Darrell Ballitser was indeed skinny. Five-ten, 117 pounds according to the booking officer. Nineteen years old, born in Hawaiian Gardens, his current address was an SRO hotel near Skid Row.
He sat in the Beverly Hills PD interrogation room holding a paper cup of Mountain Dew. Third refill. His face was long and narrow, his shaved head topped with bumps. A blond mustache and goatee weren't much more than dandelion fluff. Bloodshot blue eyes that couldn't decide if they were tough or scared looked nowhere.
A blue Harley-Davidson tattoo marked the spot where the back of his neck met his shoulder blades. Another inscription proclaiming PARTY! was a magenta smear on his right bicep. L-I-F-E on the fingers of his right hand. D-E-A-T-H on the right. A blue-and-red Gothic CHENISE across his neck. His baggy white tank top was soiled, as were low-rider jeans barely held up by a wide black leather belt. Two hoop earrings in one ear, three in the other. A nose ring. Nature had provided additional decoration: angry patches of acne, random as buckshot wounds, on his face, back, and shoulders. Cruvic had contributed a black eye, split lip, bruised chin, lumpy jaw.
He rocked in his chair, attaining as much mobility as the hand cuffed to the bolted table would allow. They hadn't cuffed him at first, but he'd screamed and thrashed and tried to hit Milo.
Milo sat across from him, placid, almost bored. Ballitser drank the rest of the sweet yellow soda. He'd finished two sugar doughnuts provided by a slim young brunette detective named Angela Boatwright, chewing painfully, each swallow marked by the rise and fall of a plum-sized Adam's apple.
Boatwright was cheerful, a few sunburns past beautiful, with a surfer-girl rhythm to her speech, faint freckles and pale eyes, a tight runner's body, and slightly oversized hands. She wore a blue-black pantsuit and black flats with stockings. When she was with Ballitser she seemed more sorry than scornful, a long-suffering big sister, but out of earshot she'd referred to him as “a sorry little asswipe.”
Now she drank coffee and sat back behind the one-way glass flexing her hands. It had taken almost an hour to do Ballitser's paperwork. I was surprised at the ease with which Boatwright and her partner, a bald man named Hoppey, had relinquished control to Milo. Maybe she read my mind, because as we entered the viewing room, she said, “We booked him on attempted assault but the murder thing takes precedence. Lucky that doctor had his wits about him.”
A printout of Ballitser's criminal history rested on a fake-wood table between us. Mostly blank, except for notation of a sealed juvenile record and twenty unpaid parking tickets.
“Occupational hazard,” Milo had explained. “When Darrell works he's a messenger.”
“Car or bike?” I said.
“Both.” He gave a tired smile and I knew he was thinking, All that time spent on another stupid one?
Now he said, “I'm gonna get you a lawyer, Darrell, whether you ask for one or not.”
No answer.
“Darrell?”
Ballitser crumpled the paper cup and threw it on the floor.
“Is there any particular lawyer you want me to call?”
“Fuck.”
Milo started to get up.
“Fuck.”
“Fuck, yes, or fuck, no?”
“Fuck no.”
“Fuck no to a lawyer?”
“Fuck yeah.” Ballitser touched his jaw.
“Aspirin didn't kick in, yet, huh?”
No answer.
“Darrell?”
“Fuck.”
Angela Boatwright stretched. “Talk about your one-note solo.”
Milo got up and entered the observation room. “How many public defenders do you have on call?”
“All the PD's are tied up,” said Boatwright. “We've been into the private list for a while, compassionate Wilshire Boulevard guys doing pro bono. I'll go find someone.”
Two more Mountain Dews, a hamburger and fries, and two bathroom breaks later, an unhappy-looking attorney named Leonard Kasanjian showed up with an ostrich-skin briefcase too small to hold much. He had long black hair brushed straight back, a five-day beard, and minuscule pewter-framed eyeglasses over resigned, dark eyes. He wore a tailored olive gabardine suit, tan-check snap-collar shirt, hand-painted brown-and-gold tie, brown suede loafers.
As he approached, Boatwright smiled and whispered, “Pulled him out of Le Dome.”
“Hey, Angela,” he said, brightening. “You in charge, tonight? How's it-”
“Evening, Mr. Kasanjian,” she said in a hard tone, and the lawyer's smile died. She said, “Let me tell you about your client,” and did.
He listened, said, “Sounds pretty clear.”
“Maybe to you.”
“Mr. Ballitser,” said Kasanjian, putting his briefcase on the table.
The boy's free hand shot out, fisted, knocking the case to the floor.
Kasanjian picked it up and flicked lint from his lapel. Smiling, but his eyes were furious.
“Mr. Ballit-”
“Fuck you!”
Milo said, “Okay, we'll transfer him downtown, pull warrants on his room.”
Kasanjian looked down at the booking slip. “Hear that… Darrell?”
Ballitser rocked and fixed his eyes on the ceiling.
“They're taking you to the county jail, Darrell. I'll come by to see you tomorrow morning. Don't talk to anyone til then.”
Nothing.
Then, “Fuck.”
Kasanjian shook his head and stood. He and Milo headed for the door.
Ballitser said, “Spade!”
Both men turned.
“What's that, son?” said Kasanjian.
Silence.
“Spade?” said Kasanjian. “A black guy?”
“Fuck!” said the boy, spraying saliva and kicking wildly.
“Easy, Darrell,” said Kasanjian.
Ballitser slammed his fist on the table.
His eyes shifted to the door, his torso quivered and tightened, every muscle defined beneath the damaged skin, like a frayed anatomical diagram.
“Fu-u-uck Spa-a-ade!”
Kasanjian said, “Spa-”
“Spa-a-a-a-de! Sp-a-a-a-a-de! That's fucking why! That's fucking why!”
Kasanjian looked shaken. “Try to calm down, Darrell.”
He turned to Milo. “He's obviously in need of psychiatric attention, Detective. I'm making a formal request that you provide immedia-”
“Spa-a-a-a-a-de! Spa-a-a-a-a-de!”
Ballitser twisted his body, punched his own chest, kicking at the chair, pounding the bolted table, over and over.
“Spade is “why'?” said Milo.
“Fucking why!”
“Why you don't like Dr. Cruvic?”
“Fucking-A!”
“Spade.”
“Fucking-A! He fucking did it!” The boy began crying, then curled his free hand and ripped at his cheeks. Milo pulled him off, held him still. Darrell's blemished face was contorted in agony.
“Cruvic did it,” said Milo, gently.
“Ye-e-e-s!”
“He fucking did it, Darrell.”
“Y-e-e-e-s!”
“To Chenise.”
“Y-e-e-s! Spa-a-a-a-de! Like a fucking dog. Woof-fucking-woof!”
Ballitser clawed the table, panted.
“Chenise,” said Milo.
Ballitser flopped his neck hard enough to sprain it. He raised his free hand prayerfully. Nothing aggressive in the gesture.
Milo came closer. “Tell me, son.”
Tears spurted from the boy's eyes.
“It's okay, tell me, son.”
Darrell's stick-body shook.
“What'd he do, son?”
Darrell shot a hand into the air. Waved it. His eyes danced wildly.
“He fucking spayed my lady!”