Trail of Echoes

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  We had walked eleven paces—and had a clear view of the blue tarp and the trail. There were no trees above to create shadow.

  “His shoes were really muddy,” Cynthia said.

  “So what?” Heather said with a frown. “It’s raining. They supposed to be muddy.”

  “Was he walking fast or slow?” I asked.

  “Kinda hurrying but not running,” Cynthia said. “He had his head down and his chin was kinda tucked into his collar cuz of the rain.”

  Or because he didn’t want them to see his face.

  “And what time was that when you saw him?” I asked.

  “A minute or two after I got the text from my mom,” Heather said.

  “Did he say anything to you?” I asked. “Speak to you at all?”

  Heather shook her head. “He ain’t said a word.”

  “Where did he go once he passed you? Did he stay on the dirt trail or did he take that gravel service road?”

  The women shrugged.

  “Who called 911?”

  “I tried to, but my call kept dropping,” Cynthia said.

  “So we ran to that road and waved down the park service truck,” Heather added.

  “And we told that park ranger what we saw,” Cynthia said.

  “And then he called 911,” Heather finished.

  “Your girl Vanessa,” I said. “Can you describe her for me? I need to talk to her, too.”

  Heather pulled out a phone from her sweat-pants pocket and found a picture of Vanessa: round face, caramel complexion, nose ring, black and pink dreads.

  “And her phone number?” I asked.

  “Why you need her number?” Cynthia asked.

  I sighed and stopped myself from rolling my eyes. “Cuz she may have pictures of this guy. I can keep calling you to reach her, or I can call her directly. Ladies’ choice.”

  Cynthia groaned, then sucked her teeth.

  Heather rattled off a number.

  I thanked them both, then gave each my business card. “And if you see Vanessa before I reach her, please tell her to call me ASAP.”

  As Luke took Heather’s and Cynthia’s official witness statements, I headed down to the base of the trail. My feet felt thick and numb in my fancy combat boots, and I’m sure the burning on my chest was a rash caused by my wet sweater. But I couldn’t stop.

  I needed to find Vanessa. And I needed to find the man in the baseball cap.

  6

  Vanessa with the camera wouldn’t answer her phone no matter how many times I called. When I wasn’t calling Vanessa, Victor Starr texted.

  I only need 10 minuites.

  Hello you are there?

  I’m am not a bad man.

  I ignored his messages, but texted Sam—sorry, no pie tonight.

  By the time I reached the bottom of the trail, the rain had changed directions. Didn’t matter to the crowd now gathered near the trail’s start.

  Angelenos retreated indoors when it rained—we melted, Wicked Witch of the West–style, if more than six raindrops touched our skin. On this day, though, we possessed the physiology of gremlins—the crowd grew every five minutes, all, “What’s this about a dead body?”

  At least sixty people now stood behind yellow tape guarded by three female patrol cops. Wearing track pants and jogging shorts, the gawkers had already been at the park taking a prestorm jog. But then they had stumbled upon the dinnertime story to tell, and they now hoisted their cell phones high above or before them.

  Reporters that knew me shouted questions in my direction, questions that our public information officer would soon answer.

  Is it Trina Porter?

  Have you notified the family?

  Is it gang-related? A drug deal gone bad?

  I scanned the crowd in search of Vanessa but didn’t see a black chick with pink dreads. Nor did I spot a not-tall, tall man wearing a dark baseball cap.

  Amber Andersen, a field reporter from Channel Five News, was interviewing a portly black man who wore a clingy, suck-you-thin exercise suit. The man kept pointing at the hill and turning away from the camera, and Amber kept turning him back.

  What is he telling her? What did he see?

  I pulled the radio from my bag and called Pepe. “There’s a guy down here talking to a reporter. Have a word with him, why don’t you?” I gave him the guy’s description. “He’s pointing up the hill as though he was there. Ask him if he saw anyone carrying a big bag. And please remember to get pics of his shoes.”

  A brown, one-story building sat fifty yards to my left—the park’s community center. Maybe Smokey Robinson the Ranger had returned to his office. Maybe Vanessa still needed quiet after coming upon a body in a bag and was now sipping cool water from a tiny paper cup.

  The downpour intensified as I quickstepped toward the community center. The muck made my boots burp. I took one step too quick, and my legs flew from beneath me. I landed on my ass, and my hands sank into gooey, wet earth thick with dying insects. My anal-retentive gene activated, and before I even thought of standing, I swiped my muddy palms on my pants and trench coat, get it off get it off.

  A man’s hand—tanned, strong—reached down from behind me. “At least all of you is covered in mud now.”

  Nerves jangled, I said, “Ha, yeah.” I looked over my shoulder to see his face.

  “Hi, there.” He smiled to show off perfect white teeth. His. Not purchased. He had olive-colored skin—Black Irish, Spanish, or French—a day’s-growth beard, cocker spaniel–brown eyes, and thick brows that a vain man would have waxed. He was muscular but not meat-head muscular like the Angry Pitcher. He was thisclose to being average-looking for Los Angeles, but attractive enough that I wouldn’t vote him off the island.

  On the other hand, he would’ve voted me off immediately—I looked as though I’d pulled an all-nighter at the local pig and crawfish farm.

  “Other than the baseball cap,” he said, “you’re not really dressed for recreation. Kick-ass boots, though.”

  I accepted his hand to stand and winced as pain sparked up and down my left arm. “I try to slip in the mud at least once a month. Keeps me humble. Close to the ground. Like Wilbur from Charlotte’s Web.”

  He retrieved my bag, which had landed in grass, then pointed at my badge hanging on a lanyard around my neck. “You’re a detective.”

  “That’s what it says, yeah. Thanks for helping me out.” I took my bag from him, then limped toward the community center.

  Kind Stranger walked beside me. “I saw you storming down that trail. You okay? You’re holding your arm.”

  I cocked an eyebrow.

  He smiled. “I’m a doctor. Hence my concern.”

  I stopped in my step. “It hurts when I do this.” Then, I waved my arm as though I was flagging down the last bus out of Compton.

  His forehead wrinkled with concern. “Then, don’t do that. Smaller circles.”

  “You go up that trail today?” I asked, resuming my journey to the community center.

  “Too iffy, with all the mud. On my days off, like today, I jog around the lake. But I saw all the squad cars and ambulances, so I rushed up to see if I could help.”

  “The proverbial doctor in the house?”

  “Doctor and former EMT.” He blushed, then added, “I did the same after Katrina. And 9/11 and … Haiti. Just dropped everything and … Not by myself. Doctors Without Borders.” He shrugged and offered me a shy grin.

  My face warmed. “We have it under control. Thank you again for rescuing me.”

  “So is it true?” he asked. “What you guys found?”

  I gave him a slow smile. “Found?”

  He gave me the same smile. “Lemme guess: no comment on an ongoing investigation.”

  I pulled at the center’s door. Locked. I knocked, wincing as my left wrist sparked again.

  He frowned. “You should probably get that checked out. Just my humble, professional, Emory School of Medicine–trained opinion.”

  “You’r
e right,” I said. “I will.” A lie. Was I bleeding? Lame? Dead? Cops didn’t do doctors. At least, not in that way.

  “Do you know who they found up there?” he asked. “Yes, I’m asking anyway.”

  “Don’t know who she is. But at least she’s been found.” I peered past the center’s iron-grated windows. No Vanessa. No Smokey Robinson the Ranger.

  “This park seemed so safe,” he said, shaking his head. “And it’s always crowded. Somebody must’ve seen what happened.”

  I held out my healthy right hand and we shook. “Thank you for offering free medical advice that will go unheeded until it’s too late.”

  “Anytime. So if I have anything to add to your investigation—?”

  “You know something?”

  He smiled, then said, “How would I reach you, Detective…?”

  “Norton. And you’re…?”

  “Zach. Is there a law against making shit up just to see a pretty detective again?”

  I tapped the puddle beneath my boot. “False reporting. A misdemeanor. Look, I really—”

  “What if I wanted to ask the pretty detective out for coffee and conversation? You do like coffee and conversation, right?”

  My left arm tingled, and I glanced back at the crumbling hill where my team huddled over a dead girl. Getting picked up a half mile away seemed like laughing at a funeral. Yes, life continued, but damn, could Jane Doe get a moment? And could Vanessa freakin’ call me?

  “Thank you for the offer,” I said, “but I really don’t have—”

  “Detective Norton!” Amber Andersen had snuck beneath the yellow tape and was now standing a few feet away. “Detective, could I have a moment?”

  I frowned, then said to Zach, “Thanks, again.”

  “How do I get in touch with you?” he asked. “Seriously: in the clinics, I hear all kinds of random neighborhood gossip.”

  I reached into my pocket for a business card. “If you hear anything.”

  He studied the card as I tromped back to the trail.

  “Good luck,” he shouted.

  I gave him a thumbs-up—I’d need all the luck in the world.

  7

  At almost six o’clock, my team and I had worked the scene for five hours, and our mood matched the weather: cold, wet, and bitter. The rain had stopped, but another storm front still charged toward us.

  “What the hell’s taking so long?” Pepe groused as he lit his third cigarette in twenty minutes. He stood with Luke and me at the lip of the bluff, waiting for deputy medical examiner Dr. Spencer Brooks to finish with the girl.

  We scowled at Brooks’s team.

  They scowled back at us.

  Zucca and his crew had drawn the shortest stick—they had to wait until after Brooks moved Jane Doe to gather any evidence hidden beneath her.

  My feet and wrist hurt, and my body ached from wearing a miniholster stuffed with a G42, a ballistics vest beneath a muddy sweater, and a drenched trench coat.

  Brooks didn’t care about my aching feet or Pepe’s chain-smoking. He had a job to do, and as an old friend of mine at the coroner’s office said: it’s the best of jobs, it’s the worst of jobs, and it’s the most important job.

  Important job or not, a storm was still barreling upon us, and each inch of rain hampered our ability to see the toes of our shoes. A bank of halogen lamps bathed the trail and hillside with pure light and kept the darkness at bay. Those yellow evidence flags noting the girl’s descent onto the trail barely stood upright in the mud and grass.

  “We need to get her out of here,” I muttered, still glaring at Brooks’s team.

  “I tried scowling. Doesn’t work.” Luke opened a packet of saladitos, then offered me one. “The doc ain’t comin’ out, not now, not ever.”

  I popped a salted apricot in my mouth, then checked my phone—nothing from Vanessa.

  “I wonder who she is,” Pepe said. “And why the hell is she here?”

  “I wanna see that duffel bag.” I reached again into Luke’s packet of saladitos. “Maybe there’s a name or a tag or a company…”

  “Think it’s a random drop?” Luke asked.

  I readjusted the baseball cap, bristling from the combined stink of my wet hair and the sweat from the cap’s original owner. “Doubt it.”

  Truly random crimes were rare. John Wayne Gacy, for instance, had hired many of his victims to work for his construction company. And some of Wayne Williams’s kills had been prostitutes he’d known.

  “This monster knows her,” I said. “And I need to find him before L.T. makes me push her to the back burner. Anyway. Pepe, what’s up with the guy in the suck-you-thin suit?”

  “A bullshitter. He nearly pissed his pants when I badged him. He was nowhere near this trail. Just wanted his fifteen minutes. And the park ranger—name’s Jimmy Boulard—he’s coming in to give an official—”

  “Lou!” Brooks was calling.

  Dread settled on my heart like a raven on a bare tree limb.

  “Here we go,” Pepe said, killing his cigarette between his fingers.

  Brooks swiped at his cinnamon-colored nose with the sleeve of his Tyvek suit. His eyes had disappeared behind the fogged lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses.

  “Well?” I asked.

  “She’s cold but not stiff,” Brooks said. “Dead maybe forty-eight hours. The cold weather and the low number of bugs makes it hard to tell right now.” He gazed at the girl who was decomposing even as we stood over her. He pointed at her darkened left side. “See that?” Then, he pointed to the tops of her thighs, which were darker than her side. “And there? And that?” The right side of her face was mottled. “Differing lividity.”

  “Which means what to us?” Luke asked.

  “When she died,” Brooks said, “the blood pooled in different patterns. If she had died on her back and had been left in that position—”

  “The blood would’ve settled in her back,” I said. “She was moved.”

  “A couple of times,” Brooks said.

  Didn’t want to hear that. Processing one crime scene was difficult enough, but another scene that you didn’t even know about?

  A crack of thunder boomed.

  Pepe and Luke glanced at the sky.

  My breathing had already quickened. Where did she die? If not here, where?

  Brooks aimed his flashlight beam at the girl’s left hand, assaulted now by blowflies. “Flies are here now when they weren’t just an hour ago.”

  And more flies, in just that moment, found the girl. The tarp now buzzed.

  Brooks pointed to abrasions on her arms and cuts on her leg. “Don’t know yet who or what made those.”

  “He didn’t bury her,” Luke said. “How come?”

  “No time,” I said. “Digging a grave is hard work. And in this case, the shrubs and leaves worked just as well.”

  “Until the rain came,” Brooks added.

  Another crack of thunder.

  My scalp crawled as I counted. One … two … three … four … And the sky flashed.

  “As far as getting latent prints off of her…” Brooks shook his head. “Maybe we’ll have a better chance in a controlled environment.”

  “And the probability that we’ll find the monster’s prints on her body?” I asked.

  He gave a one-shouldered shrug, then clicked off his flashlight. “We should get going before we’re caught in a landslide. Before any evidence she has left on her washes away, making your job all that more difficult.”

  Usually, we spent three days at a crime scene. This park was the worst crime scene possible. Clues were now washing away and dissolving because of rain and wind, while the rest of it was being buried in mud or had been stolen by animals. Bits of evidence, from Jane Doe, from the monster, were being lost every second, and there was nothing I could do about it.

  Had it been only six hours since eating pastrami with Sam? Six hours since we lingered at that table, George Harrison and Olivia Newton-John serenading us?

>   Another crack of thunder … One … two … three … A flash of lightning.

  I turned to Pepe. “Pull all the missing persons reports from the last month. She’s a kid—somebody’s missing her.”

  “What about the paperwork?” Luke asked with a cocked eyebrow.

  Colin usually handled the bulk of incident reports and warrant requests. He was the Mark Spitz of Paperwork. But since he was now collapsed in bed with a temperature of 133, someone else had to do the job … and Luke could barely spell “homicide.”

  I groaned. “I’ll handle the reports while I’m waiting for the autopsy to—”

  Boom!

  Thunder.

  One … two …

  A light whiter and far more dangerous than the halogens filled the sky.

  As a three-person team maneuvered the girl into a protective bag, Brooks came to stand beside me. “I know this took longer than what you wanted, but I needed to take my time.”

  “You think it’s Trina?”

  He let out a long breath, then shrugged. “I’ll be working on her. Whoever she is.”

  “Good cuz this could turn—”

  “Political? Don’t most homicides turn political?”

  “But we have an especially shitty record right now serving and protecting young black females. And speaking on behalf of young black females, I’m sick to hell of it and when are the fucking cops gonna do something about it?”

  “How many missing kids this year?” he asked.

  “Stranger, family, suspicious, or unknown missing?”

  Brooks said, “Surprise me.”

  “Right now,” I said, “there are about 450 kids missing in LA County.”

  “And murders?”

  “About forty. Only six females, but four of those six were black.”

  “Doesn’t sound too bad in a city of 9.9 million people.”

  “Six is too many.”

  “But how many of those missing children will be found alive?” he asked. “And how many girls get home safely after school each day and live happily ever after?”

  Optimism. For cutters like Brooks and murder police like me, optimism was a condition as rare as hens’ teeth. Happy endings? What were those? If I was standing anywhere near you, that meant shit had just gone left, your life had changed forever, and there’d be no happy ending.