Because the Night (25 page)

Sherry laughed and undid the top button of her uniform blouse. Ofdfield walked to the middle of the living room and said, “Ready when you are, C.B.”

Sherry giggled at the remark; Havilland could hear traces of stage fright. He walked to Oldfield and threw an arm around his shoulder. “Hold on just a minute, will you, Sherry? I want to talk to your co-star alone.”

Sherry nodded and kicked off her shoes. The Doctor led Oldfield back to the bedroom and swept an arm toward its new furnishings. “Isn't it wonderful, Richard? One of your co-counselees helped me set it up while you were asleep out at the retreat.”

Oldfield darted his eyes over white velvet curtains shuttering the windows; his mattress removed from the bedstead and centered on the middle of the floor, covered with light blue silk sheets; a movie camera on a tripod with its gaze zeroing downward. He dry swallowed and whispered, “Please take me as far as I can go.”

Havilland embraced him, letting his lips touch his ear. “Yes. You helped
me
last night, Richard. I was afraid. You took me through that fear, just as I have taken you through your fears. Just one reminder. When she abuses you, think of all the abuse that governess made you take as a child. Keep your fuel intake at optimum, right up until the moment. Now wait here.”

The Doctor walked back into the living room. Sherry Shroeder was sitting on the couch, her uniform top completely unbuttoned. “I didn't know whether or not to strip,” she said.

Sitting down beside her, Havilland said, “Not yet. Button up your outfit while I give you directions.” He put a hand on her knee as she fumbled at her top. “What we are filming is a variation on the corny old nurse routine. You know, nurses are supposed to be very experienced, because they know so much about bodies.”

Sherry laughed. Havilland noticed that her nervousness had subsided. Squeezing her knee gently, he said, “This variation is the nurse spanking the boy, who of course is Richard—really a man—and then getting so aroused that she has to seduce him. What I want you to do is pull down Richard's pants and spank him
hard,
very
hard,
then do the most seductive striptease you are capable of. After that I'll give both of you more specific instructions. Do you understand?”

Sherry waggled her eyebrows. “I used to play tennis when I was a little girl. I've got a great backhand.” She laughed and covered her mouth. “Richard's got a really sharp bod. Where's the camera guy?”

“Well …” Havilland said, “to be frank, I can't afford one, so I'm filling in. You and Richard came too high, so to cut costs, I'm standing in behind the camera myself. I—”

Sherry poked a teasing finger in the Doctor's ribs. “Come on, Lloyd. As Gary Gilmore said, ‘Let's do it.'”

They walked into the bedroom. Oldfield was sprawled on his back across the mattress, fully clothed. Havilland got behind the camera, adjusting the tripod and swiveling the lens until the mattress was captured in a wide-angle shot. Clearing his throat, he said, “Since this is a silent movie, please feel free to talk—but
quietly.
I don't want to upset the neighbors.” He turned the camera on and listened to the whir of film. “Sherry, you know what to do. Richard, follow Sherry's lead, but position your face on the
near
side of the mattress, so I can get some close shots. Okay, action!”

Sherry sat down on the edge of the mattress, facing the camera. She extended her legs in front of her, resting her heels on the floor. Patting her lap, she said, “Come on, you bad boy.”

Oldfield obeyed, getting to his feet and loosening his belt, then lying down across Sherry's legs, positioning his buttocks just above her knees. “Bad, bad boy,” she said as she pulled down his pants and undershorts. “Bad, bad boy.”

Havilland zoomed in for a close-up reaction shot just as Sherry's first slap hit naked flesh. Oldfield grimaced. “Harder, Sherry,” the Doctor said.

Sherry redoubled her efforts, grunting “Bad, bad boy,” each time her palm made contact. Oldfield's lens-framed eyes contracted with the blows. Havilland hissed, “Harder, Sherry, harder. Remember your tennis stroke.”

“Bad bad bad bad boy!” Sherry brought her hand down full force. Oldfield's eyes glazed over and dry spittle formed at the corners of his mouth. Havilland took his eye from the camera and saw that raised red dots were forming on his buttocks. “Bad bad bad bad bad boy!”

“Cut!”

The Doctor's own shout startled him. “Cut,” he repeated softly. “That's a print. Richard, go wait in the hall. Sherry, step off the mattress and do your striptease.”

The actors obeyed, Oldfield drawing himself to his feet and cinching his pants without meeting Sherry's eyes; Sherry kneading her flushed right hand. When Richard was outside the bedroom, Havilland said, “Be your sexiest,” and swung the camera up. “Now,” he said.

Sherry Shroeder began to undress, plucking at the buttons on her uniform. She took off her blouse and dropped it on the floor, then snagged the zipper at the back of her skirt. Jerking it loose, she muttered, “Shit,” then caught herself and pouted at the camera, stepping out of the skirt and twirling it on a finger above her head. Letting it drop, she unhooked her bra and pulled down her stockings and panties. Nude, she did a pelvis grinding dancestep that caused her breasts to shake in opposite directions. Covered with goosebumps, she silently mouthed song lyrics and tried to pout at the same time. Zooming in for a close-up, the Doctor thought that he could detect the words to “Green Door.”

“Cut!”

Again the Doctor's own voice jolted him. “Lie down, Sherry,” he said. “Richard, you can come in now.”

Oldfield reentered the bedroom, naked, holding his hands over his genitals. Havilland pointed to the bed, then shut off the camera and checked the expended film cylinder. Film to burn. He framed a long shot of the mattress and the two performers on it, then locked in the tripod and said, “I'm a little shy, so I'll let you pros do what comes naturally. I'll come back and check on you in a few minutes.”

Sherry laughed and Oldfield flinched. Havilland flipped the automatic forward switch and walked out to the dining room. Poking his infrared lens through a crack in the curtains, he saw his
best
actor perform.

Lloyd Hopkins, stuffed fat with bait, was still sitting inside his car, still staring daggers at the house. The allusions to illegal searches in his personnel file had been accurate—he was not above committing crime to solve crimes. He was a hypocritical snake,
and
a cowardly one—undoubtedly afraid of approaching his suspect for fear of jeopardizing the fair damsel in the bedroom. Havilland watched him yawn, scratch, and stretch without ever taking his eyes from the tudor cottage. Each tiny move was like a laser beam piercing the childhood void.

Checking his watch, the Doctor saw that ten minutes had passed. He walked to the bedroom. Sherry and Richard were lying on opposite sides of the mattress. He turned the camera off and stared at his performers. Sherry was positioned on one elbow, an arm across her breasts. Richard lay rock still, eyes closed, twitching.

“We did it soft,” Sherry said. “I think we faked it pretty good. Richard couldn't, you know, but I think it still looked okay. If you want we can try again and shoot some hard shots.”

Havilland walked to the bedroom closet and ran his hand over a ledge at the back, coming away with a thick roll of adhesive bandage. “No, that does it, except for some clothed shots I want to get. You can get dressed now.”

“
Realty
?”

“Really. I'll give you the rest of your money in a minute.”

Richard's eyes twitched open at the phrase. He got to his feet and stretched, then pulled on his pants and shirt and took the tape from the Doctor's hand. “Thank you for helping me go beyond my beyond,” he said.

Havilland looked into his eyes and saw frozen rage. He focused the camera at Sherry and hit the on switch. Sherry finished buttoning her blouse and said, “Lloyd, can we make this quick? There's a party in the Valley at eleven-thirty, and since this was quicker than I thought, I'd like to make it.”

Havilland nodded assent and telescoped the lens so that Sherry's face was held in an extreme close-up. “Now, Richard,” he said.

The viewfinder went black as Richard Oldfield hurled himself beyond his beyond. A high-pitched shriek died into a struggle for breath; crashing bodies caused a blank wall to sway before the camera's eye. The Night Tripper tried to refocus, then gave up. Richard pinned Sherry to the floor with his knees, one hand holding her head, the other swirling tape up from her mouth to her nose. When both passages were shut air tight, he stood up and watched her face turn red, then blue and her arms and legs flail. Soon her entire body became a collective gasp; her torso pushing off the floor in an adrenaline-fueled death throe.

Oldfield fell to his knees and pummeled the flailing body, throwing right-left combinations at the groin and ribcage until all resistance ended in a last shudder of asphyxiation. Now weeping, he stood up on wobbly legs and saw the Doctor with the camera strapped to his shoulder, bending down, pulling the bandage off of Sherry Shroeder's face.

“Now, Richard. Now, Richard. Now, Richard.”

The Night Tripper was holding out a silencer-fitted revolver. Richard took it in his hand, then looked down, seeing the dead woman's face covered with a transparent plastic pillow.

“Now, Richard. Now, Richard. Now, Richard.”

The camera zoomed in and whirred; Oldfield pressed the barrel to the pillow and pulled the trigger. There was a dull plop, then the hiss of escaping air, then a spread of crimson as the deflated plastic filled with blood.

“Yes, Richard. Yes, Richard. Yes, Richard.”

The Night Tripper steadied the camera, pushing the eyepiece out of his way. He took the gun from Richard's hand and flipped the cylinder open, letting the spent round fall to the floor. The Bronx ferris wheel became a whirling corkboard. He took two fresh rounds from his pocket and placed them in adjoining chambers, then flicked the cylinder shut and spun it.

Richard Oldfield stood slack-jawed, swaying to self-contained music. The Night Tripper took a Dodger baseball cap and Howard Christie's badge from his jacket, placing the cap on Richard's head, pinning the badge to his left breast pocket. He placed the camera back on the tripod, then filmed close-ups of the badge, the cap and Richard's face. Thinking of Linda Wilhite and toppling chess pieces, he picked the gun up off the floor and placed it in Richard's right hand. Getting back behind the camera, he said, “Do you feel complete now, Richard?”

“Yes,” Richard said.

“Articulate how you feel.”

“I feel as if I've conquered my past, that I've broken through all my green doors with the promise of peace as my reward.”

“Will you go one step further for me? It will help a beautiful woman to resolve her nightmares.”

“Yes. Name it.”

“Stick the gun in your mouth and pull the trigger twice.”

Richard obeyed without question. The hammer clicked on empty chambers. The Night Tripper captured his finest moment on film, then ran to the dining room curtains and looked out with his blood-colored lens. Lloyd Hopkins was asleep, his head cradled into the half-open car window.

L
LOYD awoke at dawn, startled out of a dreamless sleep by a sharp cramp in his leg. Rubbing his calf, he looked out of the car window and saw the tudor cottage and the white Mercedes parked in the same spot as the night before. Oldfield's shackup was still in progress. He had time to go home and call for reinforcements to aid him in a continued surveillance and possible approach.

Lloyd swung his Matador around and pulled up behind the Mercedes. He wrote down the license number, then called R. & I. on his two way radio and read it off, requesting a complete readout on both vehicle and owner. After three minutes of static crackle, the operator came back on the air with her information. FHM 363—No wants; no warrants. Registered to Richard Brian Oldfield, 4109 Windemere, L.A. 90036. No wants; no warrants; no criminal record. Discouraged and exhausted despite his hours of sleep, Lloyd drove home, thinking of a shave, a shower, and lots of coffee.

A three-day accumulation of newspapers greeted him on his front porch. The previous day's
L.A. Times
bore a banner headline: “Policeman Murdered in Malibu.” A sidebar added, “Execution Style Death for L.A.P.D. Lieutenant.” Lloyd kicked the papers aside and unlocked the door, seeing the stapled together notebook pages on the floor immediately. Picking them up, he read:

Memo to: Lloyd

From: Dutch.

Read now.

L.—Where have you been? Shacking? I thought you turned over a new leaf. I'm your liaison, and we were supposed to be in daily contact, remember? This info is straight from Gaffaney. I'll save the good stuff for last.

*A.P.B. issued on Marty Bergen—no response as yet.

*Seizure order for
Big Orange Insider
granted, yield—zilch. Punk kid editor had contents of M.B.'s desk destroyed after your last visit. Is threatening “police brutality” suit.

*Intensive questioning of P.C.H./Temescal Cyn. area residents—zilch.

*Phone-in info. on Christie—so far crank bullshit. (No eyewitnesses have come forth.)

*Blood on pavement—conclusively Christie's.

*Additional skull fragment and flattened slug found on beach (.357 teflon tipped). This, + coroners report—“Death caused by massive neurological destruction inflicted by gunshots fired at point-blank range,” indicate that Christie was killed with his own gun.

*Sacramento D.M.V. night info. operator (she saw account of Christie's death in papers) called in, said that Christie called at 8:30 or so on the night of the murder, requesting D.M.V. make on car license. She gave info., but cannot remember the name of the person she gave him, or the lic. #, or the make of the car. Interesting, because the M.E. fixed the time of H.C.'s death at around the time of the call.