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The Crime Seen(novel excerpt*)
byPaul Marks
CHAPTER 2
From my deck, and through the haze of distance, I can see eternity. Endless miles of elegance exist between my home and forever. Above my deck, birds triumph. Seagulls, as if they were magnetically attracted to the sea, dive from the vastness above into the depths below. Tiny birds dare the surf, searching for bits of food while taunting the sea. As dolphins penetrate the water's white caps, I conjure up images of their peaceful odyssey. On my wooden protuberances that parallel the sand, I celebrate the sun's surrender to the horizon. From my deck in Malibu, there are no visual monuments to the past. I cannot see any affirmation that yesterday existed, or that tomorrow will arrive. The ocean’s movements are simply for the moment. When I leave that deck, I am assaulted by the other moments, and I am tortured by the other places. Away from my private aquatic tranquility, I am ambushed by my past, and challenged by my obsessions. When I drove to my office, I appreciated the sculptured torrent of the waves, and the tanned and trim women jiggling along the individually infinitesimal, collectively endless, grains of sand. As I neared the California Incline, traffic burst into inertia, notifying me that my sanctuary was behind me. I would cease thinking of Malibu and, instead, grieve Richard Licata’s execution. In the eleven years since Rich’s murder his widow, Joanne, has remarried and divorced. Young officers in the Los Angeles Police Department don’t have even the slightest clue about Richard Licata. People now thoughtlessly walk on Rich’s grave while looking for their own dead. I once punched a slender, frail looking man who had done exactly that. The man, in front of his three young children, tersely accepted my apology. I slowly realized that there was no woman in the group, and that the man was mourning the loss of his wife, and that the children were bidding farewell to their mother. I asked the man, “Do you need an ambulance?” “In the condition you’re in you couldn’t hit me that hard. Have another drink.“ I did just that. To be truthful, I had several. Dexter’s Bar and Grill is where male officers are macho, female officers are often more so, and police groupies are had. I have passed out there more than once. When I woke up in the bar, Cindy fixed my breakfast. I never figured out why Cindy owned the bar. She was always at Dexter’s, and she always worked hard. With her lustful laugh, sparkling red hair, vulnerable ease, and thick ankles, she exuded a precarious sensuality. Dexter’s, located on Sunset Boulevard, is near the Hollywood Police Station. Amidst prostitutes, tricks, pimps, drug dealers, and ex-convicts, police officers would carouse, play Pac Man, and distill reflections. On a Tuesday night, shortly after Rich’s murder, I was enduring a frustrating inability to get drunk. I couldn’t rid myself of me. After I started crying, I called Joanne, and invited myself to her husbandless house. To my euphoric surprise and relief, she accepted my invitation. Just as the San Fernando Valley cannot shed Los Angeles, Richard and Joanne exuded the very existence they strove to deny. Joanne and Rich lived in a tract house, in a tract neighborhood, in a tract suburb of Los Angeles. The Licatas wore tract bodies while raising their tract children. Rich and I were so different that we ended up being complete. Rich was tall and fit; I was short and fat. Together we terrorized suspects. Because Rich was Catholic and I was Jewish, we could complain about guilt. Rich tried to accomplish too much; I thought too intensely. Together, we were ingenious. Rich insisted on believing in an omniscient and omnipotent God. I prided myself on my existential thoughts. In the process, we created our own truth. Rich liked to arrest suspects, and I liked to analyze them. He found the addicts, and I did the schematics. He located the dope and suspects; I wrote the arrest reports. Richard testified in court; I assisted the Deputy District Attorney. We became known as the “Dither Twins”. Detective III Leon Washington, our supervisor, was once so exasperated by our ditherdom that he ordered us to leave the station. “I don’t want you doing anything, nothing. We have a search warrant tonight, and we need everyone.” “Okay Leon,” I said. We came back with four hypes. “Leon,” I began, “We found a rose garden at 84th Street and Hoover.” Rich chimed in, “Actually it was more like a cherry orchard.” I went, “We were standing around, appreciating the scent of Negroeness.” Rich interrupted, “Four hypes demanded that we examine their arms.” To which I said, “We couldn’t tell if the marks on their arms were from the rose bushes or from hypodermic syringes. So we took them down to the station. And do you know what Leon? Their eyes were all 2.5.” Rich added, “At least they will be soon.” Leon just laughed, “My dither twins.” Leon had a black man’s name but a white man’s body. For amusement everyone called him Lying Leon. Leon tortured himself about our safety, our families, our financial security, and our physical health. He didn’t know that there were other things that he should be worrying about. His concerns exploded during the service of a search warrant on a large house at the corner of Figueroa and Slauson Avenue. The squad, in blue vinyl L.A.P.D. raid jackets, along with uniformed officers, swarmed the residence. Rich used the steel battering ram to separate the doors from its hinges just before I yelled, “Police officers. We have a search warrant. Open the door.” As we entered the house, screaming and pointing our guns at everyone, one of the suspects reached for a gun. Before Rob Coxin, a blubbery, balding, and weathered-looking detective could kick him, before I could cold-cock him, and before Ken Firestone could shoot him, Lying Leon grabbed the suspect by the neck, threw him down on the ground, and began to punch him. Leon kept yelling, “You aren’t going to kill them. You aren’t going to kill them.” Chris Remington, a tall, pale looking cigarette addict, pulled Leon off of the suspect and said, “He’s got the point.” Most of us were again, in some cases still, working together. However, now I was in charge. Or so I thought.
(*Editor's Note: This is an excerpt from former L.A.P.D. Captain Paul Marks's unpublished novel, The Crime Seen, in which the serving of a search warrant on a suspected cop killer by an elite squad of L.A.P.D. narcotics officers results in the shooting deaths of the suspect and two brilliant detectives. Lt. Jeffrey Payne reluctantly cooperates with Deputy District Attorney Faith Sloane in the grim task of investigating how a tragedy of such devastating proportions could occur, and while uncovering one shocking truth after another about the L.A.P.D., Lt. Payne is forced to confront personal demons that have haunted him all his life. The Crime Seen is timely fiction that sheds compelling light upon the scandals that have ravaged the L.A.P.D. in recent years. For further information about the novel and available publishing rights send queries to Zinkville@Zinkville.com.)
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