by Marcia Clark
Bailey called twice more, checking in. The third time, she told me she was going in for a cup of coffee. If it’d been me, I’d have been on my fifth cup and I’d still have been a frozen block of ice by now. “I’ll get out and cover you,” I said.
“Stay put. I don’t like you being seen getting in and out of that car. I’ll be fast,” she said.
I made a face at the phone and ended the call. Waiting was not my strong suit. Neither was sitting still.
“I got an e-mail from SID,” Bailey said during her fourth call. “Stayner’s DNA matched Susan’s nightgown.”
“Nice,” I replied. I was surprised by how anticlimactic this news was—we’d been so sure about Stayner that it hadn’t occurred to me to worry he might not be the rapist. But now that it was official, someone could tell Janet and Susan and let them salvage something out of the wreckage of their lives.
Bailey hung up, and I continued to watch the street.
Time passed. We checked in regularly. More time passed. Still nothing.
“I’ve got to get out and move around or I’ll lose it,” I said on our ninth call.
“Remind me never to bring you on a real stakeout,” Bailey groused. “Fine, cover me. I’ll take a bathroom break.”
“Take your time,” I replied.
I scanned the area to see if anyone was watching. There didn’t seem to be. I slipped out and closed the driver’s door as quietly as possible, locked it with the key to avoid the “beep” of the remote, and moved down the alley along the side of the clinic, toward the staff parking lot at the rear. There were a few bushes on the alley side of the building. I found a spot at the corner nearest to the parking lot and got between the bushes and the wall. The lot was still empty.
I was just about to head back toward the car when something flashed to my right. It looked like a light was on in the office. If so, someone had gone in through the front door after I’d left the car—of course, the minute Bailey’d gone. It figured. Scared but too curious to stop and think, I moved around to the front of the clinic and tested the doorknob. It turned in my hand. I pushed through, slowly and quietly, my heart thudding like a bass drum.
I closed the door partway behind me but didn’t click it shut, afraid the sound would alert the suspect. I stood very still and listened. There seemed to be movement in the first examination room, the one nearest to the reception desk. I felt in my pocket for my .22, pulled it out, and flipped off the safety. I moved toward the reception area. I’d have to climb over the security gate. I swung a leg up onto the counter and pulled myself over, then stepped down on the other side, one foot at a time. The sound of footsteps emerging from the first examination room made me duck down, but they soon receded in the direction of the second room. By the time I ventured to look out, the hallway was empty.
I duckwalked into the hall, intending to corner whoever it was inside the second examination room. I held my breath and moved slowly, gun in both hands in front of me, pointed at the ground. I could feel my temple pulsing. I swallowed nervously as I moved toward the doorway. At that same moment, the intruder stepped out. I barely had a second to register that it was a woman when she swung her monstrous purse at my head. I ducked just in time, but as I raised my hands up for cover, the purse struck my right forearm. Whatever was in that bag was mighty heavy. By the time I straightened up, the woman was running down the hall toward the office.
I gave chase, blood pounding in my ears. She sprinted around the corner and turned into the office. I followed, but just as I reached the end of the hall, she slammed the door. I threw my body against it once, twice, and it flew open—just as she ran out the back door. Feet pounding on the asphalt, I chased her through the parking lot. We were running toward Yucca Street and probably toward her car. I ran full-out, trying to gain ground. As we hit the sidewalk, I knew there were only seconds left. In a combination of desperation and sheer stupidity, I jumped, trying to tackle her. And missed. I barely got hold of her ankles, and my gun went flying. She went down, but I’d fallen right behind her.
She got a foot free and landed a boot on my face, then turned over and started kicking me, hard and fast, in the chest and head. I tried to hang on to the one ankle and roll to my side to get my head out of range, but she managed to lean forward and pummel me with her fists, on the back, head, shoulders…. I felt myself starting to go under. My grip on her ankle loosened. I felt her begin to stand up. In desperation, I threw my whole body into her legs, taking her down again. I heard a whump and a dull thud as she fell over. Still dazed, I straddled her back and saw that her head had hit the pavement—hard. Blood trickled from her forehead. I looked around for my gun, knowing I couldn’t hold her down for long. I spotted it a few feet behind me on the right. I leaned back and tried to reach for it, but just as I managed to get my fingers around the barrel, she got her hands under her and abruptly shoved me backward. As I fell, I finally got ahold of my gun and slammed the grip hard into the side of her head. She slumped just long enough for me to get an arm around her neck. Putting her in a choke hold, I shoved the muzzle into the back of her head and yelled, “Don’t move!”
She finally lay still. Bleeding, bruised, my breath ragged, I thought, Now what?
At just that moment, I heard the most welcome sound imaginable.
“I can take it from here, Knight. You can stand down,” Bailey said. “Or finish falling down. Whatever’s good for you.”
Relief rushed through me, and the adrenaline drained abruptly. My stomach lurched, and I crawled over to the bushes, where I retched until there was nothing left.
When I’d finished, I sat on the ground, my back propped against the wall of the clinic. I looked at the woman, whose hands were now cuffed behind her back. It was Evelyn Durrell. Office administrator. And, apparently, pornographer.
56
Bailey insisted I go to the hospital, although I knew there was nothing really wrong with me. The doctors had taken X-rays and poked and prodded me until I threatened a lawsuit, but in the end they found nothing had been broken or mangled. I was released that same night.
I took a long, hot shower; had a big, tall glass of Patrón Silver on the rocks; and fell into bed. In my dreams, the chase replayed with alarming detail—right down to the pain I felt every time I tried to turn over.
I woke up the next day feeling like a bulldog’s chew toy. The slightest move made every muscle in my body scream. Needless to say I called in sick. But apparently word of my exploits had spread fast. Not long after I’d called in, I got a big bouquet of roses from Eric and the deputies in Special Trials, with a card that said I was pretty cool. Actually it said: “For Rachel, who goes beyond the call of duty—and the pale of sanity.” Sweet. Graden had shown he knew who he was dealing with: he sent me a bottle of Russian Standard Platinum vodka. He also sent a sweet note: “Do that again, and I’ll revoke your permit.”
I noticed I’d gotten nothing from Vanderhorn. I guessed that might have something to do with the fact that I’d tagged one of his major campaign contributors for murder—what a spoilsport.
Toni’s trial was over, so she was free to fuss over me. She did such a thorough job of it, I finally had to tell her to go watch television in the other room and let me get some work done. I had calls to make and research to do. Bailey was hard at work too, and we compared notes throughout the day, including an interesting nugget on Stayner that Bailey’d dug up.
The following morning, I hobbled down to the hotel lobby and tried not to lean against the wall while I waited for Bailey. There was no part of my body that didn’t hurt to be touched.
She pulled up in front of the Biltmore. I gingerly got into the car, trying not to wince.
“You look good,” Bailey said.
“Thank you,” I replied with as much dignity as my bruises and scratches would allow.
They were keeping Evelyn Durrell at the Hollywood Station jail. It was smaller and safer than some of the others, and the detectives there were good fri
ends of Bailey’s. Evelyn had told the officers who’d taken her in that she wanted to talk. But our forty-eight hours ended today. That meant I had one chance to see what I could get out of her.
When Bailey and I walked into the small interview room, Evelyn Durrell was already there, cuffed to the table. I was gratified to see that she looked bruised too. I glanced up to make sure the red light of the video camera was on. Then Bailey read Evelyn her rights, and she waived them.
“Since we found the ionizers and cameras in your purse”—hence the heavy bag—“we’ve got you dead to rights on the pornography charges,” I began. “I can’t even tell you how many counts you’ll be facing, but it’ll add up to a lot of years.” Evelyn already knew she was in deep shit, but I wanted her to realize just how deep. “So if you think you’ve got information to bargain with, it better be good.”
She lifted her chin, looking me in the eyes. “I know I do.”
She sounded pretty confident. We’d see if she had reason to be.
I decided to start with the most obvious point. “Stayner rounded up the kids for you, right?” I asked.
“Yeah,” she replied.
“So who first came up with the idea to use the clinic for child pornography?” I asked.
“Carl. He’d bring kids to the clinic a lot. We’d talk. He never told me what he was up to, but it didn’t take long to figure out he was probably pimping them. After a while he brought up the pornography idea. Said those kids were selling it anyway, so what difference did it make?”
Even if that was true, Evelyn had been a willing accomplice. Pretty cold for someone who works with kids.
“And Densmore, was he in on it?” I asked.
“Up to his neck,” she answered, her voice tinged with anger. “Matter of fact, that’s how Carl knew where he lived. Densmore had him over to talk about putting cameras into the high-end clinics too.”
I shook my head. “I don’t buy it,” I said. “Densmore’s rich enough without this slime money. Why would he risk everything by getting in bed with you and Stayner?”
“Because he’s one of ’em,” Evelyn said. “He likes boys.” She looked at me. “Didn’t know that, did you?” she asked, a slight tinge of triumph in her voice.
As a DA in Los Angeles, few things had the ability to surprise me—this wasn’t one of them. Still, I had to push back.
“Why would I believe that?”
“Because I can prove it,” she replied smugly. “I’ve got him on videotape making it with one of those little hustlers in the Hollywood clinic.”
I took a deep breath. “When?” I asked.
“A few years back,” she said. “But, trust me, he’s still at it. He likes ’em older. Eighteen, twenty.”
I paused a beat, considering what she’d said.
“You got Densmore on videotape with a hustler,” I said.
“You bet,” she said smugly.
I wanted to smack her. Really hard…
“That means you already had a camera in place, Evelyn. Your operation was already up and running.”
That smug smile dropped away suddenly.
“I’ll tell you what happened,” I said. “You got lucky. You didn’t mean to, but you caught Densmore on tape. Perfect blackmail material. A guy like him, big-shot businessman, he couldn’t afford to have people know he’s hooking up with street trade. A big break for you, because after that, you didn’t have to worry if he found out.” I leaned back in my chair. “By the way, we’ve got a warrant for your house. We find that tape, I’ll have the pleasure of adding an extortion count to that impressive list of charges.”
I don’t know whether it was the mention of an extortion count or the mention of a search warrant—or maybe it was everything falling in on her at once—but for the first time she seemed rattled. What had she expected? On the other hand, she wasn’t exactly your typical career criminal.
Evelyn said nothing, which worried me. I kept talking, hoping to provoke her.
“So I don’t buy your story that Densmore invited Stayner to his house,” I said. “Tell you what I think. I think Stayner showed up uninvited to pressure Densmore into putting cameras into his high-end health centers.”
It was a shot in the dark, but judging by Evelyn’s grim expression, I’d hit close to the mark. Still, she remained mute. This was not good. I pulled out the file I’d brought and opened it. I took a moment to review the notes I’d made the day before.
“I don’t think you’re really the criminal type. Or at least you weren’t.” I looked up from the file and studied her face a moment. “You’ve been with Densmore from the beginning, when he opened the Hollywood clinic. That was his first one, wasn’t it?”
Evelyn nodded warily.
“Right. No pricey ‘health centers’ back then,” I said. I deliberately looked down again to consult my notes. “And you were a single mom, struggling to support your teenage daughter, Katie. So you were grateful when Densmore said you could hire her to help with the filing at the clinic, weren’t you?” I asked.
At the mention of her daughter, Evelyn’s face suddenly froze. The story of Katie had come to us courtesy of Nurse Sheila, who’d started with Densmore at the Hollywood clinic at the same time as Evelyn. Sheila had proven to be a great source of information—once we knew the right questions to ask.
I noted Evelyn’s reaction and shot a brief glance at Bailey, who was leaning against the far wall. She nodded and moved in closer. When Evelyn looked up at her, Bailey began to speak.
“But after Katie started working there, she got sick. Hep C. She fell for one of the young street boys, didn’t she?” Bailey asked.
Shaken, Evelyn nodded, her expression bitter.
“And he gave her a potentially fatal disease,” Bailey said, her tone sympathetic.
Evelyn nodded again.
“By the time you realized how sick she was, she’d probably had the disease for over a year. Densmore helped you out with the new interferon, but it made Katie horribly sick. And she was probably miserable, maybe even suicidal. So you bought into those so-called cutting-edge drugs that promised a miracle cure. But they were expensive—”
“And none of them worked!” Evelyn spit out angrily.
Bailey nodded in acknowledgment. “Katie’s still very ill,” she said. “From what I’ve heard, there’s a strong likelihood she’ll die of liver cancer. And it’s all because you had to work in that place.” She paused for effect. “No Hollywood clinic, no hep C. Right?”
Evelyn was stone-faced, but I could see the anger boiling just below the surface. I glanced at Bailey, who nodded. I leaned in and took over.
“And meanwhile Densmore’s beautiful little daughter, Susan, never had to work a day in her life, let alone in a place like that,” I said. “Bottom line, you needed money and Stayner offered you a way to make it, quick and easy. And it didn’t hurt that you got to screw over Densmore in the process.”
Evelyn sat up now, her cheeks flushed with anger. “You watch your kid suffer like that, you’ll do anything. Besides, Carl wasn’t wrong. It wasn’t like we were pulling any of those kids off their teeter-totters.”
I wasn’t a mother. Who could say what I would’ve done? Evelyn went on, her tongue loosened by anguish and fury.
“It would’ve been fine, but Carl got greedy and started pressuring Densmore to put cameras in the other health centers. I told him to let it be, but would he listen? Of course not,” Evelyn fumed. Then she stopped, her face fell, and she grew quiet. A note of true remorse crept into her voice. “And then the sick asshole had to go and rape Densmore’s daughter.”
I could tell this was the turning point. I let a beat of silence punctuate her last words, then took the plunge.
“Where were you the night Kit was killed?” I asked.
Evelyn’s eyes darted to Bailey, then back to me. She licked her lips, and I could tell her mouth had gone dry. If she dummied up now, we were toast. The air was thick with tension. I tried to make mys
elf breathe normally as I waited and silently willed her to speak.
“That was Stayner,” she replied.
I let her words hang in the air and deliberately said nothing. I’ve found that sometimes silence is the best interrogator. After a moment, she continued.
“Kit found his own photo online and managed to figure out where it had been taken. He tried to use it to blackmail Stayner.” Evelyn shook her head at the folly of it. “I had no idea he was going to kill the kid.”
Bailey glanced at me, and I sat back. She turned to Evelyn. “A dead man is an awfully convenient fall guy,” Bailey said. “If you want me to help you out, you’re going to have to give me something that proves it was Stayner.”
Evelyn thought about it for a minute, then stared straight ahead as she spoke.
“I can tell you why that DA guy wound up dead.”
I felt a little sick, not sure I wanted to hear what she was about to tell us. But, after all this time, I knew I had to find out. I only hoped that, good or bad, it would be the truth. Bailey nodded to prompt her, and she continued.
“Kit bragged that he was friends with a DA. Said that the guy helped him all the time and that he was going to be waiting outside the motel. I’m sure he figured that would scare Carl into giving him the money and getting out of there.” Evelyn paused, then continued. “Carl didn’t buy it. Thought the kid was just bullshitting. But Carl was wrong. The DA really was waiting outside. And even so it wouldn’t have mattered, except Carl showed up late. So by the time he shot Kit, the DA had gotten worried and came in to find out what was going on. Once that DA came knocking on the door, Carl was stuck. Besides, he didn’t know what Kit had told the guy.” Evelyn paused and sighed. “No way Carl could just let him leave.” She sat back and exhaled.
“So Stayner let the DA into the room and shot him, then set it up to look like a murder-suicide,” Bailey said.