Trail of Echoes

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  “Yeah.” In addition to helping Chatman kill his wife and kids, Sarah Oliver had double-tapped her husband, Ben, in their Infiniti SUV, leaving his body and that car in a mall parking lot. Then, she’d scooped up their daughter from Ben’s grandmother’s house and boarded an early-morning flight to South America.

  “That case was different,” I now said to my boss. “None of those cases were—”

  “Serial?” He leaned forward, elbows on his desk. “Max Crase did your sister Tori, Monique and Macie Darson, the college—”

  “But this one just feels…”

  “Nasty.”

  Ice crackled across my chest. “Girls.”

  “I know. And I understand. I got two at Chanita’s age, remember?”

  Someone knocked on the door.

  Lieutenant Rodriguez pointed at me. “You got this. I’m counting on you.” Then, he shouted, “Yeah?”

  The door opened, and Colin’s head popped in. “Dr. Brooks is on the line with results.”

  I rushed back out into the bright glare of fluorescent light, back to my metal desk with Colin and Lieutenant Rodriguez trailing behind me. I motioned for Luke and Pepe to join the huddle, then hit SPEAKER on my phone. “Hey, Doc. We’re all here. What’s up?” I grabbed a pen and a notepad and plopped into my chair.

  “First,” Brooks said, “the bad news: the rape-kit results came back. They were positive. The good news: he left semen.”

  I tapped the pad with my pen. “That’s pretty bold, ain’t it? Not using a condom?”

  “I’ll send it out for DNA,” Brooks said, “which, you know, takes time. And I couldn’t find any prints on her body.”

  “He’ll leave semen but no fingerprints?” I said.

  “The X-rays also showed a recently healed right arm,” the ME reported.

  “Chanita’s mother told us that she had been jumped by school bullies,” I offered.

  “Would you like to know why there weren’t a lot of bugs?” Brooks asked.

  “Yes,” we all said.

  “Those needle marks in her thighs,” Brooks said. “He injected her.”

  “With?” I asked.

  “Bug repellant.”

  I gawked at the phone, then at my team. And we stared at each other in silence, confused by Brooks’s words. “Huh?” I said. “Come again?”

  “Bug repellent.”

  “Before or after he killed her?” Colin asked.

  “After.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  Brooks chuckled. “That’s your job, Detective, not mine.” He was turning pages. “Some other tox reports came back. No alcohol or recreational drugs in her system, but this is a bit strange. There were low concentrations, just traces, really, of atropine.”

  No one spoke—just looked at each other and shrugged.

  “Umm,” I said, “you’re gonna have to tell us…”

  “It’s a toxin,” Brooks explained, “but a nonirritant, which is why her internal organs weren’t inflamed. And you don’t need a lot of it to kill someone.”

  “Painless?” I asked.

  “No. Bodily fluids dry up first—spit, tears, sweat. Then, after a few minutes, the body numbs. You close your eyes, and that’s that.”

  I wrote the word carefully in my notes, as though misspelling “atropine” would cause my own numbness, dehydration, and death. “How is it given?”

  “For Chanita, I can’t tell right now,” Brooks admitted. “But in the few cases I’ve worked before, the patient drank it as tea.”

  “Atropine,” Lieutenant Rodriguez said, staring at the word on my pad.

  “Yes, sir,” Brooks said. “You may know the plant name.”

  “Which is?” I asked, pen poised.

  “Deadly nightshade.”

  16

  Deadly nightshade.

  The violet-colored bloom flashed onto the large monitor in the conference room where we now gathered. A half-finished large pepperoni pizza and two cans of Coke sat in the middle of the table near the projector. On the room’s north wall, Colin had pinned scenes from Bonner Park—with Chanita in the shot and then out of the shot, the trails, the bluffs, the bowl of green that separated the park from those hillside homes.

  “Chanita took a picture of this flower,” I said, tapping the laptop directional buttons. I reached into the expandable file and pulled out that picture. “This one looks different. In her picture, the petals are all open.”

  “Does that happen at a certain time of year?” Pepe asked.

  I scrolled down the Web page. “Flowers appear in June, July, and September.”

  “She couldn’t have just taken that picture, then,” Colin said. “Too early in the year.”

  “So where was she last summer?” Pepe asked.

  “We need to talk to her mom again,” I said, adding this question to my notepad.

  “And why did she take a picture of it?” Luke wondered.

  “Guess we need to find that out, too.” I scanned the article that accompanied the picture now on-screen. “Atropa belladonna plant. Absorbed through skin and ingested … very poisonous … difficulty swallowing … paralysis … death.” I looked up from the laptop. “Shit.”

  Colin and Lieutenant Rodriguez both stared at the image of the deadly flower. Pepe wrote in his notepad as Luke studied Chanita’s shot.

  I wiped my greasy fingers on a napkin. “So what do we know about him?” I stepped to the whiteboard, grabbed a red marker, and wrote “MONSTER” at the top of the board.

  “He’s male,” Luke offered.

  “He’s a sexual predator,” Pepe added.

  I wrote those two things, made an arrow, then scribbled an action item: “Check sex offenders near vic.”

  “Why would he leave semen behind?” Colin wondered. “Either he wants to get caught or he knows he’ll be difficult to trace.”

  All of that went on the board.

  “He has some knowledge about poisons,” Pepe said.

  “Cuz you just don’t drive to Walgreens and buy atropine,” I said, writing.

  “He breaks shit,” Colin said. “Her left foot, maybe.”

  I put a question mark by the word, then added, “Her tooth, possibly.”

  “Her,” Pepe added.

  “How poetic,” Luke snarked.

  My face warmed, and I shot Luke a “you’re an asshole” glare.

  “He’s strong,” Pepe said, ignoring his partner. “He carried her to that spot.”

  “He knows the park,” Lieutenant Rodriguez offered. “Not just the hours, but the terrain.”

  “He’s possessive,” I added.

  The men gave me quizzical looks.

  “He injected her with repellent to keep the bugs away, interrupting the natural…” I narrowed my eyes. “Interrupting the natural order—he thinks he’s God. Bugs, yes, but also her life, her tooth—he took all of that. None of it happened naturally. Her foot—he broke it to keep her from running. And, finally, he killed her—the ultimate act of a god.”

  “The Lord giveth,” Luke said, nodding.

  “And the Lord taketh away,” Lieutenant Rodriguez completed.

  We shuffled through the pictures Luke had taken of the crowds at Bonner Park. Every shade in the genetic pool was represented. More men than women. Older—who could jog and walk in a park at midday on a Wednesday? Each face presented the same levels of interest and fear. No one—no man—appeared to be too invested in what we had found on trail 5.

  “I don’t think I see him,” I said, pushing away my stack of pictures. “And the witness statements are boring as hell. Everyone saw something and saw nothing.”

  “What about Chanita?” Colin asked. “What do we know about her?”

  “A thirteen-year-old in a relationship with an older man,” I said. “Ontrel or maybe even the monster. She has a special talent—photography. Poor, gifted, and black.”

  Lieutenant Rodriguez rubbed his face, then pulled down his cheeks.

  I caught his eye, t
hen cocked an eyebrow. See? Just like I said: this won’t be easy.

  Luke reached for another slice of pizza. “She got any amigas?”

  “Probably.” I wrote “Talk to friends” as another action item, then stared at Chanita’s profile. Which of these things had attracted the monster? “Let’s look at our suspects so far.” Then, I made a list.

  1. Ontrel

  2. the Mexican Dude in Apt 1

  3. Mr. Bishop at school

  4. Regina Drummond’s boyfriends

  5. 18th Street

  “Knowing that she died from atropine poisoning,” I said, “I’m close to crossing off the gang-bangers. But I won’t. Not yet. And I’ll run the pedos in the area, see who’s good for this.”

  Colin would continue to handle the murder book and join me in interviewing the entire city of Los Angeles.

  “I’ll work with the Gang Unit on those hijos de putas,” Luke said. “Somebody caught up in that sweep last week probably wanna make a deal by now.”

  “And handle Nita’s phone, too.” I turned to Pepe. “I don’t know if we need to worry much about family finances, so comb through any tips that come in and talk to her friends.” And to Lieutenant Rodriguez: “Maybe we can get press coverage on this. I’ll ask—”

  “Don’t know if that’s a good idea,” he said, eyes narrowed.

  I bristled. “She’ll be fine.”

  “Lou…”

  “Sy’s fine,” I said, “and we need the community involved.”

  Syeeda had also grown up in the Jungle—her dad worked with my dad, both driving city buses. And, like me, she and her brother and sister, Kenny and Eva, had made it out. She was now editor in chief of OurTimes, a Times supplement that addressed issues facing blacks living in the “urban” areas left ragged by the Rodney King–verdict riots and the Rampart-LAPD scandal. Published twice a week and having a circulation of 55,000, OurTimes usually provided nothing hard-hitting or controversial. Only articles on church renovations, police station open houses, and high school sports, all drowned in a pond of ads for fish markets and grocery stores. Sometimes, an article that fulfilled the paper’s original mission found its way in, but not often. Because OurTimes didn’t do investigative reporting, and it sure as hell didn’t win any Pulitzers.

  And Syeeda hated that.

  This article about Chanita Lords, though, would serve a purpose for us both.

  After the meeting ended, Lieutenant Rodriguez came to stand with me at the whiteboard. “Solving this will be a feather in my cap. And your promotion to Detective Sergeant.”

  I crossed my arms as something pinged behind my eyes.

  He chuckled and shook his head. “I know—I’ve said that too many times.”

  I placed the marker in the tray without comment. Black women and LAPD promotions went together like chips and vomit.

  “I’ll give you whatever you need,” he said. “I’ll call in every favor I got.” He shoved his hands in his pockets, then nodded at the board. “When you crack this, when you stop this son of the devil … They’ll have to pay attention. You’ll solve it and get another stripe.”

  I stared at the “monster” list, at all the men in Chanita’s life.

  “What are you thinking?” my boss asked.

  A new headache crackled on one side of my face. “Even though I know there’s no such thing as total closure, I just want them to have it. For her people not to know … I don’t want that for them.”

  My family and friends had scattered Tori’s ashes months ago, yet I still expected to see her alive. Is that her head in the grocery store? Is that her perfume? My eyes never rested as I scanned faces in the crowds. That face, of course, was never hers. And then, I’d remember: she can’t be Tori.

  Tori’s gone.

  And I’d move on … Until the next time. At a farmers’ market, at the movie theater or the grocery store. Still scanning faces. Still expecting to find Tori alive this time. Still chasing hope like the French boy chasing that goddamned red balloon.

  17

  OurTimes was located on Crenshaw Boulevard, a mile from trail 5 in Bonner Park. The building did not exude the confidence and importance of downtown’s historic Times building with its murals, chevrons, and stainless steel. OurTimes lived in a single-story brown structure with smoked-glass windows and a modest sign tagged with BPS and crossed-out 40NHC.

  Colin had remained at his desk—I needed to handle Syeeda alone. And, now, I climbed out of the Crown Vic, the headache still thriving despite Advil chased by Diet Coke. The woody aroma of barbecue from the joint across the street rode atop the drizzle from gathering storm clouds. The cold air helped ease the headache, but the respite would be very temporary.

  Because Mike Summit, OurTimes’s assistant editor in chief, all fake spray-tan and preternatural black hair, met me in the lobby.

  “Speak of the devil,” he said.

  “That’s Detective Devil,” I corrected.

  Mike and I had met many lives ago: I was a uniform, and he worked Metro. He was a poseur even then. Too scared to lift the city’s skirt and gape at the ugly, the scary, the what-the-fuckery that existed there. He didn’t like me much, although we hadn’t hung out together long enough for him to make a proper assessment. Ten minutes together, and I had assessed him plenty: dull, stupid, and humorless on his best days. The waxed Vandyke beard, the silver wire-rimmed glasses, the snakeskin boots, the lisp … His affectations grew like eyelashes—one flitting away only to be replaced by a thicker, shinier one.

  “I’m here to serve and protect,” I announced. “And you do what again?”

  Mike rolled his eyes. “You haven’t changed, I see. This way.”

  We didn’t speak again until we had reached a cold, dark cubicle next to a roaring copier. He pointed to the dank space. “Syeeda’s on a conference call. You can hang here for now.”

  I placed my bag on the desk. “Something wrong, Mike Summit?”

  His cheeks colored. “Other than the fact that you’re a power-hungry, badged thug in jack boots? Other than the fact that you beat Eli Moss—?”

  “Are we talking about the same asshole who tried to burn down my house with me in it?”

  “Other than the fact that you beat him to a pulp and got away with it?” he continued. “Other than the fact that the missing-girls story is my story and that I’m the one who initially reported on it months ago?”

  I glanced at the flickering light above me—the fluorescent tube was filled with fly and termite corpses. “Yeah. Other than that.”

  “Other than the fact that you are here right now because you’re friends with Syeeda?”

  I smiled. “Other than that, too.”

  “Narcissism, pure and simple,” Mike lisped. “I’m not gonna pretend otherwise. You know, Syeeda treats you with kid gloves. I had my own ideas—in particular, the lack of interest of law enforcement in this case, but did she want to hear them? Hell no. She had already decided to be sympathetic to you and your crew, who just stand around and sip coffee all day and let girls go dead and missing for days and weeks and months at a time.”

  I shrugged. “You got me. Girls are dead when I’m standing anywhere near them.”

  “As far as I’m concerned,” he continued, “this is my assignment. I won’t say that this is reverse-discrimination, but I strongly suspect that it is.”

  “Get off the cross, Mike. People need the wood. And also? It’s nepotism, not ‘narcissism.’ And your way with words is probably why Syeeda is handling this story. That and the fact that you came to the Jungle that one time when we found the blue-haired hooker in the alley? It was in the middle of the day on a Monday and you stayed in your car with the doors locked. Remember that?”

  Mike grayed.

  I plopped into the chair, then plucked my cell phone from my bag.

  “Are there any suspects?” Mike asked.

  “Can’t say.” I checked e-mail: a forwarded prayer from Mom, a bookstore coupon for 30 percent off all ficti
on, and a new friend request from Facebook. Colin had also texted me: Ontrel just gave DNA. &u got something from Sam. Oowee!

  The telephone on the desk chirped.

  I grabbed the handset before Mike could. “OurTimes. How may I direct your inquiry?”

  Mike muttered something, then wandered down the corridor.

  Syeeda laughed. “You don’t have to be so formal on internal calls.”

  “Just being a bitch.”

  “You? No way.”

  “Mike was keeping me company.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Hopefully, playing in traffic.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said. “Come over and try not to shoot anybody.”

  Syeeda’s large office, fly-free and bright with light, inhabited some other corner of the universe. A framed photograph of Syeeda standing with Walter Cronkite hung on the wall alongside her degree from UC Santa Cruz. The journalist sat at her desk, mock-ups in neat stacks near her keyboard. Her brown eyes were bloodshot, and her butterscotch complexion was losing the Pimple Blitzkrieg. No sleep. Too many french fries. She wore her usual outfit of gray slacks and a white button-down shirt, but with a variation: a red cashmere sweater instead of a gray one. She had captured her long hair into a ponytail. “Save the Paper” mode.

  “I’m guessing Mike whined to you about the story,” she said.

  “Of course. And if I do this with you, I want control.”

  Syeeda crossed her arms. “Umm…”

  “We want the same thing, Sy. Tell the world, find the killer, get justice. But we need to handle it—”

  “Your way?”

  “And with much discretion. Mike Summit will not have a big role in this. He’s nothing but a fame-chasing he-whore.”

  Syeeda stood from the desk and wandered to the window. “It’s raining again. Traffic’s gonna be crazy tonight, and if it rains on Saturday, when the city’s rolling Fortier’s coffin down Crenshaw…”

  I glanced out the window—so much water that I couldn’t see the funeral home across the street. News vans had parked there—pretaping segments before Fortier’s jazz funeral. “We both have a connection with the people there,” I said, “with that neighborhood. They’ll talk to you before they talk to Mike or to any other Times snot who grew up in Palisades or Brentwood.” I grinned. “Although they’d jump Mike. That man needs a good mugging.”