Ladies and gentlemen, the following is based on real emotions. Only the names have been changed to protect the dumbfounded.
You’re a detective sergeant. You’re assigned to homicide detail. A grizzled obscure mystery writer has been booked. It’s suspected he bumped off a younger student of his. The claim is the student wrote a better manuscript than the writer’s latest efforts. Much better.
Your job, get to the truth.
It was Friday, June 1. It was cool in Los Angeles. We were working the night watch out of Wilshire Division. My partner’s Art Doyle. My name’s Poe. It was 2:06 a.m., and we had the writer in the box.
Writer: You know, I sure woulda been wrong about you two. I mean before you pinched me.
Poe: How’s that?
Writer: I didn’t guess you were cops. How you dress I mean.
Writer: Salesmen, that what I said to myself when you came into the strip joint as I got my lap dance.
Writer: Ladies Ready-to-Wear. Guess I’d’a missed the boat on that one.
Doyle: About your student.
Writer: What about him?
Poe: When you’d see him last?
Writer: Uh…Tuesday, yeah, must have been Tuesday.
Doyle: All right.
Writer: Coffee, we had coffee to talk about the book he’d finished.
Poe: Good book is it?
Writer: It’s okay.
Doyle: Just okay, is it?
Doyle: That why you’ve been shopping it as your own?
Poe: Drinks with the sutdio guy last night.
Writer: How do you mean?
Doyle: You know damn well what we mean.
Writer: I…I…want a lawyer.
Poe: That’s right, friend. You’re going to need that lawyer worse than you wanted that lap dance.