Free Suicide Hill by James Ellroy

an unknown trouble call directing their unit to an old house in a cul-de-sac off the Cahuenga Pass, a block of ramshackle pads rented out dirt cheap because noise from the freeway overpass made living there intolerable.
    When no one answered their knocks and shouted “Police officers, open up!” he and Flanders kicked in the door, only to be driven back outside by the stench of stale cordite and decomposing flesh. While Flanders radioed for backup units, he drew his service revolver and prowled the pad, discovering the five headless bodies, brain-spattered walls, expended shotgun rounds and the note taped to the TV set: “I keep hearing these voices thru the freeway noise telling Peg and the kids about me and Billy. It’s a lie, but they won’t believe it was just one time when we was drunk, and that don’t count. This way nobody’s going to know except Billy, and he don’t care.”
    The man who wrote the note was slumped by the TV set. He had jammed the sawed-off .10 gauge into his crotch and blown himself in two. The shotgun lay beside him in a pile of congealed viscera.
    Then the dream speeded up, and he wasn’t sure if it was happening or not.
    Flanders came back inside and yelled, “Backup, detectives and M.E. on their way, Hoppy.” He saw him reach for a cigarette to kill the awful stink, and was about to scream about gas escaping from stiffs, but knew Flanders would call it college boy bullshit. He ran toward him anyway, just as the match was struck and the little boy’s stomach exploded and Flanders ran out the door with his face on fire. Then he was screaming, and ambulances were screaming, and he knew it wasn’t a dream, it was the telephone.
    Lloyd rolled over and reached for it, surprised to find that he had fallen asleep fully clothed. “Yes? Who is it?”
    A familiar voice came on the line. “Dutch, Lloyd. You all right?”
    â€œYou woke me up.”
    â€œSorry, kid.”
    â€œDon’t be; you did me a favor.”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œNever mind. What is it, Dutch?”
    When there was a long silence on the L.A. end of the line, Lloyd tensed and shook off the last remnants of sleep. He heard the bustle of Hollywood Station going on in the background, and pictured his best friend getting up the guts to tell him something very bad.
    â€œGoddammit, Dutch, tell me!”
    Dutch Peltz said, “So far it’s just a rumor, but it’s an informed rumor, and I credit it. That shrink you saw last month recommended you be given early retirement. You know, emotional disability incurred in the line of service, full pension, that kind of thing. I’ve heard that Braverton and McManus are behind it, and that if you don’t accept the plan, you’ll be given a trial board for dereliction of duty. Lloyd, they mean it. If the trial board finds you guilty, you’ll be kicked off the Department.”
    A kaleidoscope of memories flashed in front of Lloyd’s eyes, and for long moments he didn’t know if he was back in a dream or not. “No, Dutch. They wouldn’t do that to me.”
    â€œLloyd, it’s true. I’ve also heard that Fred Gaffaney has got a file on you. Nasty stuff, some sex shit you pulled when you worked Venice Vice.”
    â€œThat was fifteen fucking years ago, and I wasn’t the only one!”
    Dutch said, “Sssh, sssh. I’m just telling you. I don’t know if Gaffaney is in with Braverton and McManus on this, but I know it’s all coming down bad for you. Retire, Lloyd. With your master’s, you can teach anywhere. You can do consulting work. You can—”
    Lloyd screamed, “No!” and picked up the phone, then saw the framed photograph of his family on the nightstand and put it back down. “No. No. No. If they want me out, they’ll have to fight me for it.”
    â€œThink of Janice and the girls, Lloyd. Think of the time