BECAUSE THE NIGHT

363

took it in his hand, then looked down, seeing the dead woman’s face covered with a transparent plastic pillow.

“Now, Richard. Now, Richard. Now, Richard.”

The camera zoomed in and whirred; Oldfield pressed the barrel to the pillow and pulled the trigger. There was a dull plop, then the hiss of escaping air, then a spread of crimson as the deflated plastic filled with blood.

“Yes, Richard. Yes, Richard. Yes, Richard.”

The Night Tripper steadied the camera, pushing the eyepiece out of his way. He took the gun from Richard’s hand and flipped the cylinder open, letting the spent round fall to the floor. The Bronx ferris wheel became a whirling corkboard. He took two fresh rounds from his pocket and placed them in adjoining chambers, then flicked the cylinder shut and spun it. Richard Oldfield stood slack-jawed, swaying to self-contained music. The Night Tripper took a Dodger baseball cap and Howard Christie’s badge from his jacket, placing the cap on Richard’s head, pinning the badge to his left breast pocket. He placed the camera back on the tripod, then filmed close-ups of the badge, the cap and Richard’s face. Thinking of Linda Wilhite and toppling chess pieces, he picked the gun up off the floor and placed it in Richard’s right hand. Getting back behind the camera, he said, “Do you feel complete now, Richard?”

“Yes,” Richard said.

“Articulate how you feel.”

“I feel as if I’ve conquered my past, that I’ve broken through all my green doors with the promise of peace as my reward.”

“Will you go one step further for me? It will help a beautiful woman to resolve her nightmares.”

“Yes. Name it.”

“Stick the gun in your mouth and pull the trigger twice.”

Richard obeyed without question. The hammer clicked on empty chambers. The Night Tripper captured his finest moment on film, then ran to the dining room curtains and looked out with his blood-colored lens. Lloyd Hopkins was asleep, his head cradled into the half-open car window. 19

Lloyd awoke at dawn, startled out of a dreamless sleep by a sharp cramp in his leg. Rubbing his calf, he looked out of the car window and saw the Tudor cottage and the white Mercedes parked in the same spot as the night before. Oldfield’s shackup was still in progress. He had time to go home and call for reinforcements to aid him in a continued surveillance and possible approach.

Lloyd swung his Matador around and pulled up behind the Mercedes. He wrote down the license number, then called R&I on his two-way radio and read it off, requesting a complete readout on both vehicle and owner. After three minutes of static crackle, the operator came back on the air with her information. FHM 363—No wants; no warrants. Registered to Richard Brian Oldfield, 4109 Windemere, L.A. 90036. No wants; no warrants; no criminal record. Discouraged and exhausted despite his hours of sleep, Lloyd drove home, thinking of a shave, shower, and lots of coffee. A three-day accumulation of newspapers greeted him on his front porch. The previous day’s L.A. Times bore a banner headline: “Policeman Murdered in Malibu.” A sidebar added, “Execution Style Death for L.A.P.D. Lieutenant.” Lloyd kicked the papers aside and unlocked the door, seeing the stapled together notebook pages on the floor immediately. Picking them up, he read:

Memo to: Lloyd

From: Dutch

Read now.

L.—Where have you been? Shacking? I thought you turned over a new leaf. I’m your liaison, and we were supposed to be in daily contact,