by David Chill
Chapter 10
It took about ten minutes for a Culver City police cruiser to arrive, and even though this was technically Los Angeles, I knew it was easier for a smaller police force like Culver City to dispatch officers to the scene. In general, Culver City had a smaller police force, but they also had less bureaucracy. This locale, situated in a patch that bordered not only Culver City but Inglewood, too, was often served by whatever department got there first, and the cooperation was usually copacetic.
The CCPD detective who had stepped into the fray was named Gary Adler, and he was kind enough to allow Marcus to come along with us. Not surprisingly, given his close proximity to the entrance of Chuck E. Cheese, he had a son about the same age, and they had been waiting a while in line as well. The two kids began playing a game of soccer, using an empty Pepsi can as a ball. The detective was writing something into a notepad nearby.
There were two uniforms who showed up, and I leaned against their squad car. One uniform drifted off to speak with witnesses in the crowd, the other hovered nearby to prevent any more outbreaks of civil disturbance. A paramedic truck had arrived at the same time, and the technicians were treating the men I had engaged. Or who had engaged me. My left ear had a stinging feel to it, and I felt a lump forming on the side of my head. Neither of the paramedics had asked me if I was all right, but given I was the only one still standing, I didn’t raise a fuss. I looked down at my hands, the knuckles on my left were scraped, and the ones on my right were bleeding slightly. My breathing had not quite returned to normal.
“This all started with two little kids having a dust up,” Adler said, walking over to me.
“Wars have begun over less,” I pointed out. We were now both leaning against the cruiser. Adler had thankfully not handcuffed me, which was something I would never ever have wanted Marcus to see. How we ended up here, after a session of pizza, cake, and video games, was still a hazy mystery.
“What’s your side of this?” he asked.
I looked at him. “When the kids began shoving each other, rather than step between them, this parent, and I’m assuming he was a parent, grabbed my son by the arm and jerked him away. He was pretty rough about it.”
“Uh-huh. And what happened next?”
“Let’s just say I cleaned his clock.”
“Why don’t you add a little color to that,” the detective suggested.
“I think I punched him. Probably twice.”
“And then?”
“He went down, and somebody grabbed me around the waist. I managed to break free from him.”
“A peace maker?”
I took a breath. “It was hard to tell what his motives were at the time. When someone’s on you, it’s easy to assume they mean to wreak more havoc.”
“And after you … how did you put it? Broke free from guy number two?”
“Yeah,” I continued. “At that point, guy number three came at me hard, throwing punches. Looks like he landed one. I landed a few also.”
“That part I saw.”
“And then you stepped in, Detective. And that was that.”
Adler nodded. “Yup. That was that. You usually take ’em on three at a time?”
I shook my head. “Generally, no. It’s not a good plan.”
“Not a good plan at all,” he repeated. “Look, I’ll be honest with you, I was in line with my kid, I heard some commotion and turned to see someone grab you. You put him on the ground, and then took out the last guy after he threw a punch. But how this started is key. Someone grabs your kid, yeah, I get it. You don’t see straight, you don’t act right. I might have done the same thing. Probably not, but hey. That doesn’t make it right. You ought to know that. If you were telling me the truth before, you being a police officer at one time.”
“It was the truth,” I said, wondering just how much I should share with him. Googling my name would still bring up stories of my case with Judy Atkin, the teenage runaway I took in a decade ago, whose accusations led to my getting kicked off the LAPD. It would confirm my story as a former cop, but it would also not present me as a stellar law-abiding citizen.
“And tell me why you were carrying this piece of junk,” he asked, holding up my fake badge. “If you were on the job back in the day, then you know all about the laws against impersonating a police officer.”
It was my turn to sigh. “Look, I told you I’m a licensed P.I. Having that, er, piece of junk as you put it, can get people to open up and be candid, and help me do my job. It’s kind of like my version of giving them truth serum.”
“Oh, it’s truth serum, is it?” he said, and I could see a smile start to cross his lips. “You really must have fallen far when you left the LAPD. Care to tell me why that happened?”
“Not really.”
‘Uh-huh,” he chuckled. “My guess is you probably weren’t too good at following rules when you were a cop, either. Anyone at LAPD who’ll vouch for you?”
“Lieutenant DeSanto. West L.A. Division.”
Adler nodded. “Name doesn’t ring a bell, but I haven’t worked with a lot of LAPD there. We have our own problems in Culver.”
At that point, one of the uniforms walked toward us, and Adler went over and talked with him. The uniform spoke and Adler listened, occasionally interjecting a question or two. Adler then walked away for a few minutes and made a phone call. Marcus continued to play kick the can with his new friend, and the two would occasionally shriek with delight when one of them got the can past the other. It was as if Marcus had forgotten the entire sordid incident that had just happened, and I only prayed I could permanently erase it from his memory.
“Okay,” Adler said, walking back over to me. “Your story checks out with multiple eyewitnesses. The other parent grabbed your kid in a rough way. One could say you were being protective. One could also say you committed assault and battery.”
“Fair points,” I managed.
“We have the right to charge you with a felony, regardless of whether you were standing up for your son. Technically, the other parent could be charged with assault, too. Maybe more.”
I nodded. The simple act of putting a finger on another person could be grounds for assault. The law was not ambiguous at all on that point. Assault is considered the attempt at violence, battery is the act itself.
“Technically,” I repeated.
“But,” he said, waving a hand with an air of world weariness, “I’ve seen people get off on worse things, just by stating they needed to protect their child from harm. Attorneys call it defense against assault. I’m not a lawyer, but I could see a jury buying this. Doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to be arrested for it. We’re not in the business of predicting what juries will and won’t decide.”
“True.”
“And the fact that your wife may end up deciding whether or not to prosecute you, well, that puts this whole issue in another light. Politics is going to play a role. It always does.”
I raised my eyebrows. “You know about my wife?” I asked.
“Look, we’re not some backwater hick town, we’re just a smaller version of LAPD. Yeah, we did a little research. And for better or worse, you’re connected.”
I nodded, and the phrase for better or worse reminded me of the vows Gail and I took almost six years ago, along with for richer or poorer, and in sickness and in health. In no way did I ever think this could be connected to a criminal charge for which I’d be the one in the crosshairs. Life leads you to some strange places.
“And,” he continued, “seeing as you really were on the job for 13 years, we’ll cut you some slack on this. We’re not going to file criminal charges on the fight. You may be liable for civil penalties though, if any of the other parties want to go after you for pain and suffering. Or medical bills. My guess is the first guy you socked may need some dental work. You hit him pretty good.”
I thought about this. “Are you filing a report?”
“Of course we’re filing a report. We’re j
ust not booking you. But that brings me to the next issue. That fake badge. I’m going to have to talk that one over with my captain. You may get charged with impersonating an officer. There’s only so many favors we can do for ex-cops. I know, I know, the law was set up to prevent nut jobs from acting like they’re the police. But you’re not the police, either. Not anymore. You don’t strike me as a nut job, but then again, I don’t really know you.”
“Yeah,” I said, wondering if I had it in me to ask for the badge back. I decided he wouldn’t find it amusing. And Gary Adler was doing me an awfully big favor by not running me in right now. There is a code among cops that they take care of their own, even ones that left the job on less than ideal circumstances.
“I’ll keep this little trinket,” he said. “And you might want to buy lunch for DeSanto. When I said your name, he let out a groan. One of those not-again groans.”
I drew in a breath. I might need to get some very special Dodger tickets for Roberto soon. Maybe even to multiple games. I briefly thought of offering this service to Gary Adler, but had to remind myself that the line between showing appreciation and offering a bribe was exceedingly thin here.
“DeSanto said you were doing some good work on a case now. In fact, he said once you get released, you should give him a call. Sounded like it was a bit urgent. That’s another reason we’re not charging you.”
I frowned. “You’re releasing me because I’m needed on a case?”
“No,” Adler laughed. “Because I may need to call in a favor from DeSanto one day. I may need to call in a favor from you, too. But my guess is a lieutenant on the LAPD will have more juice than an ex-cop running around playing cowboy.”
I didn’t quite know how to respond to this show of kindness, but somehow the words “thank you” spilled out of my mouth. My biggest sense of gratitude was not just avoiding arrest. Rather, it was because Gail would not need to come pick up Marcus because his dad was going to spend the afternoon in lockup. My larger concern would be how I would break this to her, as well as how I would explain to Marcus that what I did, seemingly to protect him, was really the wrong thing to do. There is only so much that a five-year-old can process. I turned to Adler.
“Any time you need a favor, I’ll be more than happy to help,” I managed.
“Yeah, I’m not holding my breath on that one,” he said. “Who knows. Maybe our kids’ll want a play date sometime. At least I figure you’ll be protective. And maybe you learned something today.”
“I did. And our kids seem to indeed be getting along,” I said, pointing to the makeshift soccer game going on a few yards away.
“Yeah,” he responded. “And I don’t need to lecture you about the example we set for our boys. Next time try a little diplomacy. A few strong words can be productive. Might save you this kind of a hassle. Not every cop is going to see this the way I see it.”
To that, I agreed. And after I thanked Detective Adler again, I went up to the uniforms and thanked them. I looked over at the scene across the street, and the first guy I punched was on his feet and looking okay, albeit with an ice pack to his face. The other two were up and moving about. I didn’t want to be around when Adler told everyone he wouldn’t be placing me under arrest. He would likely tell them they were free to go to the police station and file a complaint. But he would remind all of them they played a role in either starting or escalating the fracas, and might be subject to criminal charges themselves.
I went over and told Marcus it was time to go. He asked if he and his new friend, Greg, could indeed have a play date soon. I said sure. On the drive home, we talked about the pizza, the cake, the video games, and everything else but the incident that left my stomach tied up in knots. I knew I’d have to tell Gail, but didn’t know the words that could possibly describe what had happened. We arrived home, and I parked Marcus in front of the TV before I went into the den to make a phone call. Roberto DeSanto picked up on the first ring.
“Hey there,” he said.
“Lieutenant.”
“You still being detained by law enforcement?”
I coughed. “No, it’s all good. Big misunderstanding.”
“Uh-huh. I’ll bet,” he said. “Listen, I need you to go up to Mandeville Canyon. On Banyan Drive. I think you know the neighborhood.”
“What’s going on?”
“Homicide. We pulled a body out of a shallow grave this morning. Initial ID says it’s the homeowner. Name’s Gavin Yunis. That ring a bell?”
*
I dropped a protesting Marcus off with the Parkers across the street. He outwardly expressed his disappointment, and said he wanted to spend the whole Saturday with me, neither understanding nor caring that dad had a few other responsibilities to tend to. I recognized that a day with dad could be a roller coaster thrill ride, complete with physical confrontations and an intervention by the police. But given the gruesome nature of the outing, bringing Marcus along would never be an option. And disobeying a request from an LAPD lieutenant was not a good move, either. I promised Marcus we’d try and play together tomorrow, keeping my fingers crossed for multiple reasons. He begrudgingly agreed.
The construction crew was not working today and the taco truck was nowhere in sight, but the street was littered with half a dozen LAPD squad cars with their lights flashing, plus a host of unmarked vehicles. It was not unlike the scene along PCH the other day, except this was a much more narrow road, and there was no calming ocean nearby. The signal green BMW, however, was sitting peacefully in the Starr’s driveway.
I found Detective Knapp surveying the scene next to the redwood fence separating the Starr property from the Yunis property. I approached him and waited to be noticed. Or at least be acknowledged. He stared a while, kicked some dirt, bent down, rubbed some soil between his fingers, and stood up again. He looked deep in thought, but for the life of me, I couldn’t imagine what he was thinking about. I finally cleared my throat.
“I see you,” he said. “I’ll get to you in good time.”
I looked down at the same patch of loose dirt he was studying. The brown soil was fresh, piled up in a way that told me it had recently been shoveled. It was next to a hole in the ground that was roughly six feet long, three feet wide, and two feet deep. Just big enough to hide a body, and probably dug in a hurry. I kicked around some of the ground nearby, and noticed the terrain was fairly firm. Whoever dug this up had to have used some serious muscle.
“Looks like somebody was busy,” I mused.
“Always with the wise cracks,” he said.
I shrugged. “Just telling it like it is.”
“DeSanto call you? That why you’re here?”
“Yeah. That’s why I’m here.”
“What do you know about Gavin Yunis?” he asked, not bothering with any preamble.
“Never actually spoke with him. Maybe this is why. You have an estimate on time of death?”
“How about I ask the questions for now,” Knapp replied. “Tell me what you know about Yunis.”
I looked down again at the pile of dirt. “I probably know as much as you know. If you’ve been paying attention that is. Ongoing property dispute with the Starrs. Excess noise due to the construction, lawsuits flying back and forth. Plus, the whole neighborhood’s ticked at Yunis for upsetting the tranquil bliss up here. I think the biggest problem was he’s six months into construction, and he’s probably less than halfway done. People might put up with noise for a while, but it looks like this project has another year to go.”
“Okay,” Knapp said. “I get the lawsuits. But you don’t kill anyone over noise.”
I thought of Tammy Perino and I began to wonder. But it was nothing more than a sixth sense, so I let it go for now.
“You’re probably right. But putting aside the lawsuits, the construction noise led to shouting matches between Yunis and Curtis Starr. Moved on to physical threats, and at that point it doesn’t matter who or what started it. The problem escalates. Takes on a life of
its own. Sometimes two guys get into a major tussle over what began as next to nothing.”
“Kind of like assaulting someone outside a Chuck E. Cheese because their kids were pushing each other,” he commented.
“You know about that?” I asked, a little wide-eyed.
“Word travels fast around these parts,” he said.
I shook my head, and thought I saw a glimpse of a smile on Marc Knapp’s face. It didn’t stay there long. “Apparently.”
“Okay, look. That all you know about Yunis?” he continued. “Got to be more.”
“His father was a real estate developer in Palm Springs. Sounded like Yunis inherited some serious dinero. Probably a lot of dinero if he could afford this neighborhood.”
“Real estate family, huh? Well, that’s how you get rich in California,” Knapp mused absently. “Okay. We got Curtis Starr as the obvious suspect.”
“Except for the fact that someone did shoot at him last week in his Jacuzzi. Unless he jumped out of the water, climbed the fence, fired a few shots and then pulled himself back over. You see where I’m going with this?”
Knapp scowled. It seemed like a good look for him. “You’re assuming this was all done by one person. Maybe there were two shooters.”
I shrugged. “Maybe. And maybe there was one shooter who had two guns.”
“Yeah. And maybe the shooter was you,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Aw, you’re just trying to flatter me,” I said, no longer wondering how I could do better than dodging assault and battery, as well as impersonating a police officer all in one day. Adding a homicide charge would certainly top that.
“Put this together for me,” Knapp said. “Or maybe just unpack it. Not a whole lot of this adds up. And you seem to always be around. Too much for my taste. And that excuse? Hired by an insurance company to look into a shooting the police were already investigating? That sounds like a load of crap.”
