Skinny and Belly passed inches from the bush. I didn’t move. They got in their police car and drove away.
Calling 911 was no longer an option.
I could hear my cell phone ringing in the bedroom. I ignored it and went straight to the kitchen. “Focus on one problem at a time.” I opened the freezer. No ice. I opened the refrigerator. A six-pack of Mountain Dew and some maraschino cherries sat on the otherwise empty shelves. I popped the top on a soda, took a sip, then placed the can to my eye.
What did Skinny and Belly think was on that tape? Everything I’d shot had been in plain sight, and the Technical Investigations team had thoroughly documented the scene with their own cameras. I refused to believe dozens of Sheriff’s Department personnel were colluding in a massive conspiracy. As a shooter I’d seen Bakersfield’s law enforcement community up close. They worked long hours under the constant threat of violence for the sole purpose of keeping the rest of us safe.
Of course every group had its bad apples. Was it possible the crime scene had been tampered with? If my camera hadn’t been in black, would I have photographed something that proved it?
I opened the jar and removed the remaining two cherries. They burned slightly going down and I checked the label. Eight months past expired.
Calling the police was out. Skinny and Belly would find out I’d talked, and not knowing who else was involved, I could do little to protect myself. Even Handsome Homicide was suspect. Who better to tamper with a crime scene than the detective running it?
I put the empty jar on the counter. There was no way around it. I couldn’t call the police, but I had to call someone. Trent was the only person who came to mind.
Callum answered on the thirteenth ring. “KJAY, we’re on your side.”
“It’s Lilly. I have to talk to Trent.”
“Hallelujah! Did you get my messages? I’m sorry things got tense earlier, but we need you out on assignment.”
“No.”
“You can start the suspension later,” Callum said as though he hadn’t heard me. “All the other shooters are busy or unavailable and we’ve got a hot lead. The murder victim’s cousin wants to do an exclusive sit-down interview.”
“I don’t care if Jimmy Hoffa called. This is an emergency and I need to talk to Trent.”
“He’s not here.” A burst of scanner noise filled the background. I heard a loud thud and knew Callum had dropped the phone. A few seconds later he picked up again. “Sorry. False alarm on the county line. Anyway, I texted the address to your cell phone. I don’t have a free reporter, so go to the family’s house and get some B-roll. I’ll send Rod over for the interview as soon as he’s done with the noon.”
“I’m not going anywhere. You need to call Trent at home.”
He paused. “Lilly, you’re not going to quit or anything? Because I know this has been a rough morning, but—”
“You have no idea how rough.” I gently probed under my eye where Skinny had hit me. The flesh felt tender and slightly puffy. “I need Trent.”
“He specifically told me to handle your suspension. He’s taking the rest of the day off, and I’m not allowed to bother him unless the station burns down.”
“Then give me his number and I’ll call him.”
“You know employee information is private. You wouldn’t like it if I gave out your home phone number.” Callum paused. “Tell me what’s on your mind. If it’s that serious, I’ll figure something out.”
He was right about our information being private, and it highlighted something I should have realized before. Skinny and Belly not only knew details about my tape being black, but they also knew where I lived and that I’d be at home when I’d normally be working. That kind of information could only have come from someone inside KJAY. Someone like Callum.
“No offense, but I have to talk to Trent.”
Wind noise filled the phone line as Callum let out a long, deep breath directly into his receiver. “Get me this story and I’ll accidentally page out Trent’s home phone number.” He chuckled. “But you better not tell him how you got it.”
I stopped before getting in the news van and scanned the street for Skinny and Belly’s cruiser. That they were still here, and prepared to follow wherever I led, was a terrifying possibility. But despite the risk, I’d decided to accept Callum’s offer and shoot the interview. I reasoned that Trent was the only person with experience and contacts outside Bakersfield to know what to do in this extreme situation. Add to that my suspicion that someone at the station had sold me out, and there seemed to be little choice.
If I’d dug a little deeper, I would have found an additional reason—I don’t like being in the dark. I’d been threatened by two nameless dirty cops because an unknown person or persons thought I’d photographed an unknown something at the scene of an unknown man’s murder. I wanted facts. I wanted to get out in front instead of trailing behind. What better place to get information than the murder victim’s family?
The address Callum texted me sat on a residential street off Union Avenue. Back in the golden age, Union Avenue had been the main road from L.A. to San Francisco. Movie stars and moguls had all passed by and stayed in the swank hotels along the way. By the time I was born, the motels were charging by the hour. Most of the stories I’d covered there were about drug addicts who’d wandered into traffic. It’s called an auto-versus-pedestrian.
I passed the new supermarket, but not even its clean and bright construction could shake my sense of crossing into the bad part of town. I expected my destination would be a sad street with parked cars on dead lawns and pit bulls chained behind dilapidated fences. I was surprised when I turned onto a nice block of pretty, well-tended houses. The address belonged to a lovely white cottage with flowers flowing from manicured beds and several mature trees shading the house.
I carried my gear onto the porch and rang the bell. While waiting for an answer I casually looked down the street and saw a white, unmarked police car.
For a moment I couldn’t breathe. Then it registered that the car was empty, and I began breathing too much. I frantically looked in every direction. Where were they? I dropped my gear and dug into my coat pockets. A year ago I’d tossed a tiny key-chain Mace in there, never dreaming I’d actually need it.
Footsteps taunted me from the other side of the door. It was a trap. They were inside waiting. I considered running for it, leaving the gear and the expensive camera and getting out of there. Instead, I dug farther into my pockets.
My right hand connected with something metal and cylindrical just as the doorknob turned. I shoved the Mace into the widening doorway. My trigger finger shook. All of me shook.
He didn’t panic or flinch. His face was the picture of control. His hand casually passed into his navy blue suit jacket, revealing the silver badge at his waist, and rested on what was probably his gun.
I said it before I had the chance to censor myself, “Handsome?”
SIX
He recoiled as if the word were a blow.
From inside the house a strange voice teased, “Handsome? This guy is butt ugly.” Behind Handsome a middle-aged Latino man in a dark brown suit joyfully bounced down the interior hallway. “Everybody knows I’m the good-looking one.”
I returned the Mace to my pocket. “I’m sorry. I was expecting …I mean, I wasn’t …I’m from KJAY.”
Handsome withdrew his hand from inside the jacket. His face remained an unexpressive blank slate.
I didn’t have his physical control. My blush was so strong you could probably have fried an egg on the side of my face. “The family called the station. I’m from KJAY.”
The man with Handsome ran a hand over his neatly trimmed goatee. “Are things so bad you reporters have to shoot your own stuff?”
I began picking up my gear. “I’m a shooter, not a reporter. Lilly Hawkins from KJAY.” I realized, seconds too late, that it was the third time I’d said the name of the station.
“This is Detective Lucero.”
Handsome sounded detached and unemotional as he gestured to the other man. “He’s working with me on last night’s homicide.”
Lucero smiled. If he’d been wearing a hat, he’d have tipped it. “A pleasure to meet you, Lilly Hawkins from KJAY.” He turned to Handsome with a wicked grin. “It’s good to know you’re on such intimate terms with the media.”
Handsome gave him a dirty look, which only widened Lucero’s grin.
“We got a call from one of the victim’s family members,” I said, trying to change the subject. “Can I come in or do I need to wait until you’re through?”
Handsome joined me on the front porch. “We’re leaving. The family is understandably upset.”
“Are they ever. I don’t envy you guys in Homicide,” Lucero said. “You only meet people on the worst day of their lives.”
Lucero and Handsome had felt out of sync from the beginning, but it wasn’t until now that I realized the significance of it. “Then you’re not in Homicide?” I asked Lucero. “What part of the Sheriff’s Department do you work for?”
“The RCIU out of Lamont.”
The Rural Crimes division was charged with investigating crime, usually thefts, at the many farms and oil fields in the county. “Are you on the case because the crime scene was an orchard? Because I didn’t think the RCIU worked homicides.”
Handsome interrupted before Lucero could answer. “All inquiries should be directed to the department’s information officer. Excuse us, we have an appointment.”
Lucero shrugged and started to leave.
“Any chance you’ll give me the victim’s name?” I asked. “Or any information about him?”
“Sorry,” Lucero replied. “But there should be a press release this afternoon.”
“We need to be going,” Handsome said behind me.
“Couldn’t you tell me now?” I kept my eyes on Lucero and ignored Handsome. “If it’s coming out, you wouldn’t be doing anything wrong.”
“We need to be going,” Handsome repeated with rising frustration.
“Okay, okay.” Lucero stepped around me. “He gets testy if his blood sugar drops.”
The two men walked down the short steps. “So, Handsome, have you been doing some outreach to the press? Improving our PR and all that?” Lucero turned around and winked at me.
I cringed. In addition to almost macing Bakersfield’s resident dreamboat, I’d embarrassed him in front of a colleague. Maybe next time I could get him fired or throw up all over him.
I turned my back on yet another romantic disaster and entered the house. “Hello?” No one answered, so I left the front door open and stayed near the threshold. “Hello?” I repeated.
The house felt warm and inviting. The living room was furnished with older but well made furniture in attractive earth tones. The simple and clutter-free room felt more comfortable than anywhere I’d ever lived. The only formal touch was a large oil painting of Jesus looking down from above the fireplace.
“Can I help you, miss?” I turned in the direction of the voice. An African-American man walked down the hallway from the rear of the house. He wore a white dress shirt, black tie, black slacks, and in his hands he carried a black book.
My grief-sensing radar, finely honed by countless assignments, told me he wasn’t upset enough to be a family member.
“I’m from KJAY,” I explained. “My name is Lilly Hawkins. The family is expecting me.”
“I don’t believe they are.” He looked at my camera with obvious dislike. “I don’t think any of the family wants to be on TV at a time like this.”
If I’d learned anything in my five years on the job, it’s that everyone wants to be on TV all the time. “Why don’t we ask? Everybody grieves differently.”
I silently prayed for a bereaved mother to be there. She is the “get” interview after a tragedy, and I’d already decided to ignore Callum’s instructions and start without Rod. The clock was ticking on Skinny and Belly’s deadline, and I was in too much of a hurry to wait. I also hoped to avoid the spectacle of Rod fawning all over the grieving family. I couldn’t stomach that explosion of bogus sympathy today.
“This is a very difficult time for everyone.” The man had finished coming down the hall and was standing a few feet from me. I identified the black book in his hands as a Bible. “You should leave these people to shed their tears in private.”
The tears sounded figurative, but if they were literal, I’d hit the jackpot. “Are you a family member, sir?”
“No. I’m Reverend Phillips. Mrs. Boyle is a member of our congregation, and several of us are here offering our condolences.”
“Of course, but since a family member did call and invite me, don’t you think we should at least go ask?” I pushed past him and walked quickly down the hallway. “Are they in the back of the house?”
“Yes, but I’m not sure …” He started to follow me, but had to pause to shut the front door.
I didn’t wait for him. The door at the end of the hallway was open and I walked into a large family room filled with about a dozen African-American men and women. Some held coffee mugs while others held Bibles. The conversation died the minute I entered. The only remaining sound was of two women crying.
The first was young and pretty. Maybe not even eighteen yet. Her shoulder-length hair had been carefully straightened and dyed with blond streaks. She cried loud, wet sobs onto the shoulder of a young man wearing jeans and a basketball jersey. The girl’s showy, over-the-top grief would play well on TV, but I knew it was basically self-centered emotion. She wanted attention and was getting it.
The young man comforting her also looked like a good bet. He was now eyeing my camera with barely concealed lust.
The other crying woman was older, probably in her forties, and sat on a couch being comforted by what looked like a friend. The crying woman’s hair was cut close to her head, and she wore slacks and a flowery sweater. She didn’t sob or make a lot of noise and, in contrast to the girl, had an aura of quiet bewilderment. She seemed only vaguely aware of what was going on, or maybe she didn’t care. This was either the grieving wife or mother. Given her age, I guessed wife.
From behind me Reverend Phillips cleared his throat. “Did someone call the TV station?”
They all looked at each other, but no one confessed. I didn’t blame them. Reverend Phillips’s tone had made it clear what he thought of people who call TV stations.
The reverend, thinking I was leaving, relaxed into a kindly demeanor. “As you can see, no one here made that call. Thank you for coming, but now is not the appropriate time.”
If I got kicked out of the house, I’d have to wait for Rod and then endure one of his schmoozefests as he tried to regain entry. I didn’t have that much time to waste. “Someone in this room invited me here.” I set down my equipment. “They’re obviously afraid to say so because they don’t want you to disapprove. If you truly want to help them grieve, you’ll let it be on their terms and not your own.”
I thought my disrespect might upset him, but he made no change in his tone or demeanor. “As I said before, the press is not wanted here. In fact, you’re trespassing on private property.”
“That’s a good point.” I turned away from him and toward the rest of the room. “Whose house is this?”
No one said anything. Several of the faces were openly hostile. The woman I thought was the wife hadn’t even looked at me.
The crying girl’s face peeked up from where it was buried in the chest of the young man. “It’s Diana’s.” She glanced at Reverend Phillips, saw his reaction to her statement, and immediately lowered her head. The boy comforted her, and then, when no one was looking, nodded his head in the direction of the lady on the other couch.
I stepped toward her. “Are you related to the victim in last night’s tragedy?”
Her head remained bent over. She took a long, ragged breath, then exhaled.
The room was collectively frozen. It felt as though even the
tiniest movement, taking a breath or adjusting my weight, would make a thundering sound.
“Was he your husband?” I asked.
Her head slowly tilted up, but her eyes remained down. “He’s my son.” She pointed, without looking, to the wall where a group of photographs depicted two boys at various stages of youth. The poses were stereotypical with the largest showing the two boys around age ten. It was the last picture of them together. The teenage years of one of the boys was chronicled through a series of school pictures culminating in a graduation photo, but the other boy was absent.
“Is that him in the cap and gown?” I said, using the present tense for the first time. “He’s very handsome.”
Her eyes slowly rose. “Thank you.”
I knelt down in front of her. “I work for the TV station. We want to do a story about your son. About who he was and what he was like. May I videotape those pictures of him you have on the wall?”
She nodded.
“Is there one in particular that you like? That you want us to use when we talk about him?”
“His graduation photo. I want people to see him like that.”
“Would you be interested in talking to me a little bit about him, on-camera? To give people a better idea of who he was?”
Her head lowered back down.
After a moment Reverend Phillips came and stood next to her and placed a hand on her shoulder. He looked at me. “Mrs. Boyle needs to be with family and friends now. This is not an appropriate time for an interview.”
I ignored him and scooted closer to her bent head. “Is there something you want people to know about your son? Isn’t there something that you want to explain or make people understand about who he was?”
She didn’t say anything.
“Right now is your chance. In a day or two everyone will begin to forget. They’ll get caught back up in their lives, and we’ll be doing other stories and life will go on. Right now, this is your chance to tell people about your son, and right now, they’re going to listen.”
She didn’t say anything.
I stood back up and found myself facing Reverend Phillips.
A Bad Day’s Work Page 7