(LOS ANGELES, 2:20 P.M., TUESDAY, 8/28/62)
I print-dusted PO boxes. It was penance shitwork. My Fox antics blew the raid. It was in-close detail work. I dusted hinge flaps and interior surfaces. I worked solo. A patrol cop blocked the kicked-down door.
I’d elimination-rolled the cops, the customers, Bev Shoftel, and myself. I tape-transferred the prints to a cardboard sheet and photographed them. The box grab was low-yield. The print grab was all smudges and smears.
The Hats warrant-checked the male customers. All three came up clean. The matrons warrant-checked the two women. They had traffic warrants extant. The Hats grabbed the address books in their handbags. I photographed all the pages. We’ll run the names, addresses, and phone numbers through R&I. Criminal names and/or locations might pop up.
The male pervs waltzed. The female pervs went to jail. Bev Shoftel was popped for smut-through-the-mail violations. She’ll bail out sure as shit.
Max Herman called me with an update. Red and Harry grabbed Jack Clemmons at his Mar Vista crib. They took him to the downtown DB. A hard smackdown bodes. Max and Eddie picked up Morty Bendish and ran him downtown. Bill Parker might can Clemmons. His “Fearless Fuzz” shit plays psycho. I think we should suborn Morty B. His brief? Newspaper propagandist and paid lapdog. Fetch, Morty, fetch!
I dusted box 6969. I turned up a rubber-glove partial. Glove prints scream criminal design. A torn fingertip revealed partial loops, tents, and whorls. I tape-transferred the partial to a glossy-backed card and photographed it in tight. It looked like a male right index finger.
The print job loomed as all day/all night. I dropped the card in my briefcase and lit a cigarette. I grabbed a copy of the L.A. Lowdown and skimmed the “priapic preview”:
Mr. Fearless Fuzz. He’s Sergeant Jack Clemmons. He’s a White Dog Bund Reichsführer and Norm’s Nest habitué. The preview enhanced the cover line. Whiskey Bill Parker and Bobby the K. Their doomonic devil deal. Parker covers up the Monroe snuff and whitewashes Monroe’s ties to the K boys. Jack and Bobby dump Gay Edgar Hoover. Lawyer/cop Parker’s the new FBI boss.
It wasn’t a snuff. Bobby did not poke Monroe. The cover-up part was all true. Somebody fed Clemmons the rumor. I’ve got a hunch who.
The L.A. Lowdown. This issue was mailed before I told Morty to cease and desist. “Weird-O Death of a Sex Siren, Part 1” was already out in the smog. I skimmed the text at Morty’s pad. It was fanciful shit. Morty pandered to pervert-lunatic subscribers. The L.A. Lowdown posed no threat to the K boys.
I skimmed past the priapic preview. I hit “Sicko Psycho in Furtive 459 Prowls!!! Passive Putz or Fitful Fiend Soon to Explode???”
The author? Detective Slithering Sleuth.
The piece ran four pages. Slithering Sleuth mimicked Confidential’s jive prose style. The piece laid out six soft-prowl/nobody’s home B and E’s in Brentwood and Pacific Palisades. The “Sicko Psycho” targeted the “swank” houses of single women. “Sex-clusive! How many posh pads did he hit altogether? Six women reported the pad break-ins. There may be more!!!”
The crimes ran from 11/18/61 to 3/12/62. Slithering Sleuth described the crime scenes. He merged jive prose and copese here. He dropped words like victimology and phrases like “white female American.” Sicko Psycho did not loot the posh pads. He dumped furniture and wall artwork. He dumped medicine chests. He jacked off and shot his load into underwear drawers. He left notes. They were composed in glue-fixed magazine letters. The LAPD crime lab examined them.
The letters and paper stock were “markedly archaic.” The Sicko Psycho’s MO escalated. He destroyed property and jizzed twice at the sixth victim’s pad. All semen scrapings went to the lab. Sicko Psycho was poised to further escalate. His final break-in occurred on 3/12/62.
The ceiling dropped. The floor dipped. The room contracted. My blood pressure red-lined.
Marilyn Monroe moved to Brentwood in March.