“Utah. Tell me it’s Utah.”
After a few seconds Bailey said, “Yep, Utah. So that’s something.” I heard Bailey’s desk phone ring. “Hang on a sec.”
Bailey put me on hold, and I got up and paced, thinking about how to find the connections between Spader and Logan. Utah was a big state. The fact that Logan had family there and Spader had a bust there might not amount to anything. But it was a place to start.
Bailey came back on the line. “They’ve got him. Get downstairs. I’m on my way.”
I ended the call and pumped my fist in the air. “Yes!”
And I’d won my bet with Jay.
67
Spader was being held at the local jail in the West Valley Division. Jay escorted us to his desk.
“First things first.” I held out my hand.
Jay grinned and fished out a ten-dollar bill. “Happiest payoff I’ve ever made.” He filled us in on how they’d caught Spader.
A couple of unis had spotted his car-or rather, his mother’s car-under a freeway overpass, what we euphemistically call a “bridge” in L.A., on Canoga Avenue just north of the 101 freeway. They’d immediately called for backup, and within minutes, the car was surrounded. Spader was still wrapped up in his camouflage coat and fast asleep in the backseat. When they’d called him out with a bullhorn, it took a good five minutes before he emerged from the car. And even then, he was still so wasted, he had to hang on to the door to pull himself out. When they ordered him to put his hands up, he lost his balance and did a face-plant.
“They had to carry him to the patrol car,” Jay said. “We couldn’t even get the booking done. He was too messed up to give us anything besides his name.”
“Where is he now?” Bailey asked.
“Sleeping it off in his cell.”
“Since?” I asked.
“About eight thirty this morning.”
I looked at my watch. It was after ten. “Think we can get Sleeping Beauty out here for an interview?”
“Definitely. I just figured I’d wait until you got here.”
Jay escorted us to the interview room, aka, a box. One so small there was barely room for the standard metal table and chairs. A few minutes later I heard Jay speaking in a low rumble that sounded like “Come on now, come on now.” The door opened and two officers escorted in a human scarecrow. The Pendleton-style shirt Spader wore looked like a reject from Goodwill, and I could see his last three meals in the stains on his gray Dickies. The smell coming off him made the Men’s Central Jail seem like a perfume counter at Neiman Marcus.
Jay took a seat as the officers parked Spader in the chair across from us and cuffed him to a ring on the table. He slumped down, and his head rolled onto his right shoulder. He gazed at us through half-closed eyes.
This was the mastermind of the massacre at Fairmont and a near mass murder at the Cinemark? This was the grandiose psychopath who’d written those taunting letters? A glance at Bailey told me she was having a similar reaction.
“Is your name Francis Spader?” I asked. He widened his eyes at me-not in shock, in an effort to keep them open-then they drifted back down to half-mast. I repeated the question. This time he nodded, but said nothing.
Now that I’d had the chance to see his eyes, I noticed that they were not only red but also permanently crossed-or he was so trashed he couldn’t make them move in the same direction. If this was an act, it was a damn good one.
“Do you know where you are?”
He spoke in a hoarse whisper. “In jail.”
I introduced myself and Bailey and said we wanted to talk to him about something that happened last night. “Do you feel able to talk to us about that?” Spader widened his eyes and wiggled himself upright. He worked his mouth, and it made that sticky sound that comes from being too dry. “Would you like some water?”
He nodded. Jay motioned to one of the officers standing behind him to go get it. If I got a confession out of him, there’d be a bloody battle over its admissibility. His lawyer would argue he was too non compos to know what planet he was on-let alone give a knowing waiver of rights. Unless Spader started looking a whole lot better in the next few minutes, I wouldn’t even bother trying to talk to him. I decided to start by explaining his rights and see what happened.
I checked the camera in the corner of the ceiling to make sure the red light was on and waited for the officer to bring him a bottle of water. I let Spader take a long slug. He looked at least marginally more awake. “We’d like to talk to you about last night, but before we do, I have to advise you of your rights. Have you ever been advised of your rights before?”
Spader had been arrested plenty of times, so he’d definitely been through the drill. If he could remember that now, it’d go a long way in proving he was able to give us a valid waiver.
“Yeh.” Spader quietly burped and swallowed.
“You have the right to remain silent, Francis. Do you know what that means?” He nodded. “Why don’t you tell me?”
He nodded dully. “Means I don’t have to talk to you guys.”
I went through each of his rights with him this way, having him explain what each one meant. By the time I got to the end, I was convinced he was all there. Well, as “all there” as he’d ever be. “Okay, Francis, having all of these rights in mind, do you want to talk to us now without a lawyer?”
He nodded. “Yeah. I guess so. Yeah, I do. If it really happened.”
“If what really happened, Francis?”
He swallowed several times, and I watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down. “The…the thing. At the store.”
“Tell me what you mean by that.” Spader gave me a measuring look, as though gauging the possibility that I didn’t know about the shooting. He was looking more alert by the second. I prompted him again. “Do you remember the name of the store?”
“I think it was Target.”
“Which one? Do you remember what street it was on?”
“Ventura.”
I nodded. “Tell us what happened.”
Spader’s eyes finally seemed to focus. “Oh, God.” He dropped his head and began to cry. He spoke through choking sobs. “It happened. It really happened. I thought it was all a dream. Just a weird thing playing in my head where I was one of those guys…” Spader trailed off, and his shoulders shook as he wept.
And with those words, I knew. But I had to get him to say it. “One of which guys, Francis?”
It took him a few seconds to find his voice. When he did, it came out ragged. “One of those guys at the school. At Fairmont.”
“Do you know those guys?”
“Yeah.” Spader looked up, his mouth slightly open. “I saw the news about them.”
“No, I mean know them as in being friends with them.”
Spader looked perplexed. “I…how could I be friends with them?”
“So you don’t actually know them.” Spader shook his head. Just as I’d feared. But I had to make sure. “Can you tell me where you were for the past two weeks?”
Spader took a deep, somewhat jerky breath and blew it out. I turned my head to avoid the blast. “Vegas. I just got back.” He looked up through reddened, tearstained eyes. “I think it was a couple of days ago, but I’m not sure. You could ask my mom. I went to see her first when I got to L.A.”
I got enough details out of him about where he’d been in Las Vegas-who he’d seen and what flophouse he’d stayed in-to establish an alibi. Even flophouses keep records, and we only needed to go back eight days.
Even before seeing him, I’d had my doubts, though I’d squashed them down with hope. Nothing fit. The MO was all wrong. Spader stood right in the middle of the store and fired around himself. He had no physical advantage at all, other than surprise. In fact, it was a miracle he hadn’t been taken down right then and there. This wasn’t the “fish in a barrel” scenario our shrinks had said these shooters go for. Spader hadn’t used an assault rifle, and he hadn’t dropped any weapons at the scene.