ONE SUNDAY MORNING IN THE summer of 1958, Lee Earle Ellroy pulled up in a taxi outside his mother’s house in El Monte, California. He was surprised to see the place surrounded by police cars. As he stepped out of the cab, instinct told him what had happened. A policeman’s hand on his shoulder confirmed it. “Son, your mother’s been killed.”
A photographer was on the scene and hustled Ellroy to a nearby toolshed, where, after a little prompting, he started mugging for the camera. Shortly afterwards, Ellroy’s father arrived, and took him by bus to his own apartment in Los Angeles. Many years later, Ellroy would recall in his memoir, , what he felt on that bus ride: relief. He wanted
