News of Gabi’s disappearance had a very uncomfortable feel about it. Not only did she look a lot like Monica Channing, with her high cheekbones and all-American Pepsodent smile, but I knew she lived in the same section of town. I also knew, like the other missing girls I’d reported on—other than Monica—Gabi liked Hollywood’s nightlife. She had mentioned several times while we were lunching how much she and her doctor friend loved to go clubbing.
I glanced at my watch. It was just now twelve o’clock. I was about to pick up my phone and call Tyler and share my concerns about Gabi’s disappearance when it started to ring. It was Tyler.
“The coroner sent over a copy of his report for the Channing girl. Hope you don’t mind, I saw it in your inbox and snagged it right away. We’ve got a cause of death.”
I let the fact that Tyler had obviously rifled through my emails go. I knew better than to think if I were working on a breaking news story that he’d consider my inbox my personal sanctuary. In his mind, anything that flowed through a newsroom had his name on it. No questions asked.
“Broken neck, right?”
“Along with a cracked skull, shattered collarbone and fractured humerus. Report says death was probably instantaneous. Most likely a fall. Good news is there are no ligature marks on her wrists and ankles, no mention of rape or signs of sexual abuse.” He paused. I could hear him typing, the keyboard clicking in the background. I imagined he was searching his computer files for something. “Odd though—”
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Her body was dumped in Stone Canyon. Judge Channing and his wife live in the canyon. Monica grew up there, graduated Emerson Middle School. Almost like somebody was trying to send a message.”
It was hard enough to imagine anyone wanting to kill a kindergarten teacher, but then to dump her body behind her parents’ home? The whole scenario bordered on macabre.
“But why?” I asked.
“Might be easier if we start with the how. I’m looking at a map of the area. It’s relatively remote and I don’t see any hiking trails.”
“She wasn’t out hiking, Tyler. Not in stilettos. There was a red high heel not far from the body. She didn’t lose it hiking.”
“And you didn’t see any evidence that she might have been pushed out of a car? Maybe slid down the hill? Bushes trampled, that kind of thing?”
“Nothing. In fact, other than a few broken tree branches above where her body landed, the bushes around it appeared untouched. It’s like she fell from the sky.”
“So, could be the neighbors are right. Maybe they did hear a helicopter early this morning and she was pushed from it. The injuries would be consistent with what the coroner listed in his report. The body was pretty beat up.”
I noticed as Tyler read through the report we’d both stopped using Monica’s name. It made it impersonal, easier to deal with a body than to think that twenty-four hours ago Monica had been alive and breathing. That she was someone’s daughter, a teacher, a young woman, just starting out.
I grabbed my notebook, made a note of the helicopter theory, and told Tyler I wanted to take the press conference this afternoon.
“Meanwhile,” I said, “I heard Gabi Garrison is missing.”
“Yeah, CBS broke the story this morning.”
I could tell Tyler was unhappy not to have been first with the news. I wondered if for the sake of the story he’d wished it’d been me. At least then he would have had a jump on the competition.
“I was thinking between now and the press conference, I’d head over to LAPD’s missing persons unit. Seems to me with Gabi’s disappearance and Monica’s death, they might be rethinking the disappearance of those other three missing girls. Could be a connection. Maybe they weren’t so random after all.”
“Don’t expect to be greeted with open arms, Carol. Not with a federal judge breathing down their necks and another girl missing this morning. They’re not about to spend their day idly talking with news people. If you want any information that isn’t an official LAPD stamped press release, you’re going to have to give them a reason to talk to you.”
I knew Tyler was right, but I also knew a few things about Gabi and her boyfriend and her interest in Hollywood’s nightclub scene that detectives might not know. It was worth a shot, and if that didn’t work, I planned to track down Gabi’s boyfriend and talk to him. Perhaps he’d tell me something he hadn’t already told the police. At least I hoped so.
I told Tyler I’d call him after the press conference and hung up the phone.
I could feel a sense of excitement about the case. I had reported on the disappearance of the other three missing girls and they all had inconclusive ends. But this, I felt, was going to be different. This was somehow connected. I knew it. I could feel it in my bones. I texted Sheri and told her I’d be late for the kids’ game. Save me a seat.
CHAPTER 6
There are lots of reasons why people disappear in a city like Los Angeles, everything from teenage runaways to people simply walking away from a bad situation. The fact is, it’s not a crime to go missing, and there is no forty-eight hour waiting period before a report can be filed with the missing persons unit. Not in LA anyway. Fortunately, despite the fact that the unit handles more than three thousand cases a year, and with just six officers, most people show up within three days. They don’t all end up as a homicide.
But when one does, detectives know the press is going to be looking for mistakes, particularly like today, when the coroner’s report was about to reveal that up until twenty-four hours ago Monica Channing was very much alive. A worried public was going to want answers. Something to explain how a kindergarten teacher had disappeared and then shown up as a body dump, just feet from her parent’s expensive west side home. Had the cops missed a clue, an opportunity? Or maybe failed to identify a location where she might have been held or to arrest a suspect?
After this morning’s grim discovery, standard procedure would be for the cops to gather their troops like an old-fashioned wagon train, their defenses up while they doubled down on the investigation. Today they’d all be tightlipped, facts and dates only. Any reporter walking into LAPD’s missing persons unit knew their reception was going to pretty icy, if they got one at all. Fortunately, as a radio reporter, anonymity has its advantages. I wasn’t exactly identifiable.
“May I help you?” An elderly gentleman from behind the desk glanced up at me as I approached the counter. He looked like a volunteer, dressed in civilian clothes, tan khakis and a white shirt with a black and white nametag above his pocket. Mr. Martin Porter. He had a friendly face.
I smiled. From time to time, LAPD allows volunteers to staff the reception desk at some of the divisions inside their downtown headquarters. Most of what they do is assist the officer in charge, answering the phone and greeting the public. I was in luck. It was obvious the volunteer was alone, but only temporarily. The outline of the desk sergeant’s body was still warm in the chair next to him. Mr. Porter appeared eager to help. If I worked fast, I just might make it by the gatekeeper and speak with the detective investigating Gabi’s disappearance.
“Yes, I was hoping I could talk with someone concerning Gabi Garrison. Her disappearance.” I looked away and focused on the walls, the pictures of officers and their awards. I was hoping I looked like a nervous first time visitor, perhaps a distraught friend of the family hoping to help.
“You’re a friend, right? Not a reporter?” He looked up at me.
I could tell this was a trick question. I laughed like it was an absurd assumption. If he knew I was a reporter I was sure he’d tell me to come back, that they were busy, and refer me to LAPD’s press relations department. I figured a little white lie wouldn’t hurt.
“Actually, Gabi and I are friends. We had lunch not long ago. I thought maybe if I talked to the detective in charge I might be able to help.”
&
nbsp; He looked over his shoulder. The desk sergeant would be returning any moment. I didn’t dare wait. I knew when the sergeant returned I’d be busted. Cops have a sixth sense about reporters.
I leaned a bit closer and whispered, “I’m sorry to be in such a rush, but I’m worried about Gabi. Traffic was awful getting down here, and my son has a game this afternoon.”
He looked up at me and his eyes softened.
“Game, huh? Why didn’t you say so? Got a grandson myself, he’s playing this afternoon as well. Can’t afford to miss that stuff. Important. Why don’t you wait here, and I’ll see what I can do.”
Moments later he reappeared. Behind him, a tall heavyset black man, who looked like he could have been a former NFL linebacker, approached the desk. He was dressed in a blue blazer that fit tightly across his muscled chest, and I noticed his LAPD shield on his belt.
“How can I help you, miss?” He extended his hand, held mine a moment longer than necessary, and stared directly into my eyes. “Name’s Detective Harry Browne. I’m the detective investigating the disappearance of Gabi Garrison. And you are?”
“Carol Childs.” I sensed before he released my hand he knew exactly why I’d come.
“Mr. Porter here tells me you’re a friend of Miss Garrison, that the two of you had lunch recently. But something tells me maybe friendship’s not really why you’re here. Am I right?”
I folded my hands in front of my face, prayer-like, and bowed my head, looking up at him. There was no point in carrying on my charade. “How’d you know?”
“Your knapsack there gave you away.” He pointed to my scruffy looking reporter’s bag with my recorder and notepad inside. I’d set it on the floor, next to my feet, thinking nobody would notice. “Looks pretty beat up, more like a feed bag than a purse. And judging by the way you’re dressed—little black dress and all—I’d bet your taste runs a little more Neiman Marcus than Goodwill.”
“You got me there.” I threw my hands up and shook my head.
“So what do you want to know about your friend, Ms. Childs? ’Cause what I’m going to tell you right now is we’re doing everything we can.” Browne folded his arms across his chest and what followed felt canned, like he was reading from a script.
“One, we’ve got Miss Garrison’s picture out to the media. Two, we have officers in the field who’ve talked with her employer. And three, we spoke with her boyfriend. Plus we’ve uploaded her photo and profile to our national database for missing persons.”
I locked eyes with Detective Browne.
“That’s standard procedure, Detective. What I want to know is if the police think Gabi’s disappearance is related to Monica Channing.”
He continued as though he hadn’t heard me.
“We know Miss Garrison didn’t show up for work Wednesday morning and that her boyfriend reported her missing when he came home from the hospital on Thursday evening.”
“The doctor, right? Dr. Ericson.”
Browne unfolded his arms and took a step closer to the counter between us. Finally, I had his attention, and I hoped I could get him off script.
“So you are a friend?”
“Business acquaintance actually. But I did know she was dating a doctor, although I don’t know his first name.”
“Miles Ericson, first year resident at UCLA Medical. He says he was on call at the hospital and hadn’t been home in the last forty-eight hours. So we don’t know exactly when Miss Garrison went missing.”
“You think he’s involved?”
“Too early to tell. Right now we’re just chatting. Purely procedural. Nothing more. Could be she’ll just show up. We see that sometimes. Usually within three or four days.”
“But you don’t think that’s the case, do you?”
“What I think, Ms. Childs, is that when a couple of white girls go missing, like Monica Channing and Gabi Garrison, you and every other media outlet in town are all over this story like a Fourth of July fireworks show. And what I’d like to know is why I can’t get two lines about what’s happening in South Central LA in any major media outlet in this town. Answer me that. ”
I felt like I’d just been tied to a stake, blindfolded, and asked if I wanted to make any last statements. I knew what Detective Browne was saying was right. Stations like my own catered to an audience that responded to their advertisers and South Central wasn’t it.
“So what’s happening in South Central, Detective?”
“I’ve got girls missing there too. Just not white girls. What I got are a couple of black girls, ’bout the same age, one a little younger, than those three who went missing in Hollywood this last year.”
I felt like I’d just been slapped across the face. The police never had proved there was any connection to their disappearances, but after the third girl had gone missing, an alert was issued; a warning to young women about the dangers of being out alone at night in certain parts of the city.
I remembered reporting on each case and thinking their connection to Hollywood was not just curious but bothersome. The first girl, Jessie Martin, lived in North Hollywood and had an abusive home life. A picture of her, a small boyishly slim brunette with her mother, had run in the paper. The mother’s face looked like a fighter’s punching bag, and she was quoted as saying she hoped her daughter wouldn’t come home, that she was better off somewhere else. The police had listed her as a runaway, desperate to get away from a bad situation.
The second was Marilyn Ann Billings. She was from a small town in Nebraska, a Midwestern girl with a real milk and honey complexion. She had told her sister, after being discovered online by a talent agent, she was headed to Hollywood for a role in the movies. Her “agent” had sent her a ticket, and her sister said she had driven her to the airport and then never heard from her again. The airline had no record of a Marilyn Ann Billings, nor did the police find any evidence that she’d ever arrived in LA. That in itself, the police said, wasn’t unusual.
A lot of young wannabes changed their name, going for something that sounded more Hollywood. The police thought it was possible Marilyn Ann had a ticket in another name, perhaps something her agent had sent to her. That, and the fact that a lot of young actors came to LA and worked odd jobs, in cheap productions they didn’t want to write home about, wasn’t unusual. Some ended up shacking up with other struggling actors, and between the odd jobs, the name changes and hopscotch residencies, some of them got lost in the shuffle. After an unsuccessful search that included Marilyn Ann’s computer and various low rent hotels and youth hostels, the police had listed her as simply missing.
The third girl, April Hansen, was a dancer at a strip club on Sunset Boulevard. April had a string of DUIs and a pending court date that threatened to land her in jail. The police believed April took off to avoid serving any time. They had a warrant out for her arrest, but the Hollywood connections, as far as the police were concerned, all appeared to be random.
I pulled out my notepad and looked Detective Browne directly in the eyes. “What are the names of the two girls, Detective?”
“Leticia Johnson, seventeen. And Brandy White, fourteen. Both of them students at Garfield High and disappeared off the streets while walking home from school one afternoon.”
“Kidnapped?” I asked.
He nodded.
“And these two black girls you’re looking for, you think they might be connected to the three young women who’ve gone missing and that maybe they might all be related to Gabi Garrison’s disappearance and Monica Channing’s murder?”
“I’m not at liberty to tell you that, Ms. Childs. This is an open investigation. But I will tell you these two, Leticia and Brandy, they weren’t runaways. You get their names in the news and we’ll talk. Until then, like I said, we’re doing everything we can to find your friend Gabi.”
He took his business card out of his wallet and sli
d it across the counter. I could see he had nothing more to say. The rest was going to be up to me.
CHAPTER 7
By the time I got to the courthouse the street was lined with media vans. TV crews with their cameras and oversized news trucks were parked everywhere. A small dust devil had grabbed a plastic trash bag and was whirling leaves and papers amid arriving reporters, creating havoc on the courtyard where LAPD’s Chief of Police Bradley Walker and Judge Channing were expected to address a nervous public. Officers on bicycles with bullhorns began sweeping the sidewalk, advising vagrants and those loitering to move on. Anyone within earshot knew something big was about to go down.
I weaved my way through the crowd. Usually for things like this it’s mostly media people, print and broadcast journalists, but today’s group was much larger than I expected. Interspersed throughout the crowd were dozens of plainclothes officers wearing dark glasses with earpieces and mobile walkie-talkies disguised as wristwatches. I nodded casually to some reporters as I made my way towards the makeshift podium at the top of the stairs, then stopped. Standing directly in front of me was a pair of broad shoulders I recognized.
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