The Girl Buried in the Woods

by Robert Ellis

  The kid’s eyes got big again, and Matt saw his jaw drop.

  “I’ll be fine,” he repeated. “Show me the video you’re making for Sophia.”

  The kid turned in the chair. “It’s not ready yet. I just got started pulling clips—where were you shot?”

  Matt leaned against the backboard. The pain didn’t have any give to it. His car, the meds, seemed so far away right now.

  “All over,” he said.

  “How many times?”

  “Four,” he said. “Four times last October.”

  “You were shot four times?”

  Matt nodded and pointed at the monitor. “Go ahead,” he said. “Show me the clips. I want to see them.”

  “But they’re not even trimmed.”

  “Show me anyway.”

  The kid noticed the gun holstered to Matt’s belt and gave it a long look. After a few moments, he scooped up the mouse and highlighted a handful of shots that had been reduced to thumbnail images. Then he pulled the keyboard closer and hit “Play.”

  Matt’s eyes drifted over to the screen, but his mind felt like it was buffeting off the spikes of pain in his chest and shoulder like a meteor bouncing off the clouds on its way to the ground.

  His pockets were empty, and he was out of stones.

  Could it be possible that the murder of Sophia Ramirez was nothing more than a random act of violence? Was it conceivable that her murder came down to nothing more than bad luck and timing? That she entered the park at precisely the wrong moment? The same exact time a madman turned up out of nowhere? Someone who came and went and left nothing of himself behind?

  In the end, was the girl’s murder nothing more than fate?

  The idea made Matt angry. He turned back to the monitor and tried to focus on the shots of Sophia skateboarding down a series of concrete steps—the joy on her face, her character and spirit in full bloom. He had to admit that he found the clips difficult to watch. But when he checked the boy’s face, he realized that it was just him. Trey Washington was lost in the pleasure of the past, drinking in the images of his friend as if he needed them now more than ever. After several takes of a wild downhill ride on the drainage canal, the camera switched on as Sophia carried her skateboard up the road to the picnic area on top of the hill. Matt could see the tables on the lawn in the background, the grove of pine trees on the other side of the meadow.

  But then something happened. The camera took a bounce and jerked up and down. Matt sat up and leaned closer as the images became steady.

  He could hear someone shouting on the audio track. He could see a man laid out on his belly on the grassy bank screaming at Sophia, then spotting the camera in Trey’s hands and jumping to his feet. The man started chasing them across the lawn and back down the hill. Sophia led the way, and Trey kept the camera rolling as they veered off the street into the bushes and through the trees. After several moments, the sound of the man shouting at them faded away, and Sophia and Trey slowed down and turned back. They were trying to catch their breath. Matt could see Sophia smiling through it and heard both of them trying not to laugh.

  Matt’s body shuddered and he got to his feet. “Who was the man chasing you?” he said.

  The boy turned to him. “Some guy. Some weirdo.”

  “Have you ever seen him before?”

  “A couple of times. He yelled at us, and we ran away.”

  “When did you see him?”

  “Ten days ago,” the boy said quickly. “Is everything okay? Did we do something wrong?”

  Matt shook his head. “What about before that? Had you ever seen him before?”

  “No. Never. Just a couple of times ten days ago.”

  Matt took a step closer. “Play it again,” he said. “But this time I want you to hit pause as soon as the camera stops shaking, okay? As soon as you see the guy, freeze the video.”

  The boy knew something was wrong and became nervous. Still, he managed to find the exact moment the camera stopped shaking—the first clean frame—and killed it.

  Matt leaned over the desk, eyeballing the image and trying to keep cool. A man with dark hair was lying on the grassy bank holding a camera with a long lens. A pair of binoculars sat on the lawn beside him. The man looked to be about forty. Matt couldn’t tell for sure, but it seemed like he had been peering down the hill and that Sophia and Trey had startled him from behind.

  “Do you have any way of zooming in on his face?”

  The boy nodded. “Sure.”

  Matt looked back at the screen as the image began to expand.

  “That’s about it,” the boy said. “Any closer and we’ll lose too much detail.”

  “That’s close enough,” Matt said. “That’s good, kid. Real good.”

  Matt dug his cell phone out of his pocket and switched on the camera. After taking several shots of the image frozen on the monitor, he lowered his phone and stared at the man’s face.

  He knew him.

  Everybody who worked narcotics knew him. Anyone who read the Los Angeles Times knew him.

  Robert Gambini was the nephew of Joseph Gambini, the CEO of the Gambini Organization and a notorious crime boss whom Matt thought had retired or might even be locked up in prison somewhere.

  But Robert was the face of the next generation. The new breed. Someone who followed his uncle’s lead, stayed in the background, worked with the Mexican drug cartels, and had the organizational skills to be running one of the biggest drug operations on the West Coast. A man who had graduated from the Wharton School, a prestigious business school at the University of Pennsylvania, and had the clout to somehow buy a license and open a chain of pot shops in Southern California. It was unclear how he managed to pull that off when everyone on the street knew Gambini’s real mission in life was weaning addicts off oxycodone with high-grade heroin that remained infinitely less expensive. Ten bucks’ worth of “junk” could still turn an addict into King for a Day.

  Matt tossed it over, his stomach churning. Something about this case had been out of order from the very beginning. It had been gnawing at him ever since Madina reviewed his autopsy results and none of it seemed to fit with the crime scene. Something was wrong. Something he couldn’t see yet but had the strong sense was there now. It had to be there.

  What was Robert Gambini doing on top of that hill?

  SIXTEEN

  Matt parked under the trees and quickly fished through his laptop case for his meds. Dumping them out onto the passenger seat, he stared at the pill bottles and weighed the odds the way he always had since he’d been shot just two and half months ago. He could risk addiction with the oxycodone or, as his doctor warned him, blow out his kidneys with a hopped-up version of ibuprofen—eight hundred milligrams cut with a buffering agent that required a prescription.

  Matt decided on the ibuprofen, tossing the large pill in his mouth and chasing it down with half a bottle of water. He knew that it would take an hour until he felt any relief, maybe longer because too much time had passed before he’d done anything about it.

  The idea of waiting for relief that might not even happen put him in a foul mood.

  He ripped open his car door and started across the lawn to the grassy bank beside the grove of pine trees. On the other side of the meadow he could see Levi Harris, the old man with his dog, tossing a tennis ball.

  What had Robert Gambini been doing here? And why did he need a pair of binoculars and a camera with a long lens to do it? Who was he spying on?

  Matt climbed the grassy bank and gazed over the edge and down the steep hill.

  There could be only two possibilities, but he knew that the moment he saw Gambini on the video. Either something was going on near or at the substation, maybe something to do with a drug shipment and a freight train. Or, what? Something wasn’t quite right at DMG Waste Management?

  Matt chewed it over.

  Nothing about the waste management company had the look or feel of anyone trying to hide a drug operation. When he a
nd Cabrera showed up the other night, the gate had been standing wide open, along with the bay doors to the entire warehouse. The place smelled of sulfur and other toxic chemicals that reminded him of rotten eggs. But even more, the owners had welcomed them into their inner offices and been only too willing to help. Matt could remember watching security videos that hadn’t been screened or edited first. And the building’s overall security was slim to none—the only guard, a dim-witted man who didn’t even carry a firearm.

  Where was the logic?

  Matt rubbed his shoulder as he looked back at the freight trains being fed onto a sidetrack behind the substation. He could see a parking lot carved into the hill, big and wide enough to accommodate trucks. If Gambini had been receiving or moving product on a freight car, Matt doubted anyone would have ever noticed. Everything about the transaction would have seemed routine. And Gambini could have overseen the entire operation with a bird’s-eye view from right here, armed with nothing more than his cell phone, a pair of binoculars, and a—

  Matt heard something.

  He turned and saw Harris’s dog race into the grove of pine trees, canter back out, then charge in again like he was playing a game. The dog was some sort of terrier, snorting and barking and making a whining sound. Matt looked for the old man and spotted him hiking across the lawn with the dog’s leash tossed over his shoulder.

  Although Matt was certain that the lab no longer had any interest in the location, he could still see crime scene tape stretched around the trees. He wasn’t sure why the tape hadn’t been removed or why Speeks had never mentioned it. Maybe Speeks was embarrassed and just wanted to forget about it. After all, the lab’s effort had yielded no substantive evidence and turned out to be a complete failure.

  Matt grimaced. Something about watching a dog trample over their former crime scene appeared fitting. Even so, he stepped off the grassy bank and walked over to the pine trees.

  “You should probably get your dog out of there, Mr. Harris,” he said.

  “I thought you guys were all done.”

  Matt shrugged. “You should probably do it anyway. At least until someone takes the tape down.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No problem, Mr. Harris. You’ve been a big help. We wouldn’t be here without you.”

  The old man readied his lead and stepped through the opening in the branches. Matt could see the shallow grave in the soil, the dog digging again and wagging his tail. Once Harris snapped on the leash and gave it a light tug, the dog turned, shot him a look, and whimpered. With a treat in his hand, Harris led the dog out onto the lawn and smoothed the fur back beside his ears.

  Matt thought the dog might be a Westie and let it sniff his hand before petting him. “What’s his name?”

  “Louie.”

  “That’s a great name, Mr. Harris. Hello, Louie.”

  The old man smiled. “Sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t thinking. Louie must have caught the scent of that poor girl in the dirt. He’s still a pup. He thinks everything’s a game.”

  Matt nodded and watched them walk off. When they reached the street and started down the hill, he stepped through the branches and gazed at the fresh claw marks in the soil above the grave. He was about to turn away when the words the old man had used hit him between the eyes.

  The dog must have caught the scent of that poor girl in the dirt.

  Those were the words he’d used. The dog caught the scent of the girl still in the soil . . .

  What scent?

  Matt turned sharply. The earth that surrounded Sophia’s body had been removed by Speeks and a variety of forensic criminalists. They might not have had much luck, but Matt knew with certainty that the soil had been examined, sifted, and meticulously combed through for physical evidence. Any soil that required further examination had been taken to the lab. What remained had been left in a pile on the lawn beside the closest picnic table.

  Yet Harris’s dog hadn’t gone near it. Instead, he had raced under the trees onto what was left of the girl’s shallow grave. And he’d been excited about it. Barking and snorting and all amped up as he wagged his tail.

  Matt turned back to the grave, letting his mind travel freely through the world of maybes and what-ifs. As he let out more line, his imagination suddenly locked in on something so horrific that his heart skipped a beat. Something so dark that when the idea clicked, he could feel an ice-cold chill working its way up his spine.

  He searched the ground for a stick. When he didn’t see one, he rushed outside, over the grassy bank, and into the woods. He spotted a flat rock and grabbed it, then hurried back under the pine trees. Dropping to his knees on the dead girl’s grave, he drove the rock into the ground and started digging the soil away. Quick, hard strokes—over and over again.

  He could feel the pain radiating through his left shoulder and across his chest but no longer cared about it. He could hear the frantic sounds he was making and thought of that terrier, digging away with his paws. Growling and barking and all jacked up—not like a dog anymore, but like a man on all fours who had locked in on the scent of an idea. A homicide cop beating back failure. He took another swing, driving the rock deeper and deeper still.

  Another swing until he hit something eerily soft.

  He groaned and flung the rock out of his hand. He could feel the heady rush of adrenaline as he clawed through the dirt with his fingers.

  And then he saw it. Then he clenched his jaw and felt his entire body shudder.

  It was a hand. A human hand. In the grave below the earth where the girl had been found.

  Matt grabbed hold of the wrist, gave it a yank, and screamed.

  An arm broke out of the soil. A human face and the wretched smell of another dead body.

  SEVENTEEN

  The tents had been pitched over the picnic tables for the second time in two days. The park had been sealed off, and while the news choppers would have liked to move in for their money shots, the air above had been deemed restricted until further notice.

  Matt couldn’t help thinking about how quiet the crime scene had become. It was clear to everybody here that leaving a body behind amounted to the World Series of fuck-up’s, that it had been a team effort, and that the story would wind up above the fold on page one of the Times tomorrow morning.

  It was quiet, but it was also very grim.

  Matt knelt down and watched Gainer and an assistant from the coroner’s office lift the corpse out of the earth and lower it into a body bag. The victim was a white male with dark hair, about forty, wearing a long-sleeved flannel shirt and a pair of jeans. As Gainer went through his pockets, Matt noted that the back of the victim’s head was soaked in blood, along with his neck and shirt collar. His eyes were covered in dirt but still open and hard to look at. His mouth was open and filled with even more dirt, his teeth jutting out of the soil in a hideous death scream.

  Gainer completed his search and looked over at Matt. “His pockets are empty,” he said. “No ID. No cash, keys, or credit cards.”

  Matt looked the body over without saying anything. He didn’t see a watch on either wrist or any rings on his fingers.

  “Okay to zip him up?” Gainer asked.

  “Okay,” Matt said. “But once we get him in the tent, I wanna pull him back out, Ed. We can’t leave here without having a better idea of what happened.”

  Matt stood up and followed his partner out from under the trees. Cabrera pulled him over toward the grassy bank and spoke through his teeth in a low, anxious voice.

  “What’s Speeks gonna do to make sure nobody else is buried in there, Matt?”

  “I already talked to him. His guys are gonna probe every inch of that ground. If there’s a dead mouse, they’ll find it.”

  “The way things are going, let’s just hope that if they find a dead mouse, his goddamn name isn’t Mickey.”

  Matt noted the angst in his partner’s voice, then turned to watch Gainer and his assistant wheel the body across the lawn into th
e tent. By the time he and Cabrera entered, work lights had been switched on and Speeks was digging into his hard-shell cases for the UV flashlights.

  The tension was almost unbearable. The air inside the tent so heavy, Matt found it difficult to breathe.

  But he let it slide because he had to. No one could go back in time and fix what they’d done or hadn’t done. He let it go, then moved in beside Gainer as the murder victim was removed from the body bag and lowered onto the table. Speeks passed out the UV flashlights and safety glasses, and once a tech killed the work lights, the corpse began to glow in that strange purple light.

  The first thing Matt noticed were the bright white specks all over the man’s clothing—much like the way lint glows under a black light.

  “Any idea what this stuff is?” Matt said.

  Speeks eyed the body with fascination. “A fabric of some kind. It could be lint from another piece of clothing in the dryer. He could have been wrapped in something. A blanket or a flannel sheet.”

  Matt traded looks with Cabrera. At least Speeks would have something to work with. When he turned back, Gainer had begun his examination of the corpse. Matt realized that they were on the same page when the investigator started with the victim’s hands. His fingernails were dirty, his fingers and palms scratched and stained a dark brown from the soil.

  Matt panned his flashlight down the man’s legs to his knees and noted the dirt stains on his jeans. “You think he dug his own grave?”

  Gainer nodded. “Sure looks like it.”

  “Let’s check out that head wound, Ed.”

  Gainer adjusted his gloves, then with the help of his assistant rolled the body over. Once he spread the man’s hair apart, Matt leaned in with his UV light. He could see what he thought was an entry wound in the lower half of the skull. But it was a small wound—so small it easily could have been missed in the field and never picked up until the autopsy.

  Gainer looked at Matt, then back at the wound. “Gotta be a twenty-two,” he said. “Something small enough that it bounced around and never came back out.”