by Wendy Heard
I storm from room to room. Hall bathroom—Joaquin’s toothbrush is gone. In the kitchen, I pull the fridge open. It’s empty. Not a single item remains.
I press my hands to my mouth.
Carol has no family. They’re all dead. She’s from Tennessee. She doesn’t really have friends. I guess she could have met someone at church?
I take a deep, shaky breath.
Alone in this silent house, the epicenter of the worst things that have ever happened to me, I feel more helpless than I have ever felt in my life.
14
JAZZ
I’M IN KNOTS when I get home. I take my clothes off, yank on leggings and a tank top, and pull on my Nikes and gloves. I lock the door on my way out. I need to move; I need to run. I need to sweat and burn off fear. I need to think, and I can’t think while I sit still.
I live on the second floor, and at the end of the exterior walkway, at the top of the stairwell that leads down to the front, is a rusty service door. I’m the only one except the landlord with a key to it. The hallway leads to a dirty, dark stairwell. I jog up the thirteen stairs. Crisp evening air prickles my cheeks as I emerge onto the flat, tar-papered roof.
Tucked behind the stairwell just above my apartment is my punching bag. I pay my landlord an extra fifty bucks a month to keep it up here, and it’s worth it to be able to work out alone overlooking the hills of Echo Park and the outskirts of downtown.
The skyscrapers in the distance glitter against the clear night sky. I usually love to look at them, but tonight I don’t care about the city sparkling like Christmas. I care about hitting the punching bag as hard as I can. I want to hit it so hard it hurts me.
I strap my gloves on with my teeth and start with some combos. As my breath comes faster and my muscles start to burn along with the stitches in my temple, I think about Joaquin. I let the pain have me, let it get its teeth deep inside me. Cross, cross, jab, jab, roundhouse. Jab, cross, uppercut.
A roar builds from the east. I think it’s an earthquake, but then a helicopter shoots by, wind from its blades blowing my bangs into my eyes. I watch it pass, always sort of fascinated by them. I wipe my bangs off my face and get back to working out.
I can’t believe Carol took Joaquin. Where could she have gone? I could call DCFS, but I’d have to confess to breaking and entering, and besides, she hasn’t committed a crime. It’s not illegal for a mom to take her kid somewhere. For all DCFS cares, she could go back to Tennessee. She could go to fucking Mexico if she wants.
I hit the bag hard enough to feel it in my shoulder joints. My head throbs. I don’t give a fuck. Let it throb. Let the stitches bleed.
Eventually I wear myself out, and I catch my breath. I drop my keys off at my apartment, taking my main house key off the ring and tucking it into my sneaker, and run down the stairs. The walkway lets me out onto Lucas Avenue, which I follow around a wide curve, past a high school, a pawnshop, a Laundromat, a liquor store, and a row of tents and shopping carts. I turn left at 4th Street and jog down to weave my way through the skyscrapers.
By the time I make it back up the hill and to my apartment, I’m gasping, drenched in sweat, all my pain siphoned into muscles and tendons and bone.
I stop to glare at a beat-up couch someone has put on my front lawn. How do any of the people on my street even have couches inside their apartments at this point?
My quads shudder as I climb the steps, and I don’t notice the cardboard box on my doorstep until I squat down to dig my key out of my shoe.
I flip the box over. It has an Amazon label and is addressed to me. I must have ordered something and forgotten.
Inside, I toss the box on the kitchen table, lock the dead bolts and turn on the lights. I fill up a glass of water and drain it in one gulp. I’m just kicking off my Nikes when the box starts buzzing.
The hell?
I slip my Trader Joe’s box cutter out of my purse and cut through the Amazon tape. I open the cardboard flaps and peer inside.
Nestled in a little bed of cardboard is a flip phone just like the one I got rid of. The green light from the little caller ID window lights up the box. BLOCKED.
“Oh, shit,” I whisper.
I back away until I hit the couch, and I plop down onto it. The springs squeak in protest.
The package was on my doorstep. They know where I live.
Of course they know where I live! They know everything about me! The court documents where I’d signed over my parental rights were supposed to be sealed; I was a minor. If they know that, they can find my damn address.
Did they actually order this from Amazon, or do they have some fake Amazon packaging materials?
Who is they?
The box starts buzzing again.
I get up. I cross the room, grab the phone out of the box and snap it open. “Hello?”
“We know where they are,” the voice says.
I can’t speak for a full five seconds, and then I gather myself together and say, “Excuse me?”
“We know where Joaquin and Carol are.”
It takes me a moment to sort through my thoughts, but then I say, “Where are they, then?”
“That’s not how this works. We deal in permanent solutions. Do you want a permanent solution or not?”
“Fuck.” I press my face into my hand, clutch at my sweaty bangs. At last, I say, “So, what, you’re like a hit man? You want a bunch of money from me?”
“We are a support service. We are not hit men. We help people help themselves. Imagine if a complete stranger took care of Carol for you. No money would ever have to change hands if you simply returned the favor for someone in the same situation.”
“How do I trust you? How do I know anything you say is real? I don’t know you!”
A pause. “What time is it? Is it eight o’clock yet?”
The question feels like a complete non sequitur, but I look up at the wall clock. “It’s, like, three minutes till eight. Why?”
“Good! See? This is meant to be. The timing is perfect. Turn on Channel 11. This will help you understand.”
“You want me to watch TV?”
“Do it now or it’ll be too late.”
I don’t know why I obey, but I turn on my old-ass TV with the remote that only sometimes works. It sparks to life, and I abuse the channel button until it changes to eleven. I pick up the phone again. “Fine. There. I’m on Channel 11. It’s a beer commercial. Are you suggesting I need a beer? Because you aren’t wrong.”
As I say that, the commercial ends, and the camera zooms out to show a handful of people in suits and police uniforms. The banner below them reads LAPD Deputy Chief Antonio Vela, Chief of Detectives, Live in Front of LAPD Headquarters.
A middle-aged man in a suit steps forward to address a roomful of reporters. He says, “I’m here with my colleagues, Detectives Patel and Nielsen, and Lieutenants Nguyen and Washington.” He gestures to the line of people behind him. “We’re going to walk through the basics of this case with you and answer all the questions we can. First, I want to go ahead and disclose that it seems we have a serial murderer selecting victims at random in public places. So far we have six victims across the LA Metro area.”
A flurry of activity from the audience. He continues. “We can’t release many of the details. But this is a public safety concern, and we want to be as transparent as possible without hindering our investigation.” He flips through a handful of note cards, and I realize he is nervous. His voice shakes a little, and the way he handles the cards is clumsy. “This is an opportunistic killer. We think he selects his victims by location. We’re working with the FBI’s profiling team, and they believe we’re looking for a mass shooter type, someone who wants to make his mark, most likely a white male aged twenty-four to forty.” He looks up from his cards and addresses the camera. “People need to be careful. We’ve co
nfirmed murders in two Metro stations, the Universal CityWalk, the Burbank Walmart, the Santa Monica Pier and a nightclub downtown. People should be aware of the behavior of those around them when they are in crowded places. Do not take drinks offered to you by strangers. Be on the lookout for people holding strange objects, objects you wouldn’t expect to see people carrying around. Be aware of your surroundings. Call any suspicious behavior in to the number on your screen.” An 800 number for LAPD replaces the biographical information in the banner.
The reporters erupt with questions. Vela points to someone off camera.
“Are all the victims men so far?” the reporter asks.
He leans toward the microphone. “So far, all victims have been men, but that doesn’t mean the killer’s intent is to stick with men only. Women should be on the lookout as well.” He points to someone else.
“What is the murder weapon?”
“Poison.”
“Given in food? Or are we talking about an agent dispersed into the air?”
Vela covers the microphone and looks at the row of people behind him. A woman in a black suit comes forward to whisper something in his ear. He returns to the microphone and says, “The poison was administered as an injection. But the same poison could be administered orally, so people should be conscious of what they eat and drink. These are crimes of opportunity, and we expect this killer to improvise if need be.”
The reporters turn the room into chaos. He holds his hands up and raises his voice. “I can’t answer any other questions about the murder weapon. Let’s move on.”
Another reporter says, “Three of these victims had police records. One was accused of spousal abuse, one of sexual assault and one of stalking. Are you sure these are random killings, or is this a pattern?”
Vela’s sharp brown eyes jump back toward the line of people behind him. “We are very sure there is no connection between any of these victims, and we’re treating them as random killings at this time. However, if anyone has information, they should call the hotline and we’ll take every tip seriously. Now, that’s all we have for you tonight, but we’ll be keeping the public updated as the investigation progresses.”
Vela makes a final hand-raised gesture and backs away from the mic. The reporters are respectful; they stop asking questions as soon as he gives the cue, except for one, who raises her voice above the bustle.
“Can you tell us about the playing cards?”
Vela freezes, turns, glares into the audience. He leans down into the mic and says, “No.”
I’d almost forgotten about the phone, frozen in my hand. From it, the warped voice says, “Jasmine? Turn off the TV, please.”
I reach for the remote and punch the power button. The picture sucks itself into a tiny rectangle in the center of the screen and disappears into the dark.
From the phone, the voice says, “I understand you have reservations. You’re right to be worried about working with an anonymous person such as myself. But you need to understand what you’re passing up. You have a chance to be part of a movement. Do you think you’re the only person lawyers won’t help? The only person police turn away? We’re fed up, and we’re taking back control. We want to help you get your life back so you can be a proper mother to your son. Isn’t that what you want?”
I swallow against a dry lump that stops up my throat.
“It costs you nothing. You help someone and then someone helps you. It’s quick. It’s easy. Anyone can do it. And you’ll never be a suspect in the assignment you commit because you’re a complete stranger to everyone involved. And when it’s Carol’s turn, you can arrange to have an alibi, so you’ll never be a suspect in that death, either. It’s rock solid. This is how justice gets served, Jasmine.”
I have a friend at work, an ex-gangster from El Salvador whose sister was raped on a first date. The guy who raped her disappeared shortly thereafter. No one asked what happened to him. No one ever needed to. This is that same kind of justice, the kind that finds you, the kind that hunts you down.
At last, I say, “You really know where Joaquin and Carol are?”
“We really do.”
“How does it work? What do I do? I trade murders with someone else? Do I meet them?”
“No. It’s more of a relay system. I assign you to someone, and then I assign someone to you, but you never know who you’re helping, and the person who’s helping you never knows who you are. It’s completely anonymous.”
“Except you know who I am,” I point out.
“You’ll have to trust me.”
“Right. Great. Awesome. I have to trust the creepy voice disguiser serial killer phone stalker. Perfect.” I’m losing it. I’m totally and completely losing it.
“There’s a package for you on the roof by your punching bag. Go get it. I’ll wait until you return.”
I snap my face toward the door. “By my punching bag? I was just up there—there was no package.”
“There wasn’t, but there is now. Go ahead and grab it. I’ll wait.”
This is so creepy, my skin actually crawls. They were here, just a little while ago. They could be nearby, sitting in a car or an apartment building.
“Jasmine? Can you go get the box, please?”
I hear myself say, “I’ll be right back.” I set the phone aside. I get my keys, let myself out and lock the dead bolts behind me. I head down the exterior walkway. The rough, peeling paint floor is cold on my sock feet as I run up the dark steps, half expecting someone to jump out at me like in a horror movie.
I check around behind the maze of half walls and piles of tar paper. No one’s up here; nothing looks different, except that on the ground next to my punching bag sits a cardboard box.
A faint wail. Sirens. A few blocks away.
I freeze. Was it a trap? Are the cops about to show up?
The sirens swell and fade, and then they’re gone.
I retrieve the box and run downstairs like someone’s chasing me. Inside my apartment, I set the box down on the table and twist the dead bolts into place. The phone waits faceup on the table, and I pick it up. “I have the package,” I say, and suddenly I want to laugh at the ridiculousness of me, grocery store employee, saying these words into a burner phone like the world’s worst knockoff James Bond.
The voice says, “What you have there is a kit containing everything you need in order to take care of your target. We’ll send you information on the target later, but for now, it’s important for you to practice.”
Like the one the phone came in, the box has the paper Amazon tape, but this time there’s no shipping label.
“Practice?” I repeat.
“You’ll see. Now go ahead and open it.”
I cut the tape with my box cutter and pull apart the cardboard flaps. “I see a few oranges? Are you serious?”
“You’ll need those. You can pull them out and set them aside.”
They’re squishy and overripe. I set them down on the table. “This is like a fucked-up Blue Apron.”
The voice dissolves into chuckles. “Oh, Jasmine. That’s quite funny.”
I return to the box. “I see...a Ziploc bag with...” I pull it out. “A playing card inside?”
“Do not open that yet. It’s very important to leave it in the bag. You’ll open that with gloves on at the scene.”
“The four of spades. Okay, then. Suuuuper creepy.” I set it aside. “A Ziploc bag full of latex gloves.” I pull it out of the box. “What’s next? A mask made out of human skin?”
“Set the gloves aside as well. Don’t open them inside your apartment and get any forensic evidence from your apartment on them. Otherwise, you might transfer something from your apartment onto the playing card later. What else?”
“I see a... I don’t know how to describe it. A plastic box. No, like, kind of an EpiPen case?”
“There should be two of those. Those are called sharps containers and are used to store syringes. One of them should be blue and one should be yellow with black markings on it. Why don’t you pull them out, but do not open them.”
I lift the first one out. It’s clear with a blue plastic cap, and inside rests a large empty syringe. The second one, which has a yellow cap, is emblazoned with a black-and-white poison symbol, a skull and crossbones like the one tattooed on my ring finger. Biohazard, the sticker reads.
“What—the—fuck,” I breathe.
“The blue container is your tester. That’s your practice needle. You’ll be practicing on the oranges. The yellow one is what you’ll be using to take care of your target, and that one is quite lethal, so you’ll need to be very careful. Do not open it until you are at the scene and wearing gloves. And for God’s sake, don’t poke yourself with it.”
I sit in one of the kitchen chairs. This feels surreal, and I suddenly want the whole thing to go away. I ask, “What’s to stop me from chickening out and bringing all this shit to the police? I can’t believe you trust me enough to just send me a needle full of poison. And how do I even know it’s real poison? What if you’re setting me up somehow and I get to wherever you send me and the poison doesn’t work?”
They don’t miss a beat. “Jazz, if you take those things to the police, you’ll immediately be implicated in the deaths that have already happened. Like it or not, it’s already too late for you to back out. Unless you think the police will take you at your word that you just happened to innocently get your hands on the exact same poison used to kill six different people, including one right in front of you at Villains.”
I whisper, “Fuck.”
“But don’t worry. You’re going to do great. I want you to practice tonight. Let the orange roll around and inject it with water from the blue syringe over and over until you feel confident. I assume you know how to get water into a syringe?”
“I’m good with needles.” My heart is pounding. I’m freaking out a little. What have I gotten myself into?
“I’ll give you the rest of the information tomorrow when I give you your assignment,” the voice says. “Please don’t start Googling anything related to this. We’ll give you all the info you need. And the most important thing is, you can’t talk about this with anyone. Not a friend, not a colleague, not a lawyer, nobody.”