My Dark Places Read online

  The victim was stored on a slab in a refrigerated vault. The Kryckis viewed her separately. They both identified her as Jean Ellroy.

  Ervin took a formal statement and drove the Kryckis back to El Monte.

  The print deputy met Hallinen and Lawton outside the Ellroy bungalow. It was 4:30 p.m. and still hot and humid.

  The bungalow was small and built of maroon-colored wood and river rock. It stood behind the Krycki house, at the far end of a shared backyard. The yard featured shade palms and tall banana plants, with a rock-and-mortar pond as a centerpiece. The two houses were situated at the southeast corner of Maple and Bryant. The Ellroy place had a Maple Avenue address.

  The front door faced the pond and the Kryckis’ back door. It was constructed of louvered glass affixed to wood framing. A pane near the keyhole was missing. The door could not be locked from the inside or outside.

  Hallinen, Lawton and the print deputy entered the house. The interior was cramped: two tiny bedrooms off a narrow living room; a stand-up kitchen, breakfast nook and bathroom.

  The place was neat and orderly. Nothing looked disturbed. The victim’s bed and her son’s bed had not been slept in.

  They found a glass in the kitchen, partially filled with wine. They checked the drawers in the victim’s bedroom and found some personal papers. They learned that the victim worked at Airtek Dynamics—2222 South Figueroa, L.A.

  They learned that the victim’s ex-husband was named Armand Ellroy. He lived at 4980 Beverly Boulevard, L.A. His phone number was Hollywood 3-8700.

  They saw that the victim did not have a telephone herself.

  The print deputy dusted the wineglass and several other print-sustaining surfaces. He came up with no viable latent fingerprints.

  Hallinen walked over to the Kryckis’ house and called the ex-husband’s number. He let it ring a good long time and got no answer.

  Virg Ervin walked in. He said, Dave Wire found the victim’s car—parked behind a bar on Valley Boulevard.

  The bar was called the Desert Inn. It was located at 11721 Valley—two miles from the dump site and a mile from the victim’s house. It was a flat one-story building with a red clay-shingle roof and front window awnings.

  The rear lot extended back to a line of cheap stucco bungalows. A grass strip covered with sycamore trees divided four parking space rows. Low chain-links closed the lot in sideways.

  A red-and-white Buick was parked by the west-side fence. Dave Wire was standing beside it. Jim Bruton and Harry Andre were standing by a Sheriff’s prowl unit.

  Al Etzel was there. Blackie McGowan was there.

  Hallinen and Lawton pulled into the lot. Virg Ervin and the print deputy pulled up in separate cars.

  Dave Wire walked over and laid it all out.

  He caught the license plate call and started checking side streets and parking lots. He found the victim’s car at 3:35 p.m. It was unlocked and appeared to be unransacked. He checked the front and back seats and did not find car keys or the victim’s purse, undergarments and shoes. He did find a half-dozen empty beer cans. They were wrapped in brown paper and tied up with string.

  Hallinen and Lawton examined the car. It looked pristine inside and out. The print deputy photographed the interior and exterior and dusted the doors and dashboard. He came up with no viable latent fingerprints.

  A Temple deputy arrived. He impounded the Buick and drove it to a nearby Ford dealership for safekeeping.

  Some civilians were lounging on the grass strip. Wire pointed out Roy Dunn and Al Manganiello—two Desert Inn bartenders.

  Andre and Hallinen talked to them. Dunn said he worked last night; Manganiello said he only worked days. Hallinen showed them Mrs. Krycki’s snapshot of the victim. Both men said they’d never seen the woman before.

  They never saw the red-and-white Buick before. Dunn was on duty last night—but he was buried behind the service bar and didn’t see any customers come and go. They both figured the Buick had been parked in the lot all day—maybe even overnight.

  Andre asked them who else was working last night. Dunn said, Talk to Ellis Outlaw, the manager.

  Hallinen and Andre walked inside. Captain Etzel and Lieutenant McGowan tagged along.

  The Desert Inn was narrow and L-shaped. Leatherette booths lined the walls. A sit-down bar faced three rows of tables and the front door; the service bar and kitchen stood directly behind it. A dance floor and raised bandstand formed the short part of the L.

  Andre and Hallinen braced Ellis Outlaw and showed him their photo of the victim. Outlaw said he’d never seen her—or that ’57 Buick out back. He wasn’t working last night, but he knew who was.

  He gave them some names:

  His wife, Alberta “Bert” Outlaw. His sister, Myrtle Mawby. They were both at his place now. Try the Royal Palms Apartments—321 West Mildred Avenue, West Covina. And try Margie Trawick—Gilbert 8-1136. She waitressed at the Desert Inn on and off—and he heard she was in last night.

  Hallinen wrote down the information and followed the other cops outside. The parking lot was full of El Monte PD guys keeping up with the action. A second bunch of guys were staked out at Bryant and Maple—waiting for the victim’s ex-husband and kid to show up.

  It was 6:30 p.m. and cooling off a little. It was a long early summer day and nowhere near dark.

  A string of car radios crackled all at once.

  The kid and the ex were back. Separate units were transporting them to the El Monte Station.

  The victim’s ex-husband was a week shy of 60 years old. He was tall and athletically built. He seemed to be in control of his emotions.

  The victim’s son was pudgy, and tall for 10 years old. He was nervous—but did not appear in any way distraught.

  The boy arrived home in a cab, alone. He was informed of his mother’s death and took the news calmly. He told a deputy that his dad was at the El Monte bus depot—waiting for a Freeway Flyer to take him back to L.A.

  A patrol car was dispatched to pick up Armand Ellroy. Father and son had not been in contact since their goodbyes at the depot. They were now being held in separate rooms.

  Hallinen and Lawton interviewed the ex-husband first. Ellroy stated that he had been divorced from the victim since 1954 and that he was exercising his child visitation rights this weekend. He picked the boy up in a cab at 10:00 a.m. Saturday and did not see his ex-wife. He and his son took a bus to his apartment in Los Angeles. They ate lunch and went to a movie called The Vikings at the Fox-Wilshire Theatre. The show ended at 4:30. They did some grocery shopping and returned home. They ate dinner, watched TV and went to bed between 10:00 and 11:00 p.m.

  They slept late this morning. They took a bus downtown and ate lunch at Clifton’s Cafeteria. They spent several hours window-shopping and caught a bus back to El Monte. He put his son in a cab at the depot and sat down to wait for an L.A-bound bus. A cop approached him and told him the news.

  Hallinen and Lawton asked Ellroy how he got on with his ex. He told them they met in ’39 and got married in ’40. They got divorced in ’54—things went bad and they came to hate each other. The divorce proceedings were acrimonious and adversarial.

  Hallinen and Lawton quizzed Ellroy on his ex-wife’s social life. He told them Jean was a secretive woman who kept things to herself. She lied when it suited her—and she was really 43, not the 37 she claimed. She was promiscuous and an alcoholic. His son found her in bed with strange men on several occasions. Her recent move to El Monte could only be explained as a run from or run to some lowlife she was seeing. Jean was secretive about her private life because she knew he wanted to prove her an unfit mother—and thus gain full-time custody of his son.

  Hallinen and Lawton asked Ellroy to name his ex-wife’s specific boyfriends. He told them he only knew one name: Hank Hart, a fat blue-collar type missing one thumb.

  Hallinen and Lawton thanked Ellroy for his cooperation and walked to an interview room down the hall. Some off-duty cops were keeping the victim’s kid
company.

  The boy was bucking up nicely. He was hanging in tough all the way.

  Hallinen and Lawton handled him gently. The boy confirmed his father’s account of the weekend down to the smallest detail. He said he only knew the names of two men his mom went out with: Hank Hart and a teacher at his school named Peter Tubiolo.

  It was 9:00 p.m. Ward Hallinen gave the boy a candy bar and walked him down the hall to see his father.

  Armand Ellroy hugged his son. The kid hugged him back. They both looked relieved and strangely happy.

  The boy was released to Armand Ellroy’s custody. A cop drove them to the El Monte bus station. They caught a 9:30 Freeway Flyer back to L.A.

  Virg Ervin drove Hallinen and Lawton to the Royal Palms Apartments. They showed their snapshot and ran their standard line of questions by Bert Outlaw and Myrtle Mawby.

  Both women recognized the picture. Both women stated that the victim was not a Desert Inn regular—although she was in the place last night. She was sitting with a small-built man with straight black hair and a thin face. They were the last two patrons to leave—at closing time, 2:00 a.m.

  Both women stated that they’d never seen the small-built man before.

  Myrtle Mawby said they should call Margie Trawick. She was sitting by the bar earlier in the evening and might have something to add. Jack Lawton dialed the number Ellis Outlaw gave them. Margie Trawick picked up.

  Lawton ran some preliminary questions by her. Margie Trawick came on strong—she did see an attractive redhead sitting with a group of people last night. Lawton told her to meet him at the El Monte Police Station in half an hour.

  Ervin drove Lawton and Hallinen back to the station. Margie Trawick was waiting for them. She came off as high-strung and anxious to help.

  Hallinen showed her the Jean Ellroy snapshot. She ID’d it flat out.

  Ervin split for the Desert Inn—to show that snapshot around. Hallinen and Lawton got Margie Trawick comfortable and let her talk without interruption.

  She said she wasn’t employed by the Desert Inn—but she’d waitressed there sporadically for the past nine years. She recently underwent major surgery and enjoyed going to the place strictly for fun.

  She arrived around 10:10 last night. She sat down at a table near the bar and had a few drinks. The redhead walked in the door about 10:45 or 11:00. She was accompanied by a heavyset dishwater blonde with a ponytail. The blonde was about 40— the same age as the redhead.

  The redhead and the blonde sat down at a table. A Mexican-looking man walked over immediately and helped the redhead off with her coat. They headed to the dance floor and began dancing.

  The man was 35 to 40, 5′8″ to 6′. He had a slender build and dark hair slicked back from a widow’s peak. He had a swarthy complexion. He was wearing a dark suit and a white shirt open at the throat.

  The man seemed to know the two women.

  Another man asked Margie to dance. He was 25-ish, light-haired, medium height and build. He was wearing sloppy clothes and tennis shoes. He was drunk.

  Margie declined his invitation. The drunk got snotty and walked off. A short while later she saw him dancing with the dishwater blonde.

  Other things distracted her. She ran into a friend and decided to take a drive with him. They left at 11:30. The drunk was sitting with the redhead, the blonde and the Mexican then.

  She’d never seen the redhead or the blonde before. She’d never seen the Mexican. She might have seen the drunk—he looked sort of familiar.

  Lawton and Hallinen thanked Margie Trawick and drove her home. She agreed to come in for a backup interview sometime in the next few days. It was pushing midnight—a good time to brace bar people.

  They circled back to the Desert Inn. Jim Bruton was there— hitting patrons up with questions. Lawton and Hallinen grabbed him and ran down Margie Trawick’s story.

  They had more workable information now. They table-hopped and laid it out all over the room. They got a bite straight off.

  Somebody thought the drunk sounded like a clown named Mike Whittaker. He did construction work and had a flop in South San Gabriel.

  Bruton went out to his car and radio-patched a query to the California State Department of Motor Vehicles. He got a quick positive:

  Michael John Whittaker, white male, DOB 1/1/34. 5′ 10″, 185 pounds, brown hair, blue eyes. 2759 South Gladys Street, South San Gabriel.

  The address was a run-down rooming house. The owner was a Mexican woman named Inez Rodriguez.

  Hallinen, Lawton and Bruton badged her at the door. They said they were looking for Mike Whittaker—as a possible homicide suspect.

  The woman said Mike didn’t come home last night. He might have come and gone during the day—she didn’t know. He was quite a big drinker. Most of the time he hung out at the Melody, over on Garvey Boulevard.

  Their “murder suspect” line spooked Inez Rodriguez.

  Hallinen, Lawton and Bruton drove to the Melody Room. A man matching Mike Whittaker’s description was sitting at the bar.

  They surrounded him and badged him. The man said he was Michael Whittaker.

  Hallinen said they had some questions—pertaining to his whereabouts last night. Lawton and Bruton frisked him and manhandled him out to the car.

  Whittaker played the roust submissive.

  They drove him to the El Monte Station. They hustled him to an interview room and got up in his face.

  Whittaker smelled. He was jittery and half-drunk.

  He copped to being at the Desert Inn last night. He said he was looking for cooze. He was pretty blitzed last night, so he might not remember things too good.

  Tell us what you do remember, Michael.

  He remembered going to the bar. He remembered asking a girl to dance and getting brushed off. He remembered crashing a table party. The party consisted of a redhead, another girl and an Italian-type guy. He didn’t know their names and he’d never seen them before.

  Lawton told him the redhead got murdered. Whittaker seemed genuinely shocked.

  He said he danced with the redhead and the other girl. He hit the redhead up for a Sunday-night date. She nixed it and said something about her kid coming back from a weekend with his father. The Italian-type guy was dancing with the red-head, too. He was a good dancer. He might have said his name was Tommy—but I don’t remember too good.

  Tell us what you do remember, Michael.

  Michael remembered that he fell off his chair. Michael remembered that he outstayed his welcome at the table. Michael remembered the three people bugging out of the joint together to be rid of him.

  He stayed at the bar and got more blitzed. He walked to Stan’s Drive-in for a late-night snack. A Sheriff’s prowl team rousted him a few blocks up Valley Boulevard. They popped him for plain drunk and drove him to the Temple City Station.

  The drunk tank there was packed. The cops drove him to the Hall of Justice Jail and booked him in. Some beaners stole his shoes and socks while he was sleeping.

  The tank deputy kicked him loose in the morning. He walked back to South San Gabriel barefoot—maybe 12 miles. The day was a scorcher. The pavement chewed up his feet and gave him big red blisters. He went by his room and grabbed some money and a pair of shoes and socks. He walked to the Melody and hunkered down to drink.

  Bruton left the room and called the Temple City Sheriff’s Office. A deputy confirmed Whittaker’s story: the man was in custody from 12:30 a.m. on. He was alibied up for the victim’s probable time of death.

  Bruton walked back to the interview room and laid out the news. Whittaker was thrilled. He said, Can I go home now?

  Bruton told him he’d have to submit a formal statement within 48 hours. Whittaker agreed. Jack Lawton apologized for the heavy treatment and offered him a lift to his rooming house.

  Whittaker accepted. Lawton drove him to his place and dropped him off at the curb.

  His landlady had dumped his belongings out on the front lawn. The front door was la
tched and bolted.

  She didn’t want no fucking murder suspects under her roof.

  It was 2:30 a.m., Monday, June 23, 1958. The Jean Ellroy job—Sheriffs Homicide File #Z-483-362—was now 16 hours old.

  2

  The San Gabriel Valley was the rat’s ass of Los Angeles County—a 30-mile stretch of contiguous hick towns due east of L.A. proper.

  The San Gabriel Mountains formed the northern border. The Puente-Montebello Hills closed the valley in on the south. Muddy riverbeds and railroad tracks cut through the middle.

  The eastern edge was ambiguously defined. When the view improved, you knew you were out of the valley.

  The San Gabriel Valley was flat and box-shaped. The mountain flank trapped in smog. The individual towns—Alhambra, Industry, Bassett, La Puente, Covina, West Covina, Baldwin Park, El Monte, Temple City, Rosemead, San Gabriel, South San Gabriel, Irwindale, Duarte—bled together with nothing but Kiwanis Club signs to distinguish them.

  The San Gabriel Valley was hot and humid. Wicked winds kicked dust off the northern foothills. Packed-dirt sidewalks and gravel-pit debris made your eyes sting.

  Valley land was cheap. The flat topography was ideal for grid housing and potential freeway construction. The more remote the area, the more land your money got you. You could hunt coons a few blocks off the local main drag and nobody would give you any grief. You could fence in your yard and raise chickens and goats for slaughter. You could let your toddlers run down the block in their shit-stained diapers.

  The San Gabriel Valley was White Trash Heaven.

  Spanish explorers discovered the valley in 1769. They wiped out the indigenous Indian population and established a mission near the Pomona Freeway-Rosemead Boulevard juncture. La Mision del Santo Arcangel San Gabriel de los Temblores predated the first L.A. settlement by ten years.

  Mexican marauders took over the valley in 1822. They kicked out the Spaniards and appropriated their mission land. The United States and Mexico fought a brief war in ’46. The Mexicans lost and had to fork over California, Nevada, Arizona, Utah and New Mexico.