Trail of Echoes

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  Syeeda readjusted her ponytail. “He does, but not while on assignment. That’s all you or I need right now. Innocent white man attacked by black youths. Story at eleven.”

  “I can’t really tell you much,” I said. “Friends or not, this is a delicate one.”

  She nodded. “I want to make her real.”

  “I know, but I can’t promise you a lot.”

  “Okay, okay.”

  “First, though. Chanita lived in my old apartment complex.”

  “Small world.”

  “And the woman who lives in her apartment lived there when we were kids. And she’s Chanita’s grandmother.”

  Syeeda’s jaw dropped. “Get the hell out.”

  “Crazy, right? And I had a crush on one of her sons.”

  She smirked. “Let me guess: he had nice eyes.”

  I smiled and nodded. “And he had a wavy shag and his name was Paul and last time I saw him was in the backseat of a black and white. We caught him hot-wiring an IROC.”

  Syeeda tucked her knees beneath her. “So your childhood crush is Chanita’s uncle.”

  “And who says Los Angeles is a big city? It’s practically Mayberry.”

  “Since we’re Mayberry, then,” she said, “is Chanita’s case related to Trina Porter’s case?”

  “Off the record?”

  Syeeda nodded.

  “Maybe.”

  “And is she related to the other girls who disappeared back in November?”

  “Maybe. Same age, same neighborhood.”

  Syeeda closed her eyes, then rested her forehead against the window. “This is bad, huh?”

  “Bad times two.”

  She reached beneath her desk and pulled out a white mixing bowl. “Spencer wouldn’t even talk to me about it. He kept saying, ‘It’s fucked up, Sy. It’s fucked up.’”

  I pointed at her. “Which is why I can’t trust Mike with this.”

  She wrinkled her nose. “He complained to my boss about this already. He’s accusing me of reverse racism. I may have to throw him a bone.”

  My chest tightened. “Fine. Finger and toe bones, then. Nothing else or I’m ghost.”

  “So what else can you tell me? That no one else knows? On the record.” She placed the bowl on the floor behind her chair. Plop … plop … plop …

  And as raindrops fell into the bowl, I told her that Chanita’s left foot had been broken and that she had been sexually assaulted.

  “Any suspects?” she asked, writing on the closest legal pad.

  “No,” I said, “but we may have a person of interest. And please use that phrase. Not ‘suspect.’ No arrests are being planned for now, all right?”

  She nodded, still writing.

  Syeeda was one of my best friends—but she was also a reporter.

  I couldn’t trust her, either.

  18

  Pepe met me in the garage, cigarette stuck between his lips, dark eyes red and swollen. His hair had lost its hold, and a thick lock draped over his forehead. He stepped back as I opened the driver’s-side door. Then he said, “I don’t know what to do.”

  I placed a hand on his shoulder. “He’ll come around.”

  Pepe shook his head. “I shouldn’t have told him. We were fine as we were.”

  “You and Luke have been partners for six years. You went to Catholic school together. You’re Cecilia’s godfather.”

  He snorted, then leaned against the car. “He said that he didn’t care what the new pope says. He doesn’t want a fag taking care of his daughter when he’s gone.”

  A flare shot in my gut. “He said that?”

  “He caught himself before he said the f-word. Not that the word matters.” He tossed the cigarette to the ground. “He’s gonna tell everybody. I know it.”

  Hands on my hips, I glared at the concrete. “I’m gonna talk to him.”

  “Lou—”

  “Yes. Cuz fuck Luke, okay? He can cheat on his wife throughout their entire marriage but now he gets to be Catholic and shit? Not on my team. You’ve always had his back, and if that means nothing to him, he can fuckin’ … go kick rocks on Jefferson’s team.”

  “L.T.—”

  “Knows,” I said, meeting his eyes. “All Rodriguez cares about is that whiteboard and having every one of those little blank squares checked by the end of the year.”

  “And Colin?”

  “Colin barely cares about who he’s sleeping with.” I sighed. “How do you say ‘Go to hell’ in Korean?”

  “Toejora.”

  “Next time Luke makes a crack,” I said, “tell him that I said, ‘Toejora.’”

  Pepe reached into his jacket for the box of Camels. “I…” He tapped out a cigarette but shoved it back into the box. “I…”

  I nodded. “Yeah. I know.”

  * * *

  Someone in the squad room smelled like wet dog.

  That stink, and not the homeless man spewing obscenities en route to an interrogation room, made me open my bottom desk drawer, grab the near-empty can of Febreze, and spray the air. I sniffed again, then sprayed in the direction of Watson’s desk behind me.

  Better, but only a little.

  I rubbed my eyes, then stared at the nearby coat rack and millions of neckties hanging there. I focused back on the names written on my notepad, where I had crossed out just one name: Stalin Dickerson, the man who’d just moved out of Regina Drummond’s apartment last month. Stalin had been in jail on weapons charges when Chanita went missing. The other ex, Maurizio Horsley, had no jacket, and his last known address was off Degnan Boulevard—a hop over from Madison Middle School.

  I dialed Horsley’s phone number.

  “Yes?” A woman.

  I identified myself and asked to speak with Maurizio.

  “Mo is in Phoenix,” she said, sounding bored. “He’s coming back tonight, I think.”

  I thanked her, ended the call, glanced at Sam’s roses and then around the room: Pepe was on the phone; Luke was on the phone. And Colin stood at the copier.

  Perfect. I opened my desk drawer and plucked a sea-salt caramel from the box Sam had sent—caramels so fancy they required refrigeration and boasted an expiration date a week after purchase. I closed my eyes as the salty-sweetness melted in my mouth and made my toes curl. I’ve never smoked cigarettes, but this must have been close to experiencing Newport pleasure.

  After the caramel break, and a “whew,” I pounded my fists on the desk, ready for work.

  Who is Raul Moriaga?

  According to Regina and Ontrel, he lived in apartment 1 and had allegedly watched Chanita Lords from afar. But who did the state of California say he was?

  I logged onto the Web site of the California Attorney General and clicked on Megan’s Law—Registered Sex Offenders. In the address search bar, I typed Chanita’s address, then selected Within a One-Mile Radius. The map of 90008 filled the screen. Each blue square—and there were so many blue squares—represented a sex offender living in the area. Thumbprint-sized faces of men sat beside those blue squares.

  So much perversion, so little time served.

  I selected the square directly atop Chanita’s address, the square belonging to a droopy-eyed Hispanic male with a light-brown goatee and a buzz cut. Raul Guillermo Moriaga. 5 foot 6, 140 pounds. I clicked Offenses. Rape in concert by force. Rape of drugged victim. Oral copulation. Lewd or lascivious acts with children under 14 …

  Wow. Damn. Hell.

  If Moriaga’s predilections had broadened in scope—from oral copulation to kidnapping, rape to murder—then Chanita Lords would fit in the roster of victims.

  “That homie in apartment one?” Colin asked, looking over my shoulder. He coughed and it sounded like a year’s worth of tar bubbling in his lungs.

  I elbowed him. “Dude, cover your mouth.”

  “Sorry.” Colin used my mouse to click on offense summaries. “Raul’s been busy. Think he could’ve kidnapped and killed Chanita, and maybe even Trina?”

 
; “You sure want me to do a lot of thinking.”

  “Well, do you?”

  “One sick thing leads to another sick thing, and, pretty soon, you’re Jeffrey Dahmer.” I clicked on the X to close Moriaga’s mug shot, then blinked to force the con’s face out of my visual cache. “And Ontrel Shaw’s DNA?”

  “On its way downtown.” Colin returned to his desk, coughing into the crook of his elbow. “He came in with his mom. She vouched for him being with her at Social Security—she needs him to drive her places cuz she’s blind in one eye. You see, Lou, Trel is a good boy who just fell in with the wrong crowd, who’s scared of guns, really, and wants to be a psychologist when he grows up.”

  A symphony of strings and horns sounded from my cell phone. The Star Wars theme.

  Hey! Sam texted. Resisted texting until now. Still on for tonight?

  I nibbled my thumbnail and tasted sea salt and caramel again.

  Another text. U need to clear your head after a day of murder. I know this great technique. Let me show you!

  My heart fluttered so hard that my butt lifted an inch from the chair. I tapped the phone’s tiny keyboard. Please show me. May have to show me more than once-slow learner.;)See you @ 8. I sent him Syeeda’s address, then grabbed the box of fancy caramels from the drawer.

  “You’re smiling.” Colin’s voice pulled me out of Wonderland.

  I squinted at him. “What?”

  “You’re smiling. Sexting Sam?” He rolled over in his chair and reached for a caramel.

  I slapped his hand. “Nuh uh.”

  “You got three left,” he complained.

  “And you still have typhus.”

  “It’s just a cough now,” Colin said. “And you shared Greg’s shit all the time.”

  “Cuz Greg shared his shit all the time.”

  Colin rolled back to his desk. “We heading back to talk with the Chester on your screen?”

  I glanced at my desk clock—it was almost four thirty. “Yep. We have time.”

  Raining again, so we couldn’t return to the park and look for any evidence now sloshing down the hillsides, being consumed by raccoons, or getting crushed by the metal treads of earthmovers charged with pushing fallen earth back onto the hillsides.

  Just as I grabbed my bag to leave, Pepe escorted a tall, lanky woman with black and pink dreads into the squad room.

  Vanessa!

  The woman’s bloodshot eyes darted from my shoulder holster and Glock to the handcuffed young brown men being escorted by stern-faced patrol cops.

  Pepe nodded to the woman. “This is Vanessa Watkins.”

  Vanessa and I shook hands. “Thanks for coming in, Ms. Watkins,” I said, smiling. “I’ve been very eager to talk with you.”

  We remained at my desk since all the interview rooms were now occupied.

  “Here’s a little refreshment, compliments of the house.” Colin handed her a can of Sprite.

  She said, “Sorry I haven’t called. I’ve never…” She chewed on her bottom lip.

  I offered an encouraging smile, then said, “Let’s start from the beginning.”

  We took notes as Vanessa told a story similar to the one her friends had told. A late-morning hike on trail 5. Seeing the canvas bag on the trail. Smelling something awful. Glimpsing the leg poking out of the bag. And, finally, snapping pictures before losing it and being escorted down the hill.

  “Did you bring the phone you used on Wednesday?” I asked.

  Near tears, she pulled the pink Android from her jacket pocket. With a shaky hand, she handed me the device. “I ain’t never seen a dead body before, not counting funerals. I almost threw up. I almost—” Then, all color left her face. She grabbed my wastebasket and shoved her head deep inside of it. All kinds of shit erupted from Vanessa’s belly and splashed into the depths of the plastic container.

  One of our handcuffed guests shouted, “Damn, that’s nasty.”

  I had pushed my chair back and now gaped at the back of my up-chucking witness.

  Pepe dashed to the break room and returned with a stack of paper towels.

  And we waited until the poor woman had nothing left.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  Vanessa nodded. “I’m so sorry.” She accepted paper towels from Pepe.

  Colin, the only one with a stuffed nose, left the squad room with the trash can.

  I opened Vanessa’s soda can and held it out for her.

  Vanessa guzzled the Sprite, then burped delicately behind her hand. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Happens all the time around here,” Pepe said. “No worries.”

  I found the five pictures she’d taken on Wednesday, then e-mailed them to my in-box.

  “It’s like I can still smell the body,” she whispered as I handed her back the phone.

  Pepe placed a protective hand on her shoulder. “We’re gonna need you to fill out a form, okay?” Then, he escorted the woman over to his desk to complete a formal witness statement.

  Colin returned to the pen with my linerless wastebasket.

  I was studying the shots Vanessa had taken.

  Selfie on the trail … Vanessa, Heather, and Cynthia, biceps curled, posing at the park map … Far-off shot of the canvas bag … Closer shot of the bag and leg … A man walking toward her, head down …

  “That him?” Colin asked, pointing at the man.

  “He’s wearing gloves,” I said. “Look.”

  A thin band of skin flashed between the glove and the cuff of his jacket sleeve.

  “Light-skinned,” Colin said.

  “Light-skinned ‘what,’ though? Black? Hispanic? Or darker white?”

  The man’s head was down. “Protecting his face from the elements?” Colin wondered.

  “Maybe.”

  “Can we put him on a poster?”

  I clicked on the picture to enlarge it. “What would we be asking people to look for?”

  He was between six feet and six foot three, muscled but not too much. Even with my vast experience in patrolling a city of almost 3.8 million people who checked all kinds of boxes, I couldn’t tell if this man was black, white, or Martian.

  The only distinguished thing about him? He wore a dark baseball cap.

  The New Orleans Saints.

  19

  The sun, blocked by storm clouds for a week now, had completely abandoned Los Angeles for a more exotic locale, like Fiji or the Antarctic. For the second time that day, Colin and I parked near the bullet-peppered telephone pole that had held Chanita’s yellow “Missing” flyer. My shoulders tensed as I climbed out of my Porsche SUV. Didn’t really wanna be here, especially at this time of day, especially in nasty weather like this. Monsters liked the dusk, and they thrived in the rain.

  “What y’all want now?” Young, snide, female.

  Those girls from the morning came to stand on the other side of Colin’s Charger. They had changed out of their fruit-colored jeans and into tight camouflage pants and faux UGGs.

  “You talk to adults like that all the time?” I asked Scowler.

  “And adults who are also cops?” Colin added.

  Even I had to roll my eyes. Fuck da police, Taggert.

  Scowler placed a hand on her hip. “What y’all want now, Mister and Lady Officer?”

  These girls reminded me of Miss Alberta’s daughters and their friends. Back then, Dominique and Angelique had stuck out their legs to block the stairway leading up to my apartment. What’s the password, they’d always demand. We ain’t gon’ let you pass without the password. Of course, I never knew the password. Stuck there, I cried as they laughed. After several torturous minutes, they moved their legs from my path, and I rushed up the stairs with our laundry or the mail now wet with my tears. Mom and Tori complained that I let them bully me. “They just messin’ with you,” my sister always claimed. “They’ll leave you alone if you quit acting like you’re scared of them.” So I ignored them. And ignoring them only made them angrier, and soon their juvenile taunts no longer
thrilled them. One afternoon, they jumped me in the laundry room. Busted my lip, loosened a tooth, and left bruises on my back in the shape of shell-toed Adidas.

  Little bitches.

  “You guys know that Chanita Lords is dead?” I inquired now.

  The chubby one zipped up her puffy nylon jacket, then said, “Uh huh. Ontrel told us after Regina told him.”

  Scowler sucked her teeth. “I ain’t gon’ let somebody steal me.”

  “Ontrel told us who you are,” Scowler said. “And he said that you used to live here and that you knew Miss Alberta, like, a hundred years ago.”

  “And now you get to carry a gun and hang out with white people,” Braids said.

  “Yay, me,” I said, smirking.

  “You shoot anybody?” Chubby One asked.

  “Ladies,” Colin said, “let’s—”

  “That mean she shot somebody.” Scowler turned to Colin. “We know you have.”

  Colin’s face reddened.

  “Aw,” Chubby One said, “be nice. Leave him alone.”

  Then, all three girls laughed.

  “So what do you think happened to Chanita?” I asked, nonplussed.

  Annoyed, Scowler pushed out a breath. “That’s a stupid question. Coulda been anybody who killed her.”

  “Tell me your name,” Colin demanded. “I’m not diggin’ your tone.”

  Braids snickered and stage-whispered to Chubby One. “Did he just say ‘digging’?”

  “You got something to say?” Colin asked.

  Colin hadn’t interacted much with girls who talked back, swerved their necks, whose stank attitudes wafted off of them like burning toast. He had only met the ones who could no longer talk back or suck their teeth.

  “Names, girls,” I said.

  Scowler said, “My name’s S-h-a capital Q-u-a-n.”

  “And you two?” Colin asked, pen on pad.

  The two other girls looked to ShaQuan.

  ShaQuan nodded.

  Braids said, “Treasure.”

  Chubby One said, “Imunique.”

  My pen froze on the pad. “You’re what?”