“Okay,” he finally said. “We’re going to go through this in greater detail now. Let’s start with the Gutierrez case. Tell me about that.”
It took Ballard ninety minutes to go through everything under Feltzer’s detailed but nonaccusatory questioning. At times he brought up seeming inconsistencies and at others questioned her decision-making, but Ballard knew that any good investigator asked some questions that were designed to incite upset and even outrage in their subject. It was called trying to get a reaction. But she maintained her cool and spoke calmly during the entire interview. Her goal was to keep it together through this phase, no matter how long it took, knowing that eventually she would be left alone and would be able to let herself go. Over the years she had read several primers in the police union newsletter and knew to repeatedly use key words and phrases like “fearing for the safety of myself and the other victim” that she knew would make it difficult for FID to find Trent’s killing other than justified and within the department’s use-of-force policy. FID would then recommend to the District Attorney’s Office that no action be taken against Ballard.
She also knew that it would come down to whether her words matched the physical evidence collected in Trent’s house, her van, and the garage up in Ventura. After not straying during the interview from what she knew had happened, she left the interrogation room, confident that there would be no contradictions for Feltzer and his team to grab on to.
When she emerged from the trailer, she saw that the crime scene had become a three-ring circus. Several police vehicles as well as forensic and coroner’s vans were clustered in the street. Three TV vans lined up outside the yellow tape on Wrightwood, and up above, news choppers circled. She also saw her partner, Jenkins, standing on the periphery. He nodded and held up a fist. She did as well and they mimed bumping from twenty feet apart.
By ten a.m. Ballard had completed the walk-through with the FID team. Most of the time had been spent in the bottom-level room, where Trent’s body remained, hands still tied behind his back with her bra. Ballard felt fatigue crushing her. Other than the minutes when she had been drugged into unconsciousness, she had been going for over twenty-four hours straight. She told Feltzer she was not feeling well and needed to crash. He said that before she could go home, she needed to go to a Rape Treatment Center to find out whether Trent had raped her while she was unconscious and for evidence to be collected. He was arranging for one of his detectives to drive her when Ballard asked if her own partner could be the escort.
Feltzer agreed. They made an appointment for a follow-up interview the following morning and then the FID lieutenant let her go.
As she was leaving, Ballard asked about her van and was told it was going to be impounded and examined by the forensics team. She knew that meant it would likely be a week or more before she got it back. She asked if she could take any belongings out of it and was again told no.
When she stepped outside the house, she saw Jenkins waiting for her. He gave her a sympathetic smile.
“Hey, partner,” he said. “You doing okay?”
“Never better,” she said, meaning the opposite. “I need a ride.”
“Absolutely. Where to?”
“Santa Monica. Where are our wheels?”
“Down behind the news vans. I couldn’t find any parking.”
“I don’t want to walk by the reporters. How ’bout you go get it and come back to pick me up?”
“You got it, Renée.”
Jenkins walked off down the street, and Ballard waited in front of the upside-down house. Two of Feltzer’s detectives came out the front door behind her and climbed into the MCP. They didn’t say a word as they passed Ballard.
Jenkins took Mulholland all the way to the 405 freeway before heading south. Once they were out of the hills and Ballard knew she’d get a clear signal, she asked to borrow her partner’s phone. She knew she would have to sit through a psychological exam before being allowed to return to duty. She wanted to get it over with. She called the Behavioral Science Unit and made an appointment for the next day, fitting it in after her follow-up appointment with Feltzer.
After giving Jenkins his phone back, Ballard collapsed against the car door and slept. It wasn’t until Jenkins was exiting the westbound 10 that he reached over and gently tapped her shoulder. Ballard awoke with a startle.
“Almost there,” he said.
“I just want you to drop me off and then go,” she said.
“You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure. Don’t worry about me. Go home to your wife.”
“I don’t feel good about that. I want to wait for you.”
“John, no. I want to be by myself with this. I’m not even sure it happened, and if it did, I was out and I’ll never remember it. Right now I just want to do this by myself, okay?”
“Okay, okay. We don’t have to talk about it. But if you ever do, I’m here. Okay?”
“Okay, partner. But I probably won’t.”
“That’s okay, too.”
The RTC was part of the Santa Monica–UCLA Medical Center on 16th Street. There were other hospitals where Ballard could have gone to get a rape examination and evidence kit but the RTC had a reputation as one of the premier facilities in the country. Ballard had ferried enough rape victims there during the late show to know that she would be met with full compassion and professional integrity.
Jenkins pulled to a stop in front of the intake doors.
“You don’t have to talk about this, but at some point you need to tell me about Trent,” he said.
“Don’t worry, I will,” Ballard said. “Let’s see how FID goes, then we’ll talk. You thought Feltzer was fair on the Spago case, right?”
“Yeah, pretty much down the middle.”
“Let’s hope he doesn’t have anybody on the tenth floor whispering in his ear.”
The Office of the Chief of Police, or OCP as it was known, was on the tenth floor of the PAB.
Ballard opened her door and got out. She looked back in at Jenkins.
“Thanks, partner,” she said.
“Take care, Renée,” he said. “Call me if you want.”
She waved him off and he drove away. Ballard entered the facility, pulled her badge from her jacket, and asked to see a supervisor. A nurse named Marion Tuttle came out from the treatment section and they talked. Forty minutes later Ballard was in a treatment room. The blood had been cleaned off her hip, and cotton-swabbed samples had been placed in evidence jars.