It was Wednesday, August fifteenth. It was warm in Los Angeles. We were working day watch out of Homicide Detail. My partner's Ed Harris. The boss is George Baxter, Chief of Detectives. My name's Kingsley. It was nine thirty-two AM when I arrived at eight-four-seven, Georgia Street- Homicide Bureau.
I crossed the floor of the office, nodding a greeting to the detectives already there. Arriving at my desk I hung up my hat and coat before easing myself into my chair. There was a buzz about the office as the boys made sense of the recent atomic bombing against the Japanese. The consensus seemed to be that the Nips had reaped what they had sown.
I reached into my in-tray and shuffled through the documents there. A couple of reports to finish. Nothing interesting there, just the day-to-day routine of a detective. Harry Barker brought me a coffee on the way back to his desk. I grimaced at the taste of the lukewarm liquid. I lit a Camel and began perusing the first of the follow-up work, a report on hit and run that had resulted in a murder conviction.
Forty-five minutes later Ed Harris, my partner, got back from court where he'd been testifying. “Hey, Art.” He said, collapsing into his chair. “You see that crazy shit? Good ol' Uncle Sam wiped a whole city of those yellow monkeys right off the face of the Earth.” Harris had been on vacation when the bomb had dropped, and he'd been talking about it constantly. I took a drag from my smoke. Harris had been a pilot in the Flying Tigers way back in '38, and had hated the Japs with a passion ever since. Not that I could blame him. “Sure I saw it, Ed.” I answered, hitting a few keys on the typewriter. “They can't keep fighting, right? Not if we can incinerate whole cities with a single bomb.” I blew out a thin stream of blue smoke.
“Never can tell with the Nips.” Harris snorted. “Little bastards are barely human.”
“Hmm.” I said. “Krauts were bad too.”
“Guess so.” Harris didn't seem convinced. “That coffee any good?”
“So-so.” I said. “Could be better, could be worse.” Harris headed off across the office to the pot. Half-way there the “Hot-shot” phone rang. “Got it.” Harris called and grabbed it. “Harris, homicide.” He said into the receiver. “Yeah. Uh-huh. Got it.” He put the phone down. “Ours, Art.” He said. “Triple homicide, alleyway off Oakland Drive.” I stubbed out my smoke and grabbed my hat. “Let's do it.”
We left the office and climbed into our unmarked, a Packard, and peeled away from the kerb. I was driving whilst Harris, smoking one of his long cigars, closed his eyes and enjoyed the sun on his face.
I slowed the Packard as we approached the crime scene, which was in a gloomy alleyway behind an auto repair shop on Oakland Drive. A couple of black-and-whites were blocking off the road, yellow police tape cordoning off the area. A uniform held the tape up and I eased the big sedan underneath, pulling to a stop. Grabbing our hats Harris and I climbed from the car.
“Officer Davis.” One of the uniforms approached us and identified himself.
“Sergeant Kingsley. Homicide.” I answered. “This is Sergeant Harris. What do you have for us?”
Davis led us along the pavement towards the alleyway. “Three victims. Asians, maybe mid to late 40's. Auto shop owner found the bodies when he came to take out the trash half an hour ago.”
“You began canvassing the area?” Harris asked. Davis looked annoyed. “Yes, sergeant.” He said. “We have. So far nothing. It's a quiet area though. Not much traffic at this time of the day.”
“Okay.” I said soothingly. “Good. Keep moving the citizens along, Officer. Where is the auto shop owner?”
“Just round the corner.” Davis said as we came to the spot in the alleyway where three blood-spattered heaps lay. “Jameson is keeping an eye on him.” I nodded distractedly, taking in the scene. “Great. We'll take it from here.”
I crossed the floor of the office, nodding a greeting to the detectives already there. Arriving at my desk I hung up my hat and coat before easing myself into my chair. There was a buzz about the office as the boys made sense of the recent atomic bombing against the Japanese. The consensus seemed to be that the Nips had reaped what they had sown.
I reached into my in-tray and shuffled through the documents there. A couple of reports to finish. Nothing interesting there, just the day-to-day routine of a detective. Harry Barker brought me a coffee on the way back to his desk. I grimaced at the taste of the lukewarm liquid. I lit a Camel and began perusing the first of the follow-up work, a report on hit and run that had resulted in a murder conviction.
Forty-five minutes later Ed Harris, my partner, got back from court where he'd been testifying. “Hey, Art.” He said, collapsing into his chair. “You see that crazy shit? Good ol' Uncle Sam wiped a whole city of those yellow monkeys right off the face of the Earth.” Harris had been on vacation when the bomb had dropped, and he'd been talking about it constantly. I took a drag from my smoke. Harris had been a pilot in the Flying Tigers way back in '38, and had hated the Japs with a passion ever since. Not that I could blame him. “Sure I saw it, Ed.” I answered, hitting a few keys on the typewriter. “They can't keep fighting, right? Not if we can incinerate whole cities with a single bomb.” I blew out a thin stream of blue smoke.
“Never can tell with the Nips.” Harris snorted. “Little bastards are barely human.”
“Hmm.” I said. “Krauts were bad too.”
“Guess so.” Harris didn't seem convinced. “That coffee any good?”
“So-so.” I said. “Could be better, could be worse.” Harris headed off across the office to the pot. Half-way there the “Hot-shot” phone rang. “Got it.” Harris called and grabbed it. “Harris, homicide.” He said into the receiver. “Yeah. Uh-huh. Got it.” He put the phone down. “Ours, Art.” He said. “Triple homicide, alleyway off Oakland Drive.” I stubbed out my smoke and grabbed my hat. “Let's do it.”
We left the office and climbed into our unmarked, a Packard, and peeled away from the kerb. I was driving whilst Harris, smoking one of his long cigars, closed his eyes and enjoyed the sun on his face.
I slowed the Packard as we approached the crime scene, which was in a gloomy alleyway behind an auto repair shop on Oakland Drive. A couple of black-and-whites were blocking off the road, yellow police tape cordoning off the area. A uniform held the tape up and I eased the big sedan underneath, pulling to a stop. Grabbing our hats Harris and I climbed from the car.
“Officer Davis.” One of the uniforms approached us and identified himself.
“Sergeant Kingsley. Homicide.” I answered. “This is Sergeant Harris. What do you have for us?”
Davis led us along the pavement towards the alleyway. “Three victims. Asians, maybe mid to late 40's. Auto shop owner found the bodies when he came to take out the trash half an hour ago.”
“You began canvassing the area?” Harris asked. Davis looked annoyed. “Yes, sergeant.” He said. “We have. So far nothing. It's a quiet area though. Not much traffic at this time of the day.”
“Okay.” I said soothingly. “Good. Keep moving the citizens along, Officer. Where is the auto shop owner?”
“Just round the corner.” Davis said as we came to the spot in the alleyway where three blood-spattered heaps lay. “Jameson is keeping an eye on him.” I nodded distractedly, taking in the scene. “Great. We'll take it from here.”
