Marcia Clark - Guilt By Degrees

I pictured her, small and terrified, standing alone in that scary house, waiting for an unknown horror to strike. I could relate to the trauma more than Tracy would ever know.

She took a moment to collect herself, then continued.

“Suddenly, he jumped down from…somewhere, screaming in this high, weird voice. Right behind me. I can still hear it.” Tracy shuddered at the memory. “I screamed, and when I turned around, he was gone again. I lost it, I had to get out of there. I ran to the door, but it was closed…it wouldn’t open. I didn’t know what to do, so I kept yanking on the door, kicking at it, but I couldn’t get it open. I didn’t know whether there was a back door, but the idea of running through the house was even scarier. I cried and pounded on that door until my hand was bloody. I was so scared, I thought I was going to die. And then, suddenly, something tapped me on the shoulder.” Tracy paused and looked down. “I…I completely lost it and wet my pants. It was Zack, of course, and he’d seen it all.” Tracy stopped again and inhaled deeply, then resumed. “Threatened to tell everyone how I’d ‘pissed’ myself. He teased me about it for years.”

She sighed heavily and shook her head at the memory.

“Did he ever tell anyone?” I asked.

“No.” Tracy shrugged. “But he never let me forget. I kept going back to him, thinking this time would be different, he’d be nice…and he was.” She paused. “Until the next time.”

Tracy took another deep breath, then let it out and dropped her shoulders. “Anyway,” she said, “I didn’t see how that had anything to do with Zack’s murder.” She added with a rueful smile, “And Lilah didn’t seem the type to get terrorized by anyone.”

I knew the irony of Tracy’s last remark had hit Bailey as hard as it’d hit me. Though it wasn’t admissible evidence, what Tracy had just described confirmed everything Bailey and I had surmised about Zack.

“You’re right. They couldn’t have used it,” I said. “But I really appreciate you telling us.”

Bailey nodded. “And it goes no further.”

“Thanks,” Tracy said. She surveyed the front lawn with a sigh. “Got to get back to it. This grass dies, it’ll be harder to sell.”

We thanked her and shook hands, and she moved slowly across the yard to her next errant sprinkler.

We’d toldthe Bayers that we needed to search for evidence of any contact between Lilah and Simon, and they’d given us their approval.

At the insistence of Gary, the senior DA investigator, our full four-man security team would perform the search.

And they were doing an impressive job of it too. Gary had set up a grid both inside and outside the house, and the four investigators were moving methodically through it. They searched each area thoroughly, then put everything back in perfect order. Claire said the house hadn’t looked that good in years. She asked if they’d come back next week. I wondered how long it’d been since she’d smiled like that.

Now, knowing what I did about Zack, I found myself watching Fred and Claire more carefully. After the search was under way, I’d picked up a photograph that showed Zack and Simon in swimming trunks at the beach. Zack’s arm was dropped lazily around Simon’s shoulder, and they both wore toothy grins.

“Zack was eleven there,” Claire had said. “He was already handsome. People would come up to me on the street to tell me.”

She had gazed at the photograph with tenderness. There was no hesitancy, no hitch in her voice or her manner that indicated she had any reservations about him. And though Fred was less demonstrative, I’d seen nothing to indicate an awareness that Zack was anything less than the wonderful son and great guy everyone saw.

When Bailey’d engaged him in a discussion of Zack’s work on the police force, he’d spoken of his son with nothing but pride.

“It’s a hard job, policing,” he’d said. “But Zack said he wanted to do something important. Wanted to help people.” Fred had shaken his head. “Don’t think I could’ve done it.”

How did such normal parents produce a sociopath like Zack?

We had to check the house, but Bailey and I hadn’t held out much hope that there’d be anything to find. Neither Zack nor Simon had lived there at the time Tran was killed, and Zack wouldn’t have wanted to risk having his parents stumble onto his evidence. So this search was just a base-covering move that’d ensure we didn’t ignore what might be right under our noses.

And, of course, it was a message to Lilah. This house was beyond her reach, but if she was having us followed-as we believed-she’d easily be able to see we were here. I wanted her to be good and nervous about why and what we might find.

By the time the investigators were finishing their last grid, also known as the hall closet, Bailey and I began to focus on lining up our next targets.

“When you sold Zack and Lilah’s house, who did the cleanup to get it ready for sale?” Bailey asked.

“We all did,” Fred replied.

“You, Claire, and Simon?” I asked.

“Right,” Fred confirmed.

“Anyone else?” I asked.

Fred shook his head. “We wanted to do it ourselves.”

He swallowed and cleared his throat. I could feel the anguish behind his words. It hurt to even imagine what it must’ve been like to go through that house, touching Zack’s toothbrush, his shoes, his ties, each item evoking a memory, a smell, a familiar feel. Whatever he’d been, his family had known only the loving son and older brother. Every second in that place, among his things-the pieces of his life-reinvoked the brutal loss of him.

“Where did Simon live before he…” I stopped short, hating the fact that I was forced to keep bringing up the most painful moments of their lives.

“He had a little apartment not far from here,” Claire said. “He rented the garage downstairs as his studio.”

“Do you know the landlord?” I asked.

Claire nodded. “She was a sweetheart. Mrs. Kluffman-an older lady. She lived in the main house. Simon’s place was a converted apartment over the garage. But it’s probably been rented out for a while now,” Claire said. “I could give her a call and find out, if you want?”

I did, and she went to find the number. Bailey and I checked in with Gary, who told us the search was done. No evidence was found. I leaned in and whispered to him, “Do me a favor. Have the guys put together a couple of boxes and carry them out to your car.”

“Got it,” Gary said. “We’ll make it look good.”

“Thanks.” I smiled. Sweat, Lilah, sweat.

A few minutes later, Claire returned.

“We’re in luck,” she said. “Mrs. Kluffman rented the apartment out for a few months after Simon left, but it’s empty right now. I told her about what you were doing and she said she’d be happy to let you in and have a look around.”

“Great,” I said.

We took the address and phone number and headed to Mrs. Kluffman’s place. Again, it was a long shot, but since it was a much smaller space, it’d be a lot less time-consuming than Fred and Claire’s house.

As our little caravan drove the few miles to Simon’s last private abode, I pulled down the visor and looked in the mirror, trying to see if we were being followed.

“That only works for Nancy Drew,” Bailey said knowingly.

She was right. I closed the mirror and flipped the visor back up with an exasperated sigh.

Mrs. Kluffman, a big, round woman right out of “grandma” central casting, nodded sympathetically when we told her of our mission. She led us up a flight of outdoor stairs to a small studio apartment. The garage below, where Simon had set up his studio, was now storage space.