If You Really Loved Me (6 page)

"I shot three shots."

"... Three shots?"

"Uh-huh. One was in the room with Patti, and the other two were with . . . with Linda."

"Why did you shoot a bullet in Patti's room?"

"The gun got stuck ... or something in it . . . the thing got stuck—that trigger thing—the thing you pull back. I couldn't turn on the light or she would have seen it."

"Did you ask anyone how to use the gun? Cinnamon?
Cinnamon?"

"Uh-huh. No. Uh-uh . . ."

"Cinnamon. Cinnamon."

"I'm
here.
Would you just stop saying my name?"

McLean realized that he had very little time left with her. She was sleepy, and she was annoyed with his constant questions. Yes, she answered, yes, she knew how to fire a gun. They went out shooting guns in the desert.

"Cinnamon?"

"I'm here."

"Cinnamon?"

"I'm here. . . ."

But she really wasn't. She muttered that they used little guns in the family "'cause they don't do much harm."

"Where did you shoot those little guns?"

"What do you mean?"

"Those little guns—where did you shoot them?"

"I was watching TV, and then I was asleep."

McLean stopped the interview. He wanted to have a reading on the proportion of drugs in the girl's bloodstream before he continued. He looked at her and saw her eyelids drooping.

She seemed to him a very little girl. Not fourteen. Not even twelve. And yet she had just told him she had shot her stepmother.

This time around, he was almost sorry he had found his suspect.

It was eight-twenty when Edith Gwinn of the Golden Coast Lab arrived to take a blood sample from Cinnamon. Over the next eight minutes, three vials were filled. One read #8015, one #8020, and the third was to type in case Cinnamon needed a transfusion later.

Cinnamon seemed to rouse and become more alert during the blood drawing, but only because she was frightened. She had never had blood drawn before.

When McLean attempted to talk to her again at 8:40, her condition had changed radically. Her head lolled, and her eyes were not focusing. She was unable to respond to his questions in anything more than a mumble.

He stopped the interview at once and summoned the paramedics.

Cinnamon's blood pressure had dropped to a point where it would not register on the cuff and had to be palpated. Her pulse was eighty. The paramedics hooked her up to a heart monitor and started an IV as they raced her to the Garden Grove Medical Center. Police Officer Pamela French rode with Cinnamon in the aid car. The girl appeared to be unconscious or asleep during the trip, and there was no conversation.

French remained with Cinnamon in her hospital room from 9:18 until noon, and during that time, Cinnamon Brown did make some statements. But they sounded robot-like to the policewoman—almost as if they had been programmed into the teenager's subconscious. Cinnamon would blurt them out from time to time, with virtually no continuity. Although she vomited almost continuously, she was barely awake.

Some of her ramblings were clear enough for Pam French to understand, and some were garbled.

"Haven't slept for twenty-four hours . . . had an accident . . . killed my stepmother . . . didn't do it on purpose, didn't mean to."

Still, despite all the disjointed mumbling, some sentences hung in the air as clearly as if they were written there.

"She was hurting me . . . she hated me . . . she wanted to kill me . . . she wanted me out of the house."

French had not questioned Cinnamon, and she made no response to the girl's words, although she jotted them down in her notes.

"I got the gun out of the office drawer in the house—I was angry with her . . . she hurt my little sister ... I couldn't ignore her choking her."

French had no way of knowing that she was hearing almost exactly the same words that Cinnamon had said to McLean. The girl tossing on the bed beside her seemed bone tired—no, more than that—absolutely exhausted as she fought the effect of the pills she had taken, but she also seemed coherent.

"She hated me . . . wanted me out of the house ... I was angry at her."

And then, finally, Cinnamon Brown could no longer fight the medication's creeping sedation, and she slipped into unconsciousness.

It seemed a classically simple case. The suspect herself had admitted the crime. Although the thought appeared to break his heart, her own father presumed she had done it. Cinnamon had asked Patti Bailey to show her how to shoot the .38 only hours before Linda was shot. What other answer could there be? A jealous teenager, resenting her stepmother, chafing at rules, regulations, orders to do chores, and believing that she was the object of hatred and rejection, had struck back.

With a gun. She was sorry now, horrified to hear that Linda had died.

But it was far too late.

If the events of March 19, 1985, had been a movie and not tragically real, it would have been over. But a confession is never enough to take into court. It is only a part of the
body of the crime;
the corpus delicti is not—as so many people believe—the
actual
corpse, but is, instead, all the components that make up each crime itself.

Back at the house on Ocean Breeze Drive, Bill Morrissey continued to take pictures, gather evidence, and supervise the measurement of each room of the house. If, as Cinnamon Brown had now admitted, she had shot Linda, he needed the evidence that would substantiate her confession. More of the body of the crime, as it were.

McLean had reported to Morrissey that Cinnamon said she had shot the gun three times—twice at Linda, and once in Patti Bailey's room. And Patti herself said she had been awakened by gunfire. Morrissey moved to the front bedroom. Patti's room.

Morrissey's photographs showed that, like the rest of the house, Patti Bailey's room was crammed with new furniture. It seemed a room any teenage girl would love. The walls were papered in beige, yellow, and brown, and there were crisply starched white sheers over the window, topped with lacy valances. Patti's furniture was heavy maple with brass drawer pulls, and her bed was a smaller version of the white iron bed where her sister had died. The covers were turned back, as if someone had leapt out in a hurry.

There was a trundle bed in the room, pulled from beneath Patti's bed; it had not been slept in.

Patti had her own stereo, her own television set. And she had a profusion of dolls and teddy bears and stuffed animals. The dolls were "collector's items," the kind offered to viewers of television shopping networks. Any one of them would cost a hundred dollars or more. There were books— the only books in the house beyond a
Reader's Digest
condensed-book series and the Bible on one of David Brown's chests. Patti's books were teen romance novels. Innocent puppy love books, much beloved by pubescent girls, the precursors to Harlequin romances—without the sex scenes.

David Brown had not only taken his wife's sister into his home, he had given her a room that any girl would envy. And she kept it in immaculate condition, with all of her treasures neatly arranged and all her furnishings polished.

Morrissey scanned the walls, looking for some sign that a bullet might have pierced them. He gazed around the room, taking it in in segments, his camera dispassionately recording everything. The mirrors, TV, stereo, window, were all intact. The dolls and teddy bears sat undisturbed, as did Patti's large jewelry case, and the gold and crystal display case above it. There were golden chains tumbling out of the crammed drawers.

Just over the head of Patti's bed there was a little sconce holding teddy bears and a framed picture, an etching in pale silvery tones. Morrissey bent closer. It was a bird of some sort taking flight. He had seen similar birds in David Brown's office. Eagles or—what were they?—
phoenix
birds. Like in that old movie with Jimmy Stewart and his crew who crashed in the desert and rebuilt their shattered plane,
The Flight of the Phoenix.

Morrissey was a no-nonsense man, not given to musing over the deeper meaning of mythical birds. His eyes were grainy from lack of sleep, and he had hours to go as he methodically preserved the olive-green bungalow and its contents with photographs and measurements. But at the moment, he wanted most to find the single missing bullet that would validate Patricia Bailey's firm belief that Cinnamon had stood in the door of her room and deliberately fired a gun at her.

And then he saw it. He had been staring right at it without registering what he saw. There was a large wall hanging over Patti Bailey's bed—about three feet by five feet. It was the kind of tapestry often sold at roadside stands, along with cement lawn statues, birdbaths, and wooden whirligigs. This was a familiar staple in the tapestry medium—tigers playing with their cubs against the bright yellow earth, green palm trees, and a red sky.

One tiger had taken a bullet right through its plush heart.

Morrissey figured the slug had to be embedded deep in the wall behind the hanging. That meant the tapestry would come down, and if the bullet was not resting just behind it, the wall was coming down too. As luck would have it, the wall had to be carefully sawed in a large rectangle, removed, and there, between the studs, Morrissey found one battered .38 slug.

Beyond that slug, Bill Morrissey's roster of evidence removed from the Ocean Breeze Drive house the morning of March 19 included:

1. Gunshot-residue evidence kit with swabs from two tests—David Arnold Brown and Patricia Bailey.
   
2. One Smith & Wesson .38 revolver, serial #R304915 (initialed by officer), from floor of. . . master bedroom.
   
3. One Smith & Wesson, Model 19-4, .357 magnum revolver, serial #6F8K783, with six live rounds, in holster in plastic bag, from master bedroom.
   
4. One box Winchester .38 Special silvertip ammunition—from beneath bed in master bedroom.
   
5. One box Winchester .357 magnum silvertip ammunition—from beneath bed in master bedroom.
   
6. Bloodstained bed sheet, multifloral pattern, pillows and cases, blanket.
   
7. One black leather "Liberty" holster for .38 Smith & Wesson, with chrome metal belt clip, in drawer in master bedroom.
   
8. Drinking glass with Star Trek character.
   
9. Sample of clear liquid in glass.
   
10. Three empty prescription vials.
    
11. One 56½" by 38½" tiger wall tapestry.
    

In combination, or separately, these items might make salient physical evidence in a murder case. Certainly, the murder gun would. But what about the rest of it?

The crime scene investigators stayed at the house hours after David Brown and Patricia Bailey left at seven
A.M
. The grieving family fled to Arthur and Manuela's home with only a suitcase filled with items for the baby. They could not bear to stay in the house—not yet. The investigators found it difficult to work around them and were relieved to see them go.

Alan Day suggested that David Brown return in an hour; he would be able to give him a better idea then of how long it might be before they could occupy the house. When David and Patti Bailey returned, Day told them it would be several hours more, maybe even a few days. They were allowed in to collect toys and diapers, which they loaded into David's van.

David was concerned about some jewelry that he had left in the master bedroom and asked if he could retrieve it. Day said that wouldn't be possible, but he offered to get it if Brown could describe what he wanted.

"My wristwatch—a Rolex—and my cross, on a chain. I took them off last night and put them on my chest of drawers."

Day located the items in a jewelry box and brought them to Brown. Once again, David and Patti drove off.

When the investigators were finished, Morrissey would oversee the locking of the residence with a police lock; he had obtained the code for the security alarm system from David Brown. They had not yet begun to search the Terry travel trailer, and they would need to come back to the house itself.

The investigators left at the shooting scene on Ocean Breeze Drive worked through the morning, their night's sleep lost forever. By 12:22, the house was empty. The yellow ribbons whipping in the March wind cordoned off the crime search area and told passersby that something unusual had happened there. Neighbors gathered in knots to stare, and to try to remember something—anything—that might have forewarned them that things were not well in the Brown household.

But they were hard put to come up with anything. Nobody had really known David and Linda Brown, and the teenagers who lived with them. They were the only renters on the street, and the Browns had seemed an extremely close-knit family who had little time to talk with neighbors. With their extended family visiting so often, they appeared sufficient unto themselves. Later, upon reflection, neighbors would have more to say to reporters from the
Orange County Register
and the
Los Angeles Times.
Encouraged— entreated—to search their minds for something,
anything,
that might be important, they came forth with blurry remembrances.

Within hours of Linda Brown's murder, police investigators believed that they knew
who
had done the shooting; they even had a motive that seemed plausible, if simplistic. Still, they suspected they might never know the real reasons Cinnamon Brown had killed her stepmother. The designated shooter had lapsed into a comatose state from which she might never awaken.

6

W
hen Garden Grove homicide investigator Fred McLean's steel-blue eyes first met the warm brown eyes of Orange County coroner's deputy Bernice Mazuca, the ambiance was hardly idyllic for romance. "Bernie," the more talkative of the pair, smiled as she recalled their meeting. "We were in Little Saigon at a triple murder scene, and Fred and I were trying to identify shoe impressions in blood. I said, 'Nike,' and he said, 'New Balance,' and we looked at each other and suddenly realized we had more in common than a mutual interest in death investigation. We were both runners." The initial attraction long outlasted that murder. They got married.

Fred McLean, compactly muscled at fifty-three, a ruddy-cheeked blend of Scotch and German ancestry, was the one obsessed with running. He began each day by traversing a brisk five- to seven-mile course. He was what you might expect if you took a career Marine and turned him into a street cop, tough and taciturn at first glance, a softie when his veneer was peeled away. He did not peel easily.

"My folks came to L.A. from Kansas in the thirties to find gold; they found the Depression instead, and I was born in the Salvation Army hospital in Los Angeles. Back in Wellington, Kansas, my grandfather owned half the businesses in town and had a verbal contract with the Santa Fe Railroad to ice their produce cars. The Santa Fe built a spur to Wellington right up to Heinrich Wilhelm Glamann and his enterprises. The old man gave my dad a job when L.À. fizzled on him, paid him eighty-five cents a day—good wages in 1937."

And so began McLean's sporadic "commute" between Kansas and California. His love of sports stemmed from the glory years of football in Kansas when his team was first in the state. He joined the Marine Corps in 1956 where he played guard and blocking back on the football team in the single-wing formation. Young McLean soared high and fast in the Marine Corps. He became a first lieutenant when he was barely twenty-one, flying 119s, Panther jets, and any aircraft the Marine Corps used. He wasn't thirty when he was one of the "old guys" who shepherded five thousand young Marines to stand by off the Bay of Pigs during the Cuban missile crisis. "They never got to fight. They were too young to appreciate that; they were so revved up they damn near tore up a town."

McLean learned a lot about human behavior, and a great deal about discipline and commitment, in the Corps. He loved it all. When he said, "The Marine Corps was my life," you know he meant it and could sense what it cost him to walk away. But McLean's first wife gave him an ultimatum after he had been with the Corps for a decade. He seldom had stateside duty; his son rarely saw his father. The choice was simple. The Marine Corps or the marriage.

McLean chose the marriage.

Police work was the only civilian career that appealed to him, and it began as a grudging second choice. McLean's wife was dubious about it, suspecting—correctly—that it might be as dangerous and as time-consuming as being in the Marine Corps. She agreed only after he promised he would stay away from Los Angeles County and sign on with some sleepy Orange County department.

Garden Grove fitted that description when McLean joined the force on August 26, 1966.

But not for long.

The marriage foundered, but McLean's fascination with police work bloomed. To counteract the fine edge of tension that walks with a policeman always, McLean ran and played football. He was forty-eight when he hung up his shoulder pads for the last time. He was out in the field on training maneuvers with his Marine Corps reserve unit until he was fifty. And to celebrate his fiftieth birthday, he ran fifty miles. Over the years, McLean survived shoot-outs and dicey encounters, and his skill with people moved him steadily up through the ranks from patrol into the detective unit.

He had found his niche.

As the primary investigator into Linda Marie Brown's murder, McLean was present at her autopsy. The postmortem examination began at nine-thirty
A.M
., five hours after the young mother had been pronounced dead.

From the "cold room," in the Orange County Forensic Center, the gurney carrying Linda's body turned right and trundled perhaps twenty feet down the hallway to the entrance of the autopsy room. It was L-shaped, bright with overhead lights, as clean as constant scrubbing with floral-scented disinfectant could make it, and equipped with a half dozen stainless steel tables. Depending on the weather, the phase of the moon, or any number of conditions that seemed to serve as catalysts for violent death, the tables might all be occupied or there might be only a single postmortem in progress.

Sly irreverence, the black humor that makes constant exposure to tragedy bearable to those who must deal with it every day, revealed itself impishly in the Orange County coroner's autopsy room. The light-switch plates bore likenesses of tiny, naked cartoon men. When the switches were on, the little men had erections. The switch plates had been there so long that only a visitor noticed anymore.

Dr. Richard I. Fukomoto performed the autopsy, witnessed by McLean and his fellow investigator Steve Sanders; Joe Luckey and Bill Lystrup of the Orange County Coroner's Office; Rob Keister, a criminalist with the Orange County Sheriffs Office; and Mary De Guelle, a forensic specialist with the Sheriffs Office. All had attended numerous postmortems, and they gathered around the table with interest, but with a dispassion achieved over long time. Experience had taught them to suspend emotion in this room.

But sometimes this removal from what was before them was difficult to maintain. Linda Brown had been a beautiful young woman with a perfect figure. Her skin was pale as snow now and marred with two bullet wounds of entry between her full breasts.

Rob Keister began the procedure by retrieving evidence
on
the body. The Orange County criminalist placed a sheet of clear acetate over the stippling pattern on Linda Brown's chest, then marked the pattern of the gun-barrel debris. He plucked three unburned kernels from her breast and retained them for evidence.

Linda's hands also had several unburned powder kernels, and these were removed before GSR tests were done. Routine—the position of the wounds and the gun made it well nigh impossible for Linda to have shot herself, but she might have held her hands up in a vain gesture of protection. More likely, the shooter had simply been very close to her as the gun was fired.

Fingernail scrapings were collected, and the victim's pubic hair was combed for alien hairs or fibers. None were collected.

Dr. Fukomoto began dictating as he approached his subject. Pathologists measure precisely, and Fukomoto adhered to that as he described the first wound as "upper midchest wall, located forty-nine and a half inches from the sole of the foot, and thirteen inches from the top of the head, slightly to the right of the midline—approximately one-half inch."

This wound just inside the right breast measured 1.1 centimeters and was circled with a concentrated "tattooing" of gunpowder and barrel debris with a diameter of one inch. There was less tattooing extending over another two inches. Fukomoto detected no burning of the tissues and found the angle of fire was from below, traveling slightly upward and left to right. The fact that the tissue was not actually burned ruled out a contact wound, but the gun would have had to be six inches or less from the victim when fired.

The second wound was located forty-seven and a half inches from the sole of the foot and fifteen inches from the top of the head. The wound itself was the same size as the first, but the tattooing affect sprayed over a much wider radius—up to nine inches—with debris from the gun apparent all the way up to the chin and left side of the face. To the layman, the tattooing of gun-barrel debris means little; to the criminalist, it can pinpoint the distance the shooter stood from the victim. The second of Linda's wounds had resulted from a bullet fired from twelve to twenty inches away.

There was no way to determine which had come first; they had been sustained within minutes of each other.

Fukomoto turned the body over and saw an area of hemorrhaging on the back. With the flick of a scalpel, he removed a slightly deformed large-caliber slug from just beneath the skin near the midline of the back. A second, similar slug was removed near the upper right shoulder. Rob Keister took possession of the two battered slugs and bagged them, noting that no trace evidence was found on either.

Fukomoto executed the usual Y-shaped incision—down obliquely from each shoulder, meeting at midline. Autopsy means "to see for one's self," and the procedure can give up unfathomable secrets. There is irony in the study of the dead. So many postmortems reveal ravaged organs, hardened arteries, systems that should have long since shut down and still have worked remarkably well for decades. Only misadventure or violence ended the lives of the subjects.

And in the young, as in the examination of Linda Brown, the body so recently an efficient machine, the heart's arteries pink and glistening with no deposits of fatty plaque, the lungs light pink despite Linda's continual worry that she could not seem to quit smoking, the kidneys healthy. Everything healthy.

But she was dead.

One bullet had merely grazed her right lung, but had pierced the superior vena cava; the other had entered the right lung. The superior vena cava is a large vein that returns blood to the right atrium of the heart. Vital. Linda Bailey Brown could not have survived more than fifteen minutes— on the outside—with a hole in the vena cava, unless she had immediate medical care. She might have lived for some time with the wound to the right lung alone.

Linda Brown had bled to death. She was only very tenuously alive when Officer Darrow Halligan bent over her to see if she breathed, and she was still clinically alive when she reached the hospital. At this point, it was too late to be sure how long she might have been alive and bleeding internally in gushing freshets of blood from her vena cava and her lung before help was summoned.

Her husband had been afraid to check on her. He had been terrified about what he should do, and in his panic, he had called his father for advice before he called 911. Would the sequence of his calls have made any difference? Probably not. Linda had been so terribly injured.

Still, it made Fred McLean wonder. He himself was a man of action. He could not fathom the thought that a man would not rush to check on a wife he loved, how he could wait until a policeman got there to find out if she was dead or alive.

Cinnamon had admitted to the shooting—to "hurting Linda." It was difficult to disbelieve her. And McLean could see the destruction the bullets had wrought. Hell, it probably wouldn't have made any difference if Brown had rushed in and carried Linda out and driven her to the hospital the minute Patti Bailey told him she had heard shots in the house while he was away. People bleed to death in hospitals with a team of surgeons standing by.

But still . . .

Even after the postmortem, tests would be done on blood and tissue samples, on body fluids and stained clothing. Blood from the right pleural cavity, stomach contents, liver tissue, urinary bladder tissue, brain tissue, vitreous fluid from the eyes. Heart blood was retained, along with the pretransfusion blood retained by Joe Luckey, muscle and marrow samples, vaginal, anal, and oral swabs and slides, and the bloodstained nightshirt with the dancing penguins.

All of it neatly packaged and labeled.

And then Linda's body was released to the Dimond and Sons Mettler Mortuary for burial arrangements. She was cremated at the Coastal Crematory in Pasadena on March 25, 1985.

Her ashes were not immediately inurned; her widower wanted everything to be "as perfect for her as I could make it."

A long time later, David Brown recalled that he had agonized over what to do with Linda's ashes. "Linda and I both believed in cremation. We agreed that whichever one of us was left behind would scatter the other's ashes off of Diamond Head in Hawaii—because we were so happy there. But that was before Linda was a mother. I couldn't do that to our child. I couldn't deny Krystal a place to go where she could be close to her mother. I instructed the cemetery in Newport Beach to allow Krystal to take Linda's ashes to Diamond Head if that's what Krystal chose to do when she was old enough to decide.

"Linda's in a fountain, right in the base of the fountain, where she can hear the water cascading down twenty-four hours a day. She's way up where she can see the ocean—if it isn't a smoggy day. I loved her enough that I wanted her to have everything the way we discussed it."

Employees at the memorial park recalled David Brown. He bought
two
niches, and two dark verdigris antique-bronze plaques. He was not satisfied with the first chiseling of an inscription and ordered the job redone. His manner was so unyielding and arrogant that he was not remembered fondly.

For his own reasons, he had that first plaque removed and destroyed.