Trail of Echoes

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  “Imunique.” And she spelled it for me. “Ontrel and Lamar and them call you Lockjaw. Said you like a pit bull on a baby’s head.”

  I shrugged. “A pit bull, huh? That’s a new one. So, ShaQuan: what do you mean, anybody could’ve killed her?”

  ShaQuan peered at me with small, hard eyes—the eyes of every bully in every neighborhood in every nation in the world. “Anybody. Coulda. Killed. Her.”

  “Nita didn’t hang out with us,” Treasure explained. “Her grandma was always drivin’ her to the Valley and stuff for classes so we ain’t seen her that much.”

  “She was always gettin’ in cars with grown-ups like she was important or somethin’,” ShaQuan added. “Why ain’t nobody asked them nothing?”

  “Who’s ‘them’?” Colin asked. “Who are the adults she hung out with?”

  ShaQuan pulled gelled tufts of hair back beneath a barrette and into the pitiful up-top ponytail. “Y’all keep messin’ with us cuz we black. And we got in one stupid fight with Nita and now everybody wanna blame us.”

  “What was the fight about?” I asked.

  “She disrespected me,” ShaQuan said. “She called me a loser on Facebook. So I’m, like, say that shit to my face.”

  “Everybody brave on the Internet,” Treasure said.

  “Did she say it to your face?” I asked, eyebrow cocked.

  “She said it,” ShaQuan said.

  “And you beat her down, right?” Colin said, nodding.

  ShaQuan sucked her teeth. “People think Nita was perfect, but she wasn’t.”

  “How was she not perfect?” I asked.

  Treasure picked at a zit with her fingernail. “Regina used to make her boost shit all the time. And Nita always talked about gettin’ pregnant by a baller so he had to take care of her and the baby.” She swerved her head. “That ain’t somebody who all sweet and innocent.”

  “And she tried to trap Ontrel,” ShaQuan spat. “She used to poke holes in his rubbers.”

  I smirked. “Really?”

  ShaQuan dropped her eyes to the sidewalk. “Uh huh.”

  “When did you see her last?” Colin asked.

  “Friday,” Treasure said. “She got into an SUV.”

  “With who?” I asked.

  The girl shrugged. “The windows was tinted.”

  “Did you see the license plate?” I asked.

  “It started with a number,” Treasure said.

  I waited for more.

  Treasure rolled her eyes. “Dang, what else you gotta know?”

  “Well, for starters,” Colin growled, “try getting the tone outta your voice.”

  “What tone?” Treasure asked in that same tone.

  “You talk to your mom and dad like that?” he asked.

  The girls looked at each other, then laughed.

  The color returned to Colin’s face, but his lips disappeared. “Would you three laugh if I took you down to the station for questioning?”

  ShaQuan smiled. “Which station? Downtown or Seventy-seventh? I been to both.”

  The trio laughed some more.

  Jaw clenched, Colin looked to me for help.

  I winked at him. Sorry, kid. “So what kind of SUV did Nita get into?”

  “It was like a Yukon or Tahoe or somethin’ like that,” Imunique said.

  “Anybody around here drive a truck like that?” Colin asked.

  “What we look like?” ShaQuan snapped. “The DMV?”

  Stepping back, he ran his hand through his hair.

  I could feel Colin’s blood pressure rise. “Ontrel drive an SUV?” I asked the girls.

  “Or do we need to grab him and ask him ourselves?” Colin asked.

  “Ontrel drive a Bonneville,” ShaQuan said with no extra flavor.

  “Around what time did you see Chanita?” I asked.

  “Like after school let out,” Imunique said.

  “You speak to her?” I asked.

  They considered each other with worried eyes. Finally, ShaQuan offered, “We said hi.”

  “And?”

  “We asked where she was going.”

  “And?”

  ShaQuan opened her mouth, but changed her mind and shrugged.

  “Was she alone when you talked to her?” I asked.

  All three nodded. “And then the truck came,” Imunique said, “and drove her away.”

  “Where were you when all this was happening?” I asked.

  “King and MLK,” Treasure said.

  “By the Krispy Kreme?” Colin asked, writing in his pad.

  “At that bus stop,” Imunique added.

  “Yup,” the other two agreed.

  Just as Gwen Zapata’s witness had remembered.

  “On Friday,” I said, “did you tell the cops about the SUV?”

  “No,” ShaQuan said. “Ain’t nobody asked us nothing about no SUV.”

  I sighed. “You think Ontrel could’ve—?”

  “No,” Treasure shouted, eyes wide. “He innocent. Cops always messin’ with him. Y’all—” Tears filled her eyes, and she turned away from me.

  “I think Mess-cans did it,” Imunique said as she pulled her braids into a loose bun. “They be hatin’ on us, tryin’ to run us out of here, and so they took Nita and showed us that they ain’t scared of us.”

  “Payback,” Treasure added as she dried tears on her jacket’s sleeve.

  “Them cholos from Eighteenth Street roll up in here all the time,” ShaQuan complained. “Visitin’ they moms and sisters and fifty-million relatives all livin’ up in one apartment. Always trying to start shit. They coulda took Nita and drove her to East LA or to Mexico or to hoochie-coochie-la-cucaracha-wherever-they-live.”

  “And then they drove her to Bonner Park?” Colin asked.

  “Yup,” the girls said together.

  “They almost killed my cousin two weeks ago,” Imunique claimed. “They shot him over on Parthenon. He still on life support.”

  “Does your cousin bang?” I asked.

  “Yeah, he bang,” Imunique said, her gaze hot with offense. “But that don’t give them no right to be shootin’ at people.”

  “That’s what she get,” ShaQuan muttered.

  “You mean Nita?” I asked, pulse banging in my throat. “Why would you say that?”

  “Cuz she wanted to be white,” ShaQuan said, head cocked, hand on hip.

  “She talked like you,” Imunique said to me. “Like a white girl.”

  “She was all, I’m better than y’all cuz I’m on the honor roll,” Treasure added, her voice high to affect snootiness.

  “And that’s why we kicked her ass,” Imunique said.

  “Shut up,” ShaQuan spat at her friend. “You talk too damn much.”

  Treasure shook her head. “And I don’t believe she really dead.”

  I blinked at her, but Colin spoke first. “You’re fuckin’ kidding me.”

  Treasure gaped at him. “You don’t know. Regina is sus.”

  “Sus?” Colin asked.

  “Suspect,” I told him.

  “She do all kinds of crooked shit,” Treasure continued. “She may be runnin’ an insurance scam or somethin’. That bitch be gettin’ over.”

  Back in the day, Miss Alberta also got over—using food stamps that had somehow been liberated from neighbors’ mailboxes. Receiving Social Security checks for Dominique, who was stupid but far from special needs. So the reality of Regina learning the fine art of scamming at her mother’s knee? Certainly.

  Treasure cocked her head. “Have y’all seen Nita’s body?”

  I said, “Yes. Of course we have.”

  Unblinking, Treasure said, “Y’all check for a pulse?”

  Colin clapped. “Okay. This is ridiculous. We need your guardians’ phone numbers.”

  “Why?” Treasure asked.

  He explained to them about witness statements.

  The girls rambled off their numbers.

  I held up my hand. “Quick question—”
<
br />   “We gotta go.” ShaQuan set off east.

  “We’re not done,” Colin said.

  “We under arrest?” she asked.

  “Of course not,” I said.

  “So, like I said, we gotta go.”

  I waved. “Where you headed, if I may ask?”

  ShaQuan grinned at me. “Girl Scouts.”

  20

  The game was on.

  Through windows and patio doors, shadowy figures camped around glowing television screens. I didn’t know if Texas or Arizona State was winning, but the sounds of crowds roaring, high-top sneakers squeaking, and sports announcers pontificating echoed throughout the apartment complex.

  Colin strode beside me through the courtyard. His face still twitched with anger, and his lips had not returned to their original spot.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “Who the fuck are raising them little twerps? Where I’m from, you talk to adults like that, you get popped in the mouth.”

  “Where you’re from,” I said, “people burn crosses to scare my people, all in the name of Jesus. Not all you people.” I paused, then added, “Just sayin’.”

  The pungent aromas of marijuana and trash traveled on the wet night air. The lights in the courtyard had died, and now tiny orange lights flickered ahead like fireflies. The shadows had been smoking all kinds of shit, but now joints were being hastily rubbed out between fingers. Soon, someone would burn microwave popcorn to mask the smell.

  “Interviewing child molesters makes my stomach hurt,” Colin complained. “Hell, the idea of Raul Moriaga scrambles my logic more than murder does. In a weird kinda way, murder makes sense. You hurt me—”

  “I kill you,” I said.

  “You scare me.”

  “I kill you.”

  “You have something I want.”

  “I kill you.”

  We reached Raul Moriaga’s apartment. A small handwritten sign had been taped next to the doorbell.

  NO SMOKING! NO FUMAR!

  Colin banged on the door.

  The peephole darkened.

  We both held up our badges.

  The door opened, and a weasel manifested as a man poked his head from the darkness. He wore a wispy brown porn mustache and a scar that ran from his nose to his jaw. His slicked-back hair connected his head to his torso without benefit of a neck. A blue teardrop had been tattooed beneath his right eye. He opened the door wider, and the smell of french fries drifted toward us. “Yes?”

  “I’m Homicide Detective Lou Norton, and this is my partner—”

  “I don’t know nothing ’bout that girl.” Moriaga nodded toward the rear apartments.

  “We just wanna talk, Raul,” Colin said.

  “I ain’t had nothing to do with that girl.”

  “Heard you the first time, amigo,” Colin said. “Can we come in?”

  Moriaga narrowed his weasel eyes, opened the door wider, and motioned us into the dark. “It’s kinda cold in here.”

  “Cold is just a state of mind.” I placed my hands on my hips so he could see that I was carrying—no one liked that kind of surprise.

  His gaze dipped and he flinched. Surprise!

  A large aquarium filled with fish dominated the eastern wall of the dark living room. The tank’s blue and white fluorescent lights made shadows reach across the carpets. There was no television or stereo. Just the aquarium, a dark-colored sofa, a plaid armchair, and crumpled fast-food bags on the carpet and counters.

  “Can we get some more light on, Raul?” I asked.

  “Umm … it’s…” He sighed, then said, “Okay.” He clicked on a floor lamp by the door, and then hustled across the living room to flick on the kitchen light-switch.

  A magazine had been shoved hastily beneath the armchair’s cushion—didn’t want to know what he’d been reading. A beer can sat on the coffee table alongside paperback editions of Into Thin Air and Great Expectations.

  Colin wandered to the aquarium. Orange, blue, scarlet, yellow—no one fish looked like the other. Some hid in the coral while others dashed over rocks.

  “How big is this tank?” Colin asked.

  “Sixty gallons, salt water.” Moriaga stood beside Colin, and together they gazed at vibrant-colored fish dashing through castles and anemones. “I love lookin’ at the different colors, you know? Before I was arrested, I used to work at a fish store.”

  He pointed to a moving spot of blue and yellow. “That’s a royal angelfish right there. And that’s a clown fish, and a harlequin tuskfish, and a betta. That’s a royal gramma, a damsel. Stay still, girl. She’s a regal tang. Over there’s a coral beauty, a pajama cardinal fish, and a yellow-headed jawfish.”

  “Impressive,” Colin said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “The last time I was in, my cousin took care of ’em for me. Not these right here. A different group. He owned the store I was workin’ at. You don’t want just anybody lookin’ after your babies. Not only cuz they expensive, but they all got they own personalities, and you don’t want ’em to die on you.”

  “Fish have personalities?” Colin asked.

  Moriaga’s reflection glimmered in the acrylic. “Hell, yeah, they do. That one right there?” He pointed at the brown spotted fish with a maimed fin now hiding behind a large gray rock. “That’s Raquel. She shy. Hides in the rocks and only comes out when it’s time to eat. She got a bad fin.”

  Having had my fill of fish stories, I headed to the couch. “We never named our fish. We just put ’em in a bowl and fed them fish food once a day.”

  “Don’t mean to be rude, Detective,” Moriaga said, “but that’s kinda jacked up. Fish need they space. This tank ain’t the ocean, but at least they can claim some territory. At least they got some space to swim around in.”

  My face numbed, and my lips barely moved as I muttered, “At least.”

  “I do everything for ’em,” he continued. “I keep it dark in here cuz the sun makes algae that can kill ’em. And then the temperature—you gotta watch the temperature.”

  Colin sat in the armchair. “How long were you in?”

  “Almost a fuckin’ dime,” Moriaga said. “All my fish died, but my cousin, man. He knew I was innocent. Everything was taken from me, so he’s like, ‘I’ll get you some more fish when you’re out.’ So, these fish right here? They was like my welcome-home gift. They keep me calm.” He touched the tank’s glass before turning to us. “They my babies. They all I have.”

  “Let’s chat,” Colin said.

  “Okay.” Moriaga hustled over to the couch and sat a little too close to me. His eyes sparkled, and he smelled of peppermint. “Like I said, I didn’t know the girl over in five. I seen her a few times, but I don’t talk to nobody. I’m just tryin’ to keep my chin up and my head down, you know? Get back on the straight and narrow.”

  I shifted my thigh away from his. “You ever talk to Chanita? You know, just a casual hi, neighbor to neighbor?”

  “Like at the mailbox or whatever? I said hi a few times. Neighbor to neighbor.”

  “Ever see her in the laundry room?” Colin asked.

  “One time, I offered to help her cuz she did a buncha folks’ washin’ around here to earn some cash and the laundry basket looked heavy.”

  “And she let you help?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “She ain’t wanna cause no problems.”

  “For you?”

  “For her. She datin’ a Blood. He kinda known for kickin’ females’ asses. So I let her be.”

  “You got any connections to Eighteenth Street?” I asked.

  “Two cousins—they third cousins, though. I don’t bang.”

  “So the mailbox and the laundry room,” Colin said. “Those the only times you and Chanita talked?”

  Moriaga tented his fingers. “Lemme think…” He closed his eyes, thought some, then opened his eyes. “Oh. There was this other time.”

  I squinted at him. “This other time?”

  He held out his left hand
and pointed to a scar on the web between his index finger and thumb. “I was changin’ the water in the tank and a rock cut me. I ain’t had no first-aid kit or nothing, so I ran over to five cuz I know females buy bandages and peroxide and shit. Nita was there alone. She saw my hand and hooked me up.” His eyes fixed on the scar as he remembered. “That was nice. Somebody takin’ care of me.”

  I watched him for a moment, then asked, “How long you been out, Raul?”

  “Almost six months. I ain’t goin’ back again. Learned my lesson. No more hangin’ out with the wrong crowd. My mom and pops ain’t bust they asses for me to be in and out of the pen. And they legal. We ain’t no wetbacks, crossin’ no rivers and runnin’ from coyotes. Pops was in the U.S. Navy.”

  “Why do people think you’re involved in Chanita’s death?” Colin asked.

  He jiggled his legs. “Cuz they racist. Mexicans livin’ in the Jungle get blamed for everything, man. We takin’ black people’s jobs. We takin’ black people’s apartments. Now, we stealin’ they kids. I ain’t never touched they kids. I ain’t even attracted to black people.” He paused and his Adam’s apple bobbed. “No offense, Detective Norton.”

  I shrugged—my ability to be offended had died the moment I stepped into this ice cave.

  “So your prison convictions?” Colin asked.

  “I think they said Selena was thirteen or fourteen.” Moriaga sat back on the couch, then shook his head. “But that shit got twisted. She smoked meth and crack—that shit make you look older than what you are, you know? And she told me she was nineteen. I was, like, whatever man, let’s do this. To be honest, she looked like she twenty-three.”

  I didn’t blink. “Uh huh.”

  “And Jazzy?” He shrugged. “I ain’t even touch that girl, and I sure as hell ain’t take her to my uncle’s garage. She was at the fish store, and it was raining, and I asked her if she needed a ride, and she said yeah. I sure as hell ain’t kidnap her. And Bri … I didn’t even know that girl. And that one really ticks me off cuz it’s already bad going to jail for something you did, but when you go for something you ain’t did?”

  Okay. So. Raul Moriaga was the Ex-Con Framed for Everything. To his credit, he had tried to be so normal, so affable—he liked fish and reading Charles Dickens. But, then, how many citizens walked their dogs, did their laundry, then preyed on the most vulnerable once the rest of us had been lulled by the monotony of Everyday? That is, until we were snapped out of our sleep by a rape, an assault, or a murder by that guy? That guy seemed so normal.