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Three Keystone Kops were standing between pillars shaped like snakes swallowing each other's tails； a wall inset with Egyptian hieroglyphics was behind them。 A flapper girl was lying on a tufted divan in the right…hand corner of the picture。 It was unmistakably the background that appeared in the Linda Martin/Betty Short stag film。
I made myself sit still； I told myself that just because Emmett Sprague knew Mack Sennett in the '20s and had helped him build sets in Edendale； this didn't mean that he had anything to do with a 1946 smut film。 Linda Martin had said the movie was shot in Tijuana； the still unfound Duke Wellington admitted making it。 When traffic started moving； I hung a quick left up to the Boulevard and ditched the car； when I bought my ticket at the Admiral box office the girl recoiled from me…and I saw that I was hyperventilating and rank with sweat。
Inside； the air…conditioning froze that sweat； so that my clothes felt like an ice dressing。 Final credits were rolling on the screen； replaced immediately by new opening ones； superimposed on papier maché pyramids。 I balled my fists when 〃Emmett Sprague； Assistant Director；〃 flashed； I held my breath for a title that said where the thing was shot。 Then a printed prologue came on； and I settled into an aisle seat to watch。
The story was something about the Keystone Kops transplanted to biblical days； the action was chases and pie throwing and kicks in the ass。 The stag film set recurred several times； confirmed by more details each showing。 The exterior shots looked like the Hollywood Hills； but there were no outside…inside scenes to pin down whether the set was in a studio or a private dwelling。 I knew what I was going to do； but I wanted another hard fact to buttress all the logical 〃What if's〃 that were stacking up inside me。
The movie dragged on interminably； I shivered from icy sweats。 Then the end titles rolled； 〃Filmed in Hollywood； U。S。A。；〃 and the 〃What if's〃 fell like tenpins。
I left the theater； shaking from the blast…oven heat outside。 I saw that I'd left the El Nido without either my service revolver or off…duty 。45； took side streets back and grabbed the handcannon。 Then I heard； 〃Hey； fella。 Are you Officer Bleichert？〃
It was the next…door tenant； standing in the hallway holding the phone at the end of its cord。 I made a running grab for it； blurting； 〃Russ？〃
〃It's Harry。 I'm up at the end of B…B…Beachwood Drive。 They're tearing down a b…bunch of b…bungalows； and t…t…this patrolman f…f…found t…this shack all b…b…b…bloodstained。 T…T…There was an FI card filed up here on the twelfth and th…th…thirtenth and I…I…I…〃
And Emmett Sprague owned property up there； and it was the first time I'd heard Harry stutter in the afternoon。 〃I'll bring my evidence kit。 Twenty minutes。〃
I hung up； took the Betty Short print abstract from the file and ran down to the car。 Traffic had slackened； in the distance I could see the Hollywoodland sign missing it's last two letters。 I hauled east to Beachwood Drive； then north。 As I approached the park area that bordered Mount Lee； I saw that all the excitement was contained behind ropes guarded by a cordon of bluesuits； double…parking； I glimpsed Harry Sears walking over； badge pinned to his coat front。
His breath was now rife with liquor； the stutter gone。 〃Jesus Christ； what a piece of luck。 This foot hack was assigned to clear out the vagrants before they started the demolitions。 He stumbled onto the shack and came down and got me。 It looks like tramps have been in and out since '47； but maybe you could still forensic it。〃
I grabbed my evidence kit； Harry and I walked uphill。 Wrecking crews were tearing down bungalows on the street paralleling Beachwood； the workers shouting about gas leaking from pipes。 Fire trucks stood by； hoses manned and pointed at huge rubble heaps。 Bulldozers and earthmovers were lined up on the sidewalks； with patrolmen shepherding the locals out of potential harm's way。 And up ahead of us； vaudeville reigned。
A system of pulleys was attached to the face of Mount Lee； supported by high scaffolding sunk into the ground at its base。 The 〃A〃 of Hollywoodland； some fifty feet high； was sliding down a thick wire while cameras rolled； photographs snapped； rubberneckers gawked and political types drank champagne。 Dust from uprooted scrub bushes was everywhere； the Hollywood High School band sat in folding chairs on a jerry…built bandstand a few feet from the pulley wire's terminus。 When the letter 〃A〃 crashed to the dirt； they struck up 〃Hooray for Hollywood。〃
Harry said； 〃This way。〃 We veered off on a dirt hiking trail circling the foot of the mountain。 Dense foliage pressed in from both sides； Harry took the lead； walking sideways on a footpath pointing straight up the slope。 I followed； scrub bushes snagging my clothes and brushing my face。 After fifty uphill yards； the path leveled off into a small clearing fronted by a shallow stream of running water。 And there was a tiny； pillbox…style cinderblock hut； the door standing wide open。
I walked in。
The side walls were papered with pornographic photographs of crippled and disfigured women。 Mongoloid faces sucking dildoes； nudie girls with withered and brace…clad legs spread wide； limbless atrocities leering at the camera。 There was a mattress on the floor； it was caked with layers and layers of blood。 Bugs and flies were laced throughout the crust； stuck there as they feasted themselves to death。 The back wall held tacked…on color photos that looked like they were torn from anatomy texts： close…up shots of diseased organs oozing blood and pus。 There were spray and spatter marks on the floor； a small spotlight attached to a tripod was stationed beside the mattress； the light fixture aimed at the center of it。 I wondered about electricity； then examined the gizmo's base and saw a battery hook…up。 A blood…sprayed stack of books rested in one corner…mostly science fiction novels； with Gray's Advanced Anatomy and Victor Hugo's The Man Who Laughs standing out among them。
〃Bucky？〃
I turned around。 〃Go get ahold of Russ。 Tell him what we've got。 I'll do a forensic here。〃
〃Russ won't get back from Tucson till tomorrow。 And kid； you don't look too healthy to me right…〃
〃Goddamn it； get out of here and let me do this！〃
Harry stormed out； spitting crushed pride； I thought of the proximity to Sprague property and dreamer Georgie Tilden； bum shack dweller； son of a famous Scottish anatomist。 〃Really？ A man with a medical background？〃 Then I opened up my kit and raped the nightmare crib for evidence。
First I examined it top to bottom。 Aside from obviously recent mud tracks…Harry's tramps probably…I found narrow strands of rope under the mattress。 I scraped what looked like abraded flesh particles off them； I filled up another test tube with blood…matted dark hair taken from the mattress。 I checked the blood crust for different color shadings； saw that it was a uniform maroon and took a dozen samples。 I tagged and packed the rope away； along with the anatomy pages and smut pictures。 I saw a man's bootprint； blood…outlined； on the floor； measured it and traced the sole t