Marcia Clark - Guilt By Degrees

I didn’t care for the choice of words, reminding me as it did that if Stoner lost it, I might literally need to be bulletproof.

A group of men in business suits who were trying to navigate the sidewalk and talk at the same time created a moving roadblock, so I stepped to the curb to avoid a collision. They never even broke stride or seemed to notice that they’d commandeered the sidewalk. They’d probably walked around my John Doe with equal oblivion.

“Anyway, it may all be moot,” Bailey continued. “If that DDA beefs Stoner, they’ll make him ride a desk until it all gets sorted out.”

“So who’ll I get?”

“Depends on who’s up.” Bailey shrugged, then gave me a little smile. “But I’d take the hit and work with you for Stoner’s sake.”

Bailey and I had met and bonded over a serial-killer case we’d worked together six years ago. We’d wound up becoming best friends and had finagled our way into working more than our fair share of cases together. But then Bailey got transferred into the elite Robbery-Homicide Division, and we didn’t need to finagle anymore. It was common practice for Robbery-Homicide to funnel nearly all of their cases to the Special Trials Unit.

Bailey thought a moment. “I could probably get clearance to babysit the case until Stoner’s beef is settled. That should be long enough to at least get it through the preliminary hearing.”

“Yeah, and I’ll bet no one’s going to fight to get their hands on this one.”

“True story.” Bailey sighed and shot me a sour look. “Seriously, Knight, would it kill you to get me in on an easy one for a change?”

“Apparently,” I said with a shrug. I did seem to have a habit of sticking us with some of the nastier messes. “You want to call Stoner and let him know we’re out here?”

“Probably be the smart thing to do.”

Bailey opened her cell, and I looked around at the businesses on this stretch of Hope Street: a travel agency advertising low-fare tickets to Costa Rica, a dry cleaner whose window afforded a view of racks filled with men’s dress shirts, a bank, a liquor store, and a Subway sandwich shop. I watched a man in a flannel lumberjack coat bite into a thick, juicy meatball-and-cheese submarine and remembered that I’d been too angry to finish my wafer-thin turkey-and-lettuce sandwich. I felt my stomach rumble as I watched the tomato sauce drip onto the paper wrapper he’d spread on the table. I was just about to throw caution to the wind and go order one for myself when Bailey snapped her phone shut. Her expression was grim.

“What? Is he pissed?” I asked. Maybe we should’ve gotten his okay before invading his turf.

“Apparently that asshole, Averill, already beefed him. Stoner’s gonna be stuck at his desk for a while.” Bailey shook her head. “The good news is, he’s glad to have me help out. For now anyway.”

This had clearly put Bailey in one funky mood, but since there was no chance she’d get a whole lot happier in the next hour or so, I decided the only thing to do was to roll on with the business at hand.

“Most of these places have surveillance cameras, don’t they?” I asked.

“They should.” Bailey looked up and down the street for a moment, then stopped and gazed at a storefront near the northwest corner of Hope and Fifth. “Especially that one.”

I followed her gaze and saw that there was a check-cashing store across the street. I hadn’t noticed it before, because the sign was so small. I figured that was a testament to the business’s popularity. I peered at the building and thought I could see a camera mounted above the storefront window.

It was the start of rush hour, and traffic was beginning to get serious, so we walked up to the corner and waited for the light. Between the commuters in a hurry to beat the bottlenecks and the homicidal taxi drivers, jaywalking was tantamount to a death wish.

“Wouldn’t you think Stoner would’ve done this already?” I asked.

“Maybe he did and just didn’t have the video in time for court.”

“Or maybe he got it and it didn’t help,” I said.

Bailey nodded. Neither of us voiced the third possibility: that Stoner had dropped the ball because his life was falling apart. That was definitely not Bailey’s style. Or mine. We were great at what shrinks call compartmentalizing. Frankly, I think being able to keep your worlds separate is a great thing. Keeps me sane. Or close to it.

As check-cashingplaces go, it was relatively discreet. Just a cursive neon sign in the window to let people know they could get fleeced in exchange for a fast return. We entered the small store and walked up to the counter, where an older Asian man with wire-rimmed glasses and a few strands of comb-over hair sat on a high stool behind a cash register.

Bailey flashed her badge. “LAPD, homicide investigation. I’d like to speak to the manager.”

He calmly inspected the badge and glanced at Bailey to match the photograph, then sat back. “First time I see detective as good-looking as you,” he said, his speech accented but very intelligible. He seemed appreciative in a completely nonlascivious way. “What can I do for you, ma’am?”

“Does your surveillance camera pick up a view of the street?” Bailey asked.

“Of course,” the man replied. “You talking about the day that homeless guy died?”

We both nodded.

“I hear he lay there long time before someone call,” the man said, shaking his head. “Sad business, very sad.”

I was glad to find someone who seemed to get that.

“You have exact date when it happened?” he asked. “Camera record on a loop. After so long, record over itself.”

“It was twelve days ago,” I said. Please don’t let it be a ten-day loop.

He smiled. “You in luck. It’s fourteen-day loop.”

He called out, and an older woman in thick-soled rubber shoes and polyester pants and blouse shuffled out from the back of the store.

“Show them tape for twelve days ago,” he ordered her.

The man let us behind the counter, and we entered a back room so cluttered it looked like it was occupied by hoarders. Literally every single square inch of space was covered with layers of paper of all kinds: invoices, newspapers, dry-cleaner trade magazines. The woman gestured for us to follow her to a tiny office at the back. It had only a computer and monitor on a small desk, which was handy because that’s all there was room for.

She punched some keys and asked us for the date and time. We gave it to her, and then she punched some more keys and sat back to let us watch.

The black-and-white images didn’t allow us to discern any details, only gross movements. But we could clearly see John Doe reach for a woman in dark sunglasses who was walking in front of him. She spun toward him at first, then recoiled and tried to pull away. Seconds later, John Doe’s arm fell, and the woman broke free. John Doe watched her for a moment, then sank down and dropped out of the frame. By that time, the woman was out of sight.

“So that’s when he got stabbed,” I said. “But it doesn’t show the stabber.”

“Because our John Doe’s body was blocking him from view-at least from the angle this camera had.”

“And I couldn’t see what that woman did just before he went down, could you?”

“No,” Bailey replied. She tapped the screen. “Would you mind replaying it for us?”

We watched again. “Look,” I said, pointing to the monitor. “He grabs her, she stops, then somehow she gets free and turns away. But he’s still standing.”

“Right,” Bailey agreed. “So he got stabbed after he let go of her.”

“Could you please rewind a little and freeze it?” I asked.