Guilt By Degrees

23

“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.