Fatally Haunted

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  Laswell rested at his desk at police headquarters on West 1st Street. A growing stack of case files sat next to his computer keyboard. He laid his hand on the stack, let it rest there for a few moments before he dragged his fingers over the manila folders. He lifted the first one from the pile. Glanced at the label. Tossed it back onto the stack. He couldn’t focus on other cases right now.

  He lifted a framed photograph from his desk. Stared at it…He remembered this moment as if it were just yesterday. He and his wife, Kate, had taken Laurie to the Griffith Observatory for her tenth birthday. It was all she had talked about for months afterward.

  When he glanced around the squad room, he saw that the other detectives avoided making eye-contact. He understood their need to do this. What happened to him and his family was a reminder that anyone who wore a badge was a target—and that the people they loved were also at risk.

  Laswell opened his side drawer and removed the blue murder book he knew he would find there. Did he want to do this? Did he want to open the book? Look at the crime scene photos? See his daughter like that?

  No. He…

  What the hell?

  The corner of a PostIt note peeked from between the murder book’s pages.

  He opened the book to the note. His partner’s cramped writing.

  Patrick Walsh aka Lizard. Inez Street, Boyle Heights. Print lifted from Laurie’s cell phone.

  Laswell plucked his cell phone from his belt and called his partner’s number.

  Voicemail.

  “Hey, partner. Just saw the note about Patrick Walsh. I need to talk to the guy myself. Heading to his home now. If you get this in time, feel free to meet me there.”

  There was only one explanation as to how Walsh’s fingerprint ended up on Laurie’s phone: he was the asshole who had made the call that night. His was the voice on the other end of the phone telling Laswell where to go if he wanted to save his daughter. Walsh may not have actually killed her, but he would know who did. One way or the other, he was going to spill his guts.

  Why hadn’t his partner called him as soon as he received the results from the lab? Why hadn’t he called as soon as he had learned they had not only found a print but matched it to someone in the system?

  The house on Inez Street looked quiet. Laswell called his partner’s number again.

  Straight to voicemail.

  He contemplated calling for back-up but decided he would feel out the situation first, figure out what he had.

  On the porch, he stood to one side, drew his Glock, then knocked on the screen door.

  “LAPD,” he shouted.

  No answer.

  He knocked harder.

  “LAPD,” he shouted again.

  No response.

  He pulled the screen open and tried the doorknob.

  The door creaked open on old, tired hinges.

  He followed the Glock inside just two steps, cleared the room, then called out again.

  No answer.

  He continued into the house as he searched for Patrick Walsh, aka Lizard.

  The stench of spoiled food bled from the kitchen and assaulted his nose. Smelled like no one had been here for several days.

  Search completed. No sign of Walsh.

  Must have skipped town. Hiding, and waiting until the heat died down before he would resurface.

  Back at his desk, Laswell combed through the jacket they had on Patrick Walsh. A few misdemeanors, a couple of felonies, nothing that jumped off the page and screamed Hey, I’m the shooter. I did your daughter. Many of the charges leveled against him had been dismissed. In all, Lizard did time for only one of the felonies…and not much time at that. His experience told Laswell that Lizard was being used as a CI. That’s the only explanation for so many brushes with the law and so little jail time.

  If he could identify his handler within the department, maybe he could learn where he might be found.

  Only the chief had access to handler information. For now, Laswell would try and work around this. If something didn’t break for him soon, he would visit the chief and call in a marker. The chief owed him a favor. It might just be time to collect.

  For now, Detective Laswell pulled the files on all cases where Lizard had been charged. Maybe he could find a common thread, notice a name that kept popping up…something.

  It was grunt work, the sort of thing assigned to a D1, rather than a veteran detective. But Laswell was off the books on this one, not officially assigned to the case. And besides, he couldn’t trust anyone else to see what he would see, or to reach the same conclusions, make the same connections. So, he made himself comfortable and began reviewing the files one by one.

  It was close to midnight when Laswell found his wife in the kitchen. Doing dishes this late at night?

  Oh, Kate.

  He stood back and watched her. She was crying, and that made him feel even worse about the lateness of his arrival. He walked up behind her. “I’m sorry, Kate. I completely lost track of time.”

  She didn’t answer, didn’t turn to face him, though she paused in her task for a moment to gaze out the window. Then: “I was at the cemetery today.” She began to sob.

  Laswell reached to take her into his arms but hesitated when she spoke.

  “I wish I could be mad at you,” she said. “I want to be mad at you. Maybe that would make this all a little easier.” She took a breath, wiped tears from her eyes with the back of her wrist. “Maybe nothing can do that for me now.”

  “Oh, Kate. I know.” He took a step closer. “I’ve been running myself ragged trying to figure out what happened that night.” He waited for her to respond. When she didn’t, he said, “I didn’t see the whole picture. Knowing it was our daughter…knowing it was Laurie…it made me careless.”

  “You promised me you would never let anything happen to her.” Kate’s sobbing grew stronger. “You promised!”

  Laswell didn’t know what else to say. Every response he thought of…“I’m going to find the bastard who did this,” he finally said, though the words seemed to fall flat.

  Kate turned from the sink then, stared at him for a long moment. “I’m trying not to hate you.”

  Nine hours before the call…

  Recognizing his wife’s ringtone, Laswell spoke as soon as he answered. “I know, I know, I’m running late again. I’m on the road now—”

  “Bill, Laurie’s missing.” Kate sounded frightened.

  “What? What do you mean she’s missing?”

  “She didn’t come home from school. At first I thought she had just stopped off somewhere with friends…but then I got worried and started making some calls.”

  “I’m sure she’s fine,” Bill said. “Probably with that boy she’s been talking about lately.”

  “No, Bill, she’s gone! I found a note.”

  “What?”

  “I didn’t see it at first because it was in her coat pocket. The coat she hasn’t taken off since you brought it home for her birthday.” A sob. “The coat was on her bed.”

  Laswell hit the lights and siren on his detective sedan and accelerated through the city streets.

  “I’ll be home in five minutes,” he told his wife. “Where’s the note now?”

  “When I saw what it was, I set it down on the bed. I haven’t touched it since.”

  Good, Laswell thought. Maybe we’ll get lucky. God, let us get lucky.

  Within four hours, the Laswell residence was swarming with uniform cops, detectives, and crime scene technicians. Lieutenant Lisa Lewis pulled Laswell aside, away from the others and to the quiet of the guest bedroom.

  “How you holding up?” Lewis asked. She leaned her tall, fit frame back against the door they had just come through.

  “Under the circumstances…”

  “I know,” she told him, “this whole thing is shit.” She held his eyes, then added, “Anything you need, just say the word.”

 
“Thanks, L-T. I’m good.”

  Another long moment.

  “No, you’re not,” she told him.

  She was right—he wasn’t.

  “We’ll find her.” Lewis placed her hand on his shoulder and stared into his eyes. “Everything’s going to work out fine.”

  “Yeah,” he said.

  He wanted to believe her.

  The next two hours passed in a restless blur. With no idea where to begin looking for Laurie, all anyone could do was sit by the phones and hope for the best. Laswell watched Lt. Lisa Lewis talking with his wife, soothing her, calming her. He was glad she was here. It allowed him to focus on finding his daughter.

  James Gray, the best print man they had in the department, was dusting every square inch of Laurie’s bedroom, every surface her abductor might possibly have touched. The chance was better than good that the perp had worn some kind of gloves, but they had to try anyway.

  Laswell said, “Tell me something good, Jim. I’m going out of my fucking mind here.”

  The forensic print tech shook his head. “Nothing, Laz. Not a damn thing. Looks like our guy wore gloves.”

  Laswell’s cell phone rang. He sprinted to the kitchen table and to his phone, now alongside Kate’s and the house phone. The tech boys had them all ready to track any incoming call, pinpoint the caller’s location in a matter of seconds. Laswell waited for the go-ahead.

  Finally, he grabbed the phone, then said, “Laswell.”

  No response.

  “Who is this?”

  Dial tone.

  Whoever it was…gone.

  Laswell glanced at his wife. The look on her face hurt him worse than being slammed in the gut with a battering ram. It was the fear; it was the pain. But, most of all, it was the loss of hope. He was about to go to her, but the phone rang again.

  He consulted his watch: 2:32 a.m.

  A male voice was on the other end of the line. The call disconnected after just forty-three seconds.

  “This is my daughter,” Laswell shouted.

  “Exactly,” Lewis said, “which is why you need to listen to what I’m telling you. You’re not thinking like a cop—you’re thinking like a father. You can’t trust your own judgment right now.”

  Laswell shook his head. “No…this has to be done my way. I can’t take any chances.”

  Fresh tears in her eyes, Kate pushed past the cluster of law enforcement personnel surrounding her husband. “Bill…please,” she pleaded. “You can’t do this alone. Let them help. You have the support of the entire department. Use it.”

  Time was his enemy. The longer it took him to get to his daughter the worse her chances of survival.

  “Fine,” he said. “How do we do this? They’re expecting me to come alone.”

  “We’ll put someone in the backseat of your car,” Lewis said. “We’ll track your cell so we know where they send you.”

  Laswell’s partner, Steven Jacoby, said, “I’ll go, L-T.”

  Lewis nodded. “Body armor, both of you. We’re not taking any chances.”

  “Fine,” Laswell said, “let’s do this. We’re wasting time.”

  “I’m gonna get the vest from my trunk,” Jacoby said. “I’ll meet you at your car.”

  Laswell waited by the side of the house, watching Jacoby wait for him beside his black Crown Vic. After about three minutes, Jacoby set the vest on the hood and went back into the house, presumably to find out what was taking so long. As soon as Jacoby was gone, Laswell hustled out to his car, tossed Jacoby’s vest to the ground, along with his own cell phone, then climbed into the car and sped away before his partner returned.

  Three days after Laurie’s shooting…

  Patrick Walsh opened the blinds and let some light into his bedroom. He removed pants and shirts from his dresser drawers and sat them beside his socks and underwear. From the same drawer, he removed a .22 caliber Beretta Bobcat, grabbed the loaded seven-round magazine, and slid it into the gun. Then he pushed the compact pistol into his pants pocket. He retrieved a small suitcase from his closet and opened it. He hurried around the room, grabbing everything that mattered to him: photos, letters, important papers. He set all of it on the bed, then moved to the bathroom.

  He opened the medicine cabinet, removed a can of shaving cream, twisted the top off and poured the contents onto the counter. A secret hiding place for valuables, the can held all the money he had to his name. Walsh didn’t need to count the dirty bills from the can; he knew exactly how much money was there. It wasn’t a lot, but it would have to do.

  Patrick saw the man in the mirror as he was closing the medicine cabinet. His breath left him and his blood chilled. “Holy shit, Steven! You scared the hell out of me.”

  The man didn’t seem fazed by Walsh’s reaction. “You going somewhere, Lizard? Taking a trip?”

  Walsh thought about the Beretta, glad he had loaded it before dropping it into his pocket.

  “I thought it would be a good idea. You know, lay low for a while.”

  Steven nodded. “Where you headed?”

  “Not sure. I’ll figure it out when I’m on the road.”

  Steven Jacoby wrapped his right arm snug around the younger man, and stared at their reflections in the mirror. “Now I can’t help but ask myself, Lizard…”

  “Yeah?”

  “Why would you want to leave before I got you your money?”

  Walsh didn’t know what to say. He needed a good answer, something Jacoby would believe. “I know you’ll see to it I get what’s coming to me, man. I’m not worried about the cash. I was only thinking being gone a week or two. Right? That’s about it.”

  A large grin sprouted on Jacoby’s face, then he began laughing.

  “What’s the joke, man? What’s so funny?”

  “Just something you said. It’s nothing.”

  Walsh stared at the mirror, tried to read Jacoby’s face. The look in the older man’s eyes frightened him. Once again, he thought about the gun in his pocket.

  “Finish packing your stuff. I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”

  “You don’t have to do that, man.”

  “I know I don’t.” Jacoby pulled away from Lizard, put his hand on the side of Lizard’s neck in a friendly gesture.

  Walsh tried to smile. “All right, then. Thanks.”

  They rode in Jacoby’s Crown Vic for several minutes in silence. “Where we going?” Walsh asked.

  Jacoby didn’t answer him right away.

  “We need to make a stop first. Don’t worry, I’ll take you wherever you want to go.” Jacoby glanced toward the young man. “You want your money, don’t you? I’m gonna get it for you now.”

  They were heading up Mulholland Highway.

  Walsh kept glancing around, not sure what he was hoping to see.

  Jacoby stopped on the loop of road directly beneath the Hollywood sign.

  Walsh peered out the windows—nothing but trees and bushes.

  “We meeting someone here or something?” Walsh asked.

  Jacoby glanced at his watch. “We’re a little early.”

  An uncomfortable silence filled the cabin of the large sedan.

  Jacoby opened the door and climbed out. “Come on, Lizard. Let’s take a walk, get some fresh air while we’re waiting.”

  Patrick Walsh climbed slowly from the car, eyed Jacoby suspiciously.

  “Come on.” Jacoby tilted his head back and took in a deep breath. “It always relaxes me to walk along the trails up here, clear my mind, flush out all the bullshit life tries to bury us under.”

  “If you say so.”

  “What? You think a little exercise might kill you?” Another glance at his watch. “We have a few minutes. Come on.”

  They walked away from the road in silence.

  Walsh thought about the Beretta in his pocket. He had a bad feeling about this. If he got the chance, he needed to take it. Something about the look
on Jacoby’s face.

  After a couple of minutes, Jacoby stopped and looked up the side of the hill. “Look up at the sign, Lizard. See it?”

  Walsh glanced up the side of Mount Lee. How could he draw his gun without Jacoby noticing?

  Jacoby said, “You know, when it was first erected back in 1923, it said HOLLYWOODLAND.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that.”

  “It was intended as a giant billboard, can you believe that? The brainchild of some wealthy real estate developer.”

  “That’s fascinating,” Walsh said, not trying to mask the sarcasm in his voice. He made a show of looking up the side of the mountain, toward the sign, left hand shading the sun from his eyes. He slowly reached into his right pocket and slid his index finger along the gun’s side until it sat above the trigger. Jacoby was talking but Walsh couldn’t make out the words. Blood pulsed through his head and dulled his sense of hearing.

  Walsh swung around and raised the gun, preparing to shoot Steven Jacoby.

  Jacoby’s larger pistol was already aimed at his head.

  “What are you—?”

  “You fucked up, Lizard. You fucked up real good.”

  “W-wait.” Walsh lifted his left hand, then looked down at the incriminating gun in his hand. He tossed the weapon to the ground.

  “I can fix this, Steven. Come on, man, give me a chance.”

  Jacoby shook his head. “It’s not going to be that easy this time.”

  “Trust me, man. I can fix it.”

  “I don’t think so, Lizard.”

  “You don’t wanna do this, Steven.”

  Jacoby smirked at the wiry young man. “They found your fingerprints on the girl’s cell phone.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “Forensics don’t lie, Lizard. It was a clean match. Twenty points.”

  Walsh shook his head. “Let me think a minute. There’s gotta be a way around this.”

  “You don’t understand. It’s only a matter of time before someone puts two and two together and starts looking at me for this. I need to get ahead of it while I still can.”