Land of Shadows

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  There was yellow dog hair on the cloth backseats.

  There were no ashes in the ashtray—she didn’t smoke. Just a receipt from the Ladera Center Petco. On Tuesday evening, at 7:13, someone had purchased a bag of Science Diet dog food and a doggie chew toy.

  I popped open the trunk and found the food and toy. “If she wanted to kill herself, why buy food and leave it in the car you’re about to abandon?” I took a step back and stared at the Lexus as though it would answer. Before it could, I spotted a pair of lemon-colored skinny jeans, a black tank top, and black Ugg boots in the shadows of the trunk.

  “Think this is what she had on before changing into the cheerleader getup?” Colin asked.

  I nodded. “So when did she change? Hell: why did she change?”

  Colin searched the car’s cabin next.

  I turned to survey the entire parking lot. My gaze stopped on a dark green truck that slowly rolled north past the mall. The windows were tinted, so I couldn’t see inside the cabin. Was this a looky-loo or—?

  “Where’s her purse?” Colin shouted.

  I tore my eyes away from the green truck and said, “What?”

  “Her purse,” he repeated. “You know, the bag you ladies carry that’s filled with a bunch of crap nobody needs.”

  Most teenage girls carried a purse stuffed with a phone, a bottle of perfume, a wallet, keys, earbuds, lipsticks, eyeliner, tampons, pens, chewing gum, a broken necklace, an earring without a back, and a book of matches. A field kit for surviving the City.

  No shoes, and now, no purse? What was missing was just as important as what had been found.

  “We’ll log and collect everything,” Zucca said. “Better to take too much than not enough.”

  I glanced toward the Fatburger. “Wonder if there’s a surveillance camera that looks out to this part of the lot.”

  A minute later, Colin and I stood in the tiny back office of the burger joint. The manager, a rangy woman who didn’t look like she’d eaten much of her product, rolled the videotape from the security system.

  Lots of cars in, lots of cars out. Impalas, Corollas, minivans, SUVs. No dark red Lexus.

  Back in the parking lot, I wandered around, flashlight up, in search of a camera that could’ve captured the moment when the Lexus had been abandoned. No cameras.

  As I returned to my team, the coroner’s van crept past the mall. Brooks sat shotgun as another ME drove Monique Darson to 1104 North Mission Road.

  I squared my shoulders, knowing that I, too, would have to drive to the coroner’s office for the girl’s autopsy. And then, I would have to do the part I hated more than attending autopsies: notifying the family.

  9

  Times have changed since he left this neighborhood a day ago. The yellow tape around the girl’s Lexus keeps him from being close to the scene. And now, there are people—from Taco Bell, from Fatburger—so many people pushing him to get a better view.

  A view of what? The car? The detectives? What? The best pictures are being taken across the street, inside unit 1B. And once the coroner’s van (there it goes!) reaches the county morgue, the best pictures will be taken of the girl on a cold, steel table. Anyway, he knows how she looks—what he left behind, what he took when he left—and all of those images will stay with him forever.

  Well. Not forever.

  On cue, the spider pokes from beneath the skin near his left eyebrow. The flickering red, white, and blue lights of the patrol cars make the spider skittish. The creature spins there, above his eyebrow, then skitters to his hairline before settling above his left ear.

  He touches his temple and pushes.

  Something there pops and gushes, numbing his brain.

  A white detective wearing cowboy boots stands at the tape, talking to the night manager of the Taco Bell. What is the cop telling him? And what did the manager see last night?

  A black woman, shoulder-length hair, pretty but too tall, stomps over to the cowboy and the cook. A gold badge sparkles off her hip. She touches the white boy’s elbow, nods, then asks the manager a question. Then, she turns on her heel and stomps back to the car with the white detective following her, his eyes on her ass.

  He smiles—he hates a bossy woman, but this woman … This detective …

  He glances up at the LAPD helicopter circling the scene and opens his mouth to shout, “What the hell are you looking for?” But he clamps his lips together and makes an mmm sound. What are they looking for? A gun thrown on a rooftop? Another body in the trunk? Him? Well, he’s down here with the great unwashed and he didn’t use a gun. Never has. Never will.

  The spider pokes again, this time from the bridge of his nose.

  He closes his eyes; takes in a long, deep breath; then blows out air through gritted teeth.

  When was the last time he’d slept?

  The sides of his head tighten as he thinks … thinks …

  The spider retreats behind his left ear.

  He opens his eyes again and focuses—so hard to do now—and sees that the female detective is moving toward him and the group of bystanders. “Shit,” he says.

  The woman standing in front of him, the one holding a sleeping toddler, glares back at him. As though his curse is worse than her bringing a half-dressed, two-year-old girl to a crime scene. He glares at this bitch holding her ugly kid. She has the sense to turn back around.

  Still, he had forgotten that he now stood in a public place—the spider makes him lose himself every now and then. Like that time when …

  The detective stops and heads back to the Lexus.

  He swipes the air. Tiny flies swirl around his head. Maybe. Or black spots that look like flies. Probably.

  “Sunday,” he says aloud. That had been the last day he’d slept. Four hours. Maybe.

  The black detective directs a photographer to take pictures. Inside the car. Inside the trunk. Her partner wanders around the parking lot with a flashlight, still searching for a clue, head down, eyes on the ground.

  Just keep lookin’.

  His hands now shake and his fingers wriggle like one-winged butterflies, and he can’t hear the rumble of the approaching tow truck or the helicopter or anything at all. He closes his eyes again—the spider is behaving badly today.

  He shouldn’t have come here with all the lights, all the noise, and all the people.

  He bats at the flies (or the spots or whatever they are) and hits the toddler’s hand. One of the girl’s eyes opens. She studies him, then slowly falls back asleep.

  The two detectives stand together while looking back at the condo, then at the tow truck pulling in back of the Lexus. The white boy rubs his forehead, puffs out his cheeks. The woman tugs at her ear, then folds her arms. They’re stuck.

  It’s only a matter of time.

  They will figure it out.

  Then? Then, it will be over before it even begins. And if he doesn’t end it, the spider will.

  Thursday, June 20

  10

  Dawn was two hours away, and the longest day of the year was just beginning, even though it felt like it had already happened. I sat in the Porsche, completing the first report for Monique Darson’s murder book—injury extent, who found her, evidence recovered. Then, I completed a search warrant request for the construction trailer. I called Joey Jackson over and told him to take the warrant request to the courthouse and hand it to Judge Keener as soon as she popped open her first can of Diet Coke. That part of my to-do list checked off, I screeched out of the mall parking lot and raced east on Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard.

  At 3:12 in the morning, the city still slept. Despite their neon beckoning, Jack in the Box and Alex Fish Market were closed until a reasonable time of the day. Jehovah’s Witnesses weren’t up and out, either, so no one wandered the streets wearing nylons and neckties. The bail bond joints were open, but then bail bond joints were always open and always filled with baby mamas hoisting sleepy toddlers on their hips or abuelitas clutching purses to chests, sick and
tired of That Boy messing up again, muttering that ésta es la última vez que ella venga aquí, no más, basta, but knowing that she would come here again even though this time was supposed to be the last time.

  I didn’t turn on the car’s stereo—the engine’s muted roar always helped me plan Next Steps. Hard to do, though, because my head hurt, my stomach growled, and my husband hadn’t called me back. So I drove in silence, racing through the city I had vowed to protect, my gaze always moving, always searching …

  Prostitute.

  Wino.

  Church, church, immigration lawyer, liquor store.

  Repeat.

  I hopped on the 10 Freeway East, then exited off Caesar Chavez Boulevard in East LA.

  Prostituta.

  Un borracho.

  Iglesia, iglesia, abogado de immigración, una licorería.

  Repetir.

  In a city with more than three million souls, you had a lot of dead—on average, fifty thousand people died in Los Angeles every year. From suspicious-looking heart attacks and strokes to gunshot and stab wounds, the Los Angeles County Department of Coroner saw them all. Everyone was welcome, no matter their race, religion, or political affiliation. Death accomplished something Mahatma Gandhi and other people of peace could never do: bring the world together.

  The coroner’s office never closed, either. Bodies rolled in, bodies rolled out. Death had no schedule.

  Colin paced in the large, windowless autopsy chamber near the stainless-steel sinks. Like me, he wore powder blue scrubs, a hairnet, a disposable plastic face mask, and booties. This was his first postmortem exam as an LAPD detective. He nodded to me, clearly anxious (a rare state for him) behind that face mask.

  There was a lot of activity in this room. One medical examiner was taking pictures of a tatted-up Crip who had been peppered to death by gunfire. Another ME was scrubbing up and preparing to examine a familiar-looking blonde (sitcom actress, maybe?) who had jaundice, bloody wrists, and what appeared to be a thing for sharp objects. Blondie had more scars than the gangbanger—scars beneath her boobs, armpits, ears, and chin. An eternal knife fight with a plastic surgeon.

  I caught my reflection in one of the glass-front cabinets. At least, I thought it was me. Couldn’t be sure with the hair cover and the face shield. I took a deep breath and exhaled—the new swipe of Noxzema beneath my nostrils wasn’t working. I could still smell raw flesh and old blood mixed with Pine-Sol.

  Brooks stood at the countertop, gathering scalpels, scoopers, and tweezers. A pair of scissors slipped from his grip and clattered to the orange tiled floor. He cursed, scooped up the scissors, then chucked them in the sink.

  A naked Monique Darson lay on the stainless-steel table. Her limbs had relaxed as rigor mortis started to disappear. Brooks’s assistant, Big Reuben, a giant black dude plucked from the end zone of Cowboys stadium, was taking the last pictures of the girl—one of which I’d use for the family’s notification. A blue body bag with MONIQUE DARSON written on the plastic sat on the only available examination table. Zucca would comb over the bag’s insides in search of fibers or hair that had been left behind.

  Brooks approached the table and said to me, “Didn’t I just see you?”

  I introduced Brooks to Colin. The pathologist barely acknowledged my partner’s existence before asking me, “So what were you doing before you got the call?”

  “At Krav Maga with Lena.”

  “Sy told me that Lena’s there hunting for her next ex-husband.”

  I snorted. “Aren’t we all?”

  He reached for the hanging microphone and stated the date, time, and those in attendance. Then, he noted the girl’s statistics—sixty-four inches, one hundred pounds, brown shoulder-length hair, and brown eyes. Then, he peered into those eyes. “Petechial hemorrhaging present in the conjuctival surfaces of the eyes.” He stated that he was removing the Gucci belt, then said, “Two ligatures are present on the neck. Ligature A is the form of a V on the anterior of the neck. Ligature B is a bruise around the neck. Excessive hemorrhaging. Ligature A is right below the mandible and consistent with hanging. However, there is a lack of hemorrhaging, which indicates that the injury occurred postmortem.”

  He moved down to her torso. “Bruises on the sternum, right breast, and rib cage.” He measured the length and width of each bruise.

  Genitalia. “No evidence of external injury.”

  Arms and legs. “Abrasions along the wrist, biceps, and triceps.”

  Colin raised his hand.

  Brooks clicked off the mike.

  “What do you think made the scratches?” Colin asked.

  Brooks, eyes still on those cuts, said, “Fingernails?” Then, he clicked on the mike and considered her left hand. “As we indicated earlier, the victim is wearing acrylic fingernails with yellow fingernail polish. The tips have been cut. On the right middle finger—that acrylic nail is missing.”

  Ankles. “Tattoo on the right ankle. Decorative letters spelling ‘Baby Girl.’” And then, Brooks took a scalpel and made a Y incision from her shoulders to her abdomen. Big Reuben crunched through her rib cage with a tool that resembled gardening shears.

  I jerked at the last crunch.

  After Big Reuben removed the sternum, Brooks leaned closer to peer at the girl’s internal organs. “No evidence of injury.” Then, he extracted the heart, examined it for trauma, stepped to the countertop, weighed it, and cut a piece for microscopic examination. Then, he did the same for her lungs, liver, and kidneys.

  He returned his focus to the girl’s neck. He cut out her larynx, then pointed to a jagged bone just above her throat. It was covered in reddish tissue flecked with spots of purple. “The hyoid bone is fractured.” He clicked off the microphone, then pointed to the bruises on her neck. “See how there’s uneven hemorrhaging around the neck tissue? The belt wouldn’t do that—the belt would’ve left even hemorrhaging. What you see here is manual strangulation.”

  “Why didn’t anyone hear her screaming?” Colin asked, shaking his head.

  “Probably because he got her right beneath the vocal cords,” Brooks explained. “Her neck’s not thick so that part probably happened very quickly. And just looking at the blood in the body cavity, I can see that there’s no clotting. Again, that tells me that she died pretty quickly.” He exhaled long and loud, and his mask fogged. “So the fun part: who wants to stay for the brain?”

  I took a step back. “I’ve ODed on fun. But you’ll remember to check out that possible skull injury?”

  Brooks nodded. “Of course.”

  “I do have one more question before you break out the Stryker. How long has she been dead?”

  For several moments, Brooks stood silent as he stared at the girl reposed before him. Then, he said, “The maggots I collected in the closet are now adult flies … So, she’s been dead now for approximately twenty-six to twenty-eight hours.”

  I did the math in my head. “That means she was killed between midnight and two o’clock yesterday morning.” I turned to Colin. “Which meant that she didn’t write that suicide note you found on her phone. Whoever wrote it, wrote it fifty-one minutes too late.” To Brooks, I asked, “And the apparent cause of death?”

  “Asphyxiation due to strangulation.” The pathologist’s eyes met mine. “You were right, Lou. This is a homicide.”

  11

  And she was just talking about Chi, too. Had told her friend Malia that he had been the best lover she had ever had. That once? He was so deep that the condom had come off and, like, afterward? She couldn’t pull it out and had to drive to the student health clinic on campus and, like, have a nurse fish it out. That. Was. Crazy!

  But after that night? He didn’t call her again.

  And she had been totally embarrassed and pissed and everything.

  But then tonight happened. Okay. More like this morning. A four A.M. hook-up when she had class in three hours.

  I must be on crack. But then sex with Chi? Crack-tastic.

 
Nikita didn’t consider herself to be a beautiful woman. She was an ethnic mutt, long-limbed and tawny-skinned, with sharp cheekbones and a luscious mouth hiding teeth that were a little crooked. The retainer she wore at night would straighten them out. Until then, the teeth kept her humble—at nineteen years old, she already knew that she had the power to make grown men like Chi beg for mercy.

  She smiles at her reflection in the golden doors of the hotel elevator. The Omni. Fancy. But then, Chi is rich and powerful, and she is Hott and deserves fancy.

  A bellhop also stands in the car. He smiles and gazes at her, bottom to top.

  Does he see through her pink trench coat? Does he see her red push-up bra, the one with the little black bows, and the tiny, red sheer skirt and … nothing else?

  She winks at him, then purses her lips.

  The bellhop blushes and gapes at the elevator doors.

  Oh, yeah. He sees. And he knows why she’s here.

  The elevator stops. A bell dings and the doors open to the twenty-first floor.

  She throws the hotel worker one of her sultriest looks, then says, “Sweet dreams.”

  His stare burns her ass long after the elevator doors close.

  Alone now, Nikita’s heart races as she sashays down the hallway in search of room 2109.

  Will he, like, have Moët and that other stuff? Paste? Pate? Nasty but classy food a sophisticated woman would like, not some boring chick from Irvine studying education at Jesus-camp Chapman University. And she’s just at Chapman because of her parents or whatever.

  And here we are …

  She takes a deep breath, wets her lips, and knocks twice on the door. Maybe he’ll make mimosas. And maybe he’ll have strawberries. Big ones. Ooh! And Cool Whip.

  “It’s unlocked,” a man shouts from inside the room.

  She opens the door and crosses the threshold. Bummer—he didn’t choose a suite. Nice room, though. Big bed with thousands of pillows. Flat-screen television. A whirlpool tub in the bathroom.

  Sweet.