Guilt by Association: A Novel

by Marcia Clark

  If we couldn’t get a court order for a DNA sample on Pickelman, we sure as hell couldn’t get one for a kid who hadn’t even bothered to come up with a phony-sounding alibi.

  “Well, at least we can go back to the Oki-Dog tomorrow,” I pointed out. “That hamburger smelled fantastic.” I started planning the workouts I’d have to do to make up for tomorrow’s lunch.

  But, as they say, “Man plans and God laughs.”

  37

  My phone rang at 6:30 the following morning. I grabbed the receiver and looked at the number on the screen so I could see who I’d be cursing. It was Bailey.

  “Pickelman didn’t show up for his shift last night.”

  “And they’re just telling you now?”

  “Director didn’t know till he got in. We need to get out there and get his info so we can track him down.” She hung up.

  I groaned and pushed myself out of bed. A fast shower later, with no time for makeup, I pulled on jeans, a white thermal shirt, my trusty bulletproof vest—I didn’t mind wearing it for a change, because the early-morning air was frosty—and a heavy coat. Bailey was idling in the driveway right in front of the door. She gestured to the cardboard cup of coffee in the holder on the passenger side and said, “Get human.” I nodded and pried off the cover to let the steam out, then blew on it and took the first scalding sip. Five decreasingly scorching sips later, we were rolling down the freeway along with the rest of Los Angeles.

  “He never checked in at all last night?” I asked.

  “And he hasn’t checked in to say why either.”

  Normie, the DOS (director of security), was apologetic and eager to supply us with all known phone numbers and addresses for Duane Pickelman. Bailey called for backup to meet us at his last listed address.

  It was in Koreatown. A banged-up two-story apartment building with outdoor hallways that overlooked the street. An old couch was lovingly placed next to the Dumpster at the end of the parking lot. As we drove up, a flock of crows that had been feasting on something in a fast-food wrapper in the driveway flew off. I tried not to consider it an omen. Backup arrived as we parked in front of the door to apartment A—our destination. The door sported a bumper sticker for a local radio station and a couple of flower decals. I thought Duane’s decorating style lacked focus.

  Four attractively burly, uniformed officers spoke briefly to Bailey, then two of them ran around to the back of the building while the other two brandished their lethal-weapon flashlights and pounded on the door. Bailey and I held our guns down at our sides at the ready, just in case, and stood back.

  “Mr. Pickelman, police! You need to open up!”

  After a few seconds passed with no answer, they pounded again. I stepped in closer to listen and heard the sounds of running footsteps and lowered voices. Bailey gave the nod, and one of the officers pounded again. “Police!”

  When this produced no response, one officer stepped to the side with his gun drawn, and the one who’d knocked threw his shoulder heavily into the doorjamb, then leaned back and gave the door an impressively solid kick. It flew open, and the sounds of girls squealing came pouring out.

  Bailey and I looked at each other. This was not what we’d been expecting. The officer who’d kicked open the door pulled out his weapon and signaled his partner. I stood back as they covered each other and entered the apartment. Seconds later, two teenage-looking girls in T-shirts and capri-length, teddy-bear-covered pajama bottoms slowly emerged. They were crumpled in on themselves, their hands raised and heads bowed as if to ward off anticipated blows. The two backup officers moved to clear the apartment and make sure no one was lurking in the back with a bad idea. The first team, which had kicked the door in, took charge of the girls, leading them by their elbows.

  When the girls passed by, I could see that one of them was probably closer to twenty, while the other looked to be around sixteen. Both were ashen-faced. As they stepped out into the cold morning air, the younger of the two began to weep uncontrollably.

  “You think you can handle it from here?” one of the officers asked, his tone a mixture of sarcasm and amusement.

  “Yeah, probably so,” Bailey said. “The other team’s going to finish clearing the place?”

  “Being done as we speak. They’ll stay. Me and my partner have to head out.”

  “Not a problem. Thanks, Red.”

  “Hey, Red?” I said as he turned to go. “Linebacker?”

  “Go, Saints.” He smiled, made a gesture like the tip of a hat, and got into the patrol car with his partner.

  I turned back to the girls, who were shivering in their thin jammies. The second team came out and gave us a thumbs-up. With the apartment now available, I turned to the shivering girls.

  “Wanna take this inside?” I asked.

  We all settled around a cheap imitation-wood coffee table. The girls sat on a battered sofa that looked worse than the one next to the Dumpster. Bailey and I settled on folding chairs across from them.

  “Names?” Bailey asked as she took out her small notepad and pen.

  “Amy Pickelman,” said the younger-looking one. The family resemblance was obvious, now that I knew. She was pale, thin, and rangy, though shorter than Duane, and her hair hung in the same limp dirty-blond strands.

  “Deandra Scorper,” said the twenty-or-so-year-old. She was a little on the chunky side, but she was pretty, with blue eyes and wavy brownish hair.

  I studied them for a moment, then turned to Amy. “Let’s see your ID, Amy.”

  She looked stricken. “I, uh, don’t know what I did with it.”

  I waited for her to fess up on her own. She didn’t, so I did it for her. “You’re a runaway,” I said mildly.

  After a brief silence, Deandra, who I’d predicted had some starch to her, said, “Oh, give it up, Amy. It’s beyond obvious.” Deandra turned to me. “We were just letting her stay for a little while until her mom could come get her. They live in Phoenix.”

  Amy favored Deandra with a look that would have petrified wood. “I’m so sick of that stinking place!” she exclaimed. “And my stepfather won’t let me do anything! I’m not going back!”

  I turned to the quasi-adult of the duo. “When did you last see Duane?”

  “Yesterday, just before I left for work.”

  “Where do you work?” I asked for no particular reason other than it seemed the logical thing to say.

  “T.G.I. Friday’s. I’m a waitress. He called after I got home. Said he had some important job to do, that he’d be right back and not to worry.” She stopped and looked at us. “I’m guessing that was bullshit.”

  “We saw him a couple of days ago and told him not to leave town,” I replied, then let her draw her own conclusion.

  “Well, fuck that. How’m I supposed to pay the rent all by myself? Especially with her to support?” she said, jerking her head toward Amy.

  “He call you on your cell?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” Deandra said as she pulled her purse out from under the coffee table and handed over her phone.

  I scrolled through the calls for last night. “You remember what time you got home?”

  “Ten thirty. He called around eleven.”

  I scrolled down to the last call of the night and, sure enough, there it was. I highlighted the number and hit send. Duane’s voice came on, telling me to leave a message. I cut off the call and handed the phone to Bailey so she could write down the number.

  “You have any idea where he might be?”

  “I’d tell you if I knew.”

  I believed her. Bailey and I looked at each other. There wasn’t anything more to get here. She summoned over the patrol officers who’d stayed behind.

  “This one”—Bailey gestured to Amy—“is going with you. She’s a runaway and she’s going to give you her mom’s name and phone number.” Bailey stopped and looked straight at Amy.

  Amy appeared for a moment as though she wanted to defy the order, but it took all of five sec
onds for her to wilt under Bailey’s gaze and give the officer the information in a small voice.

  “Thanks, Deandra,” I said as Bailey and I stood to go. I handed her my card. “Call me if you hear anything.”

  “No worries, ma’am. I will.”

  The determined note in her voice told me she meant it.

  As Bailey and I left, I heard one of the patrol officers on the phone talking to Amy’s mother. From what I could hear, if Amy thought she had it bad before, she was really going to hate her life now.

  38

  On our ride back downtown, the effects of the early wake-up call began to show. It felt like lead weights were attached to my eyelids. My head kept dropping forward onto my chest, and I wanted a nap so bad I could taste it. But I felt guilty about leaving Bailey to navigate while I slept, so I kept myself awake by focusing on our next step.

  “You got a friend who can track the cell sites for Pickelman’s phone?” I asked, my voice thick with exhaustion.

  “I’ll start making the calls when we get back to your place,” she said, stifling a yawn.

  I was a habitual night owl, so getting up early was always a problem for me. But Bailey was an early riser by nature. She was yawning for a different reason. “Tough working a day job when you’re dating a bartender,” I remarked just to see what she’d say.

  Bailey glanced at me quickly, then focused on the road, a small smile playing on her lips. “It’s worth it.”

  Apparently the Bailey-and-Drew connection was still going strong. I was happy for them. And impressed.

  We got off the freeway and pulled into the hotel driveway. We made a beeline for my place and called room service, loading up on coffee, fruit, and baked delights. Bailey started working the phone while I doctored my coffee with no-calorie sweetener and 2 percent milk. I drank about half the cup and tried to ignore the siren song of the chocolate muffin Bailey had cruelly ordered and placed on the table between us. There’s nothing like sleep deprivation to make my dietary discipline go down the drain.

  “Okay,” she said as she snapped her phone shut, “the wheels are in motion. Let’s hope this techno stuff works fast. If he dumps that phone, we’re toast.”

  Bailey broke off a chunk of the chocolate muffin and chewed. I watched her like a dog at the butcher’s. “Here, have some,” she said, and tauntingly held out the other half.

  “I hate you,” I said, and grabbed my disgustingly healthy apple.

  Bailey the Sadist put her feet up on the coffee table, leaned back, and took deliberately long, loving bites of her muffin.

  Her phone rang, and she peered at the number, then looked at me quizzically. “It’s Dispatch,” she said, then opened the phone.

  I was equally confused. Dispatchers don’t call detectives; they call patrol officers.

  “Keller here,” she said, then listened for a moment. Suddenly she dropped her feet to the ground and sat up. “Give me that address again?” She took out her notepad and pen and wrote something, then thanked the dispatcher and hung up.

  “What do we always say?” she asked me.

  “Why don’t you stop screwing with me and tell me what the hell’s going on?”

  “No. We say, ‘I’d rather be lucky than good.’ ”

  That was true.

  “And?” I asked.

  “We’ve got Pickelman.”

  We flew out the door as Bailey called for backup for the second time that day. Once we’d navigated back onto the freeway, Bailey explained.

  “After I heard this morning that he’d split, I let the patrol sergeant and Dispatch know I was looking for him. Apparently someone just called nine one one and asked whether there was a reward out for Pickelman—”

  “Why would anyone think that?” I interjected. I’d called in my chit with the L.A. Times and gotten a story planted about already having the rape suspect in custody, so I didn’t think the online news story had inspired the 911 call.

  “I’m guessing Pickelman told whoever he was staying with that he was trying to ditch the cops. That person probably doesn’t even know about any rape case. But maybe once he heard Pickelman was wanted, that person decided to turn in our little buddy and make some dough. So he calls and asks about a reward, and the operator, being smarter than this nimrod, keeps him on the phone long enough to get his location. Then she tells him his reward is that he won’t get busted for harboring a felon and for obstruction of justice if he gives up Pickelman’s location immediately and makes sure Duane stays there—”

  “That dispatcher deserves a reward. How much farther?”

  “We’re here,” Bailey replied as she pulled off the freeway in Boyle Heights.

  I crossed my fingers and tried not to count on finding Pickelman, just to avoid a jinx. But it was definitely a good omen that he was so close.

  Backup had already arrived, parked out on the street in front of the building I assumed was our destination. It was a one-story ranch-style apartment building in the shape of a horseshoe—a big pink horseshoe that had faded and withered in the fifty years since it had been painted that unfortunate color. The front doors of the apartments all faced the U-shaped area, which was filled with weeds, random food wrappers, and bottles.

  Bailey signaled for the uniforms to follow quietly, and we ran up to the door marked with the number 9 in the middle of the horseshoe. One of the unis knocked, which prompted a loud yell from somewhere inside the apartment.

  Without waiting for an answer, two of the unis reared back and threw themselves against the door. It gave way as if it were made of kindling, and they practically fell inside. They drew their guns and ran in, with Bailey and me close behind them. We hurried through a nearly empty living room and down a narrow hallway that forced us to move single file, following the sounds of angry grunts and male voices. When we reached the back bedroom, I saw Pickelman standing on an unmade twin bed, struggling to climb out the window. A couple of skinny young men—one white, with a patchy, uneven beard; the other looking like a Native American, with long black hair—had their hands on Pickelman’s legs and the seat of his pants and were trying to pull him back inside.

  The white kid called to us, “Help, goddamn it!”

  I could swear I heard one of the unis chuckle as they moved forward in tandem and easily lifted Pickelman off the windowsill. He squirmed and kicked and managed to knock heads with one of them in the process. That did it—the unis got serious and dumped him facedown on the ground, folded his hands behind his back, and cuffed him. I allowed myself a sweet moment of elation.

  “He’s a pig, man. He got sick all over the place, acted like he was insane. Get him out of here. He’s a friggin’ menace!” the white kid yelled hoarsely. “I only let him stay because I thought you guys wanted him and there’d be a reward or something.”

  I briefly wondered what the “or something” was that he had in mind. Then I looked down at Pickelman. He seemed a lot worse for the wear. And not just from having been bounced around a little. He had the pale, sickly, awful look that takes some time to achieve.

  I crouched down and turned his face toward me. “What’s wrong with you, Duane? You look like shit.”

  Duane was breathing hard, and he tried to turn his face away. But since he was being held down by a uni and he was in handcuffs, it was a futile effort.

  “Come on, Pickelman. You’re already screwed. We’ve got your ass for resisting arrest, which means we’re going to get your DNA, so you’re toast. You may as well tell me why you look so bad.”

  At this, Duane huffed and squeaked out, “I didn’t do no rape! I ran ’cuz I didn’t want to lose my job! If I gave you my DNA you’d find out I been doin’ crank. I had to take off so I could detox and give you a clean test!”

  Bailey and I took this in. Pickelman was a crystal-meth addict. I’d had a feeling this bust was too good to be true. My heart sank as I admitted that Duane’s tale of woe unfortunately had the ring of truth, and it was convincingly backed by his pale, sweaty face
.

  “Take him in,” Bailey told the unis. “He’s probably still under the influence, so book him on that, and make sure to get him swabbed. I’ll get the swabs to the lab.”

  But we already knew the tests would show he was a no-match.

  We got into the car, and Bailey drove us back downtown. I looked out the window at the passing cars, too tired and depressed to think. What I wanted was Susan’s rapist behind bars, a suspect for Jake’s and Kit’s murder, and a shower.

  For now I’d have to settle for one of the three.

  39

  For the next three days, we hit the Oki-Dog. Sitting as far away and unobtrusively as possible, we scanned the motley gathering for the Aryan Brotherhood guy Hector had described, and made plans for how we’d squeeze him like a lemon when we found him. So far the only thing I’d squeezed was my gut as my jeans got tighter by the day. If we didn’t catch this guy soon, I’d have to buy a whole new wardrobe.

  It was late morning on our fourth day, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Bailey and I were wearing big sunglasses that hid our eyes.

  “Here’s your ‘carry,’ ” Bailey said. She passed me the laminated card, and I slipped it into my pocket. For the first time ever, I was legally carrying a gun. It didn’t feel any different.

  “I do like our working hypothesis that this AB guy’s got some connection to the rape, since it looks like he set up the Sylmar Sevens to take the fall on the burglary in Susan’s neighborhood,” I said in a low voice.

  Bailey nodded without looking at me.

  “But even if we grab him,” I continued, “that doesn’t mean he’ll give us anything. And I don’t have any connects in the AB who’ll help loosen him up for me. Luis was a fluke. You got any skinhead buddies in your back pocket?”

  Bailey looked at me. “Sure, me and Mazza used to shoot pool. I’ll just give him a jingle.”

  Mazza, a big gun in one of the larger skinhead clans, had been on twenty-four-hour lockdown in the heaviest maximum-security prison in the state for the past several years. This led me to believe Bailey’s offer was insincere.