Search for Her

by Rick Mofina

  Snout to the ground Mason explored the fringe of the desert before moving into it, like a reluctant swimmer wading into the ocean.

  Lange returned to her position with her camera and concentrated. Clenching one eye, she drew her face to the viewfinder, looking through it, loving how the highway was shimmering in the heat haze, creating illusory puddles in the road, thinking she had some great stuff here.

  She ignored Mason’s barks. “I’m busy,” she said, her face moist now and tight to her camera as she worked lining up a shot.

  But now the sound changed to his hunter’s bark.

  Lange was getting incredible images when she heard soft snapping, like the crunching of dried twigs, then Mason growled.

  Lange turned. Mason had gone deeper into the desert by some thirty yards but was poised with his ears pricked, his tail wagging near clumps of sun-dried thistle.

  Lange’s first thought was a snake or coyote and she swallowed, chiding herself for not leashing him and walking him out.

  “Mason, come here!”

  He remained rooted in place, barking, his attention locked on to something.

  Lange moved quickly, detaching her camera, setting it in the front seat, tightening her grip on her monopod, preparing to use it as a weapon as she approached her dog, ready to grab his collar.

  “Mason, come here!”

  He barked as if telling her: “No, you come here!”

  Lange steeled herself. She got within ten feet of him and froze. The little hairs on the back of her neck stood up. In a heartbeat it came into view...a hand...arm...a corpse...

  “Jesus!”

  A young woman lay on her stomach on the ground, her body bloated, hair laced over her face, bloodied foam leaking from her mouth and nose, the discharge writhing with maggots. She was wearing a T-shirt, her shoeless bloodied feet encrusted with feasting insects.

  Seventy-Seven

  Death Valley Road, California

  Lynn Lange gulped water from her bottle. After calling 9-1-1 it took her a moment to recover from the initial shock of finding a dead body in the desert.

  She was acquainted with death. Photographing shootings, fires, riots and a gamut of tragedies and disasters for the LA Times had enabled her to detach herself from the fact a young woman was lying a few feet from her.

  Lange took a breath, brushed the back of her hand across her mouth.

  Okay, maybe I can’t shake this off so fast.

  She didn’t go back for a second look. She pushed the heartbreak to a corner of her mind. Then, driven by professional instinct, she took a few long shots, showing hair, an arm, a light-colored T-shirt blocked by the bush, framing things so that it was clear a body was in the photo.

  Then she poured more water into a bowl for Mason before taking up her own bottle again. Drinking, she heard the sirens approaching. San Bernardino County deputies, fire and paramedics arrived first, followed by a deputy coroner investigator, who introduced herself as Diane Stalling.

  It didn’t take long for the area to get busy as radios crackled with dispatches.

  Deputy Roy McSweeney took Lange’s preliminary statement then went over a few points with her.

  “So it’s just you and your dog, Mason, driving to Shoshone?” He copied down her driver’s license, which Lange knew he would run through police databases.

  “Yes.”

  “You stopped to take pictures and your dog went into the desert and found her?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, we’ve got an acting detective on the way from Barstow Station. She’ll want to talk to you, too. We’d like you to wait here for her.”

  “Sure. I’ll make a call, push my meeting back.”

  In the time Lange waited, she watched the unfolding of a process she knew well. A wide area around the body was sealed with yellow tape. The ground surrounding it was searched. Stalling suited up, brought her equipment next to the body, photographed the area and the body then examined it, pausing from time to time to wave off the flies. The mood was serene with no one else in sight.

  While waiting with Mason at her car, Lange got out her camera, went to the far side of her car and used the fender to shield her. Before anyone noticed, she quickly photographed investigators bending and crouching over the body beyond the yellow tape. Shooting a scene.

  As she finished, Lange caught snatches of conversations among the investigators and overheard radio transmissions.

  “...white female...teens...no obvious cause...”

  Lange got back into her car, opened her laptop to review her shots, solid death scene images, when she twigged to a transmission spilling from one of the radios.

  “...no identity located...missing person case... Las Vegas...call them... San Diego girl missing from Silver Sagebrush truck stop...right...put in a call to alert Metro...”

  Something pinged at Lange. She remembered news reports of the missing San Diego girl. Some had raised questions about a link to another case: the murder of a California teen, her body found in Nevada, about an hour from here.

  The murdered girl was from Riverside.

  Lange’s brother-in-law was a reporter with the Press-Enterprise in Riverside, where he was trying to get her a job. This death could be related to the story—this could be the story.

  Lange grappled with her situation. She had exclusive photos of a death that could be tied to both cases. It was terrible, but it was news.

  Lange powered up her windows and started her car to switch on the air conditioner. Then, looking at the spread of her photos on her laptop, she reached for her phone and made a call.

  After pressing the number, she noticed a car arrived. It bore the banner of a radio news station on its doors. Someone’s been listening to a police scanner, she thought as her call rang three times.

  “Press-Enterprise, Elliott Downey.”

  “Hi, Elliott, it’s Lynn.”

  “Hey there, sister-in-law, how’s it going? I’m still working on things for you. No news but my fingers are cross—”

  “Elliott, listen. You know that story about the missing San Diego, girl? How it may be tied to the Riverside girl who was murdered a while back?”

  “Yeah, I’ve been on it. Riley Jarrett from San Diego. Why?”

  “I think they’ve found her and I’ve got pictures for your paper.”

  Seventy-Eight

  San Diego, California

  “You want to grab more coffee before we talk to Blake again?”

  McDowell stood waiting for Elsen’s answer while he studied the photos of Riley’s shoes.

  “What is it?” McDowell said.

  Shaking his head without looking away from his screen he said: “Something still doesn’t feel right about the shoes.”

  “Doesn’t feel right, how?”

  “I can’t pinpoint it. I don’t know.”

  “Maybe more coffee would help?”

  Elsen thought. “Maybe, yeah.” Then his phone rang. It was Lieutenant Holland from Las Vegas. “Elsen.”

  “Dan, we got a heads-up from San Bernardino. They’ve got a body outside of Baker. Looks like our missing girl.”

  Elsen shut his eyes and swore under his breath. He adjusted his grip on his phone then turned to McDowell. “San Bernardino’s got a body, near Baker.”

  “Oh no.”

  Elsen put the call on speaker. “Lieutenant, I got Michelle with me. What do we know?”

  “They’re still processing but they’ll work on positive ID,” Holland said.

  “Okay.” Elsen found his pen to take notes.

  “The body’s in rough shape,” Holland said, “they estimate three to five days in the desert. A white female in her teens.”

  “Cause?”

  “Undetermined so far.”

  “Who made the find?”


  “A motorist this morning stopped to take pictures and let her dog out. The dog found it, some forty-five yards on the east side of Death Valley Road, about two to three miles out of Baker. The body was without shoes.”

  Elsen and McDowell stared at each other.

  “The woman who made the find is an ex news photographer,” Holland said, “and a radio reporter is on the scene, so this will get out fast.”

  “Want us to go to Baker?”

  “Not yet. San Bernardino’s working on ID as fast as they can. Besides, it’s their jurisdiction. They’ll assume the case now.”

  “This could be tied to Garcia,” Elsen said.

  “I know. I’ve been alerting others, including our Homicide,” Holland said. “That’s all I’ve got. I’ll get back to you as soon as I have more.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” McDowell said. The call ended, and she sat heavily in the chair next to Elsen. “We’ll have to alert the family soon, Dan.”

  “It’s part of the job I hate.”

  “I know.”

  Elsen cued up photos of Riley, smiling at them as they absorbed the news. The development was a kick in the teeth. Despite all the evidence, despite the statistical odds, both of them had held on to a flickering hope that they’d find her alive. The family was not picture-perfect. They had suffered tragedies in the past. They had problems, big problems, and then something like this happens.

  “Rykhirt,” McDowell said. “It was Rykhirt all along.”

  “Fourteen years old,” Elsen said. “He likely killed her within a few hours then drove to Vegas and fantasized.”

  Before they could even get to the question of notifying the family, McDowell’s phone rang. This time it was Lieutenant Jackson from the command post. “We’ve got a development.”

  “Is it about the body near Baker?”

  “No, Lieutenant Holland just called me on that.”

  “What is it?”

  “We’ve got video you need to see.”

  Seventy-Nine

  San Diego, California

  “All set?” Cliff Lawton, a digital forensic specialist with the Las Vegas police, asked from the Sagebrush.

  His voice echoed through the speaker of McDowell’s phone at San Diego police headquarters.

  After a flurry of calls Lawton and Travis Quinn, the Sagebrush’s surveillance chief, had relayed to the detectives a quick summary of their work on recovering the lost security video. They had sent files and were now poised to guide them through what they had. McDowell and Elsen had readied their tablets and phones.

  “Good to go,” Elsen said.

  “We’ll start with the original,” Lawton said. “Watch your screens.”

  Footage played of Riley moving through the Silverado convenience store, appearing to be searching for someone before leaving.

  “Now we’ll go to the citizen video from Margot Winton, where we pick up Riley with the suspect, Rykhirt, in the lobby,” Lawton said.

  Winton and her friend appeared, standing before the Statue of Liberty mural. In the left corner of the frame they glimpsed Riley in her white Friends T-shirt. Then the recording captured Rykhirt taking photos of Riley before approaching her, talking to her, putting his hand on her shoulder, Riley brushing it away before they vanished from the recording.

  “All right, so that was the citizen footage,” Lawton said. “Now, we’ll run the footage we’ve just recovered from the security system, picking it up from there. Stand by.”

  From different angles they saw Riley, appearing worried as Rykhirt talks to her, puts his hand on her shoulder. Riley brushes it away. Then the footage revealed a continuation of actions not previously seen. Rykhirt attempts to touch Riley’s arm again as if comforting her, she brushes it away, takes a step back from him and raises her arm, suddenly waving to someone off camera. Rykhirt turns, follows her gaze before Riley walks off, leaving him.

  “Stand by,” Lawton said.

  Footage tracks Riley walking alone from the lobby toward the food court before the footage dissolves into a blizzard.

  As for Rykhirt, new angles change back to the main lobby, tracking him, moving alone in the opposite direction to the exit. Alone. Camera angles shift to exterior footage showing Rykhirt leaving the building as he enters the parking lot, alone. Angles shift again, picking up Rykhirt walking alone to his blue Nissan Versa. Angles shift again with Rykhirt getting into his car alone and leaving the complex. Angles shift again showing Rykhirt’s Nissan entering the I-15 northbound on-ramp for Las Vegas.

  “In this footage we see that Rykhirt did not abduct Riley Jarrett,” Lawton said. “He’s on the interstate and she’s in the food court. The time and date stamp shows they separated.”

  Elsen and McDowell shook their heads slowly.

  “Hold on,” Elsen said. “So who was she waving to? Was she waving to someone she recognized?”

  “We don’t know,” Lawton said. “We haven’t tracked her inside the food court. We haven’t recovered that footage yet. We’re working on it.”

  “What you’ve done is excellent, critical. Cliff, Travis, thank you,” McDowell said.

  “We’ll get back to you as soon as we have more,” Lawton said.

  Finished with the call, Elsen tapped his pen on the tabletop and stared at nothing.

  “Do you believe this?” McDowell began replaying the new footage.

  “It’s not Rykhirt,” Elsen said, “but not for lack of trying. He followed them from Fontana, stalked her in the Sagebrush and fantasized about her. He was hunting and had every intention of abducting her.”

  “But he didn’t,” McDowell said.

  Elsen tapped his pen. “So who was she waving to, Michelle?”

  “Maybe no one.”

  “No one?”

  “Maybe it was a fake wave, a ruse Riley used to get away from him?”

  Elsen stuck out his bottom lip. “Maybe. So, if it’s not Rykhirt, then who?”

  Eighty

  Nevada

  Las Vegas Officer Nate Rogan climbed into his marked Ford F-150 pickup at Metro’s substation in Jean and headed for the Silver Sagebrush.

  As he drove, he chewed on the update concerning Riley Jarrett’s case: a body had been found near Baker.

  So this is how it ends?

  Looking out at the desert and the mountains, he thought, what had it been? Five days since he was alerted to her disappearance. It seemed like a lifetime. It broke his heart.

  His Ford roared along the old Las Vegas Boulevard highway. It paralleled I-15 to the east with less than a quarter mile of empty desert between the two roads. Taking in the distant interstate traffic, Rogan thought of Riley, her family and how more pain was coming for them. Maybe it was better they were already home in San Diego for this, rather than out here.

  The search was still in full force. But Rogan knew it would end once they received confirmation of the identity from San Bernardino. It’s why he was headed to the Sagebrush now. To be there to help dismantle the operation, send everyone home with thanks.

  Rogan was about a mile from the Sagebrush when he saw a flash of chrome and glass; a windshield reflecting the sun from a vehicle. But it wasn’t on the road, or the shoulder. It was about one hundred yards into the desert. Odd. What was it doing out there? Couldn’t be part of the search operations, he thought. They’d scoured that area several times and cleared it within the first few days. Better check it out.

  Rogan slowed then left the road, heading for the vehicle, his truck jostling on the uneven terrain, brush scraping against the undercarriage and frame. As he got closer, he saw no markings to indicate if it was a state, county or corporate service vehicle. Then he thought it might be a roller who’d gambled away everything in Las Vegas then, unable to go on, drove out into the desert to end things. Sadly, it happened.

  Rogan s
topped behind the vehicle. He saw no one near it. It was a newer blue Ford Explorer SUV with a California license plate.

  Rogan called in his position and details, requesting his dispatcher run the plate: 2GAT123.

  Holding his microphone, he waited, thinking that the tag was familiar. It dawned on Rogan just as his radio crackled “vehicle sought by SDPD, CHP and FBI...missing subject Caleb Clarke...in relation to NCIC number...Riley Jarrett...”

  Caleb Clarke? The boyfriend.

  Rogan got out. He unclipped his holster and, with his hand on his grip, approached the SUV.

  Windows were up. He went to the front passenger door. No one inside. The interior was littered with fast-food wrappers, water bottles, cans of energy drinks. A rumpled sleeping bag and blanket were in the back. No other signs of life.

  Rogan turned to the desert, scanning it in every direction.

  Seeing nothing, he started back to his truck when he glimpsed a figure about sixty, seventy yards in the distance, sitting on the ground, back to him.

  “Caleb!” he called.

  No response. No sound but the interstate traffic.

  “Caleb Clarke, Las Vegas police!”

  No answer.

  Rogan kept his hand on the grip of his gun and headed toward the person, seeing only their back and lowered head. They were sitting cross-legged. Rogan couldn’t see the person’s hands.

  As he got closer, Rogan said: “Las Vegas police. Raise your hands so I can see them.”

  The person didn’t respond.

  Adjusting his grip on his gun, Rogan stood behind the person. It was clear it was a young white male with his head down and mumbling.

  He tried once more. “Are you Caleb Clarke, son?”

  Eighty-One

  San Diego, California

  The shrieking of the kettle subsided with the water grumbling to a boil. Sherry looked at Grace from the counter where she made tea. “Talking about Tim’s death won’t help.”

  “I need to say what really happened.”