Two more LAPD squad cars cut the line onto the Paramount Studios lot. That made the total count six, plus an ambulance, so I figured somebody must have died in there. Police only send six cars if there’s a dead body.

Then a fire engine screeched by in the turn lane and rocked my sedan, chased by another squad car. That made it serious: somebody important died in there. Maybe it was a stunt gone wrong, like a movie star fell off a crane. Or a driver missed a ramp and plowed into video village taking out the director. Or maybe a wearied development executive jumped off the Sturges Building into his boss’s Bentley. I was already twenty minutes late for my call time stuck in a line of cars halfway down Melrose, so I hoped at least it was somebody good.

“Chick, you still with us?” The indie producer’s voice crackled through my speaker phone. Notes call. Side gig. Technical consultation on a movie script. “Everything okay? Are those sirens?”

“Oh,” I said, snapping to. “Sorry, there’s a guy selling fruit on the street outside my apartment and twenty cops just jumped him. But it’s okay. He’s got a permit, so they’re helping him back up to his feet. Anyways, I’m here. Please continue.”

“We were saying that the most important thing for us is authenticity,” he said. “We want this movie to be just like a day in the life of a real homicide detective. So, Chick, tell us. How’d we do?”

I looked down at the open movie script in my lap—Homicidal Cop: Gun of Justice. “Yeah, absolutely. You guys nailed it. Just like being back on the force in Philly homicide.”

The draft was dated from the Friday before: 09/19/2014. They sent me a new copy of this thing every week and each time, three new writers’ names appeared on the title page.

A squad car and an ambulance got waved through the gate. The line still hadn’t budged. Twenty-five minutes late. Maybe they would fire me and I wouldn’t be able to work in TV anymore. Maybe they would fire me and I wouldn’t have to work in TV anymore.

“Chick, while we got you on the line, did you want to talk through any of your notes?” another voice, the director, asked.

“Well,” I said, flipping through to a page covered in red scribble, “I wanted to talk about the moment on page thirty where you have this corrupt cop Mondale beating the suspect with a bat.”

“Oh, would he not use a bat? The first draft had him use a chain, but—”

 “No, that part’s okay. Cops hit people with bats all the time, they love it. It’s just those civilian onlookers and the TV news crew close by,” I said. The line jerked forward. I was right on the bumper of the Land Rover ahead of me. “If he’s an experienced hardcase, he’d be more cautious. The script mentions a dumpster on the previous page. Maybe Mondale takes him behind that and beats him there.”

“Love that, Chick. Great note. We’re going to put that in.”

“Awesome note, Chick,” the producer said. “These real-life details are killer.”

“There is one other story point we wanted your take on,” the director said. “Page eighty-two where Mondale gets caught. The sting operation sequence the writers put in isn’t working for us. We’re looking for something grittier and realer. Do you have something for that, maybe? Something from your own experience, or…”

Four more squad cars pulled up on the sidewalk outside the studio walls. Cops rolled out and jogged over to the main gate. Matthew McConaughey in a spacesuit looked down at them from a giant poster. I said, “When I was on the force back in Philly, there was this cop on the take from the Irish mob. The mob would line a case of whiskey with ten grand under the bottles and he’d bring it in and make payouts to the whole squad. When the mob realized he was going to sell them out, they lined the case with explosives. He nearly blew his hand off when he grabbed the first bottle. I pulled him out of the fire and slapped cuffs on him in one sweep.”

“Chick, that’s perfect. We could slot that in at the second act break. Can we use that?”

“It’s all yours,” I said. “My agent will add it to the invoice.” It wasn’t my story. It happened to my father before I was born, and he was the one getting pulled out of the fire.

Thirty minutes late when I was next up. I grabbed clippers from my cup holder and took a millimeter off a stray mustache hair. If you tell Hollywood people you’re an ex-cop, they expect you to look a certain way. The uniform I wore was crucial to the job: nylon bomber jacket, white tee, light wash jeans, Timberland boots. I looked like their idea of a cop, like I could play the eighth most important guy in the cast of the TV show I worked on. The character who gets two lines per episode, like, “Yeah, chief. It’s this new gang calling themselves the Devil Sharks. They’re putting razor blades in kids’ candy bars.”—but I’m not a writer. The mustache completed the look, it kept me working. Producers looked at me and the outfit and the ‘stache and saw a cop. But I never grew it until I started working in television.

When I pulled up, I handed over my ID—

CHICK NATALE
Staten Island Justice
Law Enforcement Technical Advisor

—and asked Darnell in the booth what was going on.

“Hey Chick, I don’t know,” he said. “Somebody died on the lot, that’s all they’re saying.”

“Dead body. I called it.” I slapped the steering wheel, then clocked Darnell’s reaction. “Darnell, how are your kids?”

After he waved me through, my vision fixed on the flashing lights bouncing off the white stucco sound stages. I rolled by slow to catch a glimpse of something interesting—a body, wreckage, smoke, exploded brain matter—anything. It felt wrong to be that close to the action and then just go the other way. I felt the pull of the job as strong as ever.

I was almost forty minutes late by the time I walked on set. Forty minutes was more than long enough for them to realize I was the least essential guy on the whole production. Does a cop show really need a guy like me to tell them how real cops do things? It’s TV—you can just make it up. They usually gave these technical advisor gigs to retired NYPD or LAPD guys. Red-faced ham-headed Irishmen with P.I. or private security firms. I was small-time by comparison, from a small-time city, but I think I kept getting work because I was a good hang. They liked me on set because didn’t seem that much like a cop—except for the mustache.

When I got to New York Street, the permanently-standing outdoor set built to look like Manhattan high rises and Brooklyn brownstones, they weren’t shooting or even getting set up. No assistant directors shouting or P.A.s running around. Everyone gathered around craft services talking in hushed tones. Nobody noticed I was late. Nobody cared.

I flagged down an assistant director as he passed by. “Hey Adam, what’s going on? Somebody died on the lot?”

“You know Gus Blake, the sitcom showrunner?” Adam asked with a glint in his eye, relishing the opportunity to break the news. “He died. Fell down the stairs in his production office.”

“What, really? How?”

“They’re saying he got pushed. Like, murdered.”

“Somebody murdered a sitcom writer?” I pulled out my phone and googled the name: Gus Blake, the guy who created all those big broad laugh track shows with a thousand catchphrases. Married three times. Producer credit on nine different series, but zero Emmys. He looked like what you imagine a sitcom writer would look like: crusty, scruffy, messy beard, barely concealed rage behind his eyes. They all looked like that. “Do they know who did it?”

“Somebody said it was his writers assistant. They had some big argument in their office hallway, and she pushed him down the stairs.”

“What were they so angry about?” I asked. “Did somebody say something too funny?”

A union guy drifted over from crafty with a mouthful of turkey wrap. “I heard she went berserk. His head exploded or something. Blood everywhere.”

“His head exploded? From a push?” I was getting whiplash from each new detail. “And a writers assistant did it? Those people don’t kill people—they’re always running around on the verge of tears.”

“He was the biggest dickhead on the lot,” Adam said. “Everybody knows it.”

“I heard he fired a guy for yawning during a table read,” the crew guy said. “And my buddy told me that him and Tim Allen got into a fist fight on set back on that old show of his.”

“Was that Dan and Dave’s Man Cave?” Adam asked.

“No, Horney’s Barley, I think,” the union guy said. “The one set in the brewery where it’s him and a bunch of sexy ladies.”

A vein popped in my forehead while I tried to set it all straight. “Okay, but a writers assistant will take anything you throw at them, right? That’s the job, isn’t it? Getting yelled at and doing coffee runs and printing scripts and sucking up and praying for a promotion to the writing staff?”

Adam shrugged. “Maybe she finally got sick of it.”

I looked back down at Gus Blake’s Wikipedia entry. The guy had the top two sitcoms on broadcast television. One called Attic Brothers about two adult brothers who live in the space over their mom’s garage and another called Naughty Naughty Grandpas about a raunchy nursing home. Then his older hits no longer the air: Dan and Dave’s Man Cave, Horney’s Barley, starring Tim Allen as a brewmaster named Richard Horney, and more shows that he helped write and produce but didn’t run. The showrunner is the top creative person on a TV show, but you can’t get there until you pay dues writing on other people’s shows. The page gave mention to an acclaimed indie romcom movie that launched his career, Sweet Heat. Seemed to be the only thing he did that the critics liked.

Across set, I watched a pair of production assistants wince as our show’s lead actor gesticulated with two brands of water bottles, apparently elucidating to them the crucial differences. Then over by video village, our show’s writers assistant, Kyle, balanced three Starbucks foam carrier trays on his forearms while he passed drinks to a circle of thirsty writers. Our showrunner, Ruby Clarke-Donovan, held her hand out for her flavored iced coffee without glancing his way.

I checked the industry blog Hollywood Hotline to see if the news about Blake’s death had broke:

QUEENAN COMPANY PARTNERS WITH NEW STREAMER SIEOUAH FOR ‘GRITTY COLUMBO REBOOT’
CEO Bruce Queenan promises the beloved sleuth will curse, kill and have sex

More streamer news. It was like three of these new online streaming services popped up out of nowhere every week. All I knew about them was every broadcast and network executive was losing their mind about Netflix and Hulu and the rest putting them out of business. Maybe that wouldn’t be the worst thing, but in the meantime, I did like the free lunches.

I scrolled down the Hotline front page all the way but found nothing on Blake. I googled him again for recent news articles. An L.A. Times story from two weeks earlier was at the top:

INDUSTRY OFFERS REMEMBRANCES AFTER ‘JANE GETS EVEN’ SHOWRUNNER’S PASSING

It read, “Howard Korda, producer and showrunner of Jane Gets Even died tragically late Sunday night.” Korda. I never heard of the guy or his show, but I remembered scrolling past the story when the news came out. No cause of death listed. “Passed away in his sleep.” I swiped through screenshots of tweets and Facebook posts from celebrities, directors, producers, and writers until I got to Blake: “Top sitcom writer Gus Blake posted a short reminiscence on his blog, ‘Howie and me went way back. He was the one who talked me into going to Narcotics Anonymous for the first time. I guess you could say he saved my life. Hated the bastard for it.’”

I googled Korda to see what else would come up. A few more articles about his passing, some interviews about his show, and one Variety magazine cover story featuring him and two dozen other big writers. “The Age of the Showrunner: How TV’s writer-producer-geniuses became the new Kings and Queens of Hollywood.” I weighed how much physical torture you’d have to put me through to get me to read the whole article. Korda and Ruby posed in the cover image, but no Gus Blake. I wondered how a guy like him felt about that.

I walked to the edge of set and looked out across the lot. North, I could see the Hollywood sign in the distance over the studio wall. South, the red and blue lights bouncing off the stages. Two big time writers found dead within two weeks. They knew each other, had history. If it bumped me, then LAPD was bumping on it, too. And this story about a writers assistant exploding his head on the staircase? It sounded fantastical. The pull of real action drew me in.

“Chick, did you watch Complicit yet?” Gwen, our script supervisor, stood beside me. Everyone always wanted to know what show you were watching. These people lived and breathed this stuff, never talked about anything else. I kept telling myself I needed to watch some TV from this century. I wasn’t contributing enough to conversations. My reputation for good hang was in danger.

I gave my stock answer: “I’m actually in the middle of rewatching The Wire.”

“Oh man, it’s so good.”

“The Wire or Complicit?”

She stopped, puzzled. “Both.”

“Yeah, it’s my favorite show. The Wire, that is.”

“You’ve gotta watch Complicit, Chick. You have to.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Omar is such a complex and rich character. On The Wire.”

“Oh. Yeah. Omar’s great,” she said. I’d never seen The Wire, but it seemed like a good show to tell people is your favorite TV show and that you’re in the middle of a rewatch of so they don’t bug you about watching a new show. I’d been on a Wire rewatch for two years and counting. Gwen had another TV question loaded up when I spotted Kyle the writers assistant sprinting our way.

“One sec, Gwen.” I intercepted him. “Kyle, could I talk to you?”

“Oh, no,” he said. “What did I do?”

“No, nothing. Sorry.” I placed a hand on his shoulder. “Can I ask you a personal question? Do you like working here?”

“Is this a cop thing?”

“No, I’m just asking. Do you like working for Ruby?”

“Yeah, she’s great. Best showrunner I’ve ever worked for. Why are you asking? Did she say something about my attitude? Do I come across as upset?”

“No, nothing like that,” I said. “You’ve heard the rumor about Gus Blake, haven’t you? You don’t think a writers assistant could snap like that? Kill their boss all of a sudden?”

“Oh, no. No way. And I’m not just saying that in case this is a test.”

“It’s not a test. But why wouldn’t they?”

“Why would you kill your showrunner?” he asked. “How are you going to get promoted to staff writer? Who’s supposed to give you your first script? Who’s going to write you a recommendation to another showrunner? You’d ruin your whole career.”

He paused to mull it over. “I could hypothetically envision a scenario where some other assistant—not me—would be tempted. But no. You’d never go through with it. There’s no way.”

“Even if they’re a jerk?”

“They’re all jerks.” He broke back into his sprint.

Gwen had joined another circle to gab about Complicit and prestige television. A few yards away, our lead actor practiced holding his gun in cool ways opposite a standing mirror someone had set up for him. The writers were all on their phones. I walked towards the flashing lights.

I took the main avenue with the big sound stages on either side. Outside a stage door, an A-list actor in a superhero suit screamed into his phone through clenched teeth: “I am not five-foot-seven, do you hear me? You print that and I’ll destroy you.”

Next door, three big military trucks were parked out front with twenty union guys and a dozen real army soldiers standing around. I met an Air Force technical advisor on a movie set a year back. Military people are always crawling around the big budget sets. If the movie costs a hundred mil and there’s a tank in it, chances are they’re paying some major to go to the shoot. I asked the guy what he’s actually had to change to make a script more pro-military in exchange for using the equipment. “Nothing,” he said. “Honestly, they usually write it the way we want it without us saying anything. I don’t know if it’s because they know we’re going to look at it, but sometimes I think the movies would be exactly the same without us coming down here. But hey, it beats working, right?”

They set up the police barriers all along the southwest corner of the lot. There must have been twenty squad cars parked outside. The crime scene was inside one of the small office buildings along the studio wall. Industry people gathered around the barricades to gawk. One uniformed cop was posted up against the office’s front door and ten more stood along the barricades working crowd control. The area was blocked off completely. No way you could get in there without a badge.

Then I saw them in a cluster together looking like an alien species against all the actors and craftsmen and creative people: the studio and network junior executives. They watched the police work and narrated what they saw to their superiors over the phone. It was more work than they usually did, and this is coming from the guy with the fakest job in town. I sidled up next to a young guy proofreading an email on his phone. He wore the junior exec uniform of a tucked-in shirt and slim fit chinos.

“Jabari.” I put out my hand. “It’s Chick Natale. We were in a pitch meeting together a few months back.”

He shook it. “Oh, Chick. Of course. We still love that series idea you pitched us. We’re trying to find a way to make it fit on the network.” They always say that.

“I can’t wait.” My agent would make me go out on pitch meetings to all the networks and studios. I told him I wasn’t a writer. He told me it didn’t matter.

“It’s so horrible what happened to Gus,” he said. “The entire CBS family is absolutely devastated.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said. “Are the rumors true? His assistant killed him?”

He shifted, looked away. “We’re not sure. Rumors were flying a couple hours ago, but LAPD closed everything down. Now they’re not letting any information out.”

“Do you know the name of his writers assistant? Could you get it for me?”

He clenched his teeth. “Chick, I don’t know if I can do that. I don’t think the LAPD wants that stuff getting around. But I know you used to be a cop, though. In Baltimore, right?”

“Philadelphia,” I said. “And that’s what I came to talk to you about. LAPD contacted me to assist them with the investigation. I have a lot of friends on the force out here. The lead investigator asked if I could act as a police liaison to the entertainment industry.”

“Wow, that’s incredible,” Jabari said. “Well, in that case, I can give you anything you need. I’ll try to find the assistant’s information for you.” Then he considered. “And, actually, maybe you could do something for us, too.”

“Of course. How can I help?”

He took a beat. “If the writers assistant is the one who killed Gus, how should I say this? It’s just that there is some tension in the air right now. The writers assistants’ local has been pushing their union, IATSE, to go on strike when the contract is up in a few weeks. They’re fed up and the rest of the union is listening. If they vote to strike, IATSE represents almost everybody. So, it’s not just assistants. That’s stage workers, craftsmen, make-up, costumes, editors—half the industry. We just want to know what happened and what could have caused this. Then hopefully we can make sure we put things to bed without causing a big firestorm. That’s what’s really important here, Chick: that nothing interrupts everybody working together to produce all our great content.”

“No, we don’t want that,” I said. “What about Howard Korda?”

His eyes bulged. “Howie Korda died in his sleep.”

“But people are talking, aren’t they? About a possible connection?”

He let out a deep breath. “First it came out that it was a drug relapse. Then the word was it was a stroke. But now that this happened with Gus Blake, I think people are already asking questions. They’re just nervous. It’s just a big coincidence. That’s why we need real information, Chick. From the source. People need to be put at ease. It’s getting out of hand already.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “The lead detective asked me to stop by. I’ll see what I can find out from him and get back to you.”

“Thanks, Chick,” Jabari said. “You’re awesome, man.”

“No, you’re awesome.” I shook his hand. “CBS is awesome.”

I waded through the crowd of office drones to the barricades. I pulled out the LAPD detective badge I carried in my pocket and the cop on guard waved me right through.