Blessed are the Dead

by Kristi Belcamino

  “No, I’ll probably head back to the office.”

  “Yeah, me too.”

  Lopez bobs his head in agreement.

  Chapter 5

  THE DECREPIT LIGHT blue Victorian is squished between two apartment buildings right smack in downtown Rosarito. I check the address Moretti gave me. Yep, this is where Jasmine lives—­close to where Main Street dead-­ends at the harbor. This area was once a thriving shopping district but now is home to seedy bridal shops, abandoned businesses, and bars.

  Pressing my face against the building’s glass front door, I smoosh all the door buzzers at once. As we wait, a man on the sidewalk below stops in his tracks and stares at me. Lopez gives him a look, and the man walks on. The once-­elegant house is now home to apartments. The view through the glass front door shows a hallway with about eight doors leading to apartments. After a moment, a little girl comes out of Apt. 2. She looks about four years old.

  “Honey, can you open the door?” I say it loudly, so she can hear me through the glass. She pushes the door open and leans against the wall, gazing at her bare feet. She wears a faded, too-­short flowered dress, and her hair is tangled.

  “Does a little girl named Jasmine Baker live here?” She points to an apartment door at the end of the hall on the right-­hand side. Jackpot. “She lives in that apartment?”

  The little girl nods and starts sucking on her two middle fingers.

  “Are her mom and dad home?”

  The girl looks away. She twists her ankle around and digs her big toe into the hallway’s carpet, which is dotted with cigarette burns and unidentifiable stains forming Rorschach splotches. Making our way down the hallway, which stinks like rotten potatoes, we rap on doors. Nobody answers. I leave my business cards sticking out of doorjambs with peeling pink paint. Finally, a woman answers our knock. The wail of children crying inside momentarily escapes into the hall before, upon seeing us, she slams her door.

  When I knock on Apt. 5, an elderly woman peeks out of her apartment. I hold up my identification badge hanging on a chain around my neck and identify myself as a reporter. Issued to police reporters by the California Highway Patrol, the IDs have the CHP badge next to your picture and the name of your paper. I admit it’s sometimes misleading. Every once in a while, ­people think I’m a cop even after I clearly say I’m with the newspaper.

  “Ma’am, we’d like to ask you about Jasmine, the missing girl.”

  The woman wears a pale green housecoat, and her white hair is neatly smoothed back in a bun. Her blue eyes are bright and sharp behind rhinestone-­studded glasses. She holds a gray cat that she absentmindedly strokes as she leans over to us, whispering loudly.

  “All I know is what I see when her mother locks the girl out of the apartment. She plays in the hall in her pajamas for hours. Once I heard her crying and knocking on the door. She was saying, ‘Mommy, please open the door. I promise I’ll be good.’ ”

  I exchange a look with Lopez. His camera is still in its bag. He fiddles with the knobs on the police scanner clipped to his belt and chews on his lower lip.

  “Could I get your name?” I ask the woman. Without her name, it’s going to be tough to convince the editors to let me use anything she says.

  “I’m on a fixed income here. I don’t want any trouble. I thought I should say something to somebody because that poor little girl didn’t do anything to anybody.”

  “Does this happen often?”

  “All the time. At least a ­couple of times a week that girl is out playing in the hall.”

  “Did you ever notice anything else out of the ordinary?”

  Her gaze turns away as if she is thinking, then shakes her head.

  “Are you sure you can’t give us your name?”

  She presses her lips tightly together and wags her head vehemently. I know better than to push anymore. I give her my card and ask her to call if she thinks of anything else or changes her mind about letting us use her name.

  We knock on the other doors, but nobody answers. Before leaving, I stop in front of Apt. 8. There’s a chance the parents are back home from the police station by now. I tap on the door and wait a few seconds. No answer. “Excuse me, I’m with the Bay Herald,” I say to the door. “I’m trying to find out some more information about Jasmine, so we can help find her.”

  Nothing. I stand and listen. The hair on my arms starts to tingle. For some reason I get the feeling someone is there—­right on the other side of the door. I leave my card stuck in the doorjamb.

  We’re about to cross the street when a yellow taxicab slows down to let us pass. After we cross, it stays stopped. I look over, and the driver guns the motor. I get a glimpse of a pale, angular face gaping at me. For some reason, a chill travels down my arms. It’s either getting cold now that clouds have drifted over the sun, or I’ve had enough of guys I don’t know staring at me today. I pull my sweater closer as I walk to my car.

  I decide to grab lunch at the cafe near the police station before heading back to the newsroom. It’s going to be a long day, and my stomach is grumbling.

  I’m digging into a giant spicy Italian sub when a group of men walks in. Cops. Even though they’re in plain clothes, I know immediately. It’s like a sixth sense I’ve honed as a reporter. Then I notice that cop, Donovan, is with them. I’m trying to figure out how to introduce myself when he gets up to fill his soda cup at the self-­serve machine. I jump up with my cup, which is still full of soda.

  “Hi, I’m Gabriella. I’m with the Bay Herald, and I’m covering the Jasmine Baker story.” I glance down and start fiddling with the ice machine. I feel ridiculous, but stand there because I desperately need to have a source in the police department.

  “I know.” He fills his cup with root beer. “You wrote about the Chairman Bank Robbery last year.”

  That was a doozy. It turned out the chair of the Federal Reserve Bank in San Francisco had a part-­time hobby during his lunch hours—­donning a clown mask and robbing banks in East Bay cities.

  Now I remember—­I interviewed a Detective Sean Donovan about that story over the phone. I stare at him but can’t see his eyes behind his dark sunglasses. When he turns his head toward me, a shiver of apprehension ripples through me. I don’t know if it’s good or bad.

  He pauses. He’s getting ready to walk away. I search for something to say to keep him standing here. Pull it together, Giovanni. Quit acting like an infatuated teenager for Christ’s sakes. Right when he turns away, I say the first thing that pops into my head. “I was wondering why you were investigating the Jasmine Baker case. Aren’t you in homicide?”

  He cocks his head, looking at me for a few seconds before he answers. “We’ve got detectives from almost every division on this one. It’s a kid. Time is of the essence.”

  “That makes sense.” Any cop, or cop reporter, knows the odds of her being found alive are decreasing quickly. Statistics show the best chance of finding a missing child alive are within the first forty-­eight hours. Deep down, I wonder if this is true. It wasn’t in Caterina’s case—­her killer kept her for a week. At least that’s what they think since her body wasn’t decomposed.

  I push away those memories and remind myself why I’m talking to Donovan in the first place. I need to make him a source. I need some inroad to the detective bureau if I’m ever going to beat the Trib on this story.

  “Do you think I could call you about this case? You know, to check if there is anything new?”

  “Nope. Can’t go against department regs. If the chief tells me to talk to the media, then I’ll talk to you. Otherwise, you’ve got to go through Roberge.”

  “Yeah, just like every other reporter on the planet.”

  He shrugs and walks away.

  Back at my table, I wad up the remains of my sandwich and toss it in the trash bin. I want to get the hell away from those cops. As I leave, nob
ody at his table even glances my way. But passing the big front window, I notice Donovan watching me. He quickly looks away.

  Does he feel that same spark of attraction I do? Out of the corner of my eye, I glance at my reflection in the window of a nearby store. Huh? Something white is sticking out from the side of my dress near my thigh. I stop and look down. Yep. It’s the tag. My dress is inside out.

  Back in the newsroom, I’m trying to keep it together as I write my story. The little girl inside me still pictures a gibbering monster—­a half-­human creature with rolling eyes and pointy yellow teeth—­preying on little girls like Jasmine Baker and my sister.

  When May arrives, she starts slamming drawers open and shut and punches the keyboard so hard logging in I think she’s going to pop the little letters right off. Her phone rings. I try not to eavesdrop, but hey, it’s what reporters do. We are natural observers of everyone and everything around us.

  “I told you, I don’t care,” she says into the phone. “It’s really no big deal. I didn’t wait that long anyway. Yes. The waiter gave me your message. Yes, he brought me out a cupcake and a candle. Thank you. Listen, Dad, I have to go, I’m at work now. Bye.”

  She hangs up, and I see her surreptitiously run a manicured finger below her eye. I give her a moment.

  “Hey, May, is it your birthday today?” I ask in a quiet voice.

  “Yes,” she snaps at me.

  “Can I buy you a coffee? I’m heading to the cafeteria.”

  “No,” she says, and sniffs.

  I’m walking away when she calls my name, so I turn back.

  “Thank you,” she says, and quickly turns away.

  I feel bad for May, but we’ve had a rough start. Her first day, I had spent the morning crawling through underground tunnels and climbing around abandoned buildings on the Fort Ord former military base for a story about FBI training. I’d tagged along behind agents lugging M15 rifles at The Impossible City—­a replica of a real town with a gas station, s schoolhouse, bombed-­out vehicles, and mannequins scattered throughout the city, seemingly jumping out at every turn. Creepy. But most of the base is like that—­a ghost town.

  My clothes were ripped and filthy when the editors called me over to introduce me to May DuPont.

  She sported pearls, perfect hair, and shiny penny loafers. I caught her briefly wrinkling her tiny nose at my unkempt clothing before she plastered a wide smile on her face and gushed about how she was a big fan of my reporting. As soon as we were alone at our desks, she turned her back on me without another word the rest of the night.

  Back at my desk with my coffee, I concentrate on finishing my story. I push back my memories and give myself a pep talk as I type. Just write the story. Stick to the facts. Who. What. Where. When. How. Why.

  See. It’s only a story like any other. You can handle it. No problem. It’s not the same. It’s a totally different situation.

  I just need to do my job. If I know anything, it’s how to write about the seedier side of life. And in all honesty, that’s what I love about the crime beat. Life isn’t one party after the other. Bad things happen. Anyone who doesn’t realize that is foolish and living in a dreamworld. I know the truth about life—­that you can never take one second of it for granted. I’m better off because I realized this at a young age. But deep down, I know that I’m ignoring the shadows hovering just outside my peripheral vision.

  Chapter 6

  LIKE A TECHNICOLOR silent-­movie reel, Jasmine appears in my dreams tonight, swinging at a playground. I don’t hear her—­only see her laughing. She wears a frilly pink dress, white ruffled socks, and shiny black shoes. Leaning back, her hair falls behind her as she looks up at downy white clouds drifting in the blue sky. Hopping off the swing, laughing, she runs to the monkey bars. She loops her legs and hangs upside down with the skirt of her dress temporarily obscuring her face. The rest of the playground is empty. She gets down and plays hopscotch by herself. She runs and laughs. She never glances my way.

  The wind starts to pick up and whips dried leaves around the playground. Tiny dust devils suck up the leaves swirling and twirling inches above the pavement. Dark clouds spread their wings and blot out the sun. Jasmine looks around. Her eyes widen as she stares just over my shoulder. I turn, but there is nothing there.

  I wake with my heart pounding.

  Within an hour, I’m at her apartment. It’s 7:30 A.M., right when police say Jasmine left for the bus stop. I want to put myself in her shoes. I want to try to experience what she did every day. I wonder if there will be many other kids at her bus stop. I’m surprised that enough families with children live downtown to warrant a stop.

  Because Rosarito is only thirty-­five miles from San Francisco, it’s become a magnet for families and yuppies tired of the big city’s skyrocketing housing costs. But most families with children flock to Rosarito’s northern suburbs on the edge of the San Pablo Bay, with its new, affordable, gigantic track homes.

  The downtown waterfront area of Rosarito where Jasmine lives retains an aura of its bordello past when, during World War II, sailors and shipyard workers from Mare Island Naval Shipyard came to gamble and visit prostitutes.

  I sit with my car idling in front of Jasmine’s building and imagine what it was like on the morning she disappeared. The streets of downtown are preternaturally quiet. It is hard to imagine her leaving this apartment building every morning and walking alone to the bus stop. I’m an adult, but even I experience a shiver of apprehension at the stillness surrounding me.

  Before I pull away, I scribble another note on the back of one of my business cards asking Jasmine’s mother, Kelly Baker, to call me. I jog up to the door of the Victorian and shove my card into her mail slot—­in case she didn’t get the one I left in her door yesterday. I’ll keep leaving them every day until she calls.

  Back in my car, I gently press down on the accelerator and slowly drive the route I imagine Jasmine walked to the bus stop—­three blocks down and one block over. I inch along with my window down. A few homeless men sit on folded-­up cardboard boxes, leaning their backs against cement walls.

  “Hey, excuse me,” I say, and pull over, leaning out my window. “Can I ask you something? Did you ever see a little girl who wore a purple coat walk this way to school each day?”

  One man scratches his head before answering. “Yeah, I seen her. She walks by every day.”

  “Did you see her on Monday?”

  “What day was that?”

  “It’s Wednesday. That was two days ago.”

  “I dunno,” he says at first. “Maybe. Uh, yeah, yeah, actually I probably did see her walk by that day. Hey, do you have any spare change?”

  “Sorry, no,” I lie. “Thanks for your help.”

  On the road near the bus stop, a group of rough-­looking men stands outside a bar smoking. The smell of the smoke drifts through my open window. I’ll go back and talk to them later. I park across the street from the bus stop. I turn off the engine and close my eyes for a minute, rubbing the miraculous medal that hangs around my neck, listening to the noises around me, imagining what it was like to be a third-­grader waiting for the bus on this deserted stretch of road. My fingertip traces the figure of the Virgin Mary etched on the small oval pendant. “Give me the strength to write about this girl the way she deserves,” I say. Except for some distant traffic noises, it is silent.

  I open my eyes. This stretch of roadway is eerily deserted. On my side of the street, a big empty dirt lot is strewn with trash. Windblown piles of yellowed cigarette butts crowd the black pavement of the gutter. On the opposite side of the road, a former car dealership has seen better days. Boards cover showroom windows. The only signs of life are a gas station about a block down toward the harbor, a deserted taxi stand, and the bar I passed. After a few minutes, kids start to straggle down the street to the bus stop. I grab my jacket and get out of my car.<
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  “Hey, guys, do you know a little girl named Jasmine? She likes to wear a purple jacket and rides the bus with you?”

  The group of girls with giant sneakers and oversize backpacks ignore me, whispering and snickering. Finally, one sneaks a glance my way.

  “Nah, the cops already asked us all this. We don’t know nothing.”

  A brown, late-­model Oldsmobile pulls up with a loud thumping bass, and two boys with long legs unfold themselves out of the backseat. In the passenger seat, a man with bloodshot eyes looks me up and down as he takes a pull off what looks like a whiskey bottle. The kids at the bus stop are gazing down at their feet. I try to act nonchalant and fiddle with my phone but am holding my breath. Finally, the car screeches away, and the sound of the pounding music grows faint.

  The other kids have gone silent. They watch as the two older boys stare me down.

  “Nice tits,” one says. He can’t be older than twelve.

  “Didn’t your mama teach you not to talk to women that way?”

  “I ain’t got no mama, bitch.”

  There’s nothing to say to that. I lean against a low, wooden fence, watching the kids roughhouse and smoke cigarette butts they find on the ground. A few minutes later, the school bus arrives. I don’t leave until it pulls away.

  I HEAD BACK to the bar and park out front, careful not to get too close to the line of nearly a dozen motorcycles parked perpendicular to the sidewalk. Nobody is out front anymore. Inside, I struggle to see in the sudden darkness. The first things I notice are steps leading down. I freeze. I can’t move another inch. I don’t do underground. When I was six, I found my father’s body in our basement, three days after Caterina disappeared. I haven’t stepped foot underground since.

  A gurgle of fear courses through my stomach until my eyes adjust, and I realize that the dark, windowless bar is not in a basement. There are only two steps leading down.

  The damp musty smell of stale alcohol in the bar also sharply brings me back to the day I found my father’s body. He smelled just like it does in here. His neck was bent oddly, and there was an empty bottle nearby. When I told my mother this, she said I was seeing things—­that I had an overactive imagination. That’s the same thing she said whenever I told her my father was acting funny when she was at work, stumbling and talking strange.