by Larry Darter
Ortega and Drew found the man’s story interesting. They were curious about the foreign language.
“When did she hear the screams?” Ortega said.
“Late Friday night,” the man said. “Or maybe it was real early Saturday morning.”
The detectives believed someone had killed Henry within that timeframe. The man’s claim sounded reasonable.
“When did you have this conversation with your neighbor?” Ortega said.
“Last night,” the man said. I missed Wheel of Fortune, so it must have been between nine-thirty and ten.”
The detectives went to the woman’s apartment, who had heard the loud talking. They peered through a window before knocking and were encouraged by the luminescence of a television screen. When the woman answered the door, Ortega introduced himself and Drew. She blinked hard a few times, then reluctantly invited the detectives inside. In the corner of the living room, the detectives saw a religious shrine with a statue of the Virgin Mary holding Jesus, votive candles, and rosary beads on a wooden table.
Ortega asked the woman a few general questions about the victim to put her at ease.
“She hardly talked to anyone,” the woman said, speaking of Henry. The woman was barefoot and wore a large silver cross around her neck. “She usually walked around with her head down. At first, I thought she was shy. But after a while, I decided she just didn’t care to associate with the people who live here.”
“Maybe she just liked her privacy,” Ortega said, thinking about Henry’s vocation.
“Well, she didn’t have any reason to think she was better than anyone,” the woman said. “I heard what she did for a living. It was immoral and degrading. It’s against God’s will.”
“When did you last see Ms. Henry?” Ortega said.
“The last time I saw her was Friday evening, at the laundry,” the woman said. “That’s another thing. She would put her clothes into the washer and then leave and not return for hours. That was so rude. We only have a few machines. Her laundry would stay in the washing machine for hours after it had washed. No one else could use the machine.”
“Did you ever speak with her?” Ortega said.
“I told her once I liked saying the rosary,” the woman said. “She said that was nice, but I didn’t think she even knew what I was talking about it. I’m sure she wasn’t a religious person.”
“So, you didn’t see here around any time on Saturday or Sunday?” Ortega said.
“No, but then I never saw her very often except for sometimes at the laundry or mailbox,” the woman said. “I think she stayed inside her apartment mostly when she was at home.”
“When did you hear the noise disturbance, the two guys talking loudly?” Ortega said.
“I don’t remember for sure,” the woman said. “Maybe late Friday night, but it could have been very early Saturday morning. Like one or two o’clock in the morning. It woke me up. A short while later, I head something very disturbing.”
“Tell us what you heard,” Ortega said.
The woman nervously shuffled the business cards the detectives had given her. It was clear she was ill at ease. “That’s what scared me so much,” she said, hugging herself so hard she dug her fingernails into her upper arms. “I heard two people walking past my door, talking very loud.”
“How did you know it was two people?” Ortega said.
“I peeked out through the blinds,” the woman said. “They were talking in a foreign language, very fast and very loud. I went back to bed. Then, only a few minutes later, I heard another noise, like a loud moan.”
“Was it a scream or more like moaning?” Ortega said.
“The first sound was high-pitched, but not a scream exactly,” the woman said. “The second was lower. A moaning sound is the best way I can describe it.”
“Was it a female?” Ortega said.
“Yes, it was,” the woman said. “Then I heard the two men again, very clearly. It sounded like they were arguing, but I couldn’t understand what they were saying. They were speaking a foreign language. I thought they were rude to be talking so loud late at night. Then someone slammed a door.”
“The foreign language,” Drew said. “Was in Spanish?”
“Oh, no, not Spanish,” the woman said. “Something else.”
Ortega had a thought. Henry’s apartment complex was on the edge of the area in Los Feliz, known as Little Armenia. “Have you ever heard the Armenian language spoken?” he said.
“Yes, an Armenian woman once lived next door to that murdered girl,” the woman said. “She moved out about two weeks ago. Now that you mention it, I think it might have been Armenian I heard spoken.”
“Did you hear those guys come back by your apartment after you heard the scream or moan?” Ortega said.
“No, the last thing I heard was someone slamming a door,” the woman said. “If they left, they must have gone down the other stairway and out by the laundry room.”
The detectives knew the laundry room was near the back parking lot, and that tracked with what the old guy had told them about the guys the woman had heard maybe climbing the back fence.”
“This Armenian woman you spoke of, do you know if she lived alone?” Ortega said.
“Yes, she lived alone,” the woman said. “She had a daughter and a son. He stayed with her occasionally. Sometimes when he came to visit her, he had another guy with him. Always the same man.”
“Do you think those guys were the men you saw, the men talking loudly when they passed your apartment?” Ortega said.
“I can’t say,” the woman said. “It was dark outside. I just quickly peeked out through the blinds. My living room light was on. All I saw were two shadows. I couldn’t see what those men looked like, only that there were two of them.”
The woman put the business cards on the coffee table and picked at the cuticle on her finger.
“Did those guys sound drunk?” Ortega said.
“No, it sounded like they were arguing. The voices sounded angry. Maybe they saw me when I looked out the window. I’m so scared I can’t sleep. Last night I couldn’t sleep at all. Should I be scared about those men?”
“We don’t think there is a predator in the neighborhood randomly going after women,” Ortega said. “We believe someone specifically targeted Ms. Henry. But be aware of your surroundings when you go out. When you’re in the apartment, keep your door locked.”
“I sure hope you find the person who killed that girl,” the woman said wistfully.
Drew nodded reassuringly. “Don’t worry, ma’am,” he said. “We’ll get him.”
The detectives left the woman’s apartment.
“Let’s go talk to the manager and see what we can find out about that Armenian woman and her son,” Ortega said.
The apartment complex manager told the detectives an Armenian woman had lived next door to Henry but had moved out twelve days before the murder. “I know the son stayed with her occasionally and that the police have arrested him before,” the manager said. “Cops arrested him once on a felony warrant when he was staying at his mother’s apartment. A detective told me to stay away from him because he was a violent person.”
“Do you know the son’s name?” Ortega said.
“No, he wasn’t on the lease,” the manager said. “I never heard it. I only know who he is, and that he is the woman’s son.”
“Anyone lived in the apartment since the Armenian woman moved out?” Ortega said.
“No, I’ve left the apartment unlocked since last Thursday,” the manager said. “Our handyman is painting it and laying new carpet to get it ready to rent.”
Ortega thanked the manager, and the detectives left the office.
“What that woman said makes sense to me,” Ortega said. “If the suspect hit her hard enough on the back of the head, she would have been disoriented. She probably wouldn’t have let out a bloodcurdling scream. She wouldn’t have yelled, ‘What the fuck are you doing here?’ It wou
ld probably have been something more like what the woman described to us.”
“I just don’t understand how someone like her, probably used to being aware of her surroundings because of her job, let someone walk up on her and push his way into her apartment,” Drew said.
Ortega shrugged. “If it was the Armenian, Henry probably knew his mother and maybe knew him from living next door,” he said. “That could explain it. She might not have been wary of him. Or she could have only been distracted trying to get her door unlocked while she had her hands full with the laundry basket.”
“So, what’s the game plan now?” Drew said.
“Let’s go back to the bureau and see what we can find out about the Armenian,” Ortega said. “The manager said we’ve arrested him at his mother’s apartment on a felony warrant. I’ll make some calls and see if anyone knows about that. Maybe we can get a name.”
“Sounds like a plan,” Drew said.
“Youngblood, I feel like we’re building momentum on this one,” Ortega said.
Chapter 20
Back at West Bureau, the detectives ate lunch at their desks while they continued working. Drew had talked Ortega into stopping by an In-N-Out Burger on Sunset on the way. While Ortega called some detectives he thought might be able to identify the Armenian, Drew perused sex crime reports from the neighborhood around Henry’s apartment house. He found something intriguing.
About five weeks before the murder, two Hollywood patrol officers had responded to a domestic dispute radio call at the apartment building where Henry lived. The woman told the officers that a man who had recently moved in with her had forced her to have sex with him several times. The officers transported the couple to the Hollywood station for interviews. Once they arrived, the woman recanted. No charges were filed.
Ortega finally found someone who knew something about the Armenian, a burglary/theft detective at Hollywood. The detective told Ortega that a Glendale detective he knew had mentioned arresting an Armenian guy at Crestwood Apartments on a warrant for a burglary rap. The Hollywood detective didn’t know the suspect’s name, but he gave Ortega the Glendale detective’s name.
“Let’s drive over to Glendale and talk to him,” Ortega said after filling Drew in on the substance of the phone call.
“Okay,” Drew said. “I have something to tell you about on the way.”
In the car, Drew told Ortega about the rape call at Crestwood Apartments he had learned about from the report he’d found.
“Yeah, we definitely need to talk to that woman,” Ortega said. “Maybe it was the same Armenian guy we’re looking at. We’ll stop by her apartment after we finish at Glendale PD.”
* * *
Ortega and Drew pulled up chairs beside the desk of the two Glendale detectives, Vincent Jennings and Matt Norman, who had arrested the Armenian at Crestwood Apartments.
“Narek Hovnanian is the guy’s name,” Jennings said. “We were investigating a string of commercial burglaries, and we tailed two suspected burglars, one of whom was Hovnanian.”
“This might get your attention,” Norman said. “Our two suspects frequently cruised right by the apartment house where someone killed your victim.”
Jennings counted on his fingers and said, “You’ve got a dead lady. This guy’s mom lives next door. Those assholes frequently drove right by the apartment. What are the odds?”
“Did Hovnanian visit his mom much?” Drew said.
“Oh, yeah,” Norman said.
Ortega said, “You think your two burglars are cold-blooded enough to rape and kill the girl?”
“You talk to those guys, and you’ll see they both have the shark stare,” Jennings said, nodding. “It wouldn’t surprise me at all if one or both of them did something like that.”
Norman said, “There are a lot of coincidences involving those assholes and your murder. With homicide cases, I don’t like coincidences one bit.”
Back in the car, the detectives slipped on their sunglasses, and Ortega cranked up the air conditioning. L.A. was experiencing a heatwave. Ortega explained his theory to Drew while he drove them back to the apartments on Los Feliz.
* * *
As they walked across the grassy courtyard at Crestwood, lots of the tenants were sitting outside on lawn chairs and benches.
“This place is a microcosm of America,” Ortega said. “Among the tenants are Jamaicans, Armenians, Mexicans, Puerto Ricans, African-Americans, and Japanese. It’s a mini melting pot.”
Drew nodded. “And they are unified by a common emotion—fear.”
An elderly Asian woman shyly approached them as they made their way toward the apartment of the woman that had reported the rape and then recanted.
“May I speak with you privately?” the woman said.
“Sure,” Ortega said.
They walked away with the woman out of the hearing of the other residents in the courtyard.
“There is a black man, a large man, who lived here with a white woman for a while,” the woman said. “He was here the week before someone murdered that young woman. I used to see him smoking out here in the courtyard. Then the day before you guys came after they found her, he left and hasn’t returned. He’s a very strange man. A very different kind of guy. I thought you should know this.”
“An African-American man?” Ortega said.
“No, he’s black, but he speaks with an accent,” the woman said. “I think maybe he’s Jamaican.”
“What apartment was he staying in?” Ortega said.
The woman told him the apartment number. Drew’s pulse quickened. The man was staying in the same apartment as the woman they had come to interview.
After Ortega thanked the woman for the information, the detectives continued to the apartment she had mentioned. After Drew knocked, a white woman in her mid-forties answered. He introduced himself and Ortega and told the woman they wanted to ask her some questions about the homicide they were investigating. She invited them in, and they followed her through the living room, decorated with African masks, to the kitchen. The woman told them her name, Cheryl Cooke.
Drew asked Cooke some basic questions about Henry. Cooke said she didn’t really know Henry but occasionally ran into her at the laundry room.
“Wasn’t there an incident involving a man who lived here about five weeks ago?” Drew said.
“No… not really,” the woman stammered, shaking her head. “He’s a friend. It was only a misunderstanding.”
“How big is this guy?” Drew said.
“About six-two, two-thirty,” Cooke said.
“What’s his name?”
“Teddy. Teddy Hamilton.”
“How did you meet Teddy?”
“I used to work in the film industry,” Cooke said, picking up a spoon from the table and tapping it against her palm. “I did some extra work. I met Teddy about two years ago. He was an extra, too.”
“Did he live here?”
“No. Teddy moved to Seattle but he recently moved back to Los Angeles. He stayed here just a few days last year. And he stayed with me again this month for about a week.”
Ortega said, “Was he here last weekend?”
“Yes, but he left on Sunday afternoon. I dropped him off at the bus station. He went to New York.”
“Is he your boyfriend?” Drew said.
“We’re kind of on the outs right now,” Cooke said.
“What happened that caused you to call the police?” Drew said.
“Teddy is very possessive, and I wanted him out. I had to go to school, community college, and take care of business.” Cooke raised a hand and fluttered her fingers. “But all he wanted to do was talk, talk, talk.”
“Were you afraid of him?” Drew said.
“Not really. I just wanted Teddy out of my space.”
“You told the patrol officers he forced himself on you,” Drew said.
Cooke shook her head. “It wasn’t really rape. Sometimes a woman just doesn’t feel like having se
x. You know?”
“Was it against your will?” Drew said.
“Yes and no,” Cooke said, shrugging her shoulders. “I guess I didn’t feel like it, but he wanted to have sex. When he was staying here, I’d want to go to the lab or the library at school, and he always wanted to make love. It was cutting into my time. My schoolwork was suffering, and I resented it.”
Cooke bit her lip and stared down at the table. “During one of his visits, I called the police.”
Ortega sensed Cooke was trying to protect her former boyfriend. “When my wife doesn’t want to have sex, she doesn’t call the police,” he said.
“That’s your wife,” Cooke said sharply.
“My partner is just trying to say if you didn’t want to have sex, Teddy didn’t have a right to force you,” Drew said.
“Okay,” Cooke said, still staring down at the table.
“Where’s Teddy from?” Drew said.
“He was born in Jamaica, but he’s from New York,” Cooke said.
“Has he ever been arrested for anything that you know of?”
“Once when he was eighteen, but I don’t know the details.”
“In New York?”
“Yes.”
“Has he been back since Sunday?”
“No, he went to New York,” Cooke said irritably. “He said he is going to stay there a while. He has family there. Anyway, I don’t want someone in my space that much. I’m not letting him back in here even if he comes back to Los Angeles.”
“Did he have money for the bus fare, or did you pay?” Drew said.
“He had money.”
“How much did the ticket cost?”
“I think it was around two-hundred dollars.”
“Where did Teddy work when he lived here?” Drew said.
“He didn’t have a regular job,” Cooke said.
“Where did he get his money?”
“I don’t know.”
