The Fanatic

By David Ruggeri

Famous movie star Millie Swann has committed the most grievous Hollywood sin: She has gotten older. In a fit of rage she brutally murders her long-time agent, leaving him with his genitals in his mouth. He has controlled her career with astute negotiations, drugs and pornographic blackmail since she was a teenager. An adoring fan witnesses the murder. Letters from the fan, who has become a stalker, reveal a growing psychotic fixation on the movie star as Swann learns that her murderous act was observed. Vince D'Amato, newly appointed to the Westside Division of the LAPD, is assigned to work the homicide. Vince is fighting his own personal demons: lack of self-confidence and peer acceptance, an over-bearing mother, and his inability to sustain a meaningful relationship. But all this changes when he meets beautiful production assistant, Samantha Brinkman and finds himself immersed in Hollywood's cesspool of sex, drugs, obsession and murder. (Explicit Material)

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Ruggeri
• Release date: Jun 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476061856

David Ruggeri

Mr. Ruggeri spent over 35 years in commercial banking. The US Air Force sent him to Yale University to study Chinese for Cold War assignments after a lengthy stint studying for the priesthood. His recent decision to leave the workforce and its constant downsizing and merger upheavals came easily after having raised his two children and rediscovering the joys of writing, one of his first ambitions. He is the author of 12 published books. His adult two children, Kelly and Sean are successful in their personal and business enterprizes and are a source of unending pride. Mr. Ruggeri currently lives in Anaheim and spends quality time baby sitting his grandchildren.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Miss Millicent Swann

c/o Topaz Studios

1222 Gower Street

Hollywood, CA 90046

Dear Miss Swann,

Just a short note to say: hi! I saw your new film, Paris Fog, Saturday night and thought it--and you!--were just super fabulous.

I certainly admire the way you've overcome your personal difficulties and risen above them to become such a great star.

Keep up the good work. I’ll look forward to following your career and seeing Summer Of Passion when it comes out next year.

--Your #1 Fan

I know the difference between fantasy and reality. It's simple: Fantasy is when Millie Swann shoots Pierre Nevsky in the forehead. She does it at least four times a day on each of three thousand screens. Pierre dies an average of twelve thousand times each twenty-four hours--and that's just in the United States!

Reality, is when Millie Swann stabs Harry Melnick in the throat, stomps on his balls with her Gucci pumps, and then stuffs his penis halfway down his throat.

That's reality--and it only happened once.

CHAPTER TWO

Vincent D'Amato rests his feet uncomfortably on the corner of the desk in his workstation. The position causes an irritating pressure on his tailbone, but he’s damned if he’ll give up the casual air he is trying to achieve.

Around him, the squad room bustles with morning activity. Everyone is busy except Detective Third Grade Vincent D'Amato, who leafs calmly through a copy of Daily Variety. Vince wants to make sure his reading material is noticed.

It is.

D'Amato! A voice barks from over his shoulder. You don't have anything to do?

Just waiting for you, boss, Vince grins at the hairy bear of a man who has addressed him. Taking a little break, and waiting for my next assignment.

You take care of that weenie wagger down by Saint Mary's?

Locked him up, and threw away the key, Lieutenant.

Which means he'll be back out on bail before you finish the paperwork.

Vince shrugs. He’s been a cop long enough to know that some efforts are the equivalent of pissing up wind.

Where's the report?

On your desk where it's supposed to be, boss.

Wise ass. What about the B & E at the Mason Lodge? Did you cover that like I asked?

Sure did. One of the thirsty brothers, or sheiks, or whatever they call themselves, went in through a bathroom window after closing time. Tried to drink the place dry and must have fallen into the shelves behind the bar. Made a real mess.

We know about the mess, D'Amato. That's why the Grand Poo-bah called the po-lice. We are the po-lice, you know, the large Man grinned.

That’s right boss, we are the po-lice.

How did you catch the perp.?

Like I said, it was a mess, but no vandalism was intended. He left his signature.

His signature?

"Yeah. On a check. I guess, when this guy woke up and realized his midnight drinking expedition had caused so much damage, he wrote a check for the breakage, and left it on the Grand One's desk. The top man called us before he'd checked his office. The wayward brother more than covered what he drank and what he destroyed. The lodge has withdrawn the complaint."

Is that all you've been working on?

A few other file numbers: the missing teenager over on Cedar Drive--probably selling it on Hollywood Boulevard by now, if her friends have it right. And then there's always the fifteen hundred stolen vehicle reports--if I want to go out to LAX and walk around the parking structures for a few days.

Since Vince's recent transfer to Operations, West Bureau, West Los Angeles Division, Lieutenant Brad Sullivan has kept him hopping from one section to another on a variety of cases. To see where he fits in best, Sullivan said. More to make sure his new detective knows his place and pays his dues, Vince suspects.

I can see I've been greatly remiss in attending to your assignments, D'Amato. The lieutenant shakes his head in mock dismay at his own inefficiency and looks out at the squad room. It looks like everyone is busy around here except you and me. And my job is to make sure I stay that way and you don't.

Well, boss-man, that's what I wanted to talk to you about.

"Uh-huh, yeah, sure! You couldn't wait for me to get in and re-stack your caseload, right, D'Amato? That's why you were just kicking back with your TV Guide and planning your social schedule."

Vince waves the paper. "It's Daily Variety."

I don't care if it's toilet paper for your daily dump, D'Amato. Get off your ass and see Gruber about a few files. Lieutenant Sullivan lets a disarming smile play around the corners of his mouth. That is, if it's not too inconvenient for you.

Sullivan disappears into his office, directly across from Vince's workstation.

Shit, Vince mumbles, feeling he has missed his best opportunity to plead for the case he wants. He hasn’t had a chance to work homicide yet, and that is his ultimate goal.

D'Amato! Thunder rolls out of the Lieutenant's office. Get in here!

Vince jumps up, eager to have another shot at his special request.

Sullivan shakes a sheaf of papers in the air. What the hell is this? he demands.

Vince leans forward to catch a glimpse of the moving pages as they passed back and forth under his nose. My reports, he says simply.

Sullivan stops waving the papers and leafs through them.

Where's your forms? Where the hell's Form 86, and your PD35’s? The only thing that looks official here is the booking sheet on this Myers guy.

That's the weenie wagger.

I don't care if he's the freaking mayor of Beverly Hills—where’re your forms?

Vince is eager to explain. They're there! Well, actually their equivalents are there. I converted them on my PC at home and transferred all the information into a standard format. If you look, you'll see all of the info is there. It just looks different on the computer paper.

Sullivan inspects the reports, reading random pieces of information. When he speaks, he appears to be partially mollified, but he is still on the attack. Is this the kind of crap they taught you down at the Hollenbeck?

Vince runs his fingers through his brown, curly hair. Shit, Lieutenant, they don't even know how to write down at the Hollenbeck. You know how things are in that division. They threw away the book the day they opened up. Why do you think I transferred out here to the Westside?

I understand it was personal reasons. Now I can see what they were: You think your shit don't stink! You're a fuckin' prima donna. Too good for the uniforms down there, eh? There is no rancor in the older man's voice as he sits down wearily in his chair, scanning the reports.

Vince feels compelled to defend himself. No, I’m not a prima donna. There was an opening here for a Grade Three, and I'd just passed the exam. Besides, I needed to be close to my family in Santa Monica. There's some illness. He doesn't want to explain that it’s his mother. He is too old for apron strings, and he doesn't need to start his career on the Westside with a reputation as a mama's boy

Don't put your blues into mothballs yet, D'Amato. As far as I'm concerned, you're still on probation in this division.

Vince nods. Can I ask a favor, Lieutenant?

No.

I'd like to work the Melnick case.

No.

You know, the agent across Sunset? The one murdered last week?

You mean the prick with his dick in his mouth?

Yeah. That's the one.

No.

I could do a good job; I know the business. Vince waves his copy of Daily Variety, trying to attract his superior's eyes away from the reports.

What business? Sullivan asks, not bothering to look up.

Show business.

No.

I know who all the players are, Vince exclaims.

It's Jazinski and Goldberg's squeal. They're working it. I don't think they need to turn it into a three-handed pinochle game.

That's what I wanted to tell you. Jazinski's out.

Lieutenant Brad Sullivan's eyes glare up from under heavy brows. What’re you talking about?

Maternity leave.

"D'Amato, Jazinski's wife was pregnant; not him. She dropped her foal last week."

Yeah, I know. But he's put in for three-month's family leave.

The hell you say! Incredulity flashes across Sullivan's face.

Federal law. Got to give leave to the poppa as well as the momma.

I suppose the federal government is going to come in here and hold our hands while the crime rate goes through the roof and the city goes into the dumper?

Vince can tell that Bradley Sullivan isn’t particularly impressed by the care and keeping provided by his elected representatives in Washington. The good Lieutenant is of the old school.

Vince continues rapidly. Jazinski needs to stay home with his wife a while. She's not doing too well.

Sullivan shakes his head in bewilderment. You know, D'Amato, in the old days a man's job was to feed 'em, screw 'em, and then pay child support for the next 18 years. Now you're expected to stay home with 'em and change the goddamn diapers.

What about the Melnick case?

What about it?

I can work with Goldberg.

Why? You want into her pants?

Rachel Goldberg's not my type. I just think I've got enough show business savvy to contribute something special to this case. And you need another man on it.

"I need an experienced man, D'Amato, not a rookie. You're just looking to plank some starlets. Don't give me that 'I've got something special to contribute' bullshit."

They don't have starlets any more.

Oh yeah? Did their tits and asses fall off all of a sudden?

They had starlets in the old studio system--back when they had contracts. No one calls them starlets in the industry now. Vince is trying to sound knowledgeable.

Whatever they call it, a cooze is a cooze. You out lookin' for a little easy pussy, D'Amato?

No sir. I just thought I had something extra to bring to the table?

Is that what they do down at the Hollenbeck, bring everything to the goddamn table?

Vince thinks it’s time to shut up. Every time he opens his mouth, Sullivan puts his foot in it. At this point, there is no sense opening his mouth just to wash his toes again.

Sullivan reads a few moments longer before looking up again at his recent acquisition from the Hollenbeck Division.

You still here? the lieutenant growls. Don't you have a way to get to LAX? After all, you, yourself said there are fifteen hundred cars waiting to be found.

How about the Melnick case?

The large man moves his full IN basket from the corner of his desk to the middle. I'll look into it.

Thanks, Lieutenant. I'd appreciate the opportunity.

Vince is already back in the squad room when Sullivan shouts after him. These reports look okay, kid. But from now on use the goddamn forms the city provides.

* * * *

Rachel Goldberg is a stunning blond. At forty, she can put women fifteen years her junior to shame. Vince has seen her around the squad room for the past three months but they've never officially met.

For Vince, Rachel Goldberg has that intimidating combination of good looks, regal bearing, self-confidence and arrogant assertiveness that effectively removes her from his most remote fantasies. The fact that she is also a cop doesn't make her any more approachable. The difference in their ages, fourteen years, doesn’t hurt, either.

Gazing at her across the squad room, or at roll call at the shift change, Vince finds it almost impossible to find her flaws. There are none. She is perfect. At five-foot-nine, Rachel Goldberg seems tall compared to the other women around them. She is muscular, but not hard or thick. Her short, dark blond hair frames a usual expression of inquisitive severity that would turn aside any advances Vince might be foolish enough to make.

And she is one hell of a cop! Rachel Goldberg's reputation in the division is legendary. If anything derogatory ever comes up, the source is usually a jealous male whose masculinity has been threatened.

The idea of working with Rachel Goldberg might be intimidating, but Vince wants to be involved in a high-profile case. It could give him credibility on the Westside and a helluva a foundation for his future career.

* * * *

Detective Goldberg?

Rachel looks up from her neatly organized desk.

Vince holds out his hand. I'm Vince D'Amato.

I know. Her hand is hard and dry, strong and confident.

Sullivan sent me over to work with you on the Melnick case.

She looks at him without expression. So he said.

I guess Jazinski decided to take a little time off... uh, the baby and all...I guess. Vince is suddenly uncomfortable under Rachel's unblinking gaze, and already starting to self-consciously stumble over his words.

I guess, she says.

It's nice he can stay home and help his wife, Vince adds, hoping this woman will appreciate his sensitive side.

"He's just lazy, D'Amato. His wife did all the work-- and now he needs a rest. She looks at the files on her desk. Sit down, you're blocking my light."

Vince pulls out the chrome and naugahyde chair. For a moment he is tempted to stretch out his six-foot length, in casual comfort. Instead, he sits straight, like a kid waiting for the principal.

Although he really doesn't mean it, Vince says, Sorry you lost your partner on this one.

Rachel shrugs. No big deal. We've been together only a year. With his wife pregnant most of that time, he's been a basket case. Your wife isn't pregnant, is she, D'Amato?

Uh...I'm not married.

Not ever?

Almost--once, right out of high school. I went into the Air Force instead.

Rachel's perfect eyebrows raise evenly. You a fly boy?

Air Police.

Ah.

Vince can tell she knows what prompted him to join law enforcement. Once you had a taste of it--even for the amateurs in the military--it got into your blood.

How did you talk Sullivan into letting you work this case?

This time its Vince’s turn to shrug. I guess he thought it might help to have someone working the case who has a bit of show business background.

You a frustrated actor, D’Amato?

No. It’s just a hobby.

A hobby? And I suppose playing cops and robbers is a hobby too, huh?

Rachel’s condescending tone angers Vince, but he hides it well, sensing that this woman is trying to rattle his cage just to see what he’s made of.

No. I’m in for the duration, Vince replies.

Sullivan said you came from the Hollenbeck. What's the matter, it get too hot for you over there?

You mean the land of chaos and confusion? Vince shakes his head. I liked it okay. Things are always roaring at the 'Beck. But I've got a sick mother, who lives in Santa Monica, and I need to be closer here on the Westside.

Vince instantly regrets mentioning the reason for his transfer. He thinks she will probably slot him into the same malingering category as Bob Jazinski.

I don't let my personal life interfere with my work. Vince feels compelled to add.

It already has, hasn't it? Rachel says.

He leans forward to emphasize his point. We live in Santa Monica. I just want to be closer in case there's an emergency. The day I can't do my job, I'll tell you--before you can tell me!

Hey, D'Amato, you don't have to convince me. Hold up your end of the investigation, and we've got no problems.

I'll do that. And just because I write up my reports at home on a PC, and not on these old clunkers, he pats the IBM Selectric on her desk, it doesn't mean I'm not working.

I don't give a damn if you prepare your reports standing on your head in a toilet bowl--as long as they get done.

They get done, Vince says, a slight testiness in his voice.

Then we'll get along just fine, D'Amato.

Call me Vince. Vince waits for her to reciprocate, but when she ignores his peace offering, he continues. What have we got so far?

Rachel paws through the series of manila folders neatly stacked on her desk. Flipping one open, she peruses the contents for a moment before handing it to him.

One dead body, she recites. Male. Caucasian. Sixty-six years old, five-foot seven, 180 pounds. No, make that 179½ without his eight ounce dick.

Harry Melnick. Agent to the stars, Vince says.

You know him?

Of him. Melnick was pretty well known.

Yeah, evidently everyone knew and loved Harry Melnick. I've been on the case for a week, and I'm discovering that your buddy, the agent to the stars, had more enemies than friends.

That seems to be pretty par for the course in this town. You don't drop the soap in the shower in Hollywood. Everyone always seems to be stabbing everybody else in the back.

Well, this time it was in the throat instead of the back. Rachel reaches over and removes the file from Vince's hands, flips pages for him and hands it back, turned to the Crime Scene Photographs section. Stuck it in, twisted it around, and tried to pull it out sideways; a couple of times, at least. Made quite a mess. She points to one of the 8 X 10 photos.

Jesus!

Actually, the poor fucker choked on his own blood before he could bleed to death. After she stomped his balls, she cut them off and jammed them into his mouth.

Ouch. Vince grimaces. "You said, 'she?'"

That's right. According to the coroner's examination, there's a nice neat, indelible imprint of a woman's high heel right in the middle of Melnick's scrotum. You know, that little metal plate at the bottom of the heel? Evidently, she ground it in good and firm, a perfect impression of the Gucci logo with a little chip in the side of it. If we find the shoe, we'll find the perp; and it'll be a woman.

Or a cross-dresser or a transvestite, Vince suggests with a smile.

They got those over in the Hollenbeck too, D'Amato? I thought we had the franchise in West Hollywood."

We had everything at the 'Beck. Any suspects?" Vince asks, starting to feel more comfortable with Rachel Goldberg.

Sure, Rachel laughs as she reached over to the corner of her desk. She pushes a stack of computer paper over to her new partner. Take your choice.

Vince leafs through the report. There are over 30 pages of names and addresses and phone numbers as well as other codes and remarks.

What's this? he asks.

It's from the computer in Melnick's office. His secretary did it up. It’s his client list--past and present--the short form. Just the basics. Each of these entries-- Rachel reaches over to tap the top page with a manacured finger nail--is supported by a separate computer file as well as a stack of traditional paper.

This guy's been busy.

Uh-huh. He was in the business for over fifty years. A lot of water under the bridge.

Vince reads some of the names on the list. And probably a lot of broads trough the bedroom.

Jeez, D'Amato, do they still call us broads? Or have you just been reading too much Raymond Chandler?

Sorry. Vince tries to cover up for his chauvinist statement by rushing on. There are some pretty famous names on this list, he points out.

Some greats from the past and present, Rachel says. Probably more past than present. I scanned the list and could recognize only half the names.

Have you followed up on any of them?

She shakes her head.

Vince notices that her hair swings evenly back and forth with the movement of her head, each strand in place and attached to its neighbor by a copious application of Clairol Extra Hold. Vince realizes that Rachel Goldberg is as much dependent on a little help with her perfect looks as the rest of the women he has known. Somehow it makes her a little more human.

Jazinski and I were busy following up with the neighbors and co-workers. I've typed up my notes. She points to another manila folder on the desk. That asshole, Jazinski's, got a few scraps of papers in the file. They don't mean squat, but at least he's filled me in verbally. He might be home burping the baby, but I'll get him to type up his notes and send them over so that you have everything.

Vince looks through the sections of the file: CRIME REPORT, EVIDENCE TECHNICIAN, POST MORTEM, FORENSIC TECHNICIAN, INVESTIGATION, ARRESTS. The last section is optimistic, but empty. The first three are filled with neatly completed forms. The thickest, but least consistent section is: INVESTIGATION.

You've been busy, Vince says, intending to be complimentary and make up for his previous gaffe.

It doesn't work.

I'm always busy, D'Amato. You know this isn't all I have to do. There's more than one crime a month here on the Westside. I mean, we may not be saddled with the toilet scum you guys in Hollenbeck cultivate in the barrio, but we have more than our share.

I know, Vince acknowledges, anxious to pacify his new supervisor and partner. I've been pretty busy.

And now, Sullivan says you’re all mine, right? Rachel's voice is tinged with sarcasm. Remind me to thank him. A Thanksgiving turkey would have been enough.

Vince ignores Rachel's remark and glances through the client list from Harry Melnick's office.

Listen, D'Amato, I've got some stuff to take care of. Why don't you take the file and read through my R2's. They'll give you a background on Melnick’s neighbors and his office staff. Take a look at the Crime Scene photos. Go through that computer list, she points to the stack of paper before him, and come up with a plan of action to start interviewing his clients.

Vince glances at his watch. It is already noon. Okay. When do you want to meet and discuss it?

We just did.

I mean the plan of action, investigative parameters, the division of responsibilities.

Rachel Goldberg pushes herself out of her chair and grabs her handbag from the floor by the side of the desk. Your only responsibility right now, D'Amato, is to do what you are told. You don't have to worry about all that Academy 'investigative parameter' bullshit.

Vince understands that Rachel is in charge, but she doesn't have to make such an obvious point of reminding him.

He watches her walk away, marveling at how quickly the overall impression of perfection is shattered by a short conversation. His eyes follow the sway of confident hips as she pushes through the squad room door.

Rachel Goldberg is a prize bitch, Vince decides.

Damn, Vince mutters as the squad room door swings shut. Whether it is an eventual encounter with Harry Melnick's genitals-removing killer, or his daily contact with Rachel Goldberg, he might want to make an investment in a cast-iron jock strap!

CHAPTER THREE

Miss Millicent Swann

c/o Topaz Studios

1222 Gower Street

Hollywood, CA 90046

Dear Millicent,

A note from your greatest admirer. I couldn't resist. I went back last night and saw Paris Fog for the 4th time. I'm sure that eventually I will see it umpteen more times, like everything else you've done.

This time I wanted to focus on the scene under the bridge. You know, where Gabrielle shoots Pierre. I think it's just super that your character has the intestinal fortitude to defend her honor with such an ultimate act. After all, as we see in the film, there's no going back to innocence.

I made sure this time that I con-centrated on your eyes when you pull the trigger. I know close-ups are filmed separately from the rest of the action-- sometimes days apart--but I could swear that I saw hate in your--in Gabrielle's--eyes. Real Hate. Not just acting. Although, God knows (witness your Oscar and the other three nominations), you are a consummate actress. But this was more than acting.

It's no wonder that you are one of the world's greatest and most loved stars.

You certainly know how to put all of your inner self into the emotions of a scene.

In any case, I just wanted you to know that someone out here among the masses really appreciates your talent.

--Your #1 Fan

Do you think she realizes what I'm getting at? Do you think she'll understand that during the murder scene in Paris Fog, I could see real hatred in her eyes when she blows away that despicable rapist?

Oh, I did, you know. I could see those beautiful hazel eyes blazing with all the vehemence of cold fire and retribution. Everything must always balance out in the end. For every action there is an equal reaction. It just takes time.

I was there the night she killed Melnick, you know, like an angel in the night--in the bushes.

Once I found out what had been going on, I knew my dear Millie needed to be protected from that animal. And when she had to go out there to see that greasy little slime, I decided I would be there. Although, God knows, skulking around in the shrubbery, there wasn't much I could do to help her if she got into real trouble--maybe bang on the door and scare the son of a bitch if she needed a distraction to get away from him.

I know it was presumptuous of me. Who says she wanted to get away from him? After all, there are some who need such degradation in their life.

NO!

What am I saying?

I'm talking about Millie Swann.

How could this most perfect of all creatures have need for such...such...

I can't even find an appropriate word to describe what she has been subjected to.

This certainly wasn't the first time Melnick put her to such humiliation...

There's the word I was looking for!

Humiliation.

But it seemed like they knew exactly what was expected of each other, although she certainly couldn't have been enjoying it!

I want to throw up