The Glitter Dome by Joseph Wambaugh Page B

signature on a payroll deduction card requesting that five percent of Captain Woofer’s police salary be deducted and sent as a charitable contribution to the United Negro College Fund. Second, an ad appeared the following Monday in the classifieds of Los Angeles’ largest underground newspaper. It said: “Male, white, 59 years old, pipesmoker, neat, obedient, always kind to Negroes, seeks young virile Negro with whom to be kind. Willing to pay handsomely if pipestem exceeds seven inches.” The deplorable ad listed Captain Woofer’s home telephone number, which began ringing every three and a half minutes, erasing any doubt in the minds of the headhunters from Internal Affairs Division that the swine who was trying (with some success) to drive Captain Woofer bonzo had to be an insider. The girl who took the ad from the cash customer was unable to provide any kind of helpful description. The man who placed the ad had worn a scuba diving mask and a wet suit when he strolled into the office.
    When the incredulous headhunters asked if she didn’t think the man’s costume was a bit unusual, the girl said, “Where the fuck you think this is—Wahoo, Nebraska? This is Hollywood , U.S.A.!”
    It began to look like the vicious attacks on Captain Woofer had run their course when yet another incident occurred, this one the most direct and personal, literally under Captain Woofer’s stopped-up nose. It had to be someone very close, someone who knew that Captain Woofer had a corker of a head cold that week. His adenoids were mushrooming, his eyes watering, his nose was absolutely useless, and two bottles of spray hadn’t unclogged it. Captain Woofer had been leaning back in his swivel chair, his sore tail planted in his rubber ring, legs up to relieve the inflammation, squirting drops in his nostrils. Nothing worked. He had caught the cold by sitting in his rhododendrons all night watching the house of the mysterious neighbor on Oxford Avenue.
    He was suffering and miserable when he ordered the Weasel and Ferret to get that son of a bitch of a dope dealer, and left no doubt that he would whack their balls if they failed. It made them downright hostile. And not toward Just Plain Bill, the alleged hash dealer.
    The very afternoon that the Weasel and the Ferret were working the stakeout on Oxford Avenue, Captain Woofer strolled out of his office into the squadroom, made a strange statement to his troops, and keeled over into the lap of poor old Cal Greenberg.
    The paramedics were called and Captain Woofer was rushed to the receiving hospital, where there was a physician on duty who did not have the sniffles and could detect a powerful odor on Captain Woofer’s breath. That, coupled with the fact that his distended pupils looked like black dimes, caused the physician to put in a call to the police department which resulted in Captain Woofer’s being the suspect in an investigation by Internal Affairs Division.
    The headhunters, who had not watched Gaslight , were nevertheless able to absolve Captain Woofer of any charge of misconduct. It was apparent that he was the victim of yet another attempt to drive him bonzo. And it had temporarily succeeded.
    They discovered that Captain Woofer’s beloved briar had been tampered with, probably when Captain Woofer went to the toilet to make his futile morning attempt, and undoubtedly by someone who knew that Captain Woofer had the habit of leaving his pipe on the towel tray in the restroom, along with his coat and gunbelt. The gun stayed on the floor beside the toilet. What with all the raids against him these days he didn’t feel safe anywhere .
    It seemed likely that someone had crept into the men’s rest-room and unloaded Captain Woofer’s tamped and loaded briar, reloading it with very high grade hashish or Thai stick, according to the crime lab. Then a layer of tobacco was spread over the potent pipe which was tamped and replaced.