Murder on the Down Low (33 page)

She stood near the podium, next to Los Angeles Mayor Pete Caranza. The mayor’s chief of staff and press aide were on the opposite side.

“I’m here to discuss the rumors of a serial killer at work on the streets of our great city.” The mayor gripped both sides of the podium. “At this point, we have no conclusive evidence of that, but because of a spate of recent shootings, the LAPD felt that we needed to take the extra precaution of advising the public about these murders.”

“A little late for that, isn’t it?” The voice came from the back of the room. “Five men, five African-American men, are already dead.” It was Leon Webber, the community activist and publisher of a community newspaper. “Why didn’t you hold this press conference sooner? Before all these men were murdered.”

“It was only recently determined that these murders might have even a tenuous connection.”

“I knew weeks ago,” Webber challenged. “Exactly when did you find out?”

Mayor Caranza turned to J.C. “Maybe the LAPD can answer that question.”

In a classic politician-like move, Caranza placed J.C. directly in the hot seat. “This is Detective J.C. Sparks with the LAPD. She’s one of many law enforcement officers who’ve been investigating these shootings. Detective, perhaps you’d like to address Mr. Webber’s question.” He stepped away from the podium.

No, thanks, Mr. Mayor
. J.C. took her time taking the mayor’s place at the podium. The talking points prepared for her by Media Affairs did not specifically address this particular question. But they did include a standard line that would be appropriate for almost any question she was asked.

J.C. leaned closer to the microphone. “I’m not at liberty to give you many specifics,” she said. “Not with a dangerous killer on the loose. We can’t risk doing anything that might jeopardize our investigation.”

“So what
can
you tell us?” asked a radio reporter who was standing along the wall.

“I can only tell you that we’re looking into each of these shootings and our investigation is ongoing.”

“The
L.A. Times
claims the Department has some pretty clear evidence that the murders are the work of a single killer. Is that true?”

J.C. swallowed. “We aren’t at liberty to disclose any information about our investigation at this time. As for that
L.A. Times
story, you have to discuss that with the
Times
.”

A few heads turned toward the
Times
reporter at the back of the room. He knew about the homosexual connection, but wasn’t about to announce it and lose his exclusive, not to mention get his paper sued.

J.C. was poised to repeat her line about not jeopardizing the investigation when a reporter friendly to the Department stepped in to save the day. The Department often used a handful of long-time reporters as public relations tools. In exchange, they were given tips that other reporters weren’t.

“We’ve heard rumors of white supremacists targeting black men,” said John Stole, a reporter from a small paper in the Inland Empire. “Is that true?”

“No, not to our knowledge.” J.C. felt good telling the truth.

Another question came from the far right. “So, what’s the purpose of this press conference? You want black men to stay off the streets until the killer’s caught?”

The mayor stepped forward again. “What we want is for all citizens of L.A., but especially African-American men, to be extremely cautious and careful of their surroundings. If you see anything suspicious, you should call the police right away.”

For the next ten minutes, J.C. listened to the mayor straight-out lie. She wished she could put an end to this farce and shout out the truth.

“Is Special Moore going to be charged with the murder of Eugene Nelson, and is she a suspect in the other shootings?” asked a reporter from KNBC.

The mayor started to speak, but before he could, J.C. leaned over the mike. “As I’ve already said, the Nelson murder is still under investigation. Just like the others. We don’t have a suspect in his death yet and—”

“Is she at least a person of interest?” the reporter challenged. “You have the woman on tape screaming that the man deserved to die. And she clearly had a motive because of her cousin’s death. What else do you need?”

“Something we don’t have,” J.C. said. “Solid evidence linking her to Mr. Nelson’s murder. And as to your other question, we also don’t have any evidence that she had anything to do with the other shootings.”

The mayor fielded the last few questions, then his chief of staff stepped forward and ended the press conference. Reporters yelled out more questions, but they ignored them and exited through a private entrance that led to a meeting room reserved only for the mayor.

“Nice job, Detective,” the mayor said before being whisked away. J.C. thanked him and made her way into a private hallway. She was surprised to find Lieutenant Wilson waiting for her.

“You did good.”

J.C. didn’t respond. If this is what being part of the big brass required, she would prefer to remain with the peons. They walked silently to the mayor’s private elevator, which would take them directly to the underground parking garage, bypassing the reporters. The lieutenant pushed the button for the garage.

“I know you don’t agree with our approach here, but I think it’s the right thing to do.”

“You made your point very clear. You don’t care how many gay men are killed.”

“I do care,” the lieutenant said defensively. “But I also care about maligning these men and further destroying their families by announcing that they were gay. And you should, too.”

“So you finally believe it?”

He lowered his head. “I took a closer look at all the evidence, including your case file. Yeah, I think you’re right.”

As they exited the elevator, Lieutenant Wilson put a hand on her shoulder. “This press conference wasn’t the only reason I came over here. I wanted to give you a heads up about something. Your friend’s going to be arrested for the murder of Eugene Nelson.”

“When?”

“They’re on the way to her place now. So, this means you’re off the case.”

J.C. wanted to protest, but knew it wouldn’t do any good. “Lieutenant, I want to be there when they arrest her.”

She saw the reluctance in his eyes.

“I won’t get in the way,” J.C. pleaded. “I just want to be there. Please, Lieutenant.”

He took a while before answering. “Okay, but stay out of the way. She’s your friend, but she’s also a suspect. Don’t forget who you work for.”

“I won’t,” she said, darting off.

He called after her. “Hold on a minute.”

J.C. stopped, anxious to get going. It seemed to take forever for the lieutenant to catch up to her.

“You need to know that both the mayor and the D.A. want somebody behind bars for Nelson’s murder as of yesterday. The word I’m hearing is that they’re both hoping to gain some political leverage with the gay community by getting a conviction before the election. And right now, your friend is the only suspect they’ve got.”

“What are you saying, Lieutenant? That they’re going to railroad her?”

The lieutenant shrugged. “Let’s just say I’ve seen it happen.”

S
pecial had been receiving so many crank calls lately that her nerves were shattered. So, when she heard a knock at the door of her apartment, her heart leapt to her throat. Had one of the crazies come after her?

She tiptoed to the door and peered through the peephole. She let out a loud yelp when she saw four uniformed officers.

“Open up! LAPD!” they shouted.

“Oh, my God! What do you want?”

“We have a warrant for the arrest of Special Sharlene Moore as well as a warrant to search the premises. Please open the door.”

“Oh, my God!” Special scurried into the bedroom, dug her cell phone out of her purse and dialed Vernetta’s number.

She wanted to scream when Vernetta’s voicemail came on. She hung up and called Nichelle. “The police are here to arrest me!” she blubbered when Nichelle picked up. “I don’t wanna go to jail. I didn’t kill nobody!”

The officers were pounding on the door now.

“First,” Nichelle said, “I want you to calm down.”

“I can’t. I’m scared!”

“Special, you’ll have to open the door and let them in.”

“Why? I don’t want them to come in!”

“If you don’t open the door, they can lawfully break it down.”

“Oh, my God!”

“Special, I’m only a few minutes away. I’ll call Vernetta and J.C. on my way over. If you don’t open the door, they’ll think you’re in there destroying evidence. Let them in, then tell them your attorneys are on the way. And don’t say
anything
else. You got that?”

“Yeah,” Special whined. “But what if they ask me—”

“
What if
nothing,” Nichelle said forcefully. “I don’t care what they ask you. Just tell them you don’t want to talk without an attorney present.”

Special hung up and tiptoed to the front door. Just as she was about to unlock it, she heard a voice that cut her stress level in half.

“Special, this is J.C. Open the door. Right now.”

When she finally did, the police officers charged into her living room. A young white cop with a crew cut roughly snatched Special’s arms behind her back and locked her wrists in plastic handcuffs.

“Owww! You’re hurting me!”

“When the police tell you to do something, that’s what you’re supposed to do,” he snorted. “You’re going to be facing additional charges for obstruction of justice.”

“Not so rough,” J.C. said to the cop. He ignored her, dragged Special over to the living room couch and forced her into a sitting position.

Two officers barged into her bedroom. “What the hell are you doing? You can’t go in there!”

“They can go wherever they want and do whatever they want,” Crew Cut said. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Eugene Nelson.”

“You’re crazy! I didn’t kill that man!”

Nichelle stepped into the room and ran over to Special. Crew Cut blocked her path. “Get outta here!”

“I’m Ms. Moore’s attorney. I’d like to see the warrants, please.”

Crew Cut pulled some papers from his back pocket and slapped them into Nichelle’s hand.

“You don’t need to handcuff her.”

“Get real. This woman is a murder suspect,” Crew Cut growled.

Special was crying and sniveling and wiping her cheeks with her upper shoulder. “I don’t wanna go to jail! ”

An officer who was ransacking the kitchen pulled out a drawer and dumped utensils onto the floor with a loud crash. He opened the cabinets and tossed plates and saucers around like Frisbees.

“Those are Calvin Klein dishes!” Special yelled. “You can’t be destroying my stuff like that!” She tried to get up, but the officer gripped her shoulder and held her down.

“Let’s be reasonable,” Nichelle said to Crew Cut. “I’d be glad to bring her down to the station.”

He gave her an astonished look, then laughed. “What in the hell have you been smoking? This woman is a cold-blooded killer. She’s not getting any special treatment.”

Nichelle whirled around to face J.C., who stood back, observing. “Can’t you do anything?”

“Sorry, Nichelle. This is standard procedure.”

“Please, please, please, do something,” Special begged. “I can’t go to jail. Somebody might attack me.”

Nichelle kneeled down before Special. “Sam and Vernetta are going to meet us downtown. I need you to get it together for me. You’re going to get through this, but you can’t start wigging out.”

She leaned in to give Special a hug when Crew Cut snatched her up from the couch and dragged her toward the door.

“Promise me I won’t have to spend the night in jail,” Special cried as Crew Cut dragged her toward the door.

Tears began to roll down Nichelle’s cheeks. “I wish I could make that promise,” she said. “But I can’t.”

B
y the time Vernetta made it over to the jail, Special had already been booked. Thanks to Sam and his connections at the D.A.’s office, within a matter of hours, Special had been processed and released on a million dollars bond.

Sam successfully argued that Special deserved bail because she wasn’t a flight risk, had close ties to the community and no prior convictions. Her parents put up their two rental units in Carson as a property bond. The terms of her bail required Special to stay within a three-mile radius of her home, to call the court on a daily basis and to show up in two weeks for her arraignment.

While Nichelle saw to it that Special got home safely, Vernetta and Sam set up a meeting to talk to Ray Martinez, the Deputy D.A. assigned to prosecute the case.

“What do you know about Martinez?” Vernetta asked Sam as they waited in the lobby of the D.A.’s office.

“I’ve had a couple of cases against him. He’s basically a straight shooter. Not as much of an egomaniac as most prosecutors. If the evidence says the defendant might be innocent, he won’t ignore it and plunge ahead like a lot of D.A.s. He also doesn’t play hide-the-ball with the evidence. In the cases I’ve had against him, he put his cards on the table pretty early.”

“That’s certainly good news.”

“I heard he was assigned to the case because he’s gay,” Sam added.

“He’s gay?” Vernetta said, taken aback.

“That’s what they tell me.”

Vernetta was still mulling over that tidbit when Martinez walked into the waiting area.

“Good afternoon.” He shook both their hands. “There’s a conference room we can use down the hall.”

When they were all seated, Sam spoke first. “We just wanted to get a few formalities out of the way. When can we get a copy of the initial police report?”

“You’ll have it tomorrow,” he said. Martinez appeared just as laid back as he’d been when they’d tried to question Special at Parker Center.

“As I understand it, your entire case seems to be circumstantial,” Vernetta said.

“For now. But it’s a very strong circumstantial case. Ms. Moore publicly vowed revenge against Mr. Nelson at her cousin’s funeral and, of course, half the country’s seen that videotape of her attacking him with pepper spray. She also told her therapist that she wanted Mr. Nelson dead.”