In a Laurel Canyon garage, there’s blood on a sharkskin suit,
A wallet’s lying open, but someone’s got the loot,
A black and white pulls up outside, the driver radios in,
Looks at the mess on the concrete floor, say’s “He’ll never deal again”.
True crime – wish i’d stayed in bed,
The trail is cold and the perpetrator’s fled,
Down at the dock – pier thirteen, a squealer squealed his last,
He thought he was a high roller, but now his tense is past,
His high life’s finally over, the cocaine, broads and booze,
He’s swimming in the south bay, wearing concrete overshoes .
True crime – for each wrongdoer on trial,
There’s eight John Does sat in an open file.
In scrub land on a disused lot, they found a shallow grave,
A young man with a gang tattoo, has had a real close shave,
Missing persons keeps a note, the blade rusts in the lab,
But no one will I.D. the face lying on that marble slab.
True crime – and no one gives a hoot,
Unless they get thier share of the loot.