Cop Page #6

I guess so.

So sit down,

because I would really like to hear it.

I really would. So...

once upon a time...

Once upon a time...

there was a quiet,

bookish girl who wrote poetry.

She didn't believe in God...

or her parents,

or the other girls that followed her.

So she tried very hard to believe in herself.

That was easy for a while,

until something terrible happened...

and everybody left her.

The loneliness became unbearable.

She contemplated putting an end to it all.

One day, she discovered

someone loved her.

Some tender man sent her a poem

accompanied by flowers.

And he continued to send her flowers

periodically and anonymously...

for many years.

They always seemed to arrive

just when she needed them most.

For 15 years, this women has grown

as a poet and a diarist...

and she keeps his flowers pressed

and dated in glass...

in a treasure chest in her bedroom.

She speculated on her dream lover...

but never tried to figure out

who he really was.

She's taken his anonymous tribute

to her heart...

and decided to reciprocate his anonymity

by keeping her diaries private forever.

The moral of the story is...

there's a vast difference between

being alone and being lonely.

And she, no longer lonely...

knows that difference.

It almost makes you want to believe in God,

doesn't it?

You actually believe in white knights

and happy endings, don't you?

- Isn't that what every girl dreams of?

- Yeah.

But in the meantime,

they're not saving it for Mr. Right.

Who said anything about saving it?

Do you realize...

what a terrible waste that would be?

Do you?

We're going to make love, aren't we?

I don't think we should fight it.

Do you?

I don't know what I think.

It just feels so wonderful.

I know.

Just one minute, okay?

Where are you going?

I just want to take a hot bath...

and smoke some grass.

I thought people usually smoked

and washed after.

You wouldn't want me to tense up,

would you?

Oh, God, no.

Jesus f***ing Christ.

Henderson. First name, Lawrence.

How's that for stepping in sh*t?

Get this.

Cranfield came up with a fiber element...

on that recorder

outside Whitey Haines's pad.

It's identical to the one found

in the Niemeyer apartment.

Probably from a white glove.

- That ties the killer to Whitey Haines.

- Jesus!

Okay, run a make on Henderson and

bring me what you get...

to Santa Monica and Fairfax.

I'm on my way.

Whitey Haines is escorting a convict

to the Wayside Honor Farm.

He's due back noon tomorrow.

How about Birdman? Anything?

- Henderson's been printed.

- That figures.

- What's his rap sheet say?

- Not much, a few unpaid traffic warrants.

That doesn't figure. You got a last address?

Yeah. It didn't check out, but I've got these.

Pretty.

Let's go find this little f*ggot.

Maybe he'll tell us who's been bugging

Haines's apartment.

Why don't you go west

to Crescent Heights...

I'll go east to La Brea. Back in...

- An hour?

- You got it.

I'm telling you, man,

Whitey wants more money.

Don't worry about it, Birdie.

Give your johns dime bags, you'll clean up.

Clean this, a**hole.

What do you think I am, a f***ing janitor?

Might not be...

How you doing, man? Need some company?

I'm Sergeant Hopkins,

Parker Center Homicide. How you doing?

- How you doing?

- MacGruder said I could take a look.

- Do you mind?

- Yeah, come on in.

Appreciate it.

Jesus Christ. So much for

Birdman Henderson.

You think this is bad?

You should have been here a while ago.

The guy's brains were scattered

all over the dresser.

Coroner came in,

had to scoop them up in a plastic bag.

Deputy, could you do me a favor

and wait outside?

Yeah, I'll be by the door.

What is that?

I forgot to tell you. There's...

some writing in blood underneath the paper.

They covered it up so that the TV...

and news guys couldn't get hold of it.

- It's supposed to be a clue.

- Can I take a look?

Sure.

What does that say?

It looks like, "We shall never yield. "

What the f*** does that mean?

I don't know.

We shall never yield

I think I know what it means.

Thanks, Deputy.

F***. Where is it? Sh*t.

Yes.

"We shall never yield. "

"June 10, 1973."

"June 10, 1974."

"June 10, 1975."

"March 24, 1987, Julie Niemeyer. "

Bingo.

Hi, neither one of us is home just now, but

if you'll leave your name, number, time you...

This is Lieutenant Maclntosh

of Internal Affairs.

Sergeant Hopkins,

this message is recorded to inform you...

that you are suspended from duty, pending

an Internal Affairs investigation.

It is incumbent upon you...

F*** you.

Get up, you f***!

Get the f*** up!

Get against the wall.

Walk it back. Slow. Walk it back.

"Henderson, Lawrence D...

"A.K.A. Bird, Birdie, Birdman. "

Why would I kill him? He's my snitch.

Why would I kill my snitch?

Don't f*** with me, Haines.

You're in deep enough sh*t as it is.

Read the goddamn file.

I intend to. Get your ass in that chair.

Put your hands in there. Sit on them.

Don't you move.

I'm gonna read this file.

Then you and I...

are gonna talk about the old days

in Silver Lake.

You know,

I'm a Silver Lake homeboy myself.

This is great.

"Today...

"I employed Lawrence Henderson

as my vice finger man.

"I've told the men on the squad

not to bust him. He is a good snitch.

"Respectfully, Delbert W. Haines,

Deputy Sheriff, Badge 408."

That explains his clean rap sheet.

But it doesn't explain

a Los Angeles County Deputy Sheriff...

running dope and male prostitutes...

and getting kickbacks from fruit hustlers

all over Boy's Town, does it?

What are you going to do

with Henderson dead now?

Huh, Whitey?

Find yourself a new sewer?

When the Sheriff's d*cks

link you to Henderson...

you're gonna have to find

a whole new career for yourself.

Is that right? I'm clean

all the way down the goddamn line.

I don't know anything about Henderson's

murder or any of that other sh*t...

or what the f*** you're talking about.

You're on some kind of outlaw trip here,

man, otherwise you'd have another cop...

here with you. I had you made the other day

when you talked about those suicides.

You're nothing but a punk cop

who likes to hassle other cops.

So you want to bust me for stealing

that file folder, you bust away, homeboy...

'cause that's all you got on me.

Okay, fat boy.

Time for a walk down memory lane.

My God!

Kathleen McCan'thy.

- Who's that?

- Webster High, 1972, Kathleen McCan'thy.

A girl from high school.

- It's not good enough, Whitey.

- What do you want?

Whoever killed Henderson

and God knows how many women...

sends Kathleen McCan'thy

flowers every time he kills.

He also had your apartment bugged.

How the f*** do you think I connected you

and Henderson?

This killer has an obsession with you,

Whitey, and I want to know why.

Why the hell should I know?

You have five chances to tell me.

You're not going to do this, man.

You haven't got the guts.

Four chances.

Now I'm gonna give you a little help.

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