Blood on the Moon (18 page)

New Guard Poetry on La Brea near Fountain and the Feminist Bibliophile on Yucca and Highland.

Deciding on a circuit that would allow him to hit both stores and then head toward Joanie's house in the Hollywood Hills, Lloyd drove first to New Guard Poetry, where a bored, scholarly looking man in incongruous farmer overalls told him that no, there had been no suspicious browsers or sales of feminist prose collections to strongly built men in their middle to late thirties, for the simple reason that he did not stock feminist poetry–it was aberrantly anti-classicist. Most of his customers were academics of long standing who preferred to order from his catalog, and
that
was
that.

Lloyd thanked the man and swung his unmarked Matador north, pulling up in front of the Feminist Bibliophile at precisely six o'clock, hoping that the small, converted-house bookstore would still be open. He trotted up the steps just as he heard the door being bolted from inside, and when he saw the lights in the windows going off he rapped on the door jamb and called out, “Police. Open up, please.”

The door swung open a moment later, and the woman who opened it stood silhouetted against the light in a challenging attitude. Lloyd's body gave a slight shudder as he felt the pride in her pose, and before she could voice any challenge out loud he said, “I'm Detective-Sergeant Hopkins, L.A.P.D. Could I talk to you for a moment?”

The woman remained silent. The silence was unnerving, so to keep himself from doing an embarrased little foot-dance, Lloyd memorized her physicality, maintaining a probing eye contact that the woman returned without flinching. A rigid angularity trying to hold reign over a soft, strong body, he decided; thirty-four to thirty-six, the slight traces of make-up a concession to awareness of her age; the brown eyes, pale skin, and chestnut hair somehow denoting breeding; the severe tweed suit a coat of armor. Smart, contentious, and unhappy. An aesthete afraid of passion.

“Are you with the Intelligence Division?”

Lloyd gawked at both the non sequitur and the force in the woman's voice. Recovering, he shifted his feet and said, “No, why?”

The woman smiled mirthlessly and spat out her challenge: “The L.A.P.D. has a long history of trying to infiltrate causes they deem subversive, and my poetry has been published in feminist periodicals that have been highly critical of your department. This bookshop carries a list of titles that includes many volumes that explode myths surrounding the macho mentality.”

The woman stopped when she saw that the big cop was beaming broadly. Aware that a parity of discomfiture had been achieved, Lloyd said, “If I wanted to infiltrate a feminist bookstore, I would have come in drag. May I come in, Miss—”

“My name is Kathleen McCarthy,” the woman said. “I prefer Ms., and I won't let you in until you tell me what this is all about.”

It was the question Lloyd was hoping for. “I'm the most honored homicide detective on the west coast,” he said softly. “I'm investigating the murders of close to twenty women. I discovered one of the bodies. I won't insult you by describing how it was mutilated. I found a bloodstained book at the crime scene,
Rage In The Womb.
I'm certain that the killer is interested in poetry–maybe feminist poetry in particular. That's why I came here.”

Kathleen McCarthy had gone pale, and her challenging posture had slumped, then tensed up again as she grabbed the door jamb for support. Lloyd moved in, showing her his badge and I.D. card. “Call the Hollywood Station,” he said. “Ask for Captain Peltz. He'll verify what I've told you.”

Kathleen McCarthy motioned Lloyd inside, then left him alone in a large room filled with bookshelves. When he heard the sound of a phone being dialed he slipped off his wedding band and examined the books that covered the four walls and spilled over onto chairs, tables, and revolving metal bookracks. His respect for the strident poet grew–she had placed her own published works in preeminent spots throughout the room, alongside volumes by Lessing, Plath, Millett and other feminist ikons. An out-front ego, Lloyd decided. He started to like the woman.

“I apologize for judging you before I heard you out.”

Lloyd turned around at the words. Kathleen McCarthy was not chagrined by her apology. He started to
feel
her, and threw out a line calculated to secure
her
respect. “I can understand your feelings. The Intelligence Division is overzealous, maybe even paranoid.”

Kathleen smiled. “May I quote you on that?”

Lloyd smiled back. “No.”

An embarrassed silence followed. Sensing the mutality of the attraction deepen, Lloyd pointed to a book strewn couch and said, “Could we sit down? I'll tell you about it.”

In a low voice and with a deliberately cold deadpan stare, Lloyd told Kathleen McCarthy how he had discovered Julia Lynn Niemeyer's body and how a blood smeared copy of
Rage In The Womb,
along with the poem sent to Julia's post office box, had convinced him that his assumed one-time killer was in reality a mass murderer. Ending with a recounting of his chronological work-up and the psychological profile he had deduced, he said, “He's brilliant beyond words, and going completely out of control. Poetry is a fixation with him. I think that he
wants
subconsciously to lose control, and that he may view poetry as his means to that end. I need your feedback on
Rage In The Womb,
and I need to know if any strange men–specifically men in their thirties–have been coming here to your store, buying feminist works, acting furtive or angry or in any way out of the ordinary.”

Lloyd sat back and savored Kathleen's reaction of cold, hard, muscle-constricting rage. When she was silent for a full minute, he knew that she was mustering her thoughts into a severe brevity, and that when she spoke her response would be a perfect model of control, devoid of rhetoric or expressions of shock.

He was right. “
Rage In The Womb
is an angry book,” Kathleen said softly. “A polemic, a broadside against many things, violence on women in specific. I haven't stocked it in years, and when I did, I doubt if I ever sold a copy to a man. Beyond that, the only male customers that I get are men who come in with their girlfriends and college students–young men in their late teens and twenties. I can't remember when I've had a single man in his thirties in the store. I own the store, and run it by myself, so I
see
all my customers. I—”

Lloyd cut Kathleen off with a wave of his hand. “What about mail orders? Do you do a catalog business?”

“No, I don't have the facilities for mailings. All my business is done here in the shop.”

Lloyd muttered “Shit,” and punched the arm of the couch. Kathleen said, “I'm sorry, but listen…I have a lot of friends in bookselling. Feminist literature, poetry, and otherwise. Private dealers you've probably overlooked. I'll call around. I'll be persistent. I want to help.”

“Thank you,” Lloyd said. “I could use your help.” Feigning a yawn, he added, “Do you have any coffee? I'm running on empty.”

Kathleen said, “One moment,” and departed into the back room. Lloyd heard the sounds of cups and saucers being readied, followed by the electric crackle of a radio and the blare of some kind of symphony or concerto. When the music picked up tempo, he called out, “Would you turn that off, please?” Kathleen called back, “Alright, but talk to me.”

The music diminuendoed, then died altogether. Lloyd, relieved, blurted out, “What shall I talk about, police work?”

Kathleen came into the living room a moment later, bearing a tray with coffee cups and an assortment of cookies. “Talk about something nice,” she said, clearing books from a low end table. “Talk about something dear to you.” Scrutinizing Lloyd openly, she added, “You look pale. Are you feeling sick?”

Lloyd said, “No, I feel fine. Loud noise bothers me; that's why I asked you to turn off the radio.” Kathleen handed him a cup of coffee. “That wasn't noise. That was music.” Lloyd ignored the statement. “The things that are dear to me are hard to describe,” he said. “I like poking around in sewers, seeing what I can do about justice, then getting the hell out and going someplace where it's gentle and warm.”

Kathleen sipped coffee. “Are you talking about being with women?”

“Yes. Does that offend you?”

“No. Why should it?”

“This bookstore. Your poetry. 1983. Pick a reason.”

“You should read my diaries before you judge me. I'm a good poet, but I'm a better diarist. Are you going to catch this killer?”

“Yes. Your reaction to my being here impresses me. I'd like to read your diaries, feel your intimate thoughts. How far do they date back?”

Kathleen flinched at the word “intimate.” “A long time,” she said, “since my days with the Marshall Clarion. I…” Kathleen stopped and stared. The big policeman was laughing and shaking his head delightedly. “What
is
wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing, except that we went to the same high school. I had you
all
wrong, Kathleen. I figured you for East Coast Irish money, and you turn out to be a mick from the old neighborhood. Lloyd Hopkins, Marshall High Class of '59 and cop of Irish Protestant grandparents meets Kathleen McCarthy, one-time Silverlake resident and Marshall High graduate, Class of…”

Kathleen's features brightened with her own delight. “Class of '64,” she finished. “God, how funny. Do you remember the rotunda court?” Lloyd nodded. “And Mr. Juknavarian and his stories about Armenia?” Lloyd nodded again. “And Mrs. Cuthbertson and her stuffed dog? Remember, she called it her muse?” Lloyd doubled over, consumed with laughter. Kathleen continued, throwing nostalgia out between her own gleeful squeals. “And the Pachucos versus the Surfers, and Mr. Amster and those T-shirts he had made up? ‘Amsters Hamsters'? When I was in tenth grade someone tied a dead rat to his car antenna and put a note under the wipers. The note said, ‘Amster's Hamsters bite the big weenie!'”

Lloyd's laughter crescendoed into a coughing fit that had him in fear of spewing coffee and half-digested cookies all over the room. “No more, no more, please, or I'll die,” he managed to get out between body-wracking coughs. “I don't want to die this way.”

“How
do
you want to die?” Kathleen asked playfully.

As he wiped his tear-stained face, Lloyd sensed a probing intent behind the question. “I don't know,” he said, “either very old or very romantically. You?”

“Very old and wise. Autumnal serenity long gone into deep winter, with my words carefully prepared for posterity.”

Lloyd shook his head. “Jesus, I don't believe this conversation. Where did you live in Silverlake?”

“Tracy and Micheltorena. You?”

“Griffith Park and St. Elmo. I used to play ‘chicken' on Micheltorena when I was a kid.
Rebel Without A Cause
had just come out and chicken was
in.
Being too young to drive, we had to play it on sleds with little rubber wheels attached. We started at the top of the hill above Sunset, at two-thirty every morning that summer; '55 I think it was. The object of the game was to sled all the way across Sunset against the light. At that time of the morning there was just enough traffic out to make it slightly risky. I did it once a night, all summer long. I never dragged my feet or hit the hand brakes. I never turned down a dare.”

Kathleen sipped her coffee, wondering how bluntly she should phrase her next question. To hell with it, she decided and asked, “What were you trying to prove?”

“That's a provocative question, Kathleen,” Lloyd said.

“You're a provocative man. But I believe in parity. You can ask me anything you like, and I'll answer.”

Lloyd's face lit up at the possibilities for exploration. “I was trying to follow the rabbit down the hole,” he said. “I was trying to light a fire under the world's ass. I wanted to be considered a tough guy so that Ginny Skakel would give me a hand job. I wanted to breathe pure white light. Good answer?”

Kathleen smiled and gave Lloyd a sedate round of applause. “Good answer, Sergeant. Why did you quit?”

“Two boys got killed. They were riding on one sled. A '53 Packard Caribbean smashed them to pieces. One of the boys was decapitated. My mother asked me to quit. She told me that there were safer ways to express courage. She told me stories to take the edge off my grief.”

“Your
grief
? You mean you wanted to continue playing that insane game?”

Lloyd savored Kathleen's incredulous look and said, “Of course. Teenage romanticism dies hard. Turnabout, Kathleen?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Are you a romantic?”

“Yes… In all the deepest essentials… I…”

Lloyd cut her off. “Good. May I see you tomorrow night?”

“What did you have in mind? Dinner?”

“Not really.”

“A concert?”

“Very amusing. Actually, I thought we might be-bop around L.A. and check out urban romanticism.”

“Is that a pass?”

“Absolutely not. I think we should do something that neither of us has ever done before, and that rules out
that.
You in?”

Kathleen took Lloyd's outstretched hand. “I'm in. Here at seven o'clock?”

Lloyd brought the hand to his lips and kissed it. “I'll be here,” he said, walking out the door before anything could happen to defuse the power of the moment.

When Lloyd wasn't home by six o'clock, Janice went about preparing for her evening, feeling relief on all fronts. She was relieved that Lloyd's absences were becoming more frequent and predictable, relieved that the girls were so engrossed in their hobbies and social life that they didn't seem to mind their missing father, relieved that her own loving detachment seemed to be growing to the point where some time soon she would be able to tell her husband, “You have been the love of my life, but it is over. I cannot get through to you. I cannot stand any more of your obsessive behavior. It is over.”