by Marcia Clark
Cletus fell silent.
“I got an idea,” he finally said. “You heard ’a Johnnie Jasper?”
I looked at Bailey, who shook her head.
“No,” I replied.
“Stays up in Boyle Heights. You ask poh-poh up there, they all know ’im. Good guy, good guy.”
Poh-poh, as in police. “He a street person?” I asked.
Cletus nodded. “But he got a fine setup.” He pointed in the general direction of Boyle Heights. “You go see ol’ Jasper, he might help you out.”
“Thank you, Cletus,” I said, suppressing a shiver. The day had been mild, but the night air let us know it was still the middle of winter. “It’s pretty cold out. Why don’t you let me take you to a shelter? We can get you in.”
He wagged a finger at me. “You promised me ‘no grief,’ remember?”
In the past, I’d tried to get him to come indoors several times until finally he’d put a stop to it and made me promise to leave him be. Reluctantly, since I had no other choice, I’d agreed.
“You go, you go. Go see Jasper.” Cletus lay back down and pulled up the blankets. “Let an old man get some sleep. You go, you go.”
23
“I’ll understand if you want to pack it in,” I said as Bailey and I headed back to her car. “But I’ve got to check this out. I know it’s the mother of all Hail Mary passes, but I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t take this one last shot.”
Bailey looked at her watch. “I was supposed to meet Drew for dinner in an hour, but it’s only about ten minutes from here, and since it seems all the local cops know this guy, it’s easy enough to check out.” Bailey shot me a warning look. “But I’m going to call Drew, and you are not allowed to give me any shit, no matter what I say. Got it?”
“Don’t gag me out with your googly talk, and I won’t give you shit,” I said.
Bailey has a long, fast stride, and I was running to keep up. When we got to the car, she gave me a hard look over the roof. “I mean it.”
“Fine.” I got in and belted up.
But just to make sure a snarky remark didn’t accidentally slip out, I put my fingers in my ears.
After she ended the call, Bailey pulled one of my fingers out. “It’s safe.”
“Thanks.” I put my hands in my pockets to warm them. It was freezing, but Bailey hated the car heater, so I suffered in silence. “You know anyone at the Boyle Heights station?”
“I was just thinking that I used to know a patrol guy.”
She pulled out her cell.
“It’s Detective Bailey Keller, Robbery-Homicide Division. Is Craig Andarian still working there?”
Bailey listened, then gave me the thumbs-up sign. I sat back, relieved. She chatted with her buddy Craig for a minute, then asked him about Johnnie Jasper. When she ended the call, I looked at her expectantly.
“So it’s for real?” I asked.
Bailey nodded. “And I got directions.”
Ten minutes later, we were looking through a chain-link fence at a wonderland made of castoffs. It had been a vacant lot, but someone, presumably Johnnie, had moved in and done some serious decorating. Shelves had been dug into the side of the small hill, and every inch was occupied by brightly colored toys, dolls, seashells, posters, and traffic signs. At the far end of the lot, under a peppertree, was an outdoor living room. Complete with rug, television, couch, generator, and propane oven.
The man himself, though, was nowhere in sight. I looked closer and saw a shack made of plywood to the right of the living room arrangement. It was practically hidden under the heavy, low-hanging branches of the peppertree.
“Hello! Mr. Jasper?” I yelled. “Are you there? Hello?”
I waited. I thought I saw the curtain over the makeshift window move. “Johnnie Jasper? Hello!” I tried again.
A tall, slender black man stepped out of the shack and peered at us. Bailey held up her badge and pointed the flashlight backward so he could see our faces. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir. We just need your help. It’ll only take a few minutes of your time,” she said.
The man looked at us carefully, then came out to the gate. “Lemme see that badge again, ma’am.”
Bailey complied, and he looked from it to her, then at me.
“A’right, then,” he said. He unlocked the gate. “Come on in.” He ushered us inside.
When he’d locked the gate behind us, he turned to me and asked, “And who might you be?”
I introduced myself, and he led us to the far end of the lot.
“You’re Johnnie Jasper?” I asked.
“I am.” He gestured for us to have a seat on the sofa in his outdoor living room.
“You’re quite a legend out here,” Bailey said. “Is it true the cops bring you turkeys at Christmas?”
Johnnie nodded modestly. “They do. And I give them fresh strawberries and nectarines.”
“You grow here?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said proudly.
I was impressed. I couldn’t grow mold on cheese.
Whatever I had expected, Johnnie wasn’t it. Intelligent and neatly dressed in a waffle shirt, jacket, and jeans, he could’ve been someone’s father or boss. I was fascinated. I wished I had time to have a real talk with him and find out what brought him here, why he lived this way. But since I didn’t, I came straight to the point and told him Cletus had sent us because we were looking for someone.
“You a friend of Cletus?” Johnnie smiled. “He’s a tough nut to crack, isn’t he?”
I laughed. “I couldn’t have put it better.”
Bailey pulled out the photograph of our John Doe and handed it to Johnnie. This was it. I knew that if he came up empty, we were through. I tried to ready myself for the blow.
He stared at the photo. “No…I don’t think…”
My heart sank for the millionth time that day.
Then he stopped and pulled the photograph closer. “Wait. This is…I think I do know him,” Johnnie said. “Couldn’t tell at first, he doesn’t look so good in this.” He gestured to the photo. Then he fell silent and examined the picture again. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
“I’m sorry, Johnnie,” Bailey said.
“Damn.” He shook his head sadly. “He was a good guy. You mind telling me how?”
“Somebody stabbed him,” Bailey replied.
Johnnie nodded. The death of a friend was not so uncommon among the homeless, though the way this one had died was certainly not the norm. I decided to spare Johnnie that knowledge.
“You don’t have a suspect,” he said.
“No,” Bailey confirmed. “That’s what we’re working on. Did you by any chance know his name?”
“Simon,” Johnnie replied.
“And his last name?” I asked.
The first name alone wouldn’t do much, if anything, for us—especially because it might not even be his real name.
Johnnie shrugged. “Never did know that.”
Damn. Another dead end. I was frustrated, but I refused to give up. Maybe if we kept him talking, he’d come up with something we could use.
“How long did you know him?” I asked.
“About a year. He’d stay here off and on—but when he was here, he was real good about helping out. Nice guy, but sad. Real sad.” Johnnie paused, remembering. “And then, sometimes, just out of the blue, he’d get all fired up, be in a blazing fury. I’d tell him to let go of whatever it was.” Johnnie looked at us. “It’s not good to hang on to your anger like that, no.” He shook his head.
“You ever know what he was angry or sad about?” I asked.
Johnnie’s mouth turned down. “Simon wasn’t much of a talker. But I do remember the last time he was here. Stayed for a few months that time, and he seemed a lot better. More upbeat and happy than I’d ever seen him,” Johnnie said. “Matter of fact, he brought me something.”
Johnnie got up and walked over to the bookcase next to the couch. He picked up
a blue vase and handed it to me.
“He gave you this?” I asked, incredulous.
“Yep. Pretty, isn’t it?”
It was beautiful, actually—an elegantly shaped flute, the kind that held just a few flowers, and the blue was a complex blend of shades that evoked the ocean. Not what I’d expect a poor person to own, let alone give away.
I turned it upside down and looked at the bottom. And there, etched into the clay, was the name.
Simon Bayer.
At last, our John Doe had a name.
24
Johnnie was reluctant to let us take the vase.
“Right now, this is our only link to his identity. We might need to show it to other witnesses, have it analyzed for prints, compare it to other pottery. Until we’ve got his identity nailed down, we have to hang on to it,” I said. “I’ll get it back to you. I promise.” I looked at him intently, wanting him to understand how important this was.
Johnnie returned my gaze, then looked away. Finally, after a few long moments, he responded, “I guess if it’ll help y’all find his killer…”
“I can’t promise we’ll get the killer—but I can promise we’ll try.”
“And I give you my word we’ll bring it back,” Bailey said.
Johnnie nodded slowly. “Then you go ahead and take it,” he said quietly. “But no matter what happens, you bring it back, you hear? A man needs to be remembered. I believe Simon gave it to me because he intended for me to remember him.” Johnnie lifted his chin and looked me in the eye. “That’s what I mean to do.”
The words, softly spoken, were powerful. I held his gaze for a beat. “You have my word.”
Minutes later, we were speeding down the freeway toward downtown. It wasn’t even eight o’clock, but it felt like midnight. I yawned, leaned back in my seat, and watched the lights in the skyscrapers grow brighter as we neared the Civic Center.
“You still going to make it to dinner with Drew?” I asked, glad I hadn’t made similar plans with Graden for tonight.
“Yeah,” Bailey said, sounding as tired as I felt. “But it’s going to be a short one.”
We rode in silence, both of us exhausted but happy. Bailey raced down the off-ramp at Broadway. “It’s unbelievable how we pulled this off,” she said.
“See?” I remarked. “We’re good and we got lucky. Just goes to show ya…”
Bailey laughed and held up her fist, and I bumped it with mine as we pulled into the circular drive in front of the Biltmore. But one question nagged at me.
“It’s a ridiculously long walk from Boyle Heights to downtown,” I pointed out. “How did our victim do it?”
Bailey nodded in agreement. “Good question. But now that we have his ID, we just might be able to figure that out.”
“And maybe this’ll buy me more time on the case,” I replied. “Not a bad day, huh, Keller?”
“It’ll do,” Bailey said with a grin. “I’ll run Simon Bayer’s name in the morning and call you with the results.”
“Oh no, you don’t,” I said. “After all this, I’m going to be there when you find out. Call me before you do anything.”
“Then get your ass up on time for once,” she retorted.
“I will. Just promise—”
“I’ll call. Now get out.” Bailey laughed. “You’re getting in the way of my love life.”
“Give Drew my best,” I said.
“I’ll do better than that—I’ll give him mine.” She sped off.
I trotted through the lobby, got into the elevator, and ordered dinner from room service on the way up. Chicken breast with steamed broccoli. No bread. But that wasn’t celebratory enough for the occasion, so I added a bottle of Deep Sea Pinot Noir.
The wine, which was delicious, made my virtuous dinner a lot more palatable. When I’d finished, I pushed the room service cart into the hall and took my glass of wine out to the balcony. The city lights cast a soft glow against the cloak of night that flatteringly covered the streets. Above, the stars sparkled in the cloudless black sky. For this one moment, all felt right with the world. I eventually put myself to bed and slowly drifted off, feeling as though I were falling through a cloud.
The next morning came sooner—and noisier—than I’d expected, with the jangling ring of the hotel phone. Only three people ever used this number. By the fourth ring, after my brain stopped swirling, I’d narrowed the possibilities down to one.
“Yeah,” I said, doing my best to sound sharp.
“Don’t bother,” Bailey barked. “I know I woke you up. You want to be here when I run the name, get your ass over here.”
“Jeez, put down the coffeepot,” I groused. “I’ll be there in—”
A loud dial tone told me there was no point in finishing the sentence. I glanced outside. It looked sunny, but I decided to do layers for safety’s sake. It was unlikely I’d be out in the world for long, and I knew for sure that I had to go into the office to tell Eric about our latest break in the case, so I’d have to wear “real” clothes. I quickly threw on wool slacks and heels, a white blouse, and a black wool blazer.
Riding the high of having managed to identify our victim last night, I’d been optimistic about my chances of holding on to the case. Now I wasn’t so sure. If Hemet was bound and determined to cause trouble, the fact that I’d been able to put a name to the face might not matter as much as I’d hoped.
I considered skipping makeup, then thought better of it. I might run into Graden. Hating myself for caring, I nevertheless took a few minutes to dust on bronzer and apply eyeliner and mascara. Never mind the lipstick—I was going to pick up coffee on the way, and it’d be gone before I even got to Bailey’s desk. I pulled on an overcoat, dropped my .22 Beretta into the pocket, and at the last minute grabbed a cashmere muffler. I speed-walked all the way to the Police Administration Building, stopping only to pick up a cup of coffee from a churro cart, and jumped into a conveniently open elevator just before it closed.
25
All that running and jumping had warmed me up, and as I moved toward Bailey’s desk, I had to unwrap the muffler. The room was relatively quiet, with just a few detectives in shirtsleeves working the phones.
“Let the games begin,” I announced as I neared Bailey’s desk.
“Here,” she said, pulling a chair over, “have a seat.”
I sat down and unbuttoned my overcoat. Bailey flexed her fingers and began to type. It took no more than five seconds before the screen filled with listings. She whistled softly, then frowned to herself.
“Hey, wait a minute…,” she said, then stopped. For the next few minutes, she clicked and scrolled in silence.
Finally I could take no more.
“What?” I asked, agitated. “What?”
But Bailey held up a hand and continued to stare at the screen. From my angle, I couldn’t see well enough to read it myself. I was about to shove her out of the way when at last she spoke.
“Sorry,” she said. “Here.” She turned the monitor toward me and clicked on a link, and an article came up.
I read the headline: “Brother of Murdered Cop Takes Case to Feds.” What the…?
I read on:
Simon Bayer, brother of murdered Glendale police officer Zack Bayer, has declared his intention to take the case involving his brother’s murder to federal authorities for filing. A jury acquitted the victim’s wife, Lilah Bayer, in the state trial just two months ago, and the foreman stated it was the belief of most jurors that she was actually innocent: “It wasn’t just that we thought she probably did it but they couldn’t prove it. We really thought she was just plain innocent.” Simon Bayer vehemently disagreed. “That jury got it all wrong,” he fumed. “They fell for a pretty face and a slick defense attorney. I will not rest until I get my brother the justice he deserves.”
There was more, but Bailey stopped me. “If I remember right, Zack Bayer was kind of a rising star in the department. He married this looker who was a young associate in one
of those white-shoe law firms. They found Zack’s body in the basement of his home. He’d been chopped up with an ax.”
It was an unusually grisly killing style for any kind of female, except maybe a meth head. This woman didn’t sound like one. “They got the murder weapon?” I asked.
Bailey nodded.
“Any prints or blood evidence?” I asked.
She stared off and knitted her brows. “We didn’t handle the case, and it’s been a few years, so I don’t have the details. I just remember hearing that the jury acquitted her after about five minutes of deliberation. The Feds never did take the case.”
“So Simon didn’t get his wish.”
Bailey shook her head.
I turned back to the computer and continued scrolling through the article. When I got to the end of the story, I hit a link that took me to the first published column. And came to a full stop. I stared at the image on the screen, a ripple of tension crackling up my spine. I barely breathed as awareness of the possible discovery—and its implications—spread through me. How could this be? I was so intent that I lost all sense of place and time. Then Bailey’s agitated voice brought me crashing back to earth.
“Knight? Hey! Speak up, damn it! What’s going on?”
I held my hand up. “Give me a second,” I whispered as I looked up at the ceiling and concentrated on the memory that’d been conjured by the image on the screen. After a few more moments, I nodded to myself. I turned the monitor so Bailey could see it.
“Check this out,” I said.
It was a shot of Lilah taken in court. She was sitting at counsel table. Though the photo was grainy and she was partially hidden by the shoulder of her lawyer, we could still get an overall sense of her appearance. Just enough to make the connection.
“Her hair’s a lot shorter here,” I said, gesturing to the screen.
“I’ll be dipped,” Bailey said, staring at the screen. “She’s the woman in the video—”
I was relieved that Bailey’d confirmed my gut reaction. “Can’t say for sure yet, we can’t tell her height or weight from this photo.”
