by Marcia Clark
“Uh, if you wouldn’t mind stepping back, ma’am,” said a young Hispanic woman whose net sagged under the weight of an impressive head of black hair.
I did mind but stepped back anyway and continued to watch from a few feet away as Bailey negotiated with the oldest of the group, a paunchy red-faced man with a tiny nose and squinty blue eyes, about proceeding to the Surf Motel with us.
The two younger techs stood back and waited as the photographer took pictures of the outside of the car from all angles. I followed him around. When we got to the rear passenger-side bumper, I leaned in and said, “Do you see that?” I was pointing to what looked like a dent in its center.
The photographer, a thirtysomething with freckles, firecracker bangs that shot straight out from his scalp, and horn-rimmed glasses that made his brown eyes look huge, seemed annoyed at first. Then he took a closer look and said, “Yeah,” and snapped several shots of the bumper.
“ ’Course, we don’t know when it got there,” he said. “Damage looks kinda old to me.”
“You can’t have too many pictures, though, right?” I smiled winningly.
He shook his head, sighed, and snapped more photos. I could tell he was really enjoying my company.
Bailey had finished with the older crime scene tech, and I told her what I’d seen. She went around to look at the bumper. “That’s old. Probably unrelated.” She turned to the photographer. “On the other hand, a few extra pictures never hurt.”
I enjoyed a brief moment of triumph.
“I miss Dorian,” I remarked.
Bailey nodded. “But Ben’s okay,” she said, indicating the older man with the paunch. “He gets a little tired, but he’s careful and he doesn’t miss much.”
The subject of our discussion had just opened the rear hatch of the Escalade. I moved closer to get a better look. It was cleaner than I’d expected: a few McDonald’s hamburger wrappers, a can of Red Bull, a half-smoked pack of Camel cigarettes, a lighter, a pack of Quench Gum, and a box of condoms.
I turned to Bailey. “Condoms.”
The rape kit had revealed lubricant of the sort commonly found on condoms.
She nodded. “So far, so good.”
The photographer moved into position and began snapping pictures of the inside of the vehicle.
“Want to take a look up on top, see where he went flying?” I asked.
We climbed the hill, which was no easy thing. Between the steepness and the loose rocks and dirt, there was no traction. We moved slowly, grabbing on to bushes for leverage.
The cops had cordoned off a wide section where the tire tracks showed the car had gone off the road and over the cliff.
“Anything to talk about?” Bailey said to one of the crime scene techs.
“Some interesting marks in the dirt over there,” he said, pointing to a spot just off the road.
“Interesting how? Brake marks?” she asked.
“No. Like weird little holes, just a couple of ’em,” the tech said. Then he shrugged. “It might not be anything either. Dirt’s real loose up here, doesn’t give a good impression.”
Bailey and I looked at the spot. I didn’t know what to make of the small indentations. I glanced at Bailey, who shook her head. “Yeah,” I agreed. “Let’s hit the Surf.”
I didn’t see anything else to do here, and I was dying to get into Stayner’s motel room.
She nodded and turned to the crime scene tech. “Get Ben up here,” she said.
46
The clouds that’d been hanging over downtown L.A. were nowhere in sight out here, and the descent down the Malibu side of the mountain offered a spectacularly clear and sparkling view of the Pacific Ocean. For a few moments, I lost myself in the glorious panorama but got dragged back to earth when the Surf Motel, in all its dilapidated glory, came into view.
All ten units in the low-slung building had windows that faced the ocean, and doors that faced the Pacific Coast Highway. Convenient parking was provided on the unpaved stretch of dirt that separated the motel from the road. I noticed that an old VW Bug was parked in front of the door at the far end, and a Harley-Davidson chopper was parked to the right of the car. I did and didn’t want to meet the owners of those vehicles.
Bailey and the cruiser behind us stopped in front of a sign that said OFFICE, and we all got out and walked up to the weathered door. Salt air is hard on paint, but it didn’t look like anyone had put in even a nominal effort to fight the damage. The original wood of the door showed through in big patches, and what little paint still clung to it was in the process of peeling. Bailey tried the knob. The door was open.
The office was really just a tiny vestibule that’d been added on to the end of the single row of rooms. If the motel had been downtown, it would’ve been the kind of place that rented rooms by the hour—a lot like the one where Kit and Jake had been found. This seemed to be my new theme. We walked up to the small desk, and Bailey tapped the old-fashioned bell. Instead of a ring, it gave off a dull buzz. A shirtless, barefoot guy in his twenties, with board shorts and wild hair, came out yawning and scratching his stomach. He too gave off a dull buzz.
Bailey pulled out her badge. “We’re investigating a rape, and we have reason to believe that the suspect was staying here.”
The young man looked singularly unimpressed with either Bailey or the uniforms behind her. “Aren’t you guys supposed to get, like, a warrant or somethin’? I mean, like, what if the dude sues us?”
“We just scooped what was left of him off the side of the canyon,” Bailey said. “I don’t think he’ll be suing anyone.”
He nodded to himself, then squinted at Bailey again. “What room?” he asked.
“Got one rented to someone named Carl Stayner?”
He opened a soggy-looking book with lined pages and ran a dirty nail down the entries. “Nope.”
That figured. “Drove a black Escalade,” I said.
“Looked like this,” Bailey added, holding out Stayner’s mug shot.
He ran a hand through the mop on his head as he peered at the photo. “Oh yeah, number ten,” he said. The young man pulled out his master key. “ ’Kay, but don’t, like, mess it up too bad. I’ll catch hell with the owner.”
Bailey took the key, promised nothing of the kind, and moved down the concrete walkway that led to number ten.
The number hung crookedly on the door, rusted and dirty, held by one screw. I would’ve been disappointed if it hadn’t. I appreciate consistency. Pulled-back dirty, torn curtains offered a glimpse into a room that was disgustingly filthy. I figured he hadn’t been there long enough to give it the full treatment. Bailey opened the door, and the smell of sweat, pot, and dirty clothes rolled out in oily waves to greet us.
She stepped aside to let the photographer in first. He put on bootees to cover his shoes and moved slowly, snapping away from all angles to capture the scene before anything was moved. Then he got everything on video. When he finished and moved on to the bathroom, we put on bootees and gloves and followed.
A sagging, unmade bed, its worn, ugly gray chenille spread pushed to one side, was littered with clothes, an empty pizza box, and stray cigarettes. I didn’t see a corresponding pack anywhere, so I couldn’t tell the brand. I called out to the photographer. “You get those cigarettes on the bed?”
The camera clicks coming from the bathroom stopped. I heard an audible sigh. “Yeah, I got ’em,” the photographer answered in a bored, tired voice.
I looked around the room. The window at the far wall offered the possibility of an ocean view out to Catalina Island, but the grime that had been allowed to accumulate over the years showed only a dim suggestion of that vista.
I looked back toward the door and saw a bulging canvas suitcase near the closet.
“Looks like Stayner was on his way out,” I said to Bailey.
She nodded and motioned me over to the nightstand. I noticed an odd bulge in the carpet next to the wall between the nightstand and the bed.
Bailey and I exchanged a look.
She called the photographer over and pointed to the area. “Get this.”
I noticed he didn’t dare look annoyed at Bailey. He moved in and snapped several pictures.
“Ben, we need you over here,” she ordered.
Ben quickly examined the spot, then got his kit, changed gloves, and knelt on the filth-encrusted carpet. I watched as he felt around for a loose edge, and for the second time that day I was glad I’d put myself through law school.
The carpet came up easily, and I leaned in to look. The lump was a gun and a stash of money. One immediate thought came to mind.
“Can you tell the make on that gun?” I asked.
Ben inserted a pencil through the trigger guard and lifted it for a closer look. Getting prints off a gun was always a long shot, but it’d be foolish to ruin any chance by being careless. “Colt, probably thirty-eight caliber,” he replied.
I looked at Bailey. “An alarming coincidence?”
“After you bag and log the gun, Ben, give it to me,” she said.
It was likely the same make and caliber of the weapon fired at us the day we’d visited the school. I wanted it to be the gun, but Colt .38s aren’t exactly rare. And even if it was the right gun, that didn’t mean Stayner was the one who’d fired it. It could have been someone in league with Stayner.
Bailey turned her attention to the suitcase. She said to Ben, “Let’s check that out first. You can go over the rest of the floor later. I’m betting that’s all we’re going to find under the carpet.”
Again, the photographer went first, then Ben began to go through the bag, piece by piece. I watched, getting increasingly grossed out and bored by looking at this jerk’s Skivvies, when Ben opened the zippered pocket on the back of the suitcase. And pulled out a man’s blond wig.
47
Bailey and I exchanged a long look.
“Dorian hasn’t matched those blond synthetic hairs in Susan’s headboard to any of her dolls yet, has she?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“I bet she’ll find a match now,” I remarked.
“Yep,” Bailey replied.
“I get from this that the wig is significant?” Ben asked.
“Yes,” we both said in unison.
Ben nodded. We watched as he carefully bagged the wig and filled out an evidence tag for it.
I called Dorian and told her we had a wig for her to look at.
“Well, make sure you get it bagged right. Knowing you two, you’re probably playing Frisbee with it,” she growled.
“Frisbee? With a wig? That would be silly, Dorian. It wouldn’t fly right.” I paused for her reaction. Dead air. “We’ve got it bagged, no worries,” I said.
Dorian hung up without comment. I turned to Bailey.
“Assuming he wasn’t hiding that wig for the rapist—”
She picked up my train of thought. “Which is unlikely—”
“And assuming we get a match on the wig—”
“Which is likely—”
“We may now deduce that Stayner’s our rapist.”
“Yep,” Bailey agreed.
“I’ll make the calls.” I dialed her buddy Fukai at the crime lab and asked him to get a sample as soon as possible from the morgue and compare Stayner’s DNA to the rape kit, then got the number of the Firearms Unit.
I gave the Firearms supervisor the heads-up that we were sending a gun in for testing on the unsolved shooting near Marsden High School. Since Bailey never reported that we were the targets, I saw no reason to mention that detail now.
I noticed that the photographer had left, and Ben had moved to the bathroom. “Where are the print techs?” I asked.
“On their way,” Bailey replied.
I nodded and fell silent, thinking about what we had now.
We were rolling in evidence on the rape, but we still had a bunch of unanswered questions. Not to mention a suspiciously timed dead body.
“We still don’t know why this guy targeted Susan,” I said. I looked around the room for a moment. “And I don’t like the way he turns up dead just when we start showing his picture around.”
“Yeah, smells to me too,” Bailey agreed.
The more I thought about it, the less I liked it. “So let’s assume that Stayner’s accident was no accident—”
“That leaves a pretty open field of suspects,” she said. “I’d imagine lots of people had a motive to kill that scumbag.”
“Number one being revenge for Susan’s rape—which makes Mommy and/or Daddy look good for it…”
Bailey nodded. “Except how would they get to him?” she asked. “We have no known connection between Stayner and them.”
“I know.” I sighed.
“And it could be revenge for raping some other kid,” Bailey said. “Odds are Susan wasn’t his first.”
I nodded. “Or it could’ve been a falling-out with some other scumbag.”
As I paced, another possibility occurred to me. I started to voice it, but the small room had made my pacing circles a little too tight for comfort. I was beginning to make myself sick. “Let’s get out of here,” I said.
We walked toward the Pacific Coast Highway, and I took a few cleansing breaths. The ocean air felt good. I resumed pacing and tried not to get distracted by the sparkling ocean view.
“If this is about revenge for molesting or raping someone else, we’re toast,” Bailey said grimly. “Without a known victim, we’ve got nowhere to go.”
“Right,” I said. “But if our killer’s a pissed-off partner-in-crime, we should get a hit on any fingerprints they find in the car,” I said. “They’re printing the car, right?”
“Every inch and everything in it,” she replied.
Another theory occurred to me. I stopped pacing and turned to Bailey. “What about a certain gang shot-caller? For example, someone Stayner set up to take the fall for Susan’s rape?”
Bailey looked back at me. “Luis Revelo,” she said, nodding. “That could work.”
I pulled out my cell phone and scrolled to find his number, then hit send.
“Get him to meet us now,” Bailey said.
I nodded, and we moved toward the car.
“Senorita Knight,” Luis said. “Whassup?”
“I need you to meet me on the West Side,” I replied.
“What for?”
“I’ll tell you when I see you.”
“ ’Kay,” Luis agreed. “When?”
“Now,” I said.
There was a beat of silence before he answered. “Sounds good,” he said slowly, his voice unusually warm. “But I’m kinda busy at the moment. How ’bout a little later? Say, tonight?”
I paused, puzzled by his tone. “No. Now. Meet me at Du-par’s,” I said. I gave him the address. The old-school diner-style restaurant in West Hollywood was midway between Luis’s stomping ground and Malibu.
“We havin’ lunch?” he asked.
“Sure,” I replied. I didn’t want to tip him off about the true reason for this meeting.
“Cool,” Luis replied and hung up.
“We’re on,” I told Bailey.
We got in the car, and she steered it back over the canyon, heading for the freeway.
“I could go for a tasty chicken potpie,” Bailey said with a sadistic smile.
I gave her a frosty look. “Why not complete the torture and order the pancakes?” I asked acidly. Du-par’s was famous for their heavenly pancakes.
“Good idea,” she said. “Pancakes would be way better.”
I spent the rest of the ride thinking of a suitable revenge.
48
Bailey was halfway through a stack of decadent butter-and-syrup-laden pancakes by the time Luis slid into the booth across from us. He shot a narrow-eyed look at Bailey, then at me.
“I thought this was just gonna be you an’ me,” Luis said.
“Why?” I asked.
“ ’Cuz when you called, you said, �
��Meet me,’ ” he replied.
The reason for the warm phone attitude finally dawned on me. “Luis, you did not seriously expect to hook up with a DA,” I said, trying to keep a straight face.
Luis gave me a sly smile. “Why not?” he asked. “Not the first time I gone slummin’.”
This was not the attitude of someone who’d just committed—or ordered—a murder.
“You mind telling us where you were last night?” I asked. I watched him closely, gauging his reaction.
Luis looked at Bailey, then looked back at me quizzically. “At my tia’s,” he finally replied. “It was my niece’s quinceañera.”
There wasn’t even a whiff of anxiety or nervousness in his attitude. Concerned, maybe, and curious, certainly—but not nervous.
“From when to when?” Bailey asked.
Her tone told me she’d noticed Luis’s demeanor too.
He shrugged. “Like, from six o’clock on. I helped them set up.”
“And you were there until when?” I asked.
“Until dawn, man. It’s a fiesta,” Luis said, annoyed. “I got at least a dozen homies an’ prally fifty of mi familia gonna—going to—tell you I was there all night.”
I could see he was feeling dissed for being challenged this way. And I also had no doubt that, true or not, he’d have a ten-page list of alibi witnesses who would not just “prally” but would certainly say he was with them. So the alibi was less significant to me than his attitude, which was way too cavalier for a recent murderer. Luis might be good, but he wasn’t that good.
“You gonna tell me what the deal is?” he asked.
I couldn’t see any reason not to at this point, so I told him.
Luis sat back and looked at us with a disbelieving smile. “You gotta be kidding me,” he snorted. “No, ain’t no friggin’ way.” He shook his head firmly. “Tha’ don’ make no sense at all.”
Luis was so incredulous at the notion that he’d killed Stayner, he’d abandoned any attempt at grammar. But I knew what he was getting at. In gangland, payback requires that a message be sent, and that message cannot be delivered by setting up an accidental death. I’d still ask to have his and his homies’ prints checked against whatever they lifted from Stayner’s Escalade. But, all things considered, I was ready to let Luis go for now.
