by Marcia Clark
He didn’t offer his hand for a shake, so I didn’t offer mine. Some of the homeless have issues with physical contact. “Hi, Forest, I’m Rachel Knight and this is Detective Bailey Keller. You saw something tonight?”
He gave us both a little wave. “Hi. Uh, yeah.” Forest bounced from side to side. “I heard people screaming, you know? And I was like, right over there.” He pointed to an area behind us, stretching his arm as far as it would go.
“Like where that red Prius is parked?” I asked.
“Yeah, that’s it!” Forest shifted into hyperdrive. His words came flying out as though they’d been spring-loaded. “So then, I noticed this dude. He was, like, wearing one of those Army jackets, you know? And he wasn’t screaming or nothing like the others. I seen him walking fast, but not running like everyone else. So I, like, ducked down behind that car there”—he pointed to a blue Ford Explorer twenty feet away. “I saw him get into this banged-up old green car. And I memorized the license plate cuz, like, I knew. I knew something was up with that dude.”
“Could you tell how tall he was?” I asked. “Was he as tall as you?”
Forest was at least five feet ten, maybe six feet. “Nah. He was like maybe so tall.” He held a hand about three inches above my head.
“What size body did he have?” I asked. “Skinny? Medium? Fat?”
“Nah, not fat. Not skinny. Well…I guess I couldn’t really tell under that coat. But I’m sure he wasn’t fat.”
“Could you see his face or his hair?” I asked.
Forest shook his head. “He was wearing one of those things.” He put his hand in front of his face. “Like in the movies, where you can only see the eyes. Except I couldn’t see his eyes. He was too far away.” Forest shoved his hands into his pants pockets and looked down. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I wish I could’ve seen more.”
“Forest, don’t be sorry. You did great.” I waited for him to look up. When he made eye contact, I smiled at him. “Really. You’ve helped a lot and we so appreciate it.”
He dipped his head and looked at me shyly through his fringe of woolly hair. “Always try to help.” He nodded to himself. “I try.”
I smiled again. “I know you do.” His sweetness was heartbreaking.
Jay stepped in. “Forest, I don’t know about you, but I’m really hungry. Want to grab a bite with me, my man?”
Forest looked from Jay to me and then to Bailey. “You don’t still need me here? I’m done?”
“You’re done for now,” Jay said. “So what do you say we grab a couple burgers?”
“Well, uh…sure!”
“Just give me a minute and we’ll head on out.” Jay motioned for us to join him a short distance away. “There’s a burger joint just a couple of blocks away. I’ll take him there. But I’m going to be around for the duration. I’ll call you the minute I hear anything.”
“Dynamite witness,” I said, nodding toward Forest.
Jay smiled. “He really is. But I don’t know if we’ll ever find him again.”
We probably wouldn’t. If I needed him for trial, I’d be shit out of luck. But I’d drive off that bridge when I came to it. “Right now, I’ll settle for just finding this asshole.”
“I heard that.” Jay gave us a mock salute and headed off with Forest.
Bailey scanned the parking lot. “I guess we could go back in there and find out what the rest of the witnesses said.”
“But I doubt it’ll get much better than that.”
“Probably not.”
I was freezing. The clear night meant no cloud cover, and in the dry semi-desert of the Valley, that meant pretty damn cold. “You mind if I go sit in the car for a few?”
Bailey took in my shivering. “Swear to god you’re like a lizard. You have zero body heat.”
We went back to the car. “Mind turning on the engine? It’s an icebox in here.”
Bailey made a face. “Come on, Knight. We’re inside, what more do you want?”
“Heat. Feel this.” I put my frozen hand on her cheek.
She pulled back. “Are you kidding me?” She turned on the engine. “Keep those things to yourself.”
“Told you.” I cranked up the heater and put my hands next to the vents. “We didn’t get a letter this time.”
“Yeah, I thought about that. But I figure he either got nervous and decided to stop writing, or the person who was mailing the letters decided it was over between them.”
“Right. Did you happen to hear what kind of guns he used this time?”
“No, that’s one of the things I want to go back and ask Gina,” Bailey said. “You can wait here.”
“No, I’m okay.” I wasn’t. My hands still felt like blocks of ice, but I wanted to hear what Gina had to say.
We found Gina inside the store, talking to some unis. She peeled off when she saw Bailey and me. “I heard about that witness,” Gina said.
“If the shooter doesn’t ditch the car, we’ll have him by morning,” Bailey said. “What kind of guns did this guy use?”
“We’ve got casings that look like he used a twenty-two and a thirty-eight.”
“No assault rifle?” I said. Gina shook her head.
“He must be out,” Bailey said. “Did he drop the guns?”
“Not this time.”
I scanned the store. “I thought the manager said he heard officers talking about finding guns.”
“He probably heard them talking about the last two shootings. But no, we didn’t find any guns this time.”
Bailey sighed. “Thanks, Gina. Guess we’ll go see what they got from the other witnesses.”
We checked with the officers who’d taken statements. After an hour of hearing nothing new, we decided to call it a night.
It was past ten o’clock by the time we headed for home, and we were both thrashed. “So he’s hanging on to his guns now.”
“Seems that way,” Bailey said. “Guess it was to be expected. He’s got to be running out of money.”
“Which makes it less likely he’ll try to find Jax.” Bailey nodded, glum. “But where did he get the twenty-two? Shane never said anything about selling any small calibers like that.”
“He must’ve scored it from someone else.”
“Another connection?” I said. “Whatever happened to consumer loyalty?”
I turned up the heat and held my hands in front of the vent, but the only thing that would warm me up now was a hot bath.
Or a call saying they’d found the shooter.
66
Tuesday, October 15
My landline rang at six twenty-three a.m. These way-too-early mornings were really starting to get to me. I opened one eye and glared at the phone. Knowing it had to be Bailey, I snatched it up. “This better be good.”
“Ah, I believe it is, but I suppose you’ll be the judge. This is Rachel Knight, isn’t it?”
It was Jay, the detective who’d found our best witness. I sat up and rubbed my eyes.
“Yes, it is. Sorry, I thought it was Detective Keller.”
“She’s the one who told me to call you. I thought it was a little too early, but she said you were an early riser.” Jay chuckled. “I’d say you’re entitled to payback for this one.”
“Oh, count on it. What’s up?”
“The unis talked to the owner of the getaway car about an hour ago. She knew her car was gone, but she didn’t report it because her son has a habit of taking it without telling her.”
Her son. I sat up farther. “What do you have on him? Does she know where he is?”
“His name is Frances Spader. Spader’s the dad’s last name, but dad’s been in the wind since birth. Frances’s stats fit the description: he’s twenty-four, five feet ten, one eighty—though he might be thinner than that now. He’s a meth head. Lots of busts for possession and theft. Fell off his last diversion program, violated probation for testing dirty. Mom hasn’t seen him since yesterday morning, but she claims he always winds up back at hom
e.”
And smelling great, I’d bet. “You’ve got units sitting on Mom’s house?”
“Yep. Five bucks says we pick him up within the next twenty-four hours.”
“A ten-spot says you get him by the end of the day.”
“Huh, done. And I won’t mind losing.”
“Does Mom know Frances is wanted for the shooting at Target?”
“No. I just told her we were looking for him on the probation violation. I didn’t want to take the chance she’d help him run.”
Smart. “So she’s cooperative?”
“For now. But I told Bailey you guys should probably stay away from her for the moment. If you show up on her doorstep, she might recognize you from the news—”
“No problem.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
I hung up and headed for the shower. We might have our psycho in custody very soon. I prayed it would be soon enough. I splurged and celebrated with pancakes for breakfast. After I finished sopping up the last bit of syrup, I poured myself a fourth cup of coffee and thought about Frances Spader. I wondered what connection he had to Fairmont High. Did he go there? Did a kid from that school diss him? And he was a meth head. Crystal meth turned brains into Swiss cheese. And it wasn’t at all uncommon for some addicts to get crazy violent. But it was usually spur-of-the-moment, an explosion. Not planned violence. I called Bailey.
“Keller.”
“So Jay called…”
“Just now?”
“A few minutes ago.” It was eighty thirty. Let her think her little plot to mess me up with that six-thirty call hadn’t worked. “I was thinking about the possible connection between Frances Spader and Logan.”
“As in, where is it?” Bailey said. “I know. We’ve already been through Logan’s history, and I don’t remember seeing any mention of this Spader guy.”
“Did he go to Fairmont?”
“No, but he might’ve been buddies with Logan and just used a different name. I saw a few aliases on Spader’s rap sheet.”
“Logan’s got family in Utah. Where’s Spader been?”
“Hang on.” I heard the tap of computer keys. “He’s got busts in Arizona…Nevada…and—”
“Utah. Tell me it’s Utah.”
After a few seconds Bailey said, “Yep, Utah. So that’s something.” I heard Bailey’s desk phone ring. “Hang on a sec.”
Bailey put me on hold, and I got up and paced, thinking about how to find the connections between Spader and Logan. Utah was a big state. The fact that Logan had family there and Spader had a bust there might not amount to anything. But it was a place to start.
Bailey came back on the line. “They’ve got him. Get downstairs. I’m on my way.”
I ended the call and pumped my fist in the air. “Yes!”
And I’d won my bet with Jay.
67
Spader was being held at the local jail in the West Valley Division. Jay escorted us to his desk.
“First things first.” I held out my hand.
Jay grinned and fished out a ten-dollar bill. “Happiest payoff I’ve ever made.” He filled us in on how they’d caught Spader.
A couple of unis had spotted his car—or rather, his mother’s car—under a freeway overpass, what we euphemistically call a “bridge” in L.A, on Canoga Avenue just north of the 101 freeway. They’d immediately called for backup, and within minutes, the car was surrounded. Spader was still wrapped up in his camouflage coat and fast asleep in the backseat. When they’d called him out with a bullhorn, it took a good five minutes before he emerged from the car. And even then, he was still so wasted, he had to hang on to the door to pull himself out. When they ordered him to put his hands up, he lost his balance and did a face-plant.
“They had to carry him to the patrol car,” Jay said. “We couldn’t even get the booking done. He was too messed up to give us anything besides his name.”
“Where is he now?” Bailey asked.
“Sleeping it off in his cell.”
“Since?” I asked.
“About eight thirty this morning.”
I looked at my watch. It was after ten. “Think we can get Sleeping Beauty out here for an interview?”
“Definitely. I just figured I’d wait until you got here.”
Jay escorted us to the interview room, aka, a box. One so small there was barely room for the standard metal table and chairs. A few minutes later, I heard Jay speaking in a low rumble that sounded like “come on now, come on now.” The door opened and two officers escorted in a human scarecrow. The Pendleton-style shirt Spader wore looked like a reject from Goodwill, and I could see his last three meals in the stains on his gray Dickies. The smell coming off him made the Men’s County Jail seem like a perfume counter at Neiman Marcus.
Jay took a seat as the officers parked Spader in the chair across from us and cuffed him to a ring on the table. He slumped down, and his head rolled onto his right shoulder. He gazed at us through half-closed eyes.
This was the mastermind of the massacre at Fairmont and a near mass murder at the Cinemark? This was the grandiose psychopath who’d written those taunting letters? A glance at Bailey told me she was having a similar reaction.
“Is your name Frances Spader?” I asked. He widened his eyes at me—not in shock, in an effort to keep them open—then they drifted back down to half mast. I repeated the question. This time he nodded, but said nothing.
Now that I’d had the chance to see his eyes, I noticed that they were not only red but also permanently crossed—or he was so trashed he couldn’t make them move in the same direction. If this was an act, it was a damn good one.
“Do you know where you are?”
He spoke in a hoarse whisper. “In jail.”
I introduced myself and Bailey and said we wanted to talk to him about something that happened last night. “Do you feel able to talk to us about that?” Spader widened his eyes and wiggled himself upright. He worked his mouth, and it made that sticky sound that comes from being too dry. “Would you like some water?”
He nodded. Jay motioned to one of the officers standing behind him to go get it. If I got a confession out of him, there’d be a bloody battle over its admissibility. His lawyer would argue he was too non compos to know what planet he was on—let alone give a knowing waiver of rights. Unless Spader started looking a whole lot better in the next few minutes, I wouldn’t even bother trying to talk to him. I decided to start by explaining his rights and see what happened.
I checked the camera in the corner of the ceiling to make sure the red light was on and waited for the officer to bring him a bottle of water. I let Spader take a long slug. He looked at least marginally more awake. “We’d like to talk to you about last night, but before we do, I have to advise you of your rights. Have you ever been advised of your rights before?”
Spader had been arrested plenty of times, so he’d definitely been through the drill. If he could remember that now, it’d go a long way in proving he was able to give us a valid waiver.
“Yeh.” Spader quietly burped and swallowed.
“You have the right to remain silent, Frances. Do you know what that means?” He nodded. “Why don’t you tell me?”
He nodded dully. “Means I don’t have to talk to you guys.”
I went through each of his rights with him this way, having him explain what each one meant. By the time I got to the end, I was convinced he was all there. Well, as “all there” as he’d ever be. “Okay, Frances, having all of these rights in mind, do you want to talk to us now without a lawyer?”
He nodded. “Yeah. I guess so. Yeah, I do. If it really happened.”
“If what really happened, Frances?”
He swallowed several times, and I watched his Adams’s apple bob up and down. “The…the thing. At the store.”
“Tell me what you mean by that.” Spader gave me a measuring look, as though gauging the possibility that I didn’t know about the shooting. He was looking more
alert by the second. I prompted him again. “Do you remember the name of the store?”
“I think it was Target.”
“Which one? Do you remember what street it was on?”
“Ventura.”
I nodded. “Tell us what happened.”
Spader’s eyes finally seemed to focus. “Oh, God.” He dropped his head and began to cry. He spoke through choking sobs. “It happened. It really happened. I thought it was all a dream. Just a weird thing playing in my head where I was one of those guys…” Spader trailed off, and his shoulders shook as he as he wept.
And with those words, I knew. But I had to get him to say it. “One of which guys, Frances?”
It took him a few seconds to find his voice. When he did, it came out ragged. “One of those guys at the school. At Fairmont.”
“Do you know those guys?”
“Yeah,” Spader looked up, his mouth slightly open. “I saw the news about them.”
“No, I mean know them as in being friends with them.”
Spader looked perplexed. “I…how could I be friends with them?”
“So you don’t actually know them.” Spader shook his head. Just as I’d feared. But I had to make sure. “Can you tell me where you were for the past two weeks?”
Spader took a deep, somewhat jerky breath and blew it out. I turned my head to avoid the blast. “Vegas. I just got back.” He looked up through reddened, tear-stained eyes. “I think it was a couple of days ago, but I’m not sure. You could ask my mom. I went to see her first when I got to L.A.”
I got enough details out of him about where he’d been in Las Vegas—who he’d seen and what flophouse he’d stayed in—to establish an alibi. Even flophouses keep records, and we only needed to go back eight days.
Even before seeing him, I’d had my doubts, though I’d squashed them down with hope. Nothing fit. The mo was all wrong. Spader stood right in the middle of the store and fired around himself. He had no physical advantage at all, other than surprise. In fact, it was a miracle he hadn’t been taken down right then and there. This wasn’t the “fish in a barrel” scenario our shrinks had said these shooters go for. Spader hadn’t used an assault rifle, and he hadn’t dropped any weapons at the scene.