Girl With a Past

by Sherri Leigh James

  “Oh, no, no, please no. I think it might be Kira, Margaret’s daughter.” Mom pulled her phone out, pushed buttons as we walked toward the ambulance. “Margaret? Are you home? Is Kira with you?” She paused. “Come outside.”

  Mom hurried to the back doors of the ambulance as the gurney was loaded. I didn’t know Kira, but Mom’s face and a sharp cry told me it was Margaret’s daughter.

  A tall blonde hurried from a walled house two doors down and rushed to where we stood. Mom reached out to squeeze her neighbor’s shoulder.

  “Kira.” Margaret caught a sob. “Oh, oh. That’s my daughter.”

  The EMT extended a hand, helped Margaret into the vehicle.

  “Margaret, I’ll call Sid.” Mom assured her friend. She walked to the front of the ambulance. “I’m calling the father. What hospital?” she asked the driver.

  The driver told Mom which hospital and that he would let Margaret know her husband had been called.

  Mom pulled me with her to Margaret’s open gate where she got Sid’s cell number from the housekeeper and made the promised call.

  “Will she be okay? I asked as we walked hand in hand back down the sidewalk.

  Mom choked back a sob, shook her head, “The wound looked bad . . . really bad. But head wounds bleed a lot. Let’s pray she’ll be okay.”

  “Is there anything else we can do Mom?” I couldn’t stand the thought of how crushing the loss of their daughter would be to Margaret and Sid.

  Tears ran down Mom’s cheeks. I slid my hand around her waist and held her close while I wiped away my own tears.

  We entered the house with the policeman. All appeared normal until we got to Dad’s study. The safe was still open. The desk and floor were strewn with papers; every drawer had been ripped from the desk and now littered the floor. Books were helter skelter below emptied shelves.

  “How did they get the safe open?” Mom asked.

  “I opened it.” I explained what I’d done and seen.

  “Do you know what they were looking for?” a policeman asked.

  Mom and I both shook our heads, indicated we didn’t know and were told to leave the area.

  “This is part of the crime scene, ma’am. I’m sorry but you’ll have to leave the premises.”

  “We’ll wait for my husband in the back of the house.” Mom told the policeman who looked dissatisfied that we were not leaving immediately.

  “Is she . . . is Kira going to be okay?” I asked the officer.

  He lowered his chin, shook his head slowly. "She's going to have a long recovery."

  Mom flinched, sighed. My heart fell.

  We went into the kitchen and called Dad. When his voicemail answered, I called his office.

  “I’m pretty sure he’s on his way home,” his secretary said.

  I was still shaking.

  Mom’s trembling hands wrapped me in a cashmere throw, poured each of us a glass of Pinot Noir, and we sat in the seat of the bay window in the kitchen in silence for several minutes. Mom continued to wipe tears and her nose.

  So many questions went through my mind. What was going on? Why did that photo trigger my strange reaction?

  “Mom. Alexandra Johnson, I mean Lexi, and the boy . . . man, who disappeared the night she was killed, they look familiar to me. Did you and Dad have photos of them around when I was younger?”

  Mom shook her head. A scowl marred her lovely heart shaped face. “Definitely not. Your Dad didn’t need any reminders.”

  “But yet you named me for her.”

  Mom looked at me. Her brown eyes studied my face for a minute as though she were deciding how much to tell me. “Yes.” No explanation was offered.

  “Why?” I asked.

  Mom shook her head. “I always liked the name Alexandra. And your Dad . . . I guess he wanted to somehow continue Lexi’s existence.” She hesitated. “I don’t really know. I only met Lexi once, but . . . it wasn’t the name we had agreed upon, but when we saw you, well, Al just seemed right for a baby who was obviously going to grow up to be a beautiful woman. As you have.” Mom gave me a weak smile, squeezed my hand.

  “Lauren! Al!” Dad’s voice echoed from the garage. “What the hell is going on here?” He bound up the stairs to the kitchen and pulled us into a hug. “What’s with the police cars? Are you alright?” His fingers turned my face to examine the scratches from the manzanita bush. “What happened?”

  We had just finished filling him in on everything we knew when a Detective Schmidt entered the kitchen and greeted Dad. “Sir, I’m sorry. We need to seal the crime scene. Come to think of it, I’m sure you understand that.” The detective referred to Dad’s position as a prosecuting attorney. “Just a few questions before you leave. What would someone be looking for in your safe? Did you have valuables in there?”

  Dad jumped to his feet and strode to his study. We heard his exclamation when he saw the condition of the room.

  I followed him down the hall. The open safe was now empty.

  “Al, what did you take from the safe?”

  “Just the file we’d talked about,” I said.

  Dad described the missing contents of his safe, papers, documents, passports, a half dozen jewelry boxes, and a gun. He answered several more questions for the police.

  “Okay, girls, grab some overnight things. We’ll go to dinner and spend the night at the St. Francis. That’ll give these gentlemen the chance to do whatever they need to do without us under foot.”

  “Do you really think that’s necessary darling?” Mom’s husky voice sounded much calmer than I felt, but I knew she was faking it.

  “It’ll take awhile to process the scene.” He wrapped his arms around his trembling wife. “Plus, I don’t like the idea of spending the night here with that window broken. Tomorrow we’ll have it repaired and have some new locks installed.”

  “I could just go home after dinner, Dad, back to Berkeley.”

  “I’d rather you stuck with us until we know what this is all about.”

  “Sir, if I may,” Detective Schmidt addressed Dad. “I’d like to ask Alexandra a few more questions.” The detective turned to me. “You opened the safe?”

  I nodded.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I was looking for some papers.”

  “Valuable? Something the perps might have wanted?”

  “I can’t imagine why. It was just a file from an old case that I wanted to use for my criminal anthro class.”

  He studied my face for a full minute. “One of the neighbors mentioned that you bear more than a casual resemblance to the young woman who was shot––both of you being tall, slender and blonde."

  “Oh shit! That’s just awful.”

  CHAPTER

  4

  After dinner with Mom and Dad in the St. Francis dining room, I crawled into the luxury hotel bed with the file folder. Even without the letter to the Chronicle, authorities had seen a connection between Lexi’s murder and the Zodiac killer. Hers was just one of the 37 deaths the self-named Zodiac had claimed as his victims. And she had been killed by the same caliber of bullet as other victims also thought to be his.

  He had shot and stabbed several young couples. The nutcase seemed to have a knack for spotting and attacking couples on their first date.

  The police were sure he’d killed at least four women and three men. There were three more young lovers who had been wounded, but recovered, and several more unsolved cases that could have been the Zodiac’s doing.

  Early victims had been shot, but later the Zodiac seemed to switch between using a gun and a knife. One Jane Doe, the only one to have been moved from the primary scene, that is, from where she had been killed, was both shot and stabbed.

  I flipped through horrible, gruesome photos of mutilated bodies with Z’s carved into their flesh. What a sicko this Zodiac was!

  Notes in Dad’s handwriting and in a variety of inks, evidenced Dad going over this file on several occasions.

  At dinner
, Dad had asked that I give the file back, forget the whole thing.

  No way was I going to do that––now I suspected somebody else wanted the file––or maybe didn’t want me to have it. I wanted to know why.

  But Dad wouldn’t let me keep it if he thought it was dangerous. I tried a diversion. “Maybe there was something else in your safe they were after? I mean, we don’t know they were after the file, do we?”

  Dad shrugged but when we returned upstairs he left the door between our rooms ajar. “Don’t hesitate to come into our room if you hear anything,” Dad said as he kissed my forehead. “Sleep tight.”

  “Won’t let the bed bugs bite,” I responded and, even though my head hurt like hell, I smiled at my handsome Dad as he went into my parents’ room.

  I wasn’t going to sleep tight, or it seemed at all. Every time I closed my eyes I saw the sickening photos of carved bodies, chests with Z’s slashed through young breasts. I hated knives. The mere sight of a large, or even small, blade creeped me out.

  I read through the file a second time relieved to learn that most of the carving had occurred when the victims were dead, or at least unconscious. Still I avoided the photos of the corpses.

  Even the photos of the victims that had been taken before their encounter with the Zodiac made me feel heavy with grief. They were all so young. And beautiful. Except for the taxi driver.

  I guess I fell asleep during my third time through the file. I woke with a start to find my face on top of scattered papers.

  A noise, I thought a noise had woken me. Someone was jiggling the handle of the hotel room door.

  “Who is it?” I asked, “Dad?”

  No answer.

  The door opened two inches, caught on the chain.

  Panic hit me. I grabbed the folder and was across the room before I realized I’d left pages on the bed.

  I turned, scrambled to pick up papers. But then lock cutters appeared in the open crack, the door opened into the room.

  I dropped everything, dashed to the door connecting to my parent’s room. I ran into their room, slammed the connecting door closed, and pounced on their bed.

  “Dad! Somebody’s opened my door.”

  Dad leaned over, picked up the phone on the nightstand, and pushed a button. “I need hotel security.”

  He jumped out of bed, rushed to each door, flipped the dead bolts, and attached the security chains. He picked up the phone, “Someone has broken into our connecting room.”

  As soon as Dad came back to the bed, I fell between my parents. Mom put her arms around me. Dad put his arms around both of us. “Security is on the way up.”

  We waited. Sounds of movement next door grew louder.

  Dad responded to a knock on the hall door. “Who is it?”

  “Hotel Security, sir. Could you please look at the room? See if anything is missing?”

  Dad and I opened the connecting door and looked into the room.

  “Did you move the papers that were on the bed?” I asked hopefully.

  “No ma’am.”

  I saw a few sheets of paper scattered on the floor and sticking out from beneath the bed. My overnight bag that I’d brought from Mom and Dad’s was upside down, my clothes strewn across the floor.

  The file folder was gone.

  CHAPTER

  5

  After Detective Schmidt left and Mom had dozed off, I asked, “What’s going on here, Dad? Who took your file?”

  “Al, your guess is as good as mine. I really have no idea why the sudden interest in that file after all these years.”

  “Why did you put it away?”

  “It seemed hopeless. There’s no new evidence and the killer might’ve died by now.” Dad was silent for a moment, then he said, “I was ready to move on.”

  I slept next to my mother that night while Dad sat guard in the armchair.

  I awoke to the sounds of lowered voices talking in the bathroom.

  “Take Al to your father’s for awhile,” Dad said. “He’ll be happy to put on extra security at his estate.”

  “Sweetheart, do you think we’re in danger?”

  “I don’t know. I have a bad feeling.”

  “What about you? And Steven? Are you two safe?” Mom’s quavering voice gave away her fear for her husband and son.

  “I have no idea, but I can’t walk away from this case––you know my office has been prepping it for months.”

  “Don’t you think we’re safe here, in the hotel?” Mom asked.

  “After last night?” he reminded her, “Did you notice the break into Al’s room? And Kira was shot in front of our house!”

  “Maybe we should tell the kids,” Mom said.

  “No.”

  “They aren’t children anymore. They can handle it.”

  “What would be the point?” Dad said. I’d never heard Dad take such a serious tone with his adored wife.

  “Are you never going to tell them?” Mom was totally serious too.

  “Maybe not.”

  I couldn’t take anymore; I had to let them know I could hear every word. And I had to know what the hell they were talking about. “Yo. Dudes. Parents, I can hear you.”

  Dad came out of the bathroom, shirtless but fully dressed from the waist down, wiping his face with a towel. “Good morning sweetheart.”

  “Dad, what’re you maybe never gonna tell us?”

  He ignored my question. “You and Mom are going to spend a few days with Grandpa.”

  “Dad, I have classes. This is my last semester––I can’t miss my seminars.” I scowled at my father to let him know I was serious. “I’m not a child. Don’t order me around.”

  “Al, I’m worried about your safety.” He buttoned his pale blue oxford shirt.

  “Why me? What about you?”

  “Because you’ve had two run-ins with somebody. And because of Kira.”

  “Don’t you think that could’ve been a coincidence?” I really did not want to think I had been the real target.

  Dad shook his head.

  “But now they have the file . . . so that’s probably the end of it. Don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know what to think, but I don’t want to worry about you.” He straightened his tie and put on a navy blue blazer. “I gotta run. Gotta be in court this morning.” He leaned over to kiss my scowling face. “Love ya, kiddo.”

  “Da-a-ad! You’re leaving? Wait, you haven’t told me.”

  “Bye.” He closed the door.

  “Mom? Are you ever coming out of there?” I whined.

  My mother stuck her head around the edge of the door. “Only if you promise not to torture me into telling you something I can’t.” She came into the room, her slender body wrapped in a towel.

  “Don’t be a bitch.” I said without thinking.

  Mom’s brown eyes filled with hurt. “You can call your friends that, not your mother.”

  The pain on her face brought a sinking sensation to my chest. My mother was such a sweetheart. Caring, loving. I felt like a shit.

  “Oh, Mama, I’m sorry.” I reached out to wrap my arms around her, but she brushed past me.

  She shook her head. “That’s not a term of endearment, not in my generation.” She brushed something, maybe a tear off her cheek, and hurried into her clothes. “And don’t think you can sweet talk me after that.”

  I knew that tone. Not a chance I would get one hint out of her. I jumped out of the bed. “I have to get to class. Can you drop me?”

  “Your dad wants us to go to Grandpa’s.”

  “Not happening,” I yelled back at her as I dashed into the adjoining room and into my clothes. I peeked under the bed to look for stray items from Dad’s Zodiac file, stretched to pick up a few sheets of paper. Whoever they were, they’d missed a few.

  “Can we stop to get coffee?” I yelled into the next room.

  “You don’t have time for room service?”

  “No way.”

  “Grandpa’s?” Mom
jammed nightclothes into an overnight bag.

  “Definitely not.”

  She sighed in reaction as she retrieved Dad’s pj’s from the bathroom floor.

  “But your father . . .” Mom said as she emerged from the bathroom. “Please listen to me. You know how difficult . . . Your dad gets grouchy while he’s trying a case.”

  She paused for a moment waiting for a response. When she didn’t get one, she tried a different tact. “Whenever I even imagine that you or your brother might be hurt, a pain shoots through my body as though your bodies are still part of mine.”

  I’d heard about that pain before, but I was doing my best to avoid the reacting guilt.

  “Let’s go.” I stood in her room with my book bag in my arms.

  CHAPTER

  6

  We headed over the bay bridge to Berkeley and up Ashby to get coffee.

  “Mom, you aren’t gonna tell me?”

  “What?’

  “You know what.”

  “No.” She turned her head briefly to smile at me. “You’re right. I’m not. Peet’s coffee?”

  “Fine.” I folded my arms and slunk down in my seat.

  I looked at my mother. She appeared to be fragile. In fact, she was tough, a tigress devoted to her family, her charities, and to her children. Her children went way beyond my brother and I to include numerous under-privileged young people whom she had taken under her wing with both emotional and financial support.

  Mom turned left below the Claremont Hotel, double-parked on Domingo Avenue and remained in the car, I ran in for coffee and two whole-wheat scones. I absentmindedly watched the traffic out the window while I waited for the coffees.

  A blue econo-van pulled around mom’s Lexus.

  I carried the coffee to the condiments counter and put cream and sweetener in both. When I turned around I saw the same blue van behind Mom’s car. Must’ve been circling the block, looking for a parking place no doubt. Berkeley totally has a parking shortage.

  I handed a coffee in to Mom via the driver’s side window and climbed into the passenger seat. “Drop me at Bancroft and Telegraph please?” I checked the clock in the dash. “I’m barely gonna make my class.”