For the most part, when I worked on my papers at night, I was accompanied by croaking frogs, chirping crickets, and the passing cargo trains. No neighbors ever appeared, until one winter Thursday night, the Raincoat Hombre—as I later referred to him because the Spanish spoken in my new neighborhood had begun to seep into my system—appeared as if he had been teleported to the spot beneath the streetlight closest to my house. His khaki coat swung around him as he strode past Mr. Rodriguez’s crepe myrtle tree, and his hoodie cast a shadow on his face. The first time I saw him, I nearly fell out of my chair. But over the course of the month, I adopted a Thursday-night ritual: the freight train’s eleven p.m. whistle became my cue to set aside my seminar report, watch for the hombre, and ponder over where he was headed.
* * *
The murder was reported on the morning after Sanjay and I had attempted to track the Raincoat Hombre. That afternoon, after a day of listening to stories—a woman having an affair, a teenage boy struggling to inform his parents he liked boys, an older man trying to cope with his wife’s death—I took a moment to check my phone. An alert from my neighborhood association popped up on my screen:
Last night at 10:30 p.m., the body of Lawndale Street resident Mrs. Alicia Hernandez was found inside her car parked near Fiesta. An autopsy is being conducted. If you have information, please contact the police or the neighborhood association.
Registering that Alicia Hernandez’s body had been discovered just a few blocks from my house, I forwarded the e-mail to Sanjay. I also shot off a description of Raincoat Hombre to Mrs. Alfaro, the neighborhood association secretary, who I had briefly met.
Within minutes, she called me. “Would you like to come over for coffee tomorrow? You can tell me more about this mysterious man.” Curious to learn more about the murder, I agreed.
* * *
The following morning, Saturday, I walked to her house, one block from mine. Along the way, cars and trucks basked in the sun and oak branches fluttered in the breeze. Doves cooed. A police siren wailed on the other side of the railway track.
Clad in my adopted uniform—jeans and hoodie—I knocked on Mrs. Alfaro’s door. I had stopped wearing shalwar-kameezes and saris after the election.
Mrs. Alfaro served me iced tea, then settled in her rocking chair. “Tell me—you’ve seen someone mysterious wander our streets at night?” Her voice was squeaky. “No point talking to the police—yet. But I’ll alert the association. They can follow this man, to ask some questions.”
“I’d like to talk to him as well.” I sucked on a piece of ice.
Mrs. Alfaro pressed a hairpin into her gray hair and used her little finger to push up her glasses. “I don’t see why not. According to your story, though, we have till Thursday, yes?” She refilled my glass. “You know that the Hernandezes just moved here. Alicia was from Guatemala, and Luis is from South Texas. He’s a security officer in the medical center.”
I nodded. “I met them last month, at the Christmas concert at the convent. She seemed like a gentle woman.”
“That night, she was going downtown to meet a girlfriend, but she never left the East End.” Mrs. Alfaro’s words spilled like a soup pot bubbling over. “We didn’t want to frighten anyone, so we didn’t say more in the newsletter. They found Alicia in the backseat, wearing just her shirt and . . . panties. The murderer used her skirt to strangle her. She had bruises on her face—it was blue with punches. They say Luis was crying so much, he could hardly identify her.”
* * *
At ten thirty the following Thursday night, two men knocked on my front door, introducing themselves as part of the neighborhood watch team. I invited them to the backyard, where my landlord had left sagging chairs and a wooden table on the cement patio.
The older neighbor, David, said, “Our community is small, so we take responsibility to patrol blocks.” A stout man with a twirling mustache, he looked as if he was visiting from the eighteenth century. “We’ve caught burglars. But this is the first murder since I moved here thirty years ago.”
Juan, a tall man with wrinkles ironed into his forehead, nodded. He leaned against the wall. In the dim light, I glimpsed a flash of steel—a pistol tucked beneath his jean jacket.
“Where are you from?” asked David.
I tried not to flinch. “Pakistan.”
Neither man responded, but I knew the questions they didn’t ask: Isn’t that where terrorists come from? Followed by: Are you Muslim?
The cargo train sounded its whistle, drowning out the cicadas’ whirs. We peered around the wall. The streetlights cast shadows, but no one was in sight. David and Juan waited another hour, but the street remained empty.
* * *
Luis Hernandez’s front door opened onto Lawndale Street, overlooking the steel gates of the Villa de Mittal convent. Hands shaking, Luis offered me iced tea. Several weeks had passed since his wife’s murder, and the police were no closer to solving the crime than they had been when it occurred. I had seen Luis at the nearby Fiesta Mart. When I greeted him, he responded with teary eyes and asked if I could help him. Without hesitation, I had agreed.
Now, leaning forward on his sofa, Luis tried to smile, but his lips trembled. “Perhaps you can look through her things and see if you want anything? Or you could give things away?”
I sorted through boxes of clothes in their bedroom while he watched from the doorway.
“I’m sure you’re tired of questions,” I commented.
“I’ve told the police everything I know. After she drove away to meet her friend, I went to my buddy’s house to watch a basketball game. The police called me around ten thirty that night.” Tears trickled from his eyes.
I replayed the time line in my mind. Luis had seen Alicia around six p.m., after the winter sun had dipped into the horizon. There was a four-hour window during which the murder occurred.
“I still have nightmares about how she must have suffered,” said Luis. “I want to go back to the Valley to be with my family, but it’s not so easy to get a job.”
Being a mental health counselor is like being a detective: both professions require listening skills. Growing up in Karachi, I heard our housekeeper share stories about her abusive husband. When my mother helped our housekeeper file for divorce, I served as babysitter for her daughter and listened to the little girl’s stories about hiding in the closet while her father struck her mother.
My mother and her friends had infused women’s rights into my blood. “I lived through General Zia’s times,” my mother told me. “We marched when I was sixteen. And we saw women’s rights being wiped like grease from a table. No one could produce enough witnesses to a rape or win a case contesting an honor killing.”
Religious extremism had fomented over the decades, especially as war escalated in Pakistan’s northern regions. Though my personal life remained unaffected—I was raised in a progressive home, attended a coed school, and experimented with drinking and sex in Karachi as well as in the United States—I saw many of my Karachi classmates embrace an extremist version of Islam.
In California, at the women’s college I attended, my listening skills attracted new friends who told me about dates and sometimes date rapes. Wanting to help, I decided to study human behavior. That was what had led me to Houston and its university’s doctoral program. All the stories.
Assuring Luis I would return with more boxes to finish packing his wife’s clothes, I left his house and walked to my own. A police car sailed past me on Lawndale and parked under a crepe myrtle. One officer leaned against the car while the other remained in the driver’s seat, his face shadowed.
“Any progress on the murder?” I called out.
The officer shook his head and introduced himself as Javier Garcia. “We hear you’ve seen strange activity.”
“Just a man wearing a raincoat,” I responded. “He walks at night. But I haven’t seen him since the murder.”
“Aren’t you from the Middle East?” Cop Garcia asked.
His face remained blank. “There aren’t many immigrants from your country in this neighborhood. If you feel any threat, or if you see anything suspicious, just call us.” He handed me his card before they drove away.
* * *
The second murder was reported on a Friday afternoon. My friend Sylvia called with the news: “A girl was killed last night.”
I jotted down notes: A twenty-two-year-old Filipina, Maria Lee, who lived a few streets from Sylvia’s house, had been murdered. If a neighbor walking his dog had not seen her body on the train track, Maria Lee would’ve been crushed by the eleven p.m. freight train.
Within an hour, I was at Sylvia’s house. She lived in her family home, across the tracks from mine, and had once told me the railway line was a border dividing the prosperous and the working class. “You’ve moved into a war zone,” she had said.
Squeezing a lemon wedge into the Corona Sylvia offered, I listened to her fill in the story. “Maria and her mother are from the Philippines. Her mom’s been in Houston for several years, but Maria arrived last month. She worked at a nearby taquería.”
I asked, “Was Maria in a relationship?”
Sylvia shook her head. She walked to her front door to double-check that it was locked. “Maria had an evening shift—her mother expected her after nine that night.” Sylvia shivered. “Her face was bruised and blue when they found her. And she was wearing a tank top and jeans. The murderer used her sweatshirt to strangle her.”
I sucked a lemon wedge. “Sounds familiar.”
“Makes me scared about living alone. But I don’t have a choice.”
Back at my house, I scanned the neighborhood association’s latest update, but there was no mention of Maria Lee. My telephone buzzed. My brother Hasan was calling from Karachi.
I gave him a rundown of my news.
“Are you safe?” he asked. After I reassured him that I was fine, he shared Karachi updates. “There was a bombing—this time at Sehwan, at the Lal Shahbaz shrine. More than eighty people dead. Women and children also.”
Closing my eyes, I remembered the shrine of the Sufi saint, Lal Shahbaz Qalandar. Throughout Pakistan, guards armed with machine guns stood outside shopping malls, cinemas, and even shrines. I wondered why this bombing by extremist forces had not been stopped. Violence was increasing in Pakistan.
* * *
When I met Sanjay for a drink at Bohemeos, an East End café/bar, and told him about Maria’s murder, he exclaimed. “You shouldn’t stay there alone! When does your lease expire?”
“Six months.” I sucked a lemon wedge. “Weren’t you the one who told me the neighborhood was safe?”
Sanjay’s brows pushed together, making him look like a vulture. “I didn’t know these murders would happen!”
The television above him streamed images of men and women protesting. One banner read, Collapse the Walls.
“I can’t sit back and watch these girls die. The police aren’t getting answers. One of my Karachi friends—he’s a detective in New York—has been giving me a crash course on finding clues and checking alibis.”
“So what’s he telling you? Don’t get into risky situations?”
I shrugged. “I’ve also talked to the police here.” I had been enjoying our open relationship, but Sanjay’s new protective comments made me flinch. Trying not to sound terse, I said, “I keep my doors locked and alarm on. I’m from a city filled with six times as many people as Houston—in Karachi, people are murdered every day. Their deaths don’t even make national news.”
“This isn’t Karachi!” Sanjay said. He flexed his muscles. “Want me to move in? You need protection. You’re the foreigner in this neighborhood.”
“We’re the foreigners in this country,” I responded. “And we always will be, even if we’re born here. Did you hear about the Indian man killed in Kansas?”
“I suppose they’ve always hated us,” Sanjay conceded. He sat in silence for a moment. “The murders here have one thing in common: both were women, and both were new to this country. And the killing style was the same. I’m surprised there was no . . . sexual assault.”
I leaned back, continued sucking on my lemon. “Good observations, Dr. Watson. People in my neighborhood haven’t connected the murders, because the second victim lived south of the railway track. If these are anti-immigrant hate crimes, I’ll surely be next.” I downed my beer and stood. “I have to go. I’m going to visit Maria’s mother.” I leaned over and kissed him. “Come over tomorrow and I’ll fill you in.”
I walked away, aware of Sanjay’s eyes pinned on my back.
* * *
In her apartment, among faded paisley sofas and framed photographs, Norma Gomez twisted her hands together. “As soon as they release Maria’s body, I’m returning to Manila.”
“This must be so difficult for you.”
Norma shook her head. “I didn’t tell the police, but one time someone sprayed on our door, Go back to where you came from. I wiped away the writing before Maria saw. I didn’t want her to be afraid. I’ve been in this country for five years. No one’s done that before. Things are scarier now that Trump is president.”
“Tell me what happened,” I said, aware I sounded more like a detective than a social worker. But Norma was so ready to talk, and I wanted to help her.
“After her shift, Maria called to say she was going to dinner. I didn’t ask questions. I just wanted her to be happy, so I was glad that she had met a boy.” I nodded, and she continued: “I’d made her favorite stew that night. I kept the food hot, in case she was hungry when she returned. She loved to talk and never ate when she was being social. But . . .” Norma mopped her tears with a tissue.
I gave her a moment, then said, “Tell me more about Maria.”
“She was my daughter from my first marriage. I met my second husband in Manila—he served in the US Navy. We got married, and I flew to Houston, but Maria stayed with my mother. I sponsored her after I got my citizenship.”
* * *
I didn’t drive home until late that night, just as the freight train sounded its whistle. The gate was down once I reached the tracks. I stepped on my brakes, made sure my doors were locked, and turned off my engine, knowing that I would have to wait at least twenty minutes for the train to pass. The street was still, with no sign of Raincoat Hombre or anyone else.
The night’s excitement didn’t end when I got home. During the evening news, Mrs. Alfaro and the two neighborhood association men, David and Juan, knocked on my door.
Mrs. Alfaro spoke first, pushing up her glasses: “We heard you talked to Mr. Hernandez. And that you’re helping the mother of the other girl who was murdered. Have you talked to the cops?”
David interrupted before I could respond, his voice sharp: “Why’re you getting involved? We’re increasing neighborhood patrolling, so you’ll see more men walking around at night.”
“We go to Stephanie’s Ice House afterward,” Juan added. “Join us sometime. When you take time off from visiting families.” His voice was almost a snarl.
“We were, um, wondering,” Mrs. Alfaro pushed up her glasses again, “who’s the gentleman that visits you. One of your relatives?”
Before I could respond, my telephone vibrated. I stepped inside.
Luis Hernandez was on the line. “Can you meet me at a bar next week? I need to talk. I can’t live here anymore, without my wife . . .”
When I got off the phone, Mrs. Alfaro and her team were still on the steps. Her voice pitched higher: “Stop trying to fix things, okay? The cops will solve these murders. Just keep your house locked and stop spreading stories—people will be afraid to come here!”
I ushered them to the street, slammed my door, and dropped onto my sofa. Unhooking my bra, I pulled it off through the sleeve of my shirt. Just then, another knock sounded, this time at the back door.
Sanjay stood outside, satchel flung over his shoulder. I invit
ed him in and twisted open two beer bottles. Sanjay’s eyes strayed from the drinks to my unbuttoned shirt and bra-free breasts.
One eyebrow raised, I said, “Everything okay, Dr. Watson? Want to tell me on the rug?” Pressing close to him, I continued, “I’ve had many visitors today. And now Luis is creeping me out—he keeps calling me for help . . .”
Sanjay tilted his head. “I want to hear more, but first, read this!” He held out his phone, which displayed a message from the university’s Indian student association.
I skimmed and absorbed that the body of an undergraduate Indian student, Nadia Masood, had been found in a freight train boxcar near the university. She had been strangled with her scarf, and her face was punched up. Nadia had been living in southwest Houston with extended family, and her parents were on their way from Ahmedabad, India, to collect her body.
Twisting away from Sanjay, I headed to my bedroom, reappearing in my uniform of form-fitting T-shirt, hoodie, and jeans.
“Wait! I thought we had other plans.” Sanjay followed me to his car.
As we approached campus, we saw six police cars with flashing lights parked alongside the railway line. Orange cones closed off one lane, and yellow emergency tape wound around the train. Sanjay dropped me off next to the railroad track and I walked toward the train, melding into the crowd of students.
Past the graffiti-covered railcars, I glimpsed an older female officer with silver hair shaved to her skull. I recognized her as HPD’s homicide supervisor, Henrietta Jones. Her photo had been shared in the neighborhood association newsletter as the officer in charge of the murders.
Houston Noir Page 19
