If You Really Loved Me (4 page)

Patricia Bailey had attended Bolsa Grande High School with Cinnamon and gave officers the names of one or two of her friends, stressing that Cinnamon talked more to her
imaginary
friends than to real people. Patti was emphatic about the other "friends" Cinnamon Brown had. Invisible friends. "Maynard" and "Oscar" and "Aunt Bertha."

"Sometimes, I'll walk into the room and she's actually
talking
to them."

Perhaps that was the answer to the puzzle of a fourteen-year-old girl who would shoot her stepmother as she slept. Possibly Cinnamon Brown lived in her own fantasy world, with imaginary friends, friends who seemed more real to her than anything else. She apparently didn't talk to her family unless pressed. She talked to people nobody else could see. Adolescent schizophrenia?

None of the investigators had yet
seen
Cinnamon Brown. They had no way to judge what her motivations had been.

They couldn't even be positive that Cinnamon Brown was the shooter. For all they knew, Cinnamon could be a victim too. It was second nature for them to question what seemed obvious. In a homicide investigation—more than any other police action—nothing can be taken for granted. There were aspects of the events of that night that didn't quite match up, and the yard—the whole street—was so dark. Cinnamon could be out there, dead.

Patti Bailey had furnished them with the names of Cinnamon's friends—Krista Taber, and a "Jamie" and "Joanne"—but said she didn't know if Cinnamon would have run to their houses.

Det. Steve Sanders recalled that he had taken a report on an indecent exposure complaint from Cinnamon Brown in October of 1984—some "lily-waver" who had beckoned to the teenager. He asked the records section to check for any witness names on that report. They came up with one; a girl named Rebecca had heard Cinnamon gasp and seen her run away from the man.

Phones rang in the homes of her teenage friends at five
A.M
. Was Cinnamon there? Had anyone heard from her? Where might she be?

No one contacted had the slightest notion where Cinnamon might be. It was soon apparent that Cinnamon had very few friends. She was not encouraged to make a lot of friends according to her best pal, Krista Taber.

"She was grounded a lot," Krista said when she was questioned. "The slightest thing and her dad would ground her. She wasn't allowed to give out her address, and most people didn't know her phone number. I haven't even heard from her for more than a week 'cause she's grounded again."

Some of the other girls contacted said they knew Cinnamon Brown only slightly. They could not imagine she would run to them if she was in trouble.

Krista, the only friend with whom Cinnamon shared secrets, denied vigorously that the missing girl had a boyfriend.

Odd—because Patti Bailey had mentioned an older boyfriend of Cinnamon's, but she didn't know his name. All she knew was that he went by the nickname Steely Dan.

The Garden Grove Dispatch Center checked the nickname through their computers and came up with a case where a junior high school girl had been harassed by a twenty-three-year-old male known as Steely. His real name was Jamie Guiterrez
*
, and he lived on Juno Avenue in Anaheim, the same street where Cinnamon's mother lived.

Woods and Sanders headed for Anaheim to check Guiterrez's apartment. That scenario might make sense. A teenage girl besotted with a guy nine years older than she, furious because she had been grounded. Maybe even furious enough to kill? If she had shot her stepmother, she might well run to Guiterrez.

Officers canvassing Ocean Breeze Drive had no luck finding witnesses. The one exception was when Darrow Halligan contacted the Sugarmans' residence, which was obliquely across the street from the Browns' to the east. Alvin Sugarman had heard something heavy thud against his garage sometime between three and three-thirty that morning, something heavy enough to wake him from a sound sleep. He had investigated, but found no one, and could see no damage to his property.

Halligan walked with Sugarman, searching his house and yard with flashlights, but they found nothing. The crash against the attached garage had sounded like something— or some
one
—hitting the siding. This opened up new possibilities. Perhaps there was some
outside
force that had caused the havoc in the Brown household—someone prowling in the neighborhood who had watched David Brown drive away after midnight, then entered the house where the sleeping young women were unprotected.

Or perhaps someone had struck the Sugarman garage deliberately to make it appear that way.

___________

*
The names of some individuals in the book have been changed. Such names are indicated by an asterisk (*) the first time each appears in the book.

4

A
lthough the neighbors along Ocean Breeze Drive had slept—at least for the most part—undisturbed through the night of March 18-19, Andy Jauch's roster of people in and people out of 12551 Ocean Breeze was fairly lengthy. Arthur Brown, sixty-five, a bald, nervous man, and his wife, Manuela, fifty-nine, had rushed from their home in Carson, California, to comfort their son. There had been two paramedics, six firefighters (emergency medical technicians whose proximity almost always gets them to the scene of trauma before the medics), two ambulance drivers, and nine investigators.

Nevertheless, the bedroom where Linda Brown had been shot was kept sacrosanct; once she had been removed by the paramedics, the crime scene was protected. The gun that had killed her still lay on the gold shag carpet next to a brown pillow and a damp pile of towels near the door to the hall.

There had to be a combination here that would unlock a tragic sequence of events. CSI expert Bill Morrissey worked at preserving and marking every conceivable piece of physical evidence, deliberately shutting out the questioning, the weeping, the palpably raw emotions that hung in the rooms of this house as heavily as the pall of cigarette smoke.

Linda Marie Brown's life had become a case with a number: 85-11342. Beside the Smith & Wesson, Morrissey left a rectangle of white paper with a printed two-inch scale, and his penned directional sign "N" (arrow), his initials, the date—"TUE 3-19-85"—and the gun's serial number: "R304915."

He took pictures of everything in the bedroom. If there is one immutable axiom of crime scene investigation, it is the sure knowledge that you don't get a second chance. The murder scene itself will never again be the same. Pictures, diagrams, measurements, notes, had cemented dozens of scenes in Morrissey's mind and in his case files. When he left this room, this house, he would know every square foot better than he knew his own house.

More important, he would be able to reconstruct what he found now a month, a year, or even a decade later.

"Bugs" Morrissey was a wiry, sardonic man who kept his sense of humor carefully masked. His wisecracks always took people by surprise. At the moment, he had no reason to find humor in anything. He worked steadily as the first rays of dawn began to light the street outside. He could have no way of knowing that daylight had arrived. The bedroom he worked in had both blinds and drapes.

The room was yellow, a bright daffodil shade that carried out the home's color scheme. There was little leeway for Morrissey to work in because every bit of wall space was taken up with massive golden oak furniture, all new. Although one wall of the room already had floor-to-ceiling customized built-in drawers and cupboards painted the same sunny yellow, the Browns had added three full-size chests of drawers, two double-drawered bedside tables, and a massive matching entertainment center that faced the bed.

Morrissey saw that the legs of the expensive television/ entertainment console rested on four large cans of Hunt's chili beans to raise it just enough to enable viewers in bed to watch comfortably. David Brown was obviously no handyman—but certainly inventive.

Morrissey glanced at the rows of video cassettes on the shelves beneath the TV. Pretty average home viewing, it appeared. Nothing kinky—at least not in plain sight:
Poltergeist, Star Wars,
a lot of fantasy, ghost-story stuff. Camera in hand, he worked his way around the room, snapping frame after frame, beginning with the east wall. Human beings' secrets can sometimes emerge from the most mundane accoutrements of their lives.

She
had slept on this side of the bed. That was easy. The bedside table held the mother's stuff: the remote listening device to the baby's room, a picture of a newborn encased in a ceramic frame and baby shoe, a delicate-chimneyed lamp of milk glass, cigarettes in a case—next to a "How to Quit Smoking" pamphlet—a half-empty Dr Pepper, a speakerphone. A poster had been tacked to the wall above—a rainbow and a poem about "A Friend Is—"

A sentimental woman.

The bed itself was king-size, an ornate white iron frame with touches of brass that looked as if it were about to take wing. New too—like everything else. No scratches. There was no blood easily visible on the sheets; the victim had bled copiously, but internally.

The opposite bedside stand had another speakerphone, two full ashtrays, a box of Kleenex, the controls to the television and VCR. On the floor, there was a paper bag overflowing with Kleenex and a wastebasket embossed with Garfield's grinning face.

There were themes in this house. Someone collected unicorns and rainbows, someone collected bald eagles and other bird statuettes, and someone collected expensive dolls.

Garfield the cat's image was everywhere.

Pictures of the west side of the room indicated that the man of the house was unwell. His chests of drawers were rife with pill bottles, elixirs, cough syrups, antacids, antidiarrheals, vitamins. Many of the pill bottles were prescription, and a lot of the over-the-counter stuff was designed for those with bronchitis or asthma. Paradoxically, there were also cigarettes, lighters, boxes of imported cigars.

The camera snapped again. Again. A Rolex watch, a solid-gold cross on a chain. Chunky gold men's rings set with huge diamonds. The oval Victorian mirror over the chest held a snapshot of a woman sitting on the couch in the living room, wearing a white robe and nuzzling a newborn. Morrissey guessed it was the dead woman, only months before, smiling radiantly as she held her baby girl.

A full message pad, a beeper, pink Post-It notes marked "Please call, important" and "Please call." And in the center of the crowded top of the chest of drawers, two greeting cards: "For You, Daddy" and a bold black, red, and gold card, "This birthday card can only be opened by THE GREATEST DAD IN THE WORLD!!"

As Morrissey aimed his camera around the yellow room, Andy Jauch and Alan Day worked diagramming all the rooms in the house. Measuring, sketching—precise calculations to back up the photographs.

David Brown and Patti Bailey still sat woodenly in the living room, waiting to leave, to go somewhere where the tragedy did not seem so omnipresent. Occasionally, Patti walked the floor absently with Krystal, soothing the infant who had just lost her mother. Finally, Arthur and Manuela Brown took the baby to their house in Carson.

Out in the streets of Garden Grove, patrolmen watched for a short brunette girl in sweatpants—for a killer on the run.

In their search of the house and grounds, Dale Farley and Scott Davis had encountered a number of dogs. There was a puppy of some miniature breed in the blue and white trailer where Cinnamon had been living. The cramped interior was a jumble of Cinnamon's clothes, books, records, stuffed dolls, and blankets—and the floor was rapidly being covered with defecation by the little dog.

"What'll we do with the puppy in the trailer, Sarge?" Davis asked Farley.

"Let's put it with the others back in the pen behind the garage for now."

Fred McLean went outside with the patrol officers, curious to see the trailer where Cinnamon Brown had been banished, and to take a look at the backyard. Davis retrieved the crying puppy and moved through the dark yard, past the lowering form of a huge, ivy-draped maple tree, and around behind the garage where there was a low chain-link fence forming a dog run.

McLean began moving around the house, looking for some sign of forced entry at any of the doors or windows; all the windows were locked tight, save for those with air conditioners. He was checking for some disturbance in the dust and dirt of the sills, some obviously recent attempt at jimmying or prying. Nothing. Then he checked the trailer and the garage. No points of entry showed any indication at all that someone had tried to force his or her way in.

Had David Brown been so upset when he left the house that he not only forgot to set the alarm, but also forgot to lock the doors? If Cinnamon Brown was, indeed, the shooter, that would be a moot question. But if some outsider got into David Brown's house, then the lack of signs of forced entry might be very meaningful.

Fred McLean was not at all convinced that the killer had been identified; he always worked under the assumption that nothing can be presumed.

McLean worked his way around to the backyard and strolled over to the little dog pen. It was full Tuesday now, the sky washed with sunlight, the air still chilled, and he could hear the sounds of commuters' cars headed for the freeway.

He glanced at his watch: ten minutes to seven,

McLean idly watched the four barking dogs in the pen. Two blond cocker spaniels, a white Pomeranian, and the puppy from the trailer, which was so tiny it kept squeezing through a space in the gate. They barked at him and then skittered back to their doghouses. They were all nervous breeds, the kind that would have raised a hell of a racket during the night if a stranger
had
been around.

The doghouses were painted barn red and placed so their rear walls were against the garage. There was a rack for firewood beyond them, and an empty water dish on the near side. McLean grabbed the pup for the third time and stepped over the thirty-inch-high fence to put it back inside.

Once inside the dog pen, McLean gazed toward the doghouses, and he felt a tightening in his neck. The larger doghouse was not empty. Something was inside. He had to hunker down to get a better look.

There was a figure jammed into the doghouse. It was a small human being, curled into a fetal position, the head bent. Silken brown hair made a veil over the face.

Almost whispering, McLean called out, "Cinnamon . . . Cinnamon?"

He wasn't sure she was alive:

"Cinnamon," he called again, moving closer to the doghouse. Daylight had not yet filtered through the thicket of fig trees shrouding the dog pen.

Suddenly, the form in the doghouse shifted slightly and made a sound the detective couldn't understand. Whoever it was, it was alive.

McLean held out his hand and a small hand grasped his. Awkwardly, her muscles cramped from being so long in one position, a young girl crawled out of the doghouse.

He looked at her in the morning light. It
was
Cinnamon Brown. He had studied pictures of her inside. She wore a sweatshirt and sweatpants, both stained now with reddish vomit and urine.

McLean glanced down into the doghouse as he steadied the girl with his arm. The floor was covered with vomit, and he could see perhaps three dozen orangey capsules still intact in the reddish pool on the floor.

Cinnamon Brown was a very small girl, still carrying a soft cushion of baby fat. She clung to Fred McLean, a perfect stranger, as if he were her savior. She said nothing. It was clear that she was very, very sick, very, very cold, and drowsy. She looked nothing like the crazed teenaged desperado the whole Garden Grove Police Department was combing the streets for.

McLean held the girl's hand and steered her toward a squad car parked beside the house. He instructed Davis to take her at once to police headquarters.

She was not what he had expected. But then,
what
had he expected?

Somebody bigger, maybe. Tougher looking.

Fred McLean had arrested a number of killers in his years on the force. He knew all too well that in police work even more than in ordinary life, things are seldom what they seem. But this little girl, who had clearly lain for hours in the icy pitch dark in a pool of her own vomit had to be the most pathetic suspected felon he had yet encountered.

Smelling now of vomit himself, McLean unrolled the piece of pink cardboard that Cinnamon had been clutching in her right hand as he removed her from the doghouse; he had practically had to pry her fingers apart to get her to release it. He untied the purplish ribbon that encircled it. In the light, McLean could make out laborious printing on the cardboard:

"Dear God, please forgive me. I didn't mean to hurt her."