Sample story from White
Saturday, August 9th, 1969, 1:45 AM
Black. No moon. The three-week-old smog smothering LA hid the stars. A police strobe flashed red across the large gate. The Bel Air mansion’s grounds seemed abandoned, only an empty patrol car at the end of its long sloping driveway on Cielo Drive. Then, emerging from the shadows: Officer José Delgado, his service revolver drawn down with both hands. His black boots cautiously climbed the asphalt drive, his eyes locked on what lay before him.
A white Rambler appeared to be parked haphazardly, but as he neared, it became clear the car had rear-ended a large oak. Its engine choked on its last drops of gas. The interior light was on, the driver’s door – wide open.
Rivulets of blood met Delgado’s boots. On only his third day of active duty, he raised his revolver. Eyes wide, he scanned the dark as he moved steadily toward the car door. Something hung from it.
He froze. It was the body of a teenage boy, short blond hair, glasses, short sleeve shirt, his head and arms sprawled on the asphalt. Delgado drew near, leaning over the body, squinting. The poor light from inside the car revealed a small piece of skull missing just below the hairline. Blood trickled from the back of his head. Officer Delgado was about to squat by the victim when he saw her. Pivoting towards the front door of the mansion, his eyes were drawn to her body. The bright porch light made the scene pale and ghostly, a distant vision in the absolute dark. She lay halfway out of the doorway. His gun rose to chest level.
Sidestepping the young man’s body, he made his way across the lawn. His eyes flickered nervously from window to window, watching for any movement inside, sporadically surveying the young woman with long blonde hair, her yellow summer dress drenched in blood. A worried mantra filled his head – first officer on scene, first officer on scene – summoning his academy classes: As initial patrolman on a crime scene – render immediate assistance to any living victims, preserve the evidence. He took his first step onto the stone path leading to the front door and stopped again. Slowly turning his head he saw another body a few feet away: a man, medium height, face down on the lawn, a large knife sticking out the back of his neck. The blade gleamed.
Keeping his eyes on the windows, the officer slowly made his way towards the man. His pulse drummed in his ears. He tried to remain calm, but could not help notice his pistol trembling in his hands. Squatting to feel for a pulse on the facedown man, he accidentally touched the large carving knife. His hand jumped back. A strong wind came up, breaking one of LA’s longest heat waves. It swung the front door. The girl’s body blocked it from closing. And now the officer could see it.
Written on the mansion’s door, in blood, was the word
PIG.
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