by Larry Darter
Ortega stood up. Drew followed his lead.
“So far, so good,” Ortega said. “That’s exactly how I see it happening. Do you think the blow to the head killed her? Was she dead when he dragged her to the bedroom?”
“I think it stunned her for sure, made her less able to resist,” Drew said. “But I don’t think the blunt force trauma killed her. The shirt on the floor she was wearing is torn. I think by the time he got her to the bedroom, she tried to fight back.”
“Okay, I can buy that,” Ortega said. “So who are we looking for? Someone she knew or a stranger?”
“I’m a little confused about the stab wounds,” Drew said. “That suggests anger, rage even—especially if it turns out the stab wounds are postmortem. Maybe an ex-boyfriend, or some guy she dissed and was pissed at her. It seems personal.”
“Okay, I see that, but let me explain something,” Ortega said. “The offenders who do these crimes are angry at all women. Especially attractive women. Maybe something happened to them during their fucked up childhoods they blame women for. They grow up feeling rage against women because they blame women for their own inadequacies, whatever they end up being. So, I agree the stabbing, which was overkill, suggests anger and rage. But maybe it wasn’t directed at the victim as an individual, but maybe women in general.”
“Okay,” Drew said. “In that case, I’d say it’s a stranger case. It was someone she wouldn’t have let into her apartment voluntarily. They followed her to the door, forced their way in, and then attacked her with sudden violence.”
Ortega nodded. “Very good, Youngblood. You think you would have seen all that from eye level?”
“Probably not,” Drew said. “Most of what I saw in here, I didn’t even register until we came back from the bedroom. I didn’t even notice the flip-flops the first time through.”
Ortega nodded. “It probably wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment thing either,” he said. “These assholes have to work up their nerve before they act. He probably saw her at some point, then stalked her for a while. He could have seen her somewhere else and followed her home to learn where she lived. But, my guess is the suspect is connected to these apartments. Either he lives here or visits someone that does.”
The patrol officer on the door stuck his head inside. “There is someone here that wants to talk to you guys,” he said to Ortega.
The detectives went out the door to the walkway. A middle-aged Hispanic man stood down the walkway. The detectives walked over to him.
“I live here in the other building,” the man said. “I heard what happened and thought I should tell you guys something.”
“What’s that?” Ortega said.
“There is this loony tunes character in one of the ground floor apartments below that you should talk with,” the neighbor said. “I’m not saying he did it, but he runs around where he doesn’t belong. The other day he scared my wife to death outside the laundry room.”
“Okay,” Ortega said. “Show us where he lives.”
The detectives followed the man downstairs. He pointed out the apartment. Ortega thanked him and told him he could go home. Ortega knocked on the door and told the man they would like to ask him a few questions. The man opened the door and let them enter his apartment. While Ortega talked with him, Drew looked around. He noticed a pair of women’s sneakers in a trash can. He found that odd since the Hispanic guy had told them the man lived alone. Ortega handed Drew the man’s driver’s license and told him to call it in on his phone and check the guy’s records. Ortega asked the guy to step outside into the courtyard. Reluctantly, the man agreed.
Drew phoned communications and asked them to run checks on the guy. Although it is warm out and the skies were clear, the man wore a long green raincoat. He was unshaven and stared off into the distance with a slightly demented expression.
“Am I suspect?” the man said suspiciously to Ortega.
“No,” Ortega said, waving his hand dismissively. “We’re talking to all the residents to find out if anyone saw anything.”
“I didn’t see nothing,” the man said. “I’ve been inside my apartment all day.”
The dispatcher told Drew there were no warrants for the man. She said he had some minor offenses on his criminal record, but no assaults and no sexual offenses.
“He’s clear,” Drew said to Ortega.
With no grounds to detain the man further, Ortega told the man he could go back inside.
“I can’t believe the guy isn’t a registered sex offender,” Ortega said with disappointment. “I figured with the raincoat he was a weeny-wagger for sure.”
Both detectives laughed. “He’s probably one of the homeless people the city is sticking in apartments to get them off the streets,” Drew said.
“Yeah, I don’t like him for it,” Ortega said. “I doubt he has enough brain cells to plan an attack like that. That Hispanic guy probably sicced us on him to get even with the guy for scaring his wife.”
The detectives knocked on the doors of apartments closest to the victim’s apartment and talked to residents until dusk. Palm fronds crackled in the warm breeze, which carried the scent of freshly cut grass. On the western horizon, the setting sun streaked the puffy clouds with magenta. The body movers had already hauled away the victim. The SID and coroner’s people had long since gone.
“No one who does this kind of shit goes straight home,” Ortega said. “If the suspect lives here, he won’t be here now. We’re going to interview the rest of the tenants, but we’ll wait until tomorrow. I want to go talk with the friend who discovered the body.”
“Okay by me,” Drew said.
The detectives got in the car and drove to the hospital on Sunset Boulevard, where the RA had taken the victim’s friend. The ER had already discharged the woman. A nurse told them a doctor had given her some medication and had written her a prescription. She had left hours ago.
“Okay, guess we go see her at home,” Ortega said to Drew.
Chapter 18
The address for the friend, Edie Cummings, was another apartment complex on Edgemont Street, just north of Hollywood Boulevard. The detectives found her apartment on the third floor. Ortega knocked on the door. A lanky, bleached blonde in her mid-twenties wearing shorts and a tank top answered the door. Ortega showed her his badge, identified himself and his partner as LAPD detectives, and told her why they were there. Cummings opened the door wider and allowed them to enter. Edie Cummings turned out to be a font of information about her friend Bailey.
Cummings had an L-shaped sectional sofa in the living room. She sat on one side with her long, shapely legs tucked beneath her. Ortega and Drew sat on the other side across from her.
“That was the worst experience of my life, finding Bailey like that,” Cummings said, her eyes brimming with tears. “I still can’t believe it. It’s so surreal.”
“We’re very sorry about your friend, Ms. Cummings,” Ortega said. “We’ll do everything we can to find the person who did it.”
Cummings nodded, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “I mean, you see things like that on the news,” she said. “You just never believe it will happen to you or someone you know.”
“Besides being friends, we were told you worked together,” Ortega said.
“Yes, we did,” Cummings said. “That’s why I went to check on Bailey when she didn’t answer my calls or text messages. She didn’t show up for her shift Sunday, and she didn’t call in. Bailey never missed work. Then we had an audition we were both going to this morning, and she didn’t show up for it either.”
“You were both actors then?” Ortega said.
“We’re trying to break into the business,” Cummings said. “That’s how we met. Bailey and I were taking acting classes together. We hit it off and became friends. We’ve both had a few small parts in television so far, but neither of us has had the big break yet. You know? Naturally, we both had to have day jobs to pay the bills. Or in our cases, evening jobs.”
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p; “Where did you work with Bailey?” Ortega said.
“Um… we worked together at Deja Vu on Hollywood Boulevard,” Cummings said. “Yeah, I know. You guys probably think that’s awful.”
“Oh, no,” Drew said. “We don’t judge anyone. People do what they have to do to make a living.”
Cummings smiled demurely. “But, yeah, anyway, I’m a dancer. So was Bailey. We only work four, six-hour shifts a week. We make good money and have plenty of free time to go to acting classes and auditions. Before, Bailey was working her ass off waiting tables, and she was always broke. So, I talked her into trying Deja Vu, and I got her on there.”
Ortega nodded. “Do you know if she had any problems at work?” he said. “I’ve heard customers will sometimes hassle the entertainers at the clubs, trying to get a date or whatnot. Maybe some try to follow you home.”
“No, Bailey never mentioned anything like that,” Cummings said. “I mean, we have these huge, muscular guys that work at the club. If a customer causes any trouble, they take care of it right away. We never date customers. We all use stage names, so no one knows our actual names. And we’re very aware of our surroundings when we get off work. I really can’t imagine what happened to Bailey was connected with work.”
“Okay, we had to ask,” Ortega said. “Did Bailey have a boyfriend or any former boyfriends you know about?”
Cummings seemed to ponder the question for a moment. “Bailey dated some, of course,” Cummings said. “As I do. But with work, auditions, acting classes, and all that, neither of us was looking to get into a relationship. You know? So, no, Bailey wasn’t in a relationship with anyone. As far as I know, she hasn’t had like a regular boyfriend since she has been in Los Angeles. Who has the time for that?”
“So, you mean to say Bailey wasn’t from Los Angeles?” Ortega said.
“Oh no, Bailey was from Texas, from Round Rock,” Cummings said. “I think that is near Austin. Her parents still live there. Oh my God, her poor parents. Do they know yet?”
“No, we weren’t able to find anything about her next of kin at the apartment,” Ortega said. “We found her iPhone, but it is password protected, so we couldn’t access her contacts.”
“I don’t know how to reach them,” Cummings said. “Let me think. I believe her dad’s name is Rod. Or maybe it’s Rob. And, I think her mom’s name is Michelle. Same last name, of course. It’s Henry.”
“That’s helpful,” Ortega said. “I’m sure we’ll be able to get in touch with them. Do you know how long Bailey has been here in L.A. by chance?”
“Yes, almost five years,” Cummings said. “Same for me. I’m from Florida, actually. I’m sure you guys have heard the story. A pretty girl wins all the beauty pageants back home growing up in her small town. She knocks them dead on the stage in all the high school plays. Then she heads out here to Hollywood with stars in her eyes and her hopes and dreams inside a suitcase. Only when she gets to L.A., she finds there are already girls here, just like her from every small town in the country. It’s sort of a rude awakening. Anyway, that’s my story, and it was Bailey’s.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard it is a tough business, lots of competition,” Ortega said. “That’s why I became a cop. There was a lot less competition.”
Cummings giggled. She had stopped weeping and just sat twisting the tissue in her hands.
“You know how long Bailey had lived in the apartment on Los Feliz?” Ortega said.
“Five months,” Cummings said. “She was moving at the end of the month. Her roommate at her other place moved back home to Iowa. Bailey was still waiting tables then, and she couldn’t afford the rent on their apartment alone. She was able to get a six-month lease at Crestwood. My roommate is also moving out at the end of the month. Bailey was going to move in with me.”
That memory caused Cummings to get weepy again.
“Sorry, I’m such a mess right now,” Cummings said. “I couldn’t even go to work tonight. I had to call in. But the manager is a very sweet guy. He told me not to worry about it. He was so sad to hear about Bailey, too.”
“Just a few more questions, and we’ll let you get some rest,” Ortega said.
“It’s okay,” Cummings said. “Honestly, this is the first time I’ve felt safe with having two cops here since I got home earlier.”
Ortega nodded. “I know you’ve been through a lot,” he said. “Was the door open when you arrived at Bailey’s apartment?”
“No, it was closed,” Cummings said. “I knocked and knocked. When Bailey didn’t come to the door, I tried the knob, and it was unlocked, which I found weird. Those apartments are okay, but you know, they aren’t the nicest. Anyway, I opened the door and called out to her. When she didn’t answer, I stepped inside. I can’t really describe it. It just felt weird. You know? I thought maybe she was in bed sick. I went down the hall, calling her name. Then when I got to the bedroom, I saw her. Oh, my God, it was horrific. I just lost it. I don’t even remember calling nine one one, but I guess I must have. My heart was pounding. I was trembling. I was sweating but having chills at the same time. Worst of all, I couldn’t breathe. When the cops got there, one of them said I was having a panic attack. They called an ambulance, and they took me to the ER.”
“I think we have all we need for now,” Ortega said. “We have your number. If we need anything else, we’ll call you.”
“Okay,” Cummings said. “I still can’t believe she is gone. Even though I knew she was dead the moment I saw her. But, it’s just so surreal.”
“I can imagine,” Ortega said.
“When you call her parents, please tell them how sorry I am about Bailey,” Cummings said, sniffling. “I know they will be just devastated. I’m devastated. Bailey was such a wonderful person and an amazing friend. I don’t know how I will ever get over this.”
The interview concluded, the detectives headed back to the bureau to sign out after a long day.
Chapter 19
Driving back to Bailey Henry’s apartment on Tuesday morning to interview more tenants, Ortega and Drew analyzed the case.
“I kept asking myself this last night,” Drew said. “I read recently there are around 1.9 million females in Los Angeles. Out of all those potential rape victims, why her?”
“Maybe she was unlucky and crossed paths with a predator,” Ortega said. “He might have noticed her somewhere, and she met some kind of profile that appealed to him. Maybe he was watching her, and she seemed vulnerable, an easy target.”
“So, maybe she wasn’t his first?” Drew said.
“That’s always a possibility with these kinds of offenders,” Ortega said. “It’s hardly ever a one-time thing.”
“You still think he is connected with the apartment complex?” Drew said. “Even after talking with Cummings, I’m not sure it wasn’t work-related considering what she did for a living. I’ll bet strip clubs are a magnet for sexual predators.”
“I’m convinced it is someone local,” Ortega said. “And I think it will turn out to be someone right there in the apartment complex.”
“I don’t pretend to know a lot about rape-murders,” Drew said. “I just have this bad feeling our guy isn’t a first-timer. I think we’ll find out he is a serial rapist.”
“If he is, we better solve the case in a hurry,” Ortega said. “If it starts to look like you’re right about that, you can bet RHD Special Assault Section will take the case away from us in a heartbeat.”
“When they doing the cut?” Drew said.
“The coroner’s investigator said last night it wouldn’t be until the end of the week,” Ortega said. “He said autopsies are stacked up so bad the county had to lease portable refrigeration units to store all the bodies.”
Ortega found a spot to park at the curb out front of Crestwood Apartments. The detectives got out of the car and headed into the complex to knock on doors. As they walked through the courtyard, a tenant called out, “You should look into some of her customers at the club.”
Ortega nodded without out even glancing in the tenant’s direction.
“Guess some of her neighbors knew what she did for a living,” Drew said.
“Yeah, maybe some of her neighbors were some of the customers we should look into,” Ortega said. “She might have been better off getting an apartment farther away from the job.”
Another tenant called out, “My brother’s a cop. I think it was someone she knew. I think that’s where you should look.”
Ortega laughed. “Know what, Youngblood?” he said. “There are two things every guy in L.A. believes he can do better than the experts.”
“What’s that?” Drew said.
“Solve murders and manage the Dodgers,” Ortega said with a grin.
An elderly man in house slippers, sitting in a plastic lawn chair smoking a cigarette in the courtyard, waved the detectives over.
“I’ve got some information for you,” the man whispered theatrically.
“What is it?” Ortega said.
“Not out here,” the man said, getting up from the chair. “Let’s talk in my apartment.”
Ortega and Drew followed the man into a nearby musty, cluttered ground-floor apartment.
Rubbing his palms together, the man said, “There’s a lady in this apartment building who knows something about what happened to that girl. Something I think is important. She heard two young guys talking loud in some foreign language late Friday night. Very loud talking. Then she heard screams a little while afterward. She said she thought those two guys came downstairs from the direction of that girl’s apartment and then might have climbed the back fence.”
