RK02 - Guilt By Degrees (9 page)

Bailey raised
an eyebrow. “Which would be?”

“Cletus.”

Bailey blinked. “What’s a Cletus?”

“My homeless buddy. Used to be a minor-league pitcher.”

“And he wound up homeless, how?”

“He tore a rotator cuff and had to stop playing for a while,” I said. “Then his wife decided it was a good time to find another man, and Cletus decided it was a good time to find a bottle.” I gestured toward the street. “Now he lives out there.”

“You know where to find him now?”

“On Wednesday nights, he’s usually on Hill Street or Broadway.”

“This is Thursday,” Bailey pointed out.

“Thus, our dilemma,” I admitted.

“You ever run into him on any other days?”

I thought back. Had I?

“I think I remember seeing him on Spring Street on a Monday. Or was it Main?” I shook my head. “I’m not sure. But doesn’t it seem likely that he’d be staying somewhere nearby?”

In my experience, the homeless aren’t completely so. They don’t usually stray far from a familiar circumference.

“So what’re we going to do, just start walking up and down the streets looking for Cletus?” Bailey asked.

“You got a better idea?”

“Yeah. Tell Eric you need a few more days and wait till Wednesday, when you know where to find Cletus,” Bailey retorted.

“Won’t happen.” I shook my head. “It’s now or never.”

Bailey sighed. “Okay.” She threw down her napkin and stood up. “Better get the lead out. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover.”

“And while we’re at it, we can show around our photo of John Doe,” I said. “See if someone recognizes him. Since this is our day for long shots, we may as well go for broke.”

“In for a penny…,” Bailey agreed.

We decided to start in Skid Row, home to one of the largest stable homeless populations in the country and just a little more than four square miles. It was within walking distance from the courthouse. Skid Row dwellers aren’t allowed to sleep on the sidewalks during daylight hours, but the street is their home, so the area is always filled with people sitting, eating, talking…surviving.

It makes me nervous to drive through there—I’m always afraid of hitting someone—but walking the area is far worse, though for a completely different reason. It’s heart-wrenching to see so many human beings living so hard. The streets are perpetually littered with crushed cans, broken bottles of cheap alcohol, fast-food wrappers, cracked glass vials, and used needles. The stench of urine permeates the alcoves and sides of every building, and the air is thick with the mix of old grease, cheap food, unwashed bodies, and dirty clothes. The feeling in the air is more than abject poverty. It’s the sense of overwhelming despair and defeat. On Skid Row, people didn’t even aspire to living; they struggled merely to
exist
.

As we walked the streets, I fought to keep from sinking into the misery of it all. Back and forth we walked, up one street and down another, looking for the familiar pile of blankets I knew as Cletus, asking if anyone had seen him, showing the photograph of our John Doe to anyone who looked relatively alert.

We approached a short, squat woman of indeterminate age and race who wore a knitted cap with ears and unlaced army boots. She pushed a full shopping cart.

“Don’t know no Cletus, and I ain’t never seen that dude, nohow. Nohow, no way…” She wandered off, continuing to mutter to herself.

A middle-aged black man in glasses and a torn overcoat seemed fairly together, so we showed him the photograph of our John Doe. “Do you recognize this guy by any chance?”

He looked at the photo carefully. Hope rose in my chest.

“He doesn’t look like any chance to me,” he replied. “Does he look like a chance to you? I see no chance. No chance in France, and not in pants.”

My heart sank back down. “Thank you, sir.”

We walked on. After another two hours, feeling defeated, footsore, and tired, I was beginning to concede that this was a fool’s errand. It was five o’clock and we were losing light. Pretty soon, it’d be too dangerous for two women—even two like us—to be out here.

“I’m sorry, Keller,” I said. “It was a lame idea. I guess it’s time to pack it in.”

“It
is
a lame idea, but we knew that going in,” Bailey agreed. “Let’s give it another half hour down here, then head over to your usual meeting place with Cletus. It’s on the way home.”

It was times like this that I thought I didn’t deserve a friend as good as Bailey. “Thanks,” I said gratefully. Bailey waved me off.

In the next half hour, the sun sank along with our hopes of finding a lead on either John Doe or Cletus. Time to give up. “I’m pulling the plug, Bailey. It’s getting really stupid now.”

She nodded reluctantly. “I’m sorry, Rachel. We tried.”

“Yep, we did,” I agreed dejectedly.

We headed back down San Pedro to Fourth Street. At the intersection, I noticed an older man with a dog. The dog lay at the man’s feet, his leash tied to the shopping cart. Maybe it was the dog, I don’t know, but I decided to take one last shot and show him the photograph of John Doe.

“Nope. Don’t know ’im.”

“Do you know a guy named Cletus?” I asked.

The man frowned, creating a forest of eyebrows, and puffed on his stub of a cigarette. “You talking about the pitcher?”

I tried to keep the excitement out of my voice. “Yeah.”

“He in trouble?”

“Not at all,” I said. “He’s a friend.”

The man snorted. “Of yours?”

I looked at him steadily. “Yeah, of mine. You know where I can find him tonight?”

“Maybe,” the man said, squinting at me through a haze of cigarette smoke.

I wasn’t thrilled about pulling money out in this place, but I figured between Bailey’s .44 and my .38, we probably had enough firepower to handle any comers. I fished out a ten-spot and held it up. “Take us to Cletus, and you’ll get this.”

The man took another drag on his cigarette and blew an enviably crisp smoke ring. Back in my smoking days, I’d tried to do that. My rings always came out wobbly and messy.

“Deal,” he said. With that, he turned and headed up Fourth Street.

We followed, wary of ambush by the predators who come out at night to stalk the homeless. But I noticed we were moving toward Spring Street and Pershing Square. Safer territory by far than where we’d been. We crossed Spring Street and were approaching Broadway when the old man stopped and pointed. Sure as hell, there on the sidewalk in front of the Bradbury Building was the familiar pile of blankets. Close enough to his usual stomping grounds; far enough that, without help, I could’ve searched all day and night and never found him.

I thanked our guide, paid him…and threw in an extra few dollars for dog food.

He took the money, saluted, and walked off, a cloud of smoke floating behind him, his dog trotting alongside.

I slowly stepped up to the pile of blankets. As usual, they were crowned by a well-worn Lakers hat. “Cletus?”

A thick mop of graying hair poked up, and his eyes glittered in the darkness. “That you, missy? What you doin’ here? What you doin’ here?” The deep, ragged voice sounded as if it had scraped the words from the belly of the earth. It was music to my ears.

I smiled. “Yeah, it’s me, Cletus. And I know it’s not ‘our’ night. But I need your help.”

With effort, he pulled himself up to a sitting position. “Cletus is always glad to help.”

He coughed, an alarming hack.

“Are you okay, Cletus? You don’t sound great.”

He coughed again but waved his hand. “Just a cold. Always get ’em this time of year. What you need?”

“You recognize this guy?” I held out the photograph.

Cletus took it and stared for a long minute. I held my breath.

“No, missy. I do not. I don’t. Sorry.” He handed the photograph back to me.

Cletus had been my last hope. Deflated but grateful for his effort, I replied, “It’s okay, Cletus. I appreciate you trying.” I dug into my wallet and pulled out a twenty.

He looked at it. “I didn’t do it for no money, missy.”

“I know that, Cletus. I just want you to have it,” I said.

He slowly took the twenty-dollar bill and tucked it into his pocket. “You know, I been around here a long time. If I haven’t seen this guy, probably means he ain’t living in this part. But you seen him here?”

“Yeah. So I thought…” I trailed off. It was truly hopeless if John Doe hadn’t been living in the area.

Cletus fell silent.

“I got an idea,” he finally said. “You heard ’a Johnnie Jasper?”

I looked at Bailey, who shook her head.

“No,” I replied.

“Stays up in Boyle Heights. You ask poh-poh up there, they all know ’im. Good guy, good guy.”

Poh-poh,
as in police. “He a street person?” I asked.

Cletus nodded. “But he got a fine setup.” He pointed in the general direction of Boyle Heights. “You go see ol’ Jasper, he might help you out.”

“Thank you, Cletus,” I said, suppressing a shiver. The day had been mild, but the night air let us know it was still the middle of winter. “It’s pretty cold out. Why don’t you let me take you to a shelter? We can get you in.”

He wagged a finger at me. “You promised me ‘no grief,’ remember?”

In the past, I’d tried to get him to come indoors several times until finally he’d put a stop to it and made me promise to leave him be. Reluctantly, since I had no other choice, I’d agreed.

“You go, you go. Go see Jasper.” Cletus lay back down and pulled up the blankets. “Let an old man get some sleep. You go, you go.”

“I’ll understand
if you want to pack it in,” I said as Bailey and I headed back to her car. “But I’ve got to check this out. I know it’s the mother of all Hail Mary passes, but I won’t be able to live with myself if I don’t take this one last shot.”

Bailey looked at her watch. “I was supposed to meet Drew for dinner in an hour, but it’s only about ten minutes from here, and since it seems all the local cops know this guy, it’s easy enough to check out.” Bailey shot me a warning look. “But I’m going to call Drew, and you are not allowed to give me any shit, no matter what I say. Got it?”

“Don’t gag me out with your googly talk, and I won’t give you shit,” I said.

Bailey has a long, fast stride, and I was running to keep up. When we got to the car, she gave me a hard look over the roof. “I mean it.”

“Fine.” I got in and belted up.

But just to make sure a snarky remark didn’t accidentally slip out, I put my fingers in my ears.

After she ended the call, Bailey pulled one of my fingers out. “It’s safe.”

“Thanks.” I put my hands in my pockets to warm them. It was freezing, but Bailey hated the car heater, so I suffered in silence. “You know anyone at the Boyle Heights station?”

“I was just thinking that I used to know a patrol guy.”

She pulled out her cell.

“It’s Detective Bailey Keller, Robbery-Homicide Division. Is Craig Andarian still working there?”

Bailey listened, then gave me the thumbs-up sign. I sat back, relieved. She chatted with her buddy Craig for a minute, then asked him about Johnnie Jasper. When she ended the call, I looked at her expectantly.

“So it’s for real?” I asked.

Bailey nodded. “And I got directions.”

Ten minutes later, we were looking through a chain-link fence at a wonderland made of castoffs. It had been a vacant lot, but someone, presumably Johnnie, had moved in and done some serious decorating. Shelves had been dug into the side of the small hill, and every inch was occupied by brightly colored toys, dolls, seashells, posters, and traffic signs. At the far end of the lot, under a peppertree, was an outdoor living room. Complete with rug, television, couch, generator, and propane oven.

The man himself, though, was nowhere in sight. I looked closer and saw a shack made of plywood to the right of the living room arrangement. It was practically hidden under the heavy, low-hanging branches of the peppertree.

“Hello! Mr. Jasper?” I yelled. “Are you there? Hello?”

I waited. I thought I saw the curtain over the makeshift window move. “Johnnie Jasper? Hello!” I tried again.

A tall, slender black man stepped out of the shack and peered at us. Bailey held up her badge and pointed the flashlight backward so he could see our faces. “I’m sorry to disturb you, sir. We just need your help. It’ll only take a few minutes of your time,” she said.

The man looked at us carefully, then came out to the gate. “Lemme see that badge again, ma’am.”

Bailey complied, and he looked from it to her, then at me.

“A’right, then,” he said. He unlocked the gate. “Come on in.” He ushered us inside.

When he’d locked the gate behind us, he turned to me and asked, “And who might you be?”

I introduced myself, and he led us to the far end of the lot.

“You’re Johnnie Jasper?” I asked.

“I am.” He gestured for us to have a seat on the sofa in his outdoor living room.

“You’re quite a legend out here,” Bailey said. “Is it true the cops bring you turkeys at Christmas?”

Johnnie nodded modestly. “They do. And I give them fresh strawberries and nectarines.”

“You grow here?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said proudly.

I was impressed. I couldn’t grow mold on cheese.

Whatever I had expected, Johnnie wasn’t it. Intelligent and neatly dressed in a waffle shirt, jacket, and jeans, he could’ve been someone’s father or boss. I was fascinated. I wished I had time to have a real talk with him and find out what brought him here, why he lived this way. But since I didn’t, I came straight to the point and told him Cletus had sent us because we were looking for someone.

“You a friend of Cletus?” Johnnie smiled. “He’s a tough nut to crack, isn’t he?”

I laughed. “I couldn’t have put it better.”

Bailey pulled out the photograph of our John Doe and handed it to Johnnie. This was it. I knew that if he came up empty, we were through. I tried to ready myself for the blow.

He stared at the photo. “No…I don’t think…”

My heart sank for the millionth time that day.

Then he stopped and pulled the photograph closer. “Wait. This is…I think I do know him,” Johnnie said. “Couldn’t tell at first, he doesn’t look so good in this.” He gestured to the photo. Then he fell silent and examined the picture again. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“I’m sorry, Johnnie,” Bailey said.

“Damn.” He shook his head sadly. “He was a good guy. You mind telling me how?”

“Somebody stabbed him,” Bailey replied.

Johnnie nodded. The death of a friend was not so uncommon among the homeless, though the way
this
one had died was certainly not the norm. I decided to spare Johnnie that knowledge.

“You don’t have a suspect,” he said.

“No,” Bailey confirmed. “That’s what we’re working on. Did you by any chance know his name?”

“Simon,” Johnnie replied.

“And his last name?” I asked.

The first name alone wouldn’t do much, if anything, for us—especially because it might not even be his real name.

Johnnie shrugged. “Never did know that.”

Damn. Another dead end. I was frustrated, but I refused to give up. Maybe if we kept him talking, he’d come up with something we could use.

“How long did you know him?” I asked.

“About a year. He’d stay here off and on—but when he was here, he was real good about helping out. Nice guy, but sad. Real sad.” Johnnie paused, remembering. “And then, sometimes, just out of the blue, he’d get all fired up, be in a blazing fury. I’d tell him to let go of whatever it was.” Johnnie looked at us. “It’s not good to hang on to your anger like that, no.” He shook his head.

“You ever know what he was angry or sad about?” I asked.

Johnnie’s mouth turned down. “Simon wasn’t much of a talker. But I do remember the last time he was here. Stayed for a few months that time, and he seemed a lot better. More upbeat and happy than I’d ever seen him,” Johnnie said. “Matter of fact, he brought me something.”

Johnnie got up and walked over to the bookcase next to the couch. He picked up a blue vase and handed it to me.

“He gave you this?” I asked, incredulous.

“Yep. Pretty, isn’t it?”

It was beautiful, actually—an elegantly shaped flute, the kind that held just a few flowers, and the blue was a complex blend of shades that evoked the ocean. Not what I’d expect a poor person to own, let alone give away.

I turned it upside down and looked at the bottom. And there, etched into the clay, was the name.

Simon Bayer.

At last, our John Doe had a name.