fictional filmmaker’s hints about knowing more than he was letting on. He giggled as he imagined the scene playing out in his head.

A barricade had been put up to block traffic from entering the street where the murders happened. Perlmutter slowed down as he approached the barricade, and he could see police cruisers, an ambulance, and what had to be half-a-dozen unmarked police cars filling up the street near the victims’ house. He rolled down his window and tried asking the cop manning the barricade what had happened.

Perlmutter felt the sweat building up on the back of his neck as he dug his wallet out of his back pants pocket and fumbled around for his license. This wasn’t going the way he’d pictured it. Not at all. He almost slammed his foot down on the gas pedal instead, but told himself it didn’t matter if this cop knew his name. He hadn’t done anything. He was a spectator, nothing else. He knew things the cops didn’t, but that didn’t mean he was guilty. If they searched his apartment, what would they find? Absolutely nothing. Unless they picked up his screenplay . . .

He concentrated to keep his hand from shaking as he handed his license to the cop. A slight tremor showed, but that was all. Still, the cop spent way too long studying the license before handing it back.

Perlmutter nodded. At that moment he didn’t trust himself to talk. He could feel his damp T-shirt clinging to his skin as sweat spread out along the shirt collar.

“I’m a screenwriter,” Perlmutter said, relieved that his voice didn’t crack. “I’m setting part of my film in Culver City, and I thought I’d drive around and get a feel for this area. When I saw this street blocked off, I thought I’d ask about it. As a writer, you’re always looking for ideas.”

The cop seemed somewhat mollified by his answer. Perlmutter had to bite down on his tongue to keep from grinning, but damn, it was fast thinking on his part and he was proud of his answer, especially with how he’d be able to work this scene into his film. It was almost inspiring how he realized the best answer he could give would be to tell the truth. You didn’t look like you were lying when you were telling the truth, even when it wasn’t the full truth.

“Home. I was working on my screenplay. A marathon session where I wrote over thirty pages. I hit a brick wall this morning, so I drove here for inspiration and stumbled onto this road being blocked off and what looks like a lot of police cars down there.” Perlmutter was feeling bolder. He leaned his head further out the window and asked, “So what happened?”

Perlmutter drove away. A half mile later he broke out giggling as he thought of how shocked that cop was going to be when he saw the movie and recognized himself in this scene. There’d be changes, of course, but it would still be close enough to keep that cop wondering.