The Girl Buried in the Woods

by Robert Ellis

  Matt stopped writing and gave Ramirez a long look. “She does it to herself?” he said.

  Ramirez nodded. After a moment he stood up.

  “I want you to see her bedroom,” he said.

  Matt got up from the chair, glanced through the storm door at Marcs and Guy in the cruiser, then followed Ramirez through the kitchen, down a short hallway, and into Sophia’s bedroom. When Ramirez switched on the lights, Matt took one look and understood.

  Sophia Ramirez was a skateboarder.

  And from the poster-size photographs of her tacked to the walls, the numerous trophies on her bookcase, and the blue ribbons pinned to her bulletin board, a prolific skateboarder with talent.

  Ramirez crossed the room, sat down at his daughter’s desk, and switched on her computer. Once the machine booted, Ramirez clicked open a window and a video began playing.

  “She takes too many chances,” Ramirez said. “But it’s who she is—a risk taker like her mother. It’s how she wins. It’s how she thrives. She and Trey shoot these videos together. They want to go to UCLA and become filmmakers.”

  Matt tried to take it all in and settle. In a single instant, his view of the case had been gutted. Nothing about solving this case would be easy. Nothing about the murder was homegrown. He found a spot on the bed and sat down to watch the video. The shots looked as if they had been made and edited by a professional. After a few minutes, he saw Sophia’s boyfriend on a second skateboard and realized that they were taking turns shooting each other. It looked like they were across the street in the park. He could see the picnic tables at the top of the hill, the grassy bank, and the grove of pine trees in the background. As they started down the street on their boards, they made a long jump over a bench and landed on a slab of concrete that had the look and feel of a drainage canal built to carry rainwater down the hill to the river. It was a steep, fast, and harrowing ride.

  When the clip ended, Matt turned and found Ramirez gazing at him again. But this time the anger and fear were gone, and his face looked young and clean and filled with love and pride.

  A moment passed, the air in the room heavier now as Matt began to sense the totality of their innocence and loss. When he spoke, there was a certain shake to his voice, like he’d tried to reel in his emotions but only made it halfway.

  “What was she doing in the park three nights ago?” he said. “Do you have any idea?”

  “It was the eighth,” Ramirez said. “It was her birthday. We gave her a new skateboard and upgraded her camera. It’s a sports cam that attaches to her helmet.” He turned and stared at the image of his daughter frozen on the computer screen. A spirit filled with life, and at fifteen, just beginning to bloom.

  “She wanted to take a test ride before it got dark,” he whispered. “She wanted to make sure everything worked just right. That’s Sophia—so happy, so loving, so smart. My wife had made a birthday cake. We were waiting for her in the living room, looking at the gifts that were still wrapped and staring at the door. We waited a long time. Then I went out looking for her. I searched all night but couldn’t find her. When I came home, I had this hope, this dream that my child would be sleeping on the couch waiting for me. This hope that all my fears, the nightmares in my head, that everything would be over, and we would go back to being a family again. But it didn’t happen. Not like I hoped and dreamed it would. I never saw her again. Never got to hear her call me ‘Daddy’ again.”

  Matt could see Ramirez playing the images of his daughter in his mind, then watched as the man lowered his head and started weeping.

  SEVEN

  Work lights were set up, the crime scene still being processed on what had become a foggy night. Matt got out of the cruiser, thanked Marcs and Guy for the ride, and looked past the tent and picnic tables for his partner.

  On the drive back, Matt had called Cabrera to let him know that Sophia had a helmet and skateboard with her on the night she was killed. But even more curious, when Matt had watched the video of Sophia skateboarding, both she and her friend had been wearing knee and elbow pads. Before leaving, Matt had asked Ramirez about it and was told that his daughter never skated without the added protection. In fact, he said that Sophia often wore compression sleeves to support her knees but wasn’t sure about that night because the sleeves fit underneath her jeans.

  None of these things had been found on the girl’s body or underneath the trees. And while it didn’t confirm the idea that the killer may have spent a considerable amount of time with her or even corroborate the theory that he removed her clothing and dressed her up again, Matt found the whole thing particularly disturbing.

  He jotted down a few notes in his pad, thinking that they might be useful during the girl’s autopsy. Returning the pad to his pocket, he saw Cabrera stepping out of the grove of pine trees and caught his eye. As he headed for the grassy bank, he glanced at the tall buildings that framed out the new downtown section of LA, their bright lights blurred by the heavy mist.

  “Any luck?” Matt said.

  Cabrera shook his head as he climbed the ridge. “These guys went through every trash can in the park this morning when they made their first sweep. No one found a skateboard or a helmet or anything like that. All they found was trash.”

  Matt grimaced as he chewed it over, wondering why it felt like all this mattered. “What about Speeks?”

  Cabrera gave him a slow look. “He left about ten minutes ago. He said it doesn’t look good. We’ve got a few dirt samples, the dried semen, and whatever else they can pull off the body, but that’s about it. The hairs they picked up look like they came from the dog.”

  Matt reached into his pocket for a smoke, then remembered that he’d quit.

  “Let’s take a walk,” he said.

  “Where?” Cabrera asked.

  Matt pointed to the warehouse set before the railroad tracks at the bottom of the hill. “Down there,” he said. “It looks like they’re still open.”

  They walked through the gloom by the picnic tables and started down the street on foot. As they passed the bench Sophia and her friend, Trey Washington, had jumped over in their video, Matt peered through the haze at the concrete canal and estimated it to be a good fifteen feet beyond the bench. He didn’t know why he liked the fact that the jump had been dangerous, but he did. A risk taker, her father had called her. A risk taker like her mother.

  Matt noticed a path through the trees and saw the private road that followed the train tracks at the bottom of a steep wall of stones and rocks. As they climbed down to the pavement, he thought the road seemed too narrow to accommodate tractor trailers carrying heavy loads. He turned and looked back at the city to get his bearings. He could see the Buena Vista Viaduct just a hundred yards behind them. Once the private road passed beneath the bridge, it became Baker Street, and finally North Spring Street, rolling through the outskirts of Chinatown into the city.

  Cabrera turned back and pulled a bottle of water out of his jacket. “What about the girl’s family?” he asked.

  Matt shrugged but didn’t say anything.

  “What do they do?” Cabrera went on.

  “He’s a cabinet maker. He showed me his shop in the garage. She’s a housekeeper for a TV director.”

  “Who’s the director?”

  “Somebody I never heard of. But I don’t watch network TV.”

  Cabrera stopped in the middle of the street. Matt saw him brooding and could guess what was on his partner’s mind. Cabrera was first-generation American. Eventually the storm seemed to pass, and his dark eyes cleared. After rubbing his hand over his forehead and through his wiry hair, he started walking again.

  “How do we keep Immigration out of this?” he said after a while. “They could fuck everything up, Matt. They could fuck it up before we even get started.”

  Matt gave him a look. “This is a murder case, Denny. They’re not gonna mess with us.”

  “That’s the point. There’s a killer on the street. Immigration likes
messing with people. They’d fuck us up just for kicks. They don’t give a shit about anything anymore.”

  “Maybe not,” Matt said. “But this is our case, and they’re not gonna mess with us. Believe me. It’s not an issue here. Forget about it.”

  They walked around the bend in the dark of night. As the road straightened out on the other side, Matt saw the factory nesting in the fog at the bottom of the hill. Although he could appreciate the torment his partner was wrestling with and knew the sacrifices his parents had made to raise him here in California, Matt tried to put it aside. He was thinking about the security cameras mounted on the factory’s walls that he’d noticed earlier in the day. It seemed like a long shot. But they needed a break, and he hoped they might get one tonight.

  It took no more than a couple of minutes to reach the facility. Fixed to the ten-foot wall, a small brass sign read DMG WASTE MANAGEMENT. Matt stepped over to the open gate and gazed into the building. Five people dressed in hazmat suits were transferring fifty-five-gallon drums from a cargo container to a platform beside a smaller truck. There was a smell wafting from the place. A foul acidic odor that smacked of sulfur and rotten eggs. To the left of the facility’s huge bay doors he spotted an entrance to the office. But just as they passed through the gate, a security guard stepped outside, noticed them, and switched on his flashlight.

  EIGHT

  “You guys have an appointment?” the guard asked.

  Both Matt and Cabrera raised their badges. Matt stepped in beside his partner, his voice steady and clear.

  “We’d like to talk to the owner or manager if he or she is still here.”

  The guard nodded and seemed friendly as he approached them, panning his flashlight across their IDs. After a brief look, he lowered the light and stepped back, then cracked an odd smile.

  “Is this about that girl on TV?” he said. “The one they found in the woods up there?”

  Matt nodded, noting that the guard wore a nameplate that read “Tommy” and that there was something not quite right about the man. Matt traded a quick look with Cabrera. When he checked the guard’s belt, he was glad to see that he didn’t carry a weapon.

  “We thought you guys might be able to help,” Matt said.

  The guard smiled at them again. “They’re in a meeting,” he said. “But let’s go inside and see. Annie will figure it out.”

  Matt traded another quick look with Cabrera as the guard led the way up the steps and through the office door. Once inside, they entered a lobby with a young female receptionist seated behind a chest-high counter. Her eyes made a quick sweep from Matt and Cabrera to the guard.

  “What’s going on, Tommy?” she said in a casual voice.

  “These are the detectives trying find out who killed that girl on TV. They’d like to speak with—”

  He stopped like his batteries had run out and suddenly appeared uncertain.

  The receptionist smiled and spoke gently, almost as if she were a parent. “They’d like to speak with who, Tommy?”

  The guard thought it over with his eyes down. “Sonny, I guess.”

  The receptionist looked over at Matt and flashed another pleasant smile. “They’re in a partners meeting,” she said. “But I think it’ll be okay. I just need to let them know you’re here.”

  Matt thanked her and watched her get out of the chair and start down the hall behind the counter. She was young and dressed in a pair of skintight stretch jeans and a black turtleneck with her light-brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. He watched her reach the first door on the left, give it three taps, and enter. When she closed the door behind her, Matt’s gaze returned to the counter, where he noticed three trays filled with business cards. It didn’t take much to realize that the company, DMG Waste Management, had been named after its three partners—Sonny Daniels, Ryan Moore, and Lane Grubb.

  Matt pocketed one of each card and looked up as the door opened and a man with a shaved head stepped out and started walking toward them. He was dressed in a pair of well-tailored slacks and a casual dress shirt, appeared to be in his late thirties, and carried himself with confidence. When he reached the reception area, he looked directly at Matt, extended his hand, and spoke through a smile.

  “My name’s Sonny Daniels,” he said. “How can we help you?”

  They shook hands.

  “I’m Detective Matt Jones from Hollywood Homicide, and this my partner, Denny Cabrera.”

  Daniels nodded. “Annie told me this is about the girl. We’ve had the TV on all day. Come on back.”

  He swung the gate open. While the guard stayed behind, Daniels led Matt and Cabrera down the hall and into what turned out to be a conference room. Two other men were there, both of them standing by their seats while the receptionist made a fresh pot of coffee. Matt glanced at the conference table. Papers were strewn across the glass surface: schedules, lists, and other documents. A set of blueprints was weighted down by three empty coffee mugs. A TV mounted to the wall was switched to Channel Five News, but muted.

  Daniels stepped around the table to a chair between the two men. “These are my partners, Detectives. Ryan Moore and Lane Grubb. Meet Denny Cabrera and Matt Jones.”

  Daniels patted both partners on their shoulders.

  “You three guys are co-owners,” Matt said. “Daniels, Moore, and Grubb. DMG Waste Management.”

  Daniels smiled again. “That’s true. Now please, have a seat. Would you like a cup of coffee? Something stronger?”

  “Thanks, we’re fine,” Cabrera said.

  Daniels nodded at the receptionist. As she left the room and everyone sat down, Matt took a moment to measure the three men on the other side of the table. Ryan Moore and Lane Grubb were dressed in expensive slacks and casual shirts exactly like Sonny Daniels. And it didn’t take much to guess that all three were in their late thirties and probably the same age. But what struck Matt most about them was their presence, their demeanor. They were identical. Like they were brothers. Like they had known each other and been friends their whole lives. They were comfortable around each other. There wasn’t an ounce of tension in the room.

  Daniels leaned forward. “Please, Detective,” he said. “Tell us how we can help.”

  Matt glanced at Cabrera and took the lead. “We realize that you’re here on a quiet street without much traffic, Mr. Daniels. Basically, you’re here on a dead end. Still, there’s a chance you or your partners or someone who works for you might have seen something. It could be as simple as seeing someone drive by who seemed out of place. Someone on foot who appeared lost or in a hurry.”

  “When did the murder occur?” Daniels asked.

  “Three days ago,” Cabrera said.

  Matt nodded. “We’re guessing around four thirty in the afternoon. It would have been dark.”

  Daniels settled back in his chair as he thought it over. “You’re right, Detectives. The only cars we see passing by are from railroad people driving to and from the substation. But most of the time our gate’s closed. The wall is ten feet high, so we don’t see much. Like I said, we’ve had the TV on all day. I’ve had a chance to ask around. I think my partners will back me up on this because I know that they’ve been talking to everybody as well. No one who works here mentioned seeing or hearing anything that they would describe as out of the ordinary. The truth is, we’re down the hill and can’t even see the park from here.”

  Daniels leaned forward and raised his hand like he had an idea.

  “Here’s what we could do for you,” he said finally. “Most of our crew left at five. Tomorrow, if you’d like, we could set aside time to let you and your partner talk to them yourselves. The TV said this is about a young girl. Believe me, anything we can do to help, we’ll do.”

  Matt paused a moment, trying to hide his disappointment. Daniels was bright, the natural leader of the three, and doing everything he could do to assist them. Matt couldn’t help feeling like he and Cabrera were wasting time and headed in the wrong direction.
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  “How many employees do you have?” he asked.

  “We’re a small group,” Daniels said. “Other than the three of us, and Annie, who’s still in school and works part-time, we’ve only got fifteen employees.”

  “What about your security cameras? Did anyone check them?”

  Daniels turned to his partner, Lane Grubb, who cleared his throat and leaned his elbows on the table.

  “I haven’t had a chance to go through the logs, but you’re welcome to join me,” Grubb said. “If it’s three days back, then everything we’ve got is still saved.”

  Daniels nodded. “It wouldn’t take more than ten minutes to set up. We could do it right now.”

  “That would be terrific,” Cabrera said.

  Matt watched everyone get up from the table. Daniels opened the door, glanced at the reception area, then led the way farther down the hall. The plaster walls soon gave way to cinder block, the sounds coming from the factory growing louder as they moved deeper into the building. After turning the corner, they climbed a set of steps and entered a room that overlooked the entire facility. Matt noticed the security monitors mounted on the wall below a small video and audio switcher. While Grubb sat down at the computer and began searching his video database, Matt crossed the room to the wall of giant plate-glass windows and gazed into the plant.

  He had a bird’s-eye view of the entire operation from here. He could see the five people in hazmat suits unloading the fifty-five-gallon drums from the shipping container. But now he realized that the drums were being moved with a forklift to a small room on the other side of the supply shelves and workbenches. Flashes of bright red light were bouncing out of the room onto the floor and walls of the factory. Once the drums were hauled out of the room, they were rolled onto a scale by hand and weighed by three men wearing gloves and safety glasses. A man with dark hair and a beard was standing by the scale making notes on a clipboard and adding a sticker to the top of each drum. Behind him, Matt could see an enclosed garage area where two additional small trucks were parked for the night.