“Mark?”
“Carol. I thought you might be here.” He turned and looked at me through mirrored sunglasses.
Special Agent Mark Delfino and Eric had been through the academy together. The two of them were sailing buddies and Mark was Sheri’s plus one at her frequent dinner parties. They were an odd pairing—a little like Rachael Ray and Jack Sprat, with no chemistry between them—but together the four of us enjoyed a lot of good wine and laughs, despite Mark’s finicky eating.
“I didn’t know you were working the case.” I knew the FBI had been called in to investigate Monica’s disappearance; when a federal judge’s life is threatened, or any member of his family for that matter, the big guns are always called in. But with Eric away, I had no idea exactly who was involved in the investigation, nor was I privy to anything they might know.
“Just lucky, I guess. So what do you hear from our old man and the sea?”
Mark never passed up a chance to remind me Eric was his senior. At forty-eight, Eric was as fit as a man half his age. And with his hair greying about the temples, he looked a little more like a college professor than a federal agent. Something I was really into.
“Got a card in the mail this morning. At least I think it was today.” By now so much of the day was starting to blend together, I wasn’t certain if the mail I had seen on the table this morning had been from the day before or two days ago. It was all a blur. “Weather willing, he’s due back by the tenth. But you know how that goes.”
Moments later, LAPD’s Chief Walker appeared from inside the courthouse. He looked strained, with dark circles beneath his eyes, his salt and pepper hair slicked back from his leathered face. Following him was Judge Channing. Without his black robe or seated behind his courtroom bench, he looked smaller than I imagined him to be. He appeared almost frail, his grey hair thinning. Next to him, coming barely to his shoulder, was his wife, Melissa. She was dressed in a fitted black dress, and with her dark hair pulled back in a bun, looked equally as gaunt. They walked hand-in-hand towards the podium, as though they’d never let go of one another. As they centered themselves, three more plainclothes officers came and stood behind them. We all stood quiet while the police chief adjusted the microphone and prepared to address the crowd.
“This morning, at five a.m., LAPD received a call from a commuter traveling west on Mulholland Drive above Stone Canyon. They reported what they believed to be a body beneath a tree several hundred yards from the roadway. We immediately dispatched a car and discovered the body to be that of Monica Channing, the daughter of Judge Byron Channing and his wife Melissa. Miss Channing, as you all know, has been the center of a massive manhunt headed up by both LAPD’s missing persons unit and the FBI. And in light of this news, Judge Channing has asked for this press conference. But before I turn this over to him, I’d like to say this morning’s discovery has now moved this case from that of a missing person to a homicide. This is an active investigation. Both LAPD and the FBI will be pursuing all possible leads, and we are asking anyone for any information concerning this case to please come forward.” Chief Walker exhaled a heavy sigh then turned and nodded to Judge Channing.
The judge and his wife stepped forward to the podium like stiff soldiers, grim-faced, their jaws locked.
“My wife and I would like to make a brief statement.” The judge paused, cleared his throat and for a moment pinched his eyes shut, the creases around them deepening. He looked as though he was fighting tears. My own throat tightened as I watched the scene. Chief Walker stepped up behind him, put a hand on the judge’s shoulder and another gently on his wife’s back.
“After that,” the judge said, “I’ve asked Chief Walker to answer any questions you may have. I hope you’ll understand this is a very difficult time for my wife and me and respect our need for privacy and to be left alone.”
The judge bowed his head, put his fist to mouth and choked back what was clearly a sob. Cameras clicked, catching what was a palpable moment as his wife leaned closer to him, her arm about his waist. We all knew this was the money shot, the judge fighting back tears, the wife pressed close to her husband with her head bowed. Tomorrow morning it would be on the front page of every paper in the southland.
“This last week has been a horrendous rollercoaster. A ride no parent should ever have to take. Our Monica was a wonderful young girl. She was a devoted daughter, excited about life, and she loved being a teacher. Her young students were everything to her. Just the other day she said, ‘Dad, I really know I’m doing the right thing with my life. I just hope I can give back as much as the kids give me.’”
Clenching his jaw, the judge turned his head away from the crowd momentarily and appeared to be searching his wife’s eyes for strength, and then finding it, looked back at the crowd.
“One week ago today Monica disappeared and suddenly became the subject of a massive manhunt. I’d like to thank LAPD and the FBI for their concern and their help.”
He paused again and a silence that could have deafened a football stadium at halftime followed. Nobody moved. We all knew the next words out the judge’s mouth would be the lead line in tomorrow’s paper, immediately below the photo of him holding back tears with his wife at his side.
“Early this morning, that search came to an end when we learned that Monica may have been the latest victim in what the police now believe has been a string of kidnappings targeting young women in Hollywood. This is a devastating loss for us, and I would ask that you allow my wife and me our time of mourning, and that if anyone has any information at all concerning Monica and her disappearance that they contact the authorities. Thank you.”
The judge looked back at his wife, took her hand and then stared back out at the sea of reporters in front of him. There was an immediate clicking of cameras and a volleying of questions. Chief Walker held his hand up, demanding we all remain silent. No questions. We all watched as the judge and his wife disappeared, like shadows of their former selves, behind the courthouse door. It was so quiet we could all hear the door close behind them.
The Chief stepped back in front of the microphone and reminded us all this was an open investigation and that he had time for only a few questions.
From within the crowd of reporters I thrust my mic forward, while those around me all did the same. Shouting questions, vying for his attention. Chief Walker pointed to me.
“Chief, do you have any idea how many women may have been kidnapped?”
Before he had a chance to answer, someone else in the crowd yelled, “Are we going to wake up tomorrow and find their bodies in Mulholland as well?”
“What about Gabi Garrison?” A reporter from CBS pushed me aside. “Do the police think she’s also a victim?”
The chief stepped closer to the mic, his face red.
“Folks, we don’t have answers to all your questions. I’m sorry. This is a very fluid situation, and we’ve got officers, not just here but all around the country, combing through records of missing girls who either lived here or were believed to have come to Hollywood for work or to visit. Let me remind you all that this is a big city, and people go missing in big cities. As for how many of those missing may be connected to this case, we don’t know. Could be as many as a dozen, but most missing people don’t show up dead. But to whoever kidnapped Monica Channing and any other young women in our city, let me say this: We will find you. Hollywood is not your hunting ground.”
Without further statement, Chief Walker, his shoulders squared, backed away from the mic and disappeared behind the same doors Judge Channing and his wife had gone through moments before.
I filed my report from the steps of the courthouse.
“In an emotional and shocking statement to the press just moments ago, Judge Channing announced that his daughter, who has been the center of a massive manhunt this last week, may have been the victim of a series of kidnappings targeting young wo
men in Hollywood. Speaking before a crowd of reporters, the judge asked for anyone with any knowledge of his daughter’s activities, or information that may lead to the arrest of those responsible for her disappearance, to contact the authorities. Police Chief Walker said detectives working with LAPD missing persons unit have been combing their files and believe there may be as many as a dozen missing girls, including two young black girls, seventeen year-old Leticia Johnson and fourteen year-old Brandy White, previously suspected of being runaways. Meanwhile, there is no news concerning the disappearance of former CBS reporter, Gabi Garrison, who disappeared four days ago. Investigators close to the investigation would not say if they believe Ms. Garrison may have also been kidnapped by the same person or persons responsible for Monica Channing’s death, only that she bares a remarkable resemblance to the judge’s daughter...”
I was about to wrap up my report when Tyler interrupted me. “Carol, hold on. I’d like you to stay where you are. We have a few questions.”
CHAPTER 8
What was supposed to be a brief wrap-up following Judge Channing’s press conference ended up running longer than I expected. Tyler kept me on the air pressing for more information about what the station was now reporting as Hollywood’s Missing Girls. For the next hour I reported on LAPD’s missing persons unit, and what I’d learned about the national database for missing persons. The good news was that because I was on the air for longer than expected, I was able to include more information about the two other missing girls Detective Browne had asked me to make public. The bad news was that I was now running late to my son’s game and wouldn’t have time to go home and change.
It was the middle of fourth quarter by the time I managed to get from the courthouse downtown to the high school in Sherman Oaks. Tonight’s game was an away game and I was unfamiliar with Notre Dame’s campus. I found a parking space on the street off Woodman in front of the school, and slipping off my heels, grabbed a pair of tennis shoes I kept in the car and hurried towards the field. The sun had set and temperatures dropped. It was perfect football weather, cool with a slight breeze in the air that kicked up a few of the fall leaves on the ground. I arrived at the edge of the field to the sound of cheering fans and the band dressed in blue and gold with their big brass horns swaying side to side. They were playing the Notre Dame Fight Song. I stared at the scoreboard. Home: forty-four, Visitors: thirty-eight.
“Carol. Over here.”
From midway up the bleachers, near the end zone, Sheri stood waving enthusiastically, her dark curly hair poking out from beneath her knit cap, her cheeks red from the cool night air. I hurried in her direction. Then stopped. Next to her, with a big smile on her face, dressed in an SDSU hoodie, was my daughter, Cate.
Surprise, she mouthed, standing up, a big smile on her face.
I hadn’t expected Cate to come up from San Diego State for my birthday. She had called yesterday to say she was sorry she wouldn’t be home this weekend. Homework. With a second wind of energy I hurried up the stand. Then ducking my head, trying to make as little interruption as possible, I crawled over the laps of cheering fans to the empty seat Sheri had saved next to my daughter and hugged them both. I thought I’d been successful until somebody tapped me on the shoulder. Expecting to be told to sit down, I turned around to see a young woman sitting behind me, wearing a dark hoodie, with a set of pink earphones stuffed in her ears.
“Are you Carol Childs?” she asked.
I leaned down, still holding my daughter’s hand, and over the roar of the crowd shouted, “Yes. Do I know you?”
“You’re the reporter with KCHC, right?”
I nodded, anxious to get back to Cate and Sheri.
“My brother’s the coach on Charlie’s team. He told me who you were and that the parents would all be sitting together in the visitors section. I took a chance and hoped you’d be here. I need to talk to somebody. My name’s Bethany Richards. Monica and I were friends. We taught school together.”
I didn’t know what to say. I was at a loss for words. She looked crushed, her eyes strained and worried. I stumbled for something more than “I’m sorry for your loss,” but I could think of nothing. Suddenly the crowd all around me was on their feet. The Notre Dame Knights had dropped the ball and the crowd was going crazy. Cate let go of my hand and started jumping around. I sat down while the cheers from the crowd faded to mere background noise, providing Bethany and me with our own private huddle. She pointed to her pink earphones and told me she’d been listening to Judge Channing’s press conference.
“This is crazy,” she whispered. “Judge Channing’s got it all wrong.”
“What do you mean, wrong?” I had no idea what she was talking about.
“What he said about Monica. It was all wrong. Everything. To start with, she wasn’t a kindergarten teacher. Maybe he was just upset, but she was my assistant, a teacher’s aide, not a teacher. Not that it mattered. Not that part anyway. She was great with the kids and they loved her. So did I. But I think the judge just preferred that people think she was a teacher. But she was...well, you know…”
I shrugged my shoulders. I wasn’t sure what Bethany meant. “She was what?”
“You know, slow. Not like mentally slow, but naïve and sweet slow. Overprotected, maybe? I guess that goes with being an only child. Her parents didn’t do her any favors. I don’t think she ever did so much as go to the mall by herself. So when she got her first job and started living alone, I think she just went a little crazy. She just wanted to have fun, fit in.”
I grabbed her wrist gently and looked at her. “What do you mean by fun? Did you know where Monica was or what she was doing?”
“Not really. Not at first anyway. She told me she had been going online and she had all these relationships. I think she thought they were real. And then she met this one guy—or this man—and she started to talk about him all the time. I didn’t think much about it, until he invited her down to some of the clubs in Hollywood, the really cool ones, where a lot of the stars go. She was so excited about it. Like a groupie. She’d never done anything like that before—you know being a judge’s kid, an only daughter—she was pretty sheltered, particularly for growing up in LA. She kept telling me I should come with her, but I’m just not into that scene.”
“Have you spoken to the police?”
She nodded, her head shaking nervously. “Right after she went missing, but not since...you know, this morning...when the police found the body. They asked me all about her. I told them she’d been dating some man she met online. But I didn’t want to say anything that would get her in trouble with her father. He’s something else. I think he thinks I might have been a bad influence, but there was no way I was. Besides, the police had her computer and with that they’d know as much as me. I really thought maybe she’d gone a little crazy with this guy and run off. That she’d come back. Like you said in your report this afternoon, sometimes missing people just show up, right?” She paused, her eyes searching mine, almost pleading.
I took a deep breath. Ironically, what she was telling me about Monica made me hopeful about Gabi. The Gabi I knew would never be involved with someone online. She was too smart.
“So why are you telling me this? Don’t you think you should go back and talk to the police?”
“I listened to the station, and I liked the way you covered those other missing girls. You talked about them like they were real people. Like you really cared, and I thought maybe if I talked to you—you’d understand, maybe help.”
It wasn’t unusual for a listener to connect with an on-air host or a reporter, and clearly something I had said connected with her. I asked her how long this affair had been going on.
“Not long. Maybe a month, month and a half.”
“Did she describe the man she was meeting? Give you a name?”
“No. All she’d tell me was that he was really nice. Someone i
mportant, and that they needed to keep it a secret. I think he might have been like her father’s age or something. Monica, she has—she had—you know, daddy issues. She was always into older men. It wasn’t the first time. In college she’d had this crush on a professor.” She stopped and looked down at her hands. She was wrenching her fingers like she was struggling to tell me something.
I put my hand on top of hers. “Go on.”
“It’s just, she kept saying how much he respected her. Her working with kids and all. And that he really liked clean cut girls. It sounded odd. You know, kinda off somehow. And then he started pushing her to do things.”
“What kind of things?”
She paused, bit her lip, and looked down at her hands again. I could feel her discomfort.
“Like sex?” I asked.
“Oh, no. Not like that. Monica wouldn’t. She was a…”
“Virgin?”
Bethany nodded her head nervously up and down.
“I think that’s why she liked him. He wasn’t pushing her. Not like that. I couldn’t tell the police all this. You understand, right?”
I nodded.
“You see, Monica and I, we made these virginity promises in high school. We weren’t going to have sex until we were married. She told him she couldn’t do it, and he said that was okay with him.”
“Did she say what they did do?”
“Just go to the clubs, meet people. Mostly she said it was men. He got her all kinds of really sexy clothes to wear. You know, short glittery outfits and really tall spiked heels. The type of clothes girls wear to the clubs, only hotter. That was it. She said he had business people he needed to meet in the clubs and wanted her to look good. Nothing more, not really, ’cept she said he was always asking her to go get him a drink at the bar, and when she would, they’d all look at her. She thought it was fun. You know, because he liked it when men looked at her. I think he got off on it, and Monica, she just didn’t get it. Like I said, she wasn’t real smart about men. She may have thought they were in a relationship, but if you ask me it was strange, like he was using her.”
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