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A thud echoed outside the door—the sound of the paperboy chucking the Evening Herald. Da
This morning Charles E. (Eddington) Hartshorn, 52, a prominent society lawyer who dabbled in social causes, was found dead in the living room of his Hancock Park home, an apparent self-asphyxiation suicide. Hartshorn’s body was discovered by his daughter Betsy, 24, who had just arrived home from a trip and told Metro reporter Bevo Means: “Daddy was despondent. A man had been around talking to him—Daddy was certain it had to do with a grand jury investigation he’d heard about. People always bothered him because he did volunteer work for the Sleepy Lagoon Defense Committee, and they found it strange that a rich man wanted to help poor Mexicans.”
Lieutenant Walter Reddin of the LAPD’s Wilshire Station said, “It was suicide by hanging, pure and simple. There was no note, but no signs of a struggle. Hartshorn simply found a rope and a ceiling beam and did it, and it’s a darn shame his daughter had to find him.”
Hartshorn, a senior partner of Hartshorn, Welborn and Hayes, is survived by daughter Betsy and wife Margaret, 49. Funeral service notices are pending.
Da
Da
“It’s Deputy Upshaw. Is Mal around?”
“He’s not here, Deputy. This is Meeks. You need somethin’?”
The man sounded subdued. Da
“Yeah, I did. Last week. Why?”
“I just read in the paper that he killed himself.”
A long silence, a long breath. Meeks said, “Oh shit.”
Da
“Nothin’, kid. This on your homicide case?”
“Yes. How did you know that?”
“Well, I braced Hartshorn, and he thought I had to be a Homicide cop, ‘cause a guy who tried to shake him down on his queerness years ago just got bumped off. This was right around when you joined up with us, and I remembered somethin’ about this dink Lindenaur from the papers. Kid, I was a cop for years, and this guy Hartshorn wasn’t holdin’ nothin’ back ‘cept the fact he likes boys, so I didn’t tell you about him—I just figured he was no kind of suspect.”
“Meeks, you should have told me anyway.”
“Upshaw, you gave me some barter on the old queen. I owe you on that, ‘cause I had to rough him up, and I bought out by tellin’ him I’d keep the Homicide dicks away. And kid, that poor sucker couldn’t of killed a fly.”
“Shit! Why did you go talk to him in the first place? Because he was co
“No. I was trackin’ corroboration dirt on the Commies and I got a note said Hartshorn was rousted with Reynolds Loftis at a fruit bar in Santa Monica in ‘44. I wanted to see if I could squeeze some more dirt on Loftis out of him.”
Da
Reynolds Loftis was tall, gray-haired, middle-aged.
He was co
He was the homosexual lover of Chaz Minear circa early ‘40s; in the grand jury psychiatric files, Sammy Benavides had mentioned “puto” Chaz buying sex via a “queer date-a-boy gig”— a possible reference to Felix Gordean’s introduction service, which employed snuff victims George Wiltsie and Augie Duarte.
Last night in darktown, Claire De Haven had been all nerves; the killer had picked up Goines on that block and a hop pusher at the Zombie had addressed her. She sloughed it off, but was known to the grand jury team as a longtime hophead. Did she procure the junk load that killed Marty Goines?
Da
“There something you ain’t tellin’ me?”
“Yes—no—fuck, I don’t know.”
The line hung silent for good long seconds; Da
Da
Buzz Meeks said, “Holy fuckin’ dog.”
Da
Krugman into Upshaw into Krugman, pure Homicide cop.
Da
More nothing to hide. Da
Da
Too much nothing to hide.
Da