Land of Shadows

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  And as a homicide detective in a big city, I had visited hundreds of crime scenes starring dead, black teenage girls. But this one girl … This cheerleader …

  Tori.

  I swiped at the slick cream beneath my nostrils to reactivate its scent but more to collect myself. “How long have you been here, sweetie?” I whispered.

  The bigger larvae would help determine time of death—flies had found her and had lain eggs quicker than it takes a microwave to cook a frozen pizza.

  Stiff-legged, I backed away from her and returned to fresher air in the kitchen.

  Colin was writing in his notepad—he was the Usain Bolt of good report writing, and I almost hated to interrupt him. But I did. “Your turn.”

  Without a word, he headed toward the bedroom.

  As a cop—hell, as a decent human being—you try to make sense of horrors like this. Murder or suicide, though, a dead girl just shouldn’t exist.

  In less than two minutes, Colin plodded from the master bedroom and found me sketching the condo’s layout in my binder.

  “I’ll have Zucca do 3D scans of the condo inside and out,” I said. “Once we leave, none of this will ever be the same again. And…” I looked up from my diagram.

  His face was flushed and his eyes were moist. There was a chunk of who-knows-what on his chin.

  “Oh, crap,” I said, tossing my pen on the counter. “You throw up in there?”

  He steadied himself against the counter. “A little. But not in the closet. Near the window.”

  “Am I supposed to give you a gold star for discretion?” I muttered a curse, then scribbled a note about his vomiting on the crime scene.

  He rubbed his neck, then murmured, “Poor girl.”

  “Yeah. Fancy belt for a hanging.”

  “Is it real?”

  “The belt? From just eyeballing it, yeah, it’s real.” Back in the olden days, I used to patrol the garment district in downtown Los Angeles, a mecca for knockoff Gucci, Louis Vuitton, and Coach products. I could spot a fake Chanel handbag quicker than I could spot a hooker on fire.

  “School’s out, right?” he asked.

  “Yep.” I tapped the pen against the counter. “So was she going to or coming from a special pep rally or something? Hanging out with other cheerleaders just because or…?”

  He shrugged. “You see the phone?”

  “Yep. We’ll tag and bag it later. And I’ll have Joey check out the latest missing persons reports—she may be in there.”

  He hid a burp behind his hand, then said, “So?”

  “So, we need to find the Bad Guy. And our chances of that are cut in half if we don’t catch a lead by Friday.”

  He squinted at me. “Bad guy?”

  I closed my binder and headed to the door. “Congratulations, Colin Taggert. This is your first murder.”

  6

  As soon as we stepped into the lobby, I took several gulps of fresh air, then slowly exhaled through clenched teeth.

  “But how is this murder?” Colin asked.

  “Her hands,” I said, barely hearing myself over the phantom fly-buzzing and the roar of blood churning in my ears.

  “They were tied behind her back. So what?”

  “How the hell could she bind her hands like that? Is she a contortionist?”

  “I dated this chick,” Colin said, “who could wrap her ankles around her neck, and then do this weird, scooting thing with her hands.”

  I scratched my eyebrow. “And you’re sharing this with me because…?”

  “Because, from my experience with hot yoga instructors, I know that it’s possible that the victim could’ve tied her own hands. She’s a cheerleader, right? So she’s stretchy. Hell, kids these days do all kinds of Cirque du Soleil shit. Doin’ the Dougie and what-not.”

  “The Dougie,” I drawled. “Ri-ii-ght.”

  The huddle of looky-loos had grown, and now close to twenty people held up their cell phones, taking pictures to text and post in cyberspace. My eyes tried to scan each face in that group, but after leaving the condo I had run out of memory. Fortunately, another patrol officer was photographing the crowd.

  “Lou! Taggert! Over here.” Lieutenant Rodriguez towered over his black Crown Vic as he consulted with Shepard and Joey Jackson, the redheaded dick who sat across from me back at the station.

  Before joining the LAPD, Lieutenant Rodriguez had played linebacker for USC. At six-foot-six and almost ten tons, he had been damned good. In his junior season, he had made sixty-seven tackles, with ten of those resulting in the other team’s loss, and had been selected for First Team All-Pac-10. But then, his mother was diagnosed with non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma and he dropped out to care for her. She died along with his dreams of playing for the Raiders.

  Joey Jackson leered at me as Colin and I joined the huddle. But then, Joey had just two expressions: leering and smirky. “What’s up, Elouise?” He grinned at Colin as though we’d been caught making out behind the school auditorium.

  “She dead?” Lieutenant Rodriguez asked me.

  “No doubt,” I said. “But not how we thought. So, no one goes back in until the techs and the medical examiner get here.”

  Lieutenant Rodriguez considered me for a moment. “One-eighty-seven?”

  I nodded. “In my always humble opinion.”

  He gave Colin the up-and-down, stopping at his cowboy boots. “What about you, John Wayne?”

  “I’m not as convinced as Detective Norton, sir,” Colin stated.

  Lieutenant Rodriguez grunted—he didn’t care about Colin’s opinion and was just being polite to the new kid. He grabbed his radio from the car’s rooftop and called it in.

  “Shepard,” I said, “where’s this night guard, Mason?”

  “The Li’l Debbie over there.” Shepard pointed to a patrol car. An obviously shaken fat guy wearing a cheap, blue uniform sat in the backseat.

  “Taggert and I will talk to Mr. Mason,” I said, eyes on the guard. “Joey, check the latest missing persons reports, and Lieutenant Rodriguez, could you pull me, please, when the CSIs get here?”

  The security guard was wheezing, and his dark skin glistened with the sweat of a man who drove a Segway to take a crap. His cheap tin shield, now caught between his boobs and gut, probably said SHERIFF, DODGE CITY.

  I stooped beside him. “Sir, do you need medical attention?”

  “Naw,” he panted. “I’m”—pant—“all”—pant—“right.” Pant-pant-pant. “Whew.”

  It took almost ten minutes for Colin to take down his bio because of all the pants and whews. Eventually, we learned that James Mason was thirty-two years old, an Aquarius who lived off Buckingham Place on the other side of King Boulevard. He had worked for Jenkins Security for almost two months.

  As he talked and wheezed, I leaned in close, sniffed, then squinted at him. “Sir, have you been drinking?”

  His eyes dropped to his lap. “Naw. Well, yeah. Just a beer at lunch.”

  A beer at lunch, another beer at lunch, and then, a whole case of beer after lunch.

  “Mr. Mason,” I said, “can you tell me what you were doing—?”

  “Look, homeboy,” Colin interrupted. “Did you kill the girl? Just admit it, all right? We ain’t got all day.”

  I glared at my partner. What the hell are you doing?

  Mason’s eyes bugged. “Naw. Hell, naw. I ain’t killed nobody.”

  “And why should I believe you?” Colin asked, getting in Mason’s face. “You sittin’ there, all oiled up, drunk as fuck. We ain’t stupid, all right? You can lie to my partner all day if you want, but you can’t pull shit on me.”

  The guard leaned back, his eyes now filled with fear. “I swear, I ain’t…”

  I threw Colin another glare, then said to Mason, “What were you doing before you found her?”

  “I was doin’ my rounds.” The guard swiped at the sweat dripping down his temples. “Usually, I start on the top, level two, and work my way down, but not today. Condo 1
A was cool, locked up, nothin’ unusual. I get to 1B, though, and the door was cracked open.”

  “So what happened next?” Colin asked, but then held up a hand. “No. Wait. Lemme guess: you opened up another forty-ounce?”

  “I went in,” Mason said, his voice firm. “Shouted, ‘Anybody in here?’ Nobody answered. But there was that smell comin’ from the master bedroom. Man, I ain’t never smelled nothin’ like that before in my life. I thought some dog had died up in there. Or a possum. We get possum ’round here all the time. That’s what I was expectin’, but shit, man … She was just hangin’ there, all dead and shit.”

  “So,” I said, “the closet door was open when you came in?”

  “Yeah,” Mason said. “I closed it just a little cuz … Just seemed right.”

  “Did you turn on any lights?” I asked.

  “Naw. Just used my flashlight.”

  “Were lights on in the unit?”

  “Naw. It ain’t been wired for power yet.”

  “Other than the front door and closet door in the master bedroom, did you open or close any other doors? Did you move anything at all?”

  “Naw. I ain’t touched shit.”

  “What about windows?”

  “They was all closed.”

  “Is there a surveillance system?”

  “Naw. They took it down cuz niggas was stealin’ the cameras and shit.”

  “Do you know the victim?” Colin asked. “Tell the truth, homie, cuz we’ll find out if you’re lying, and then you’ll be totally fucked.”

  Mason shook his head. “Naw, man. I ain’t never seen her before.”

  “Did you see anything weird tonight,” I asked, “or over the last few days?”

  “Not really.” The guard swiped at his sweaty forehead again. “I get here ’round six, right when the construction crew be wrappin’ up for the day.”

  “Wouldn’t the crew have noticed a dead girl in the closet?” Colin asked. “Or did they hire the Blind Boys of Alabama to do the spackling?”

  “They been working in the back units,” Mason explained. “Ain’t nobody been up in the front since last week.”

  “So no strange people around?” I asked again. “No strange cars?”

  “Crackheads and shit hang across the street, in the Plaza,” Mason said. “Sometimes they wander over here, but it’s too early in the day for them zombie muthafuckas to come out. Zombie muthafuckas start rolling out around eleven when the bangers collect their money from the skanks, and when the tweakers pick up their last Fatburger ’fore it close for the night.”

  “And what time is your shift over?” I asked the guard.

  “I get off at three A.M.,” he said.

  The victim had been killed during this guy’s watch.

  “Where were you around midnight last night and three in the morning today?” I asked.

  Mason frowned. “Where was…? I was … Umm … Usually, I’m in the lobby.”

  “Doing what?” I asked.

  “My job,” he snapped. “Guardin’ shit.”

  Colin and I exchanged looks—a little defensive now?

  “You go to the bathroom while you’re working?” I asked.

  “Yeah,” he said. “I go to the bathroom.”

  “When did you go last night?”

  “Hell, I don’t know.”

  “Where do you go?”

  “In the outhouse by the trailer.” He narrowed his eyes as he thought, then said, “Yeah, I remember goin’. My stomach was messed up. Had them five-for-five-dollar hot dogs from Wienerschnitzel. So yeah, I was in the can ’round one. And then again at two somethin’.”

  “Did you ever leave the premises?” I asked.

  “Naw,” he said, dumb-eyed. “I didn’t leave.”

  Everyone lies: the first lesson you learn as a homicide detective.

  “Mr. Mason,” I said, crossing my arms. “I’m losing patience.”

  Colin leaned in with a grin. “Keep lying, buddy, and we’ll get a crane to hoist your ass into Men’s Central.”

  Mason swallowed hard, then croaked, “I left for a minute.”

  “When?” I asked.

  “Before I took a dump that first time, I drove to Taco Bell across the street to get a few of them chalupas, cuz I was hungry. Them dogs went through me like Roto-Rooter.”

  “So you had your midnight chalupa,” I said. “Anybody stand out at Taco Bell?”

  Mason chuckled. “Ain’t nobody ’cept weird muthafuckas at Taco Bell that time of night.”

  “Strange and evil, though,” I said, shaking my head, “those are different types of weird.” But I was now convinced that James Mason wouldn’t know the difference between Carrot Top and John Wayne Gacy.

  The guard shrugged. “There were a coupla black guys there. Black hair, tall, umm … Tennis shoes…”

  “So the starting lineup of the Lakers,” Colin said, rolling his eyes.

  “Any kids there?” I asked. “Cheerleaders or guys that looked like high school ballplayers?”

  “Nah,” Mason said. “I ain’t seen no kids.”

  “When did you get back to your post?” I asked.

  Mason shrugged again. “Around one, one thirty.”

  A patrol officer held up the DO NOT CROSS yellow tape to allow the white-and-blue coroner’s van to pull in. Dr. Spencer Brooks, my favorite ME, rode shotgun.

  “So you were gone for an hour, almost two?” Colin asked Mason, wonder in his voice.

  “Just about. Went home when my shift ended at three, then came back this evening at six.” The guard folded his arms. “Nobody ain’t never broke in here before.”

  “Until today,” I pointed out. “And now, there’s a dead girl hanging in the closet.” I pulled a business card from my pocket and offered it to the guard. “If you remember anything else, call me. For now, though, stay around a bit. I may have more questions.”

  “Am I a suspect?” Mason asked, wide-eyed.

  “I’m interested in what you’ve told us,” I said, waving over Officer Shepard.

  The guard offered a cautious smile. “Anything to help out a brother officer. Or, ’scuse me, a sista officer.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Sure. Why not.”

  Colin and I left Officer Shepard with James Mason, security guard extraordinaire. Shepard would take the man’s picture, then help him to complete a witness statement card.

  Chalupas.

  Freakin’ Taco Bell.

  7

  Because Colin was an ass, twenty-eight years old, and had the least seniority on the team, I assigned him Dumpster duty.

  “You want me to dig through the trash?” he asked, mouth agape.

  “Uh-huh. Look for anything that may possibly be related. Start with that one.” I pointed to the filthiest Dumpster on the building’s north side, the Dumpster with the waves of spoiled-food-cat-urine-and-dirty-boxers stink wafting off it. “And mind the rats—don’t want you comin’ down with hantavirus.”

  He scowled. “I didn’t come all the way from Colorado to dig through some trash can.”

  “And I didn’t come all the way from the Westside to hear you bitch about coming from Colorado.” Then, I turned my back to him. “Next?”

  Joey Jackson, who would’ve been assigned Dumpster duty the prior week, clapped Colin on the shoulder and said, “Get to diggin’, Cowboy.”

  Dr. Spencer Brooks, the medical examiner, was a close friend of my sorority sister Syeeda McKay. He had the “black professor” thing going on: small frame, wire-rimmed glasses, and less sense of humor than a mortician. But! He was as bright as a supernova and had helped me clear almost all of my cases. As I strode toward him, I shouted, “I am so glad to see you.”

  “What do we have?” he asked, grabbing his tool kit from the van’s backseat. I briefed him as we headed to unit 1B, where Lieutenant Rodriguez, Joey Jackson, and Arturo Zucca, the lead criminalist, waited.

  “But you don’t think it’s a suicide?” Brooks asked as Weasel Cop
took pictures of his shoe soles. “Because of the bound hands?”

  “Gut feeling,” I said, shaking my head. “Her hands, yeah, but there are a few places on the ground that look like someone may have cleaned a spill, and again … Trusting my gut here.”

  I led Brooks to the master bedroom, and the rest of my team followed. We watched silently as he approached Jane Doe.

  Flashlight in hand, Brooks shone light up and down the girl’s body, then stooped to start collecting fly larvae of every size. Once he had vialed enough specimens, he shone the beam of light on the victim’s hands. “Rigor’s set in … And look at her fingers. The tips are dark purple—the blood’s settled. She’s been dead for a while.” Using a scalpel, he cut through the girl’s tank top right above her waist. Then, he cut into her skin and stuck a long thermometer through the incision, deep enough to pierce her liver. After a few seconds, he checked the thermometer’s gauge. “Sixty-nine point six … She’s probably been dead for about twenty hours.”

  “Shit,” Joey muttered. “A day, just about?”

  Brooks shone his light on the victim’s bound hands again.

  She wore yellow acrylic fingernails.

  “The tips have been cut off,” I noted. “And one nail, the right middle, is totally gone.” My eyes skipped around the closet. “And that one nail is presumably missing.”

  “Were they cut before or after she died?” Lieutenant Rodriguez asked.

  Brooks said, “Don’t know.”

  My sister would clip off the tips of her acrylics, then soak her fingers in acetone before going to the nail shop—the shop charged if they had to take them off. Back then, I had cringed as I watched my sister doing this, as nail carcasses flew here and there, sometimes hitting me in the eye, most times landing in the space between Tori’s bent leg and thigh; Technicolored nasty things that held two weeks’ worth of dirt, dead skin, and, on my sister’s worse days, green fungus.

  Had this (Jane Doe being frugal and doing some of the work herself) been the case here? Or did we have a monster who had watched episodes of CSI and knew that her fingernails held vital clues to his identity?