RK02 - Guilt By Degrees (13 page)

I looked
out through my balcony window, the steam from my coffee flowing up against the cold glass, creating a foggy circle that dripped watery tears. Outside, low-hanging storm clouds had gathered and were darkening even as I watched.

This morning, we were going to meet Simon’s parents. It was as if the weather knew.

Not that I needed to be reminded of the sadness and pain they were feeling. In fact, I’d been thinking of nothing else since I woke up, and I’d been dragging from that moment on. I finished the last of my coffee and went to my closet. I scanned the rack for a warm but respectful outfit and landed on a dark-gray wool suit and cream-colored turtleneck sweater.

The Bayers lived in Burbank, a nice middle-class neighborhood. My .22 Beretta was probably enough for the burbs. I popped it into the pocket of my trench coat, where it sagged noticeably, but since, at Bailey’s insistence, I’d finally gotten a license, I didn’t have to worry about getting busted for carrying anymore. Not that the possibility of arrest had ever stopped me.

I had to force myself to leave my room, and as I headed for the elevator, I felt as though I were walking underwater. When I got to the lobby, I found Bailey at the front door, talking to Angel. One glance told me she was looking forward to this about as much as I was.

I patted Angel on the arm and told him to have a good day, and we both got into the car.

“Did you make the notification to the parents?” I asked.

“I did,” Bailey said, swinging out onto Grand Avenue and steering toward the freeway. “But I didn’t get into any real conversation with them at the time. Figured it could wait, since Simon hadn’t been living with them for a while.”

Smart. Usually you’d get the information first and notify afterward, because once you tell victims’ families why you’re there, no one’s in any kind of shape to answer questions. But in this case, the parents hadn’t witnessed the crime—all they could give us was background information, so we could afford to allow them time to absorb the shock and talk later.

We got lucky and made it to Burbank before the rain started, but only just. Fat, heavy drops slowly began to fall as we pulled up to the Bayer house, a beige variation on the theme of small stucco houses in the tidy middle-class neighborhood.

I hadn’t noticed how close to the curb Bailey’d parked, so as I got out, I failed to notice that the mailbox was in my way. Off balance, I grabbed on to the nearest thing to break my impending fall—which turned out to be a painted metal rooster attached to the top of the mailbox. I didn’t see that the rooster was on a hinge; it was meant to be pulled up to signal the postman that mail was ready for pickup. So, of course, when I took hold of the head, it immediately bent forward, and I tumbled backward off the curb.

Fortunately Bailey’s car was right behind me, so I landed against the passenger door. Unfortunately Bailey saw the whole thing. I looked up to see her watching me, shaking her head.

“I meant to do that,” I said, and righted myself with as much dignity as possible. “Thought I’d lighten the mood.”

“It worked,” Bailey said with mock sincerity.

As we crossed the sidewalk, a youngish woman wearing army-green cargo pants and a man’s puffy nylon jacket, who seemed to be in the process of rolling out her garbage cans, stopped and gave me a sympathetic look. “That thing did me in once too,” she said, nodding at the treacherous metal rooster.

I appreciated the show of support and gave her a rueful smile.

“’Course I was five at the time,” she added.

Seriously, she couldn’t just stop while I was ahead?

Bailey covered a snort of laughter with a fake cough.

“You guys cops?” she asked, glancing from Bailey’s car to us.

I nodded. Close enough. I didn’t need to hammer home the fact that the doofus who’d just been nailed by the metal rooster had a law degree.

“You here about Zack?” she asked.

Something about the way she said his name made me pause. “You knew him?”

She settled the garbage can on the curb and brushed off her hands. “Grew up with him.” She gestured toward the small house behind her. “That’s my parents’ place. I’m helping ’em get it ready to sell. They can’t really manage it anymore. You know…” She trailed off.

I did know. It’s painful to see your parents get older, though aging is preferable to the alternative. “Were you and Zack close?” I asked.

“Kinda,” she said, staring over my shoulder into her childhood.

She seemed unwilling to take it any further, so I shifted gears. “Did you know Simon?”

“Not really. He was a lot younger. And then, after the trial, he…went a little bit off the deep end.”

I nodded sympathetically. “Yeah, from what I heard, he took it pretty hard,” I said. I decided not to tell her just yet that Simon was dead. She’d learn soon enough, and the fewer people who knew, the better. I extended my hand. “I’m Rachel Knight.”

“Tracy Chernoff,” she replied, taking it. Bailey introduced herself, and they shook.

“Well,” Tracy said, “I’d better get back to it. Nice to meet you both.”

“You too,” I replied.

She put her hands into her jacket pockets and trudged up the walk, head down. I watched her for a moment, feeling her sadness…and something else I couldn’t put my finger on.

“So…?” Bailey asked.

We moved briskly up the short walk that was lined on both sides with healthy-looking rosebushes and rang the bell on the wall next to the screen door.

A tall, wide-shouldered man in a worn cardigan with wispy white hair answered the door. He called behind him, “They’re here, Claire,” then said to us, “Please come in.”

He stepped back and gestured toward two matching gold-velour chairs that faced a marble coffee table and a gold-and-brown-plaid couch.

Bailey made the introduction. “Fred Bayer, this is Rachel Knight, the deputy DA.”

As we shook, Claire came out wiping her hands on a kitchen towel. She nervously touched her brown hair, which was tucked into a short pageboy cut, and held out an arthritis-gnarled hand. “Claire Bayer. Nice to meet you…”

I took her hand. “Rachel Knight, DA’s office.”

She turned to Bailey with a small, forced smile. “Detective Keller,” she said. “Good to see you.”

I knew it wasn’t, but I could already tell that Fred and Claire weren’t the type to take their misery out on others. Polite, kind, considerate, they were the sort of neighbors who’d bring in the paper for you without being asked, bake extra cookies to share with you, and loan you their lawn mower. In short, the kind of people who should never be mired in so much bizarre tragedy.

“Can I get you some tea?” Claire asked. “It’ll warm you up a little. I think I heard the rain start.”

“It did,” Bailey confirmed. “And I’d love some tea if it’s not too much trouble.”

Bailey actually hated tea, but I knew she was giving Claire something to do to help her relax. I took a glance around the room. There was an upright piano against the wall to my right, an entertainment center on the wall across from me, side tables on either end of the couch, and the obligatory coffee table. Other than that coffee table, every horizontal surface was covered with pictures of Simon and, I presumed, Zack, starting with their toddler years and climbing up through the milestones of games, graduations, and goals achieved. The coffee table was reserved for what I surmised were Simon’s creations: a vase in the shape of a mother holding a child, a bowl that was two hands clasping, and a candleholder in the shape of a robed woman. They had the same simplicity of line and elegance as the vase Simon had left with Johnnie Jasper.

While we waited for Claire to return, I made small talk with Fred. I pointed to the piano. “Do you play?”

“No, no,” he said. “That’s Claire. At least, it used to be…” He trailed off.

“Arthritis?” I asked, wishing I’d thought for just one moment before opening my yapper and reminding them of yet another sad loss.

He nodded.

“Simon did those?” I asked, gesturing to the statuary on the coffee table.

That elicited a pained but tender smile.

“He started working with clay practically from the time he was born,” Fred said. “He always had the gift.”

“His work is beautiful,” I said sincerely.

Fred cleared his throat. “Zack was good at making things too. I don’t know if you knew that.”

“I didn’t.” I did, but I wanted to let him tell me.

He nodded to himself. “Carpentry.”

Claire came in with a tray bearing a teapot and cups on saucers. For most people, this is an unusual formality. For me, who lives on room service, it was Tuesday. I knew Bailey would find this observation disgusting, and it was.

Claire joined Fred on the couch across from us. I decided to ease into things and start with a topic that didn’t directly involve the fresh loss of Simon.

“Do you know how Zack and Lilah met?” I asked.

Claire and Fred looked at each other for a moment, perplexed. Claire spoke first. “I’m not one hundred percent sure. I think at a party. Is that right, Fred?”

“That sounds right,” Fred replied.

“What did you think of Lilah?”

“I never liked her,” Claire said flatly. “From the very start, I thought she was a cold fish. I didn’t know what Zack saw in her—other than the obvious. Isn’t that right, Fred?”

“Claire never took to her,” he confirmed.

“And you, Fred?” I asked.

“’Course, now I think she should burn in hell, but at the time”—Fred shrugged—“I never really felt like I knew her, tell you the truth…” He paused and shrugged again. “And I’ll grant you, she wasn’t the warmest person I’d ever met, but I figured Zack saw more than just the pretty face.”

“Well, pretty is as pretty does,” Claire said in a firm voice. “And I never thought her ‘pretty’ went any further than her skin.” She continued, a harder edge now audible in her voice, “That damn jury just fell for her act.”

I nodded, though it seemed to me that calling Lilah “pretty” was like calling the Hope Diamond “shiny.”

“I’d like to ask you about Simon’s relationship with Zack,” I said, shifting gears.

Claire hunched forward, and Fred put a protective arm around her.

I took a deep breath and prayed we’d get through this as fast as possible.

“Were Simon
and Zack close?” I asked.

Claire’s features softened. “Always,” she said quietly. “There was a fairly big age gap. But if Zack was around, he’d always take care of Simon. Anyone ever hurt Simon, they’d answer to Zack.”

“Did that happen a lot?” I asked. “I mean, Simon getting into trouble?”

“No,” she admitted. “Simon was never one to mix it up with other kids. He was a dreamer, lived in his world of creations. But when he was little, there’d be the occasional bully who saw Simon as easy pickings…” Claire paused and teared up. “Zack would step in whenever he could. Simon…well, he just worshipped Zack.”

I reached out to comfort her, and she patted my hand.

Claire continued, her voice shaking with the effort to hold back tears. “I remember how, when
Simon
was just in kindergarten, he’d sit on the stairs, waiting for Zack to come home from school so he could show his brother what he’d made.”

I groped for something to say to ease her pain, but I knew from my own hard experience that the wounds of loss would bleed for years to come. Then, one day, they’d find that a few seconds had gone by without some painful thought or memory; over time, the seconds would stretch into a minute, the minutes into an hour. Eventually they might be lucky enough to get a whole day. But that day would be a long time coming.

“Did Zack and Simon stay close as they got older?” I asked.

“As much as that was possible, living in different worlds,” Claire said.

Fred cleared his throat again. “You know, what with Zack being a police officer and Simon being an artist, they didn’t have the same group of friends or anything. But they loved each other.”

“And was Simon still the younger brother, if you know what I mean?” I asked.

Claire nodded. “Oh yes. Zack remained the exciting older brother. I think being a police officer actually made him even more of a hero to
Simon
.”

“So Zack’s passing was pretty devastating for him too,” I said gently.

“It completely destroyed him,” Fred replied, his voice for the first time showing real signs of anger. “Until then, he’d been a pretty happy guy. Had a nice girlfriend—what was her name, Claire?”

“Angie,” Claire chimed in. “She was an artist too. A painter. She hung in there with him for quite a while after Zack’s…murder.” She stumbled over the word, still unable to put it next to her son’s name. She took a shallow breath. “Lord knows it wasn’t an easy thing to do. Simon got obsessed with the case; it blocked out everything else. Angie believed he’d get past it when the case was over. But when Lilah got acquitted, Simon totally shut down. For weeks, he didn’t eat, didn’t speak, wouldn’t even get out of bed.”

“And so she left him?” I asked.

“No, God bless her,” Fred said. “She tried to stay and take care of him. It was Simon. He pushed her away, then he pushed her out.”

“Only thing he’d do was sit in front of the computer. Got one of those LexisNexis accounts, read up on the law,” Claire said, shaking her head. “That’s when he came up with the idea of taking the case to the federal court.”

“And once he latched on to that idea, he was like a man possessed,” Fred said. “He’d write to the federal prosecutors every day. Took a while, but they finally wrote back. Thanked him for his interest, but said the case didn’t fit their guidelines.”

It wasn’t high-profile enough and it wasn’t a slam dunk. And it took only one of those problems to knock it out of the running.

“That set him off but good,” Fred continued. “After that, he started going to the Federal Building downtown.” He stopped and looked down at his hands, which were clasped together between his knees.

“How long did Simon keep that up?” I asked.

“I’d say a good six months,” Claire said, her expression pained. “But then one day, he got a little too…agitated. We got a call saying he’d been arrested for causing a disturbance.”

Bailey and I looked at each other. There was no record of this.

“Did they book him?” Bailey asked.

“We went down and spoke to the arresting officer,” Fred said. “Explained the history, what had happened with Zack’s case and all. Turned out the officer knew about the case. Felt bad for Simon. Just made him promise not to come back and cut him loose.”

“So did he stay away from the court after that?” I asked.

“He stayed away from everything after that,” Claire said, her mouth turned down at the corners. “One week later, he disappeared. No phone call, no e-mail. He left his studio wide open.”

Fred coughed, covering his mouth with one big hand, then dropped it back into his lap. “We went crazy trying to find him,” he said, his voice weary from just the memory of the ordeal.

“Did you file a missing persons report?” I asked.

“Of course,” Claire said. “But they didn’t find him. He came back on his own two weeks later, looking like hell. Filthy, sunburned, skinny; he looked half dead.”

Her eyes welled up.

“We got him to a hospital, they fixed him up,” Fred said. “It was mostly dehydration. We brought him home, got him to stay here for a little while. Even got him into therapy—”

“Then one day, he just up and left again,” Claire said. “That time we were a little more prepared for it. But he was gone longer, for a few months, and we just didn’t know if…”

“Did that keep happening?” I asked.

Claire nodded.

“And how was he”—I searched for a gentle way to say it—“mentally?”

“I didn’t want to see it at the time, but the truth was, Simon wasn’t himself from the moment Zack died,” Claire said, shaking her head, her expression etched with grief. “He surely went downhill after the verdict, but by the time he went to the street, he was sliding fast—”

“His memory was all screwed up,” Fred said, tapping his head. “He’d have days where he seemed okay, and then something would just…slip, and he’d make no sense. Talk gibberish, or not talk at all.” He dipped his head and brushed away a tear.

“He’d rant about the government,” Claire added. “Said you couldn’t trust anyone, they were all liars, and on and on…”

“I know you’re wondering why we didn’t just commit him.” Fred sighed. “We thought having him locked up like that would really be the end of him. And after that damn jury, and then the Feds turning him away…well, I guess he didn’t seem all that crazy to me,” he admitted. “I think he just lost all faith, you know?”

I certainly did know. I’d felt that way for a long time after losing Romy. It had a lot to do with why I became a prosecutor. Even if there was no justice for my sister, I could believe it still existed if I could find justice for someone else.

“And was that a consistent theme for Simon?” I asked.

Claire nodded sadly. “But the last time he came back, he looked better,” she said, a smile passing briefly across her face, sun momentarily breaking through clouds. “He was still too skinny and leathery. But for the first time in two years, he seemed normal—almost upbeat.” Claire turned and patted Fred on the knee. “We had a great visit, didn’t we, Fred?”

Fred nodded silently, his gaze fixed on the coffee table.

“But a week later, he was gone again,” she said. “A week after that, he…” Claire covered her eyes for a moment. “I know I should’ve been ready for this, the way he was living.” Her voice trembled. “But…”

I could finish the thought for her. There’s no way a parent can prepare for the death—let alone the murder—of a child.

Much less two.