Perspective: The kiddie train?
Hawley: Yup—he wore the hat and everything. Anyway, they had a mini-town there at the entrance, no bigger than a baseball mound, but that little town became my obsession. Then when he saw I dug it, he took me to Disneyland—we studied the Moby Dick ride, the Storybook Land canal boats. We rode it over and over.
Perspective: Today, with CGI, so many directors are opting for real-time urban footage. But in addition to the work you’ve done for Sam Raimi and Michael Bay, you still build miniature cities for pleasure.
Hawley: That’s right. I have a series I’m working on. I call it The Spirit of Los Angeles 1943 to 1979. It’s kind of a labor of love.
Perspective: And it’s Hollywood?
Hawley: Well, it started as just Hollywood but it’s grown—Chatsworth to Dana Point, Santa Monica to Palm Springs. And I’m working on adding Pedro, the bay.
Perspective: Wow. But this isn’t for a shoot?
Hawley [Laughs]: Not that I know of. I just wanted to capture…not just the design aspects but the…the quietness of city life back then. It was a more serene time, even when we all thought it was full of noise and action.
Perspective: Interesting. Can you say more on that?
Hawley: Well, there used to be this wonderful sense, even in the big city, that life had its moments of solitude. I’m trying to make a model that captures that feeling.
Perspective: Beautiful. Everybody needs to see these!
Hawley: Thanks. We aren’t exhibiting The Spirit of Los Angeles just yet…but I’ve been talking to MOCA. My dream is to expand it into a walk-through installation that fills a whole museum wing. Like, the greatest model train you ever saw.
I closed the big book and stared out at the reading room. Two tables down, a homeless junkie in five layers of dirty black was nodding off into a copy of Bon Appétit, mesmerized by the food porn. The world’s greatest model train—it all seemed so painfully innocent, from this man I’d just seen weeping in his car. He was sentimental. Deeply.
And maybe he did know something about Emil Elkaim.
I went back to the desk and gave the librarian back her book.
“Nothing too exciting?” she said.
“You said it.”
She reached under the desk and brought out a square blue bucket with twelve small plastic-lidded film cannisters. “You know how to work the machine?”
“Better if you show me,” I said. “I’d hate to mess one of these things up.”
She took me to the far end of the room with six old-fashioned-looking blue microfiche gizmos, each with their own private station. I took a seat and fumbled with the spool. She leaned in to help, close enough for us to exchange awkward smiles.
“You turn the wheel like this,” she said, reaching over me.
“What will they think of next?”
“That’s a lot of Herald-Examiner,” she said. “You looking for something specific.”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
“I’m a detective, investigating a murder that took place in the early eighties.”
A little skeptical, she said, “Good luck, Sherlock,” and walked away, stealing my gaze.
Then I faced the music. I started turning the spools slowly, in search of the killing of Reynaldo Durazo on April 7, 1984, followed by the slaying of Emil Elkaim in prison and the disappearance and death of Cynthia Persky. With every crank of the wheel, the past glowed up in illuminated black and white, stories about the upcoming Olympics, the space shuttle Discovery, Michael Jackson’s hair going up in flames—and then I hit pay dirt.
…the high school–aged Latino was reported to have sold narcotics to…
…nicknamed “Rey-Rey” by his street gang…
…was heard to call out the notorious gang provocation, “Where you from?”…
…neighbors called in the incident at approximately 11:00 p.m….
…officer on duty examining the crime scene noted…
…the weapon, discovered in the trunk of the teen’s MG, revealed traces…
…the victim’s parents have openly condemned…
…Police Chief Gates calls for expedient…
My pulse quickened. I picked up the pace. One spool later:
LA Herald-Examiner, June 17, 1984
EMIL ELKAIM, PRIMARY SUSPECT IN DURAZO SLAYING, KILLED AT MEN’S CENTRAL
…at a time when the California Department of Corrections is under scrutiny from the U.S. Department of Justice, the circumstances surrounding the 18-year-old’s death provide yet another stark portrait of the inadequate staffing, policies, and…
And then, with a turn of the wheel, that was it—two lives, gone in a flash, without an afterthought.
I spooled on, hoping for something, anything. More Olympics, “Council Dilutes Workplace Smoking Law,” Ronnie Reagan giving the thumbs-up. Then it slammed me:
LA Herald-Examiner, November 21, 1984
CHEVIOT HILLS RUNAWAY STILL MISSING.
Cynthia Persky, the young woman who went missing shortly after a fatal altercation in her parents’ backyard in April, has not been found, according to the office of Police Chief Daryl Gates. She was last seen wearing dark jeans, a light-colored blouse with long sleeves, and white sneakers. If you have any information concerning this person, please contact your local FBI office or the nearest American Embassy or Consulate.
My heart skipped two beats and I scrolled forward, frantic, like someone racing to the end of a scary dream, and then, three spools later:
LA Herald-Examiner, November 26, 1987
CHEVIOT HILLS RUNAWAY, DEAD AT 21
Cynthia Persky, the local teenager who fled her home after a murder took place in her parents’ backyard in spring of 1984, has been found dead of a heroin overdose in Mendocino County. Called “Cinnamon” by family and friends, she is survived by parents Herbert and Marjorie Persky.
Behind the microfiche light was her photo, the Cinnamon I knew, a doe-eyed beauty of the eleventh grade with skin as pale as winter sunlight, a straight-haired redhead whose freckles seemed to float in the ether of her rosy cheeks, and all at once, it came back to me in a rush, our day at Disneyland. Emil’s beat-up MG Roadster broke down about fifteen minutes outside Anaheim, and after much tinkering, we only entered the park in the very late afternoon, just as a light rain started to fall. Disneyland was otherworldly under wet gray skies, near empty, with half the rides shuttered. Maya and I couldn’t care less—we were in the presence of the Golden Teens and every minute was paradise. I couldn’t remember what rides we rode, but I remember Cin’s warm smile under the Tomorrowland awning as she held my hand, her laugh when Emil went goofing off with some dancing Mickey Mouse in a see-through plastic poncho. She loved him so, she—
