Trail of Echoes

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  “No fingerprints left behind,” Brooks said with a sigh. “Allayna Mitchell was also holding a tooth in her hand. The second molar, just like Chanita Lords.”

  “Extracted before she died?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “I asked her mother about any recently lost teeth,” I shared, “and she told me that Allayna still had her back ones.”

  Brooks and Zucca scribbled this into their notepads.

  “Second molar,” Brooks said. “One of the last teeth a child loses…”

  I tapped my pen on the notepad. “He’s making a statement—maybe he’s prematurely pushing them from childhood to womanhood. The tooth—and I may be reaching here—may be their fare to the next world. The world of nymphs.”

  “The coin the dead pay the ferryman to cross the river Styx,” Neil said. “A do-good action, picking up the tab, so to speak, but with a tooth instead.”

  “Was this guy a Greek major in college?” Colin asked. “He’s really into this shit.”

  I nodded, adding that to my profile of the monster.

  Brooks continued. “When we found her, she’d only been dead for about twenty-four hours. Her small intestine was empty—she’d eaten her last meal about eight hours before she died.” He clicked to a slide that showed dark patches of skin all around Allayna’s body. “Differing lividity,” he explained, using a laser pointer to show us the dark patches on her back and sides. “Again, just like Chanita Lords.”

  “Where is he killing them?” Pepe asked.

  “In or around the same place,” Zucca said. “The same kind of leaves and berries. Deadly nightshade.”

  “And again,” Brooks said, “not much bug activity.”

  “Why does he do that?” Gwen asked. “The insect repellant?”

  “Maybe he wants to be seen as doing something good,” Lieutenant Rodriguez offered.

  Colin nodded. “Girls hate bugs.”

  “Or,” I said, “maybe he just wanted to hide the smell of decomp, which the bug spray would help to do. Which makes it hard to determine time of death. But there wouldn’t be extreme decomp since her mother only reported her missing early this morning.”

  “So how did she die?” Lieutenant Rodriguez asked Brooks.

  “High levels of atropine from the plant.” Brooks clicked to a picture of Allayna’s face. “Sunken eyes and pupils dilated so much her eyes look black.” Another picture. “Pale liver with lots of petechiae.” Another slide. “Mushy, soft brain, which tore easily. Petechiae in the corpus callosum.” Last picture. “Petechiae on the anterior of the heart.” He rubbed his eyes. “High amounts of acid and bile in her stomach. She had an ulcer the size of a walnut.”

  “An ulcer at fourteen?” Colin asked.

  Brooks nodded. “She was also so thin she had stopped menstruating.”

  The pictures, and the pizza’s greasy cheese and pepperoni, had made me nauseated, and I dabbed at my clammy skin with a napkin.

  “Other elements similar to Chanita’s case,” Brooks said, “are the broken left foot and puncture marks on her thighs. Unlike Chanita, though, Allayna was losing her hair. Throw in the ulcer, and I’m thinking she was under a lot of stress.”

  “Vaughn insisted that Allayna was healthy,” I said. “Nothing to see here folks; move along. Her daughter planning to kill herself certainly wasn’t something to freak out about, either.”

  “She was suicidal?” Gwen asked, wide-eyed. “Detective Dean didn’t mention that.”

  I pulled Allayna’s note from the file, then read it aloud.

  Gwen whispered, “Wow. Poor kid.”

  “Gomez,” Lieutenant Rodriguez said, “any update on the 2BT license plate?”

  “DMV computers are back up, so I got this.” Luke held up a long printout speckled with yellow ink. “Going through it now and highlighting every plate that starts with 2BT. About seven so far. I’ll send out a few radio cars when I get a complete list.”

  “What about Chanita’s phone?” I asked.

  Luke shook his head. “The only calls made and received…” He scanned a page of the printout. “Are to and from her mother and grandmother. She didn’t have a text or data package. No recent e-mails.”

  “You talk to her friends?” Colin asked.

  “Yep,” Pepe said. “Nothing there—she took pictures, she was on the newspaper, she talked about Ontrel. That’s it.” He slid over a thin manila folder. “The friends’ witness statements.”

  “This deadly nightshade,” I said, turning to Zucca. “Which parts are poisonous?”

  “All parts,” he said, “but the roots and berries are the most toxic. And roots, of course, grow year-round.”

  “Surgeons use atropine,” Brooks added, “to regulate the patient’s heartbeat. And believe it or not, when mixed with other agents in small amounts, it’s pretty useful. It’s used to treat Parkinson’s, whooping cough, arthritis, hemorrhoids…”

  “Talk about a pain in the ass,” Luke said, then laughed at his own joke.

  “Any mythology attached to deadly nightshade?” Lieutenant Rodriguez asked.

  Brooks nodded. “Atropine is derived from the genus atropos, which is the name of one of the three Fates.”

  “Let me guess,” I said. “The one who chooses how you die and then whips out her scissors and cuts your string?”

  Brooks pointed at me. “You win a brand-new Chrysler LeBaron.”

  I smiled. “And I’d like to thank World Book Encyclopedia for keeping me company throughout my youth.” I tore away a piece of pizza crust, but the alley-ooping in my stomach kept me from eating it. “But you don’t have to buy chemical-grade if you’re growing the plant in your backyard, right? Or it can be a potted plant. Kept inside.”

  “Possibly,” Zucca said. “It doesn’t get taller than four feet.”

  “We can go back to that neighborhood near the park again,” Colin suggested, “and do a thorough door-to-door. Checking backyards…”

  “But we don’t know if he’s there or somewhere in Topanga, twenty miles away,” Pepe pointed out.

  “Ese, it’s just an idea,” Luke said.

  Spots of red colored Pepe’s cheeks. “Ese, it’s just reality. And say we go into people’s yards, but he actually has it in his basement?”

  Luke sucked his teeth. “You scared of—?”

  “Hey,” Lieutenant Rodriguez said. “Knock it off.”

  “The music box,” I said.

  “No prints except for hers,” Zucca said. “And there’s nothing remarkable about that box. One of my techs found them on every major retail Web site.”

  “What about…?” I pointed to the tacked pictures of the shoe bottoms. “Any matches?”

  “Nope,” Zucca said, flipping through reports. “But it comes from a man’s right Timberland boot, size twelve. And before you ask, yes, Jimmy Boulard is a size twelve.”

  “So it’s possible that he made the print?” Lieutenant Rodriguez asked.

  “Yes,” Zucca said.

  “Anything special about the canvas bag he put them in?” Gwen asked.

  Zucca shook his head. “Any army-surplus store has them.”

  I turned to Neil. “Bang-Bang, let’s go back to the phones.”

  He shook his head. “The last messages from Olympus used the tower right in the park, which isn’t surprising since he left her there. Other than that, no calls. No pings. Nothing. I’m guessing he took the batteries out of the phones.”

  “DNA back yet from Ontrel Shaw, Jimmy Boulard, or Raul Moriaga?” I asked, going through my list.

  “Still waiting,” Zucca said. “But I can say this with certainty: the guy’s a nonsecretor.”

  Colin screwed up his face. “Umm…”

  “A … what?” Gwen asked.

  With a small smile, Zucca said, “I’m guessing that only Doc Brooks knows what that means. Okay. So. In every person’s—”

  “Twitter version, please,” I said, rubbing my temples.

  “Olympus’s s
pit doesn’t have a certain protein in it that lets us determine if it matches the bodily fluids we found on Chanita. He doesn’t secrete that telltale molecule.” Zucca looked at me. “How’s that?”

  I gave him the A-OK sign.

  “Is that a rare thing?” Lieutenant Rodriguez asked.

  “Yep,” Zucca said. “Which, again, makes it a good thing.”

  I tapped my pen against the pad. “So we’ll know Ontrel, Jimmy, or Raul didn’t do it if their DNA samples show that they are secretors.”

  “Correct,” Zucca said.

  “And Payton Bishop still hasn’t come in yet to give DNA?” I asked.

  Pepe said, “Nope.”

  “What about the kid?” Colin asked.

  “Justin Abraham?” I said. “His momma wants a court order first. So could you…?”

  Colin said, “Yep,” then jotted in his notepad.

  “Luke,” I said, “you talk to anybody from Eighteenth Street?”

  He nodded. “One of my cousin’s girlfriend’s cousin’s uncle is a shot caller, and he said it ain’t none of them, especially when I told him about the bug-repellent injection. He said they don’t fuck wit’ no dead bodies. A few knew of Chanita cuz of who her people are and the boy she was hanging with, but as far as Jaime know, ain’t no order been given to kidnap and kill certain types of girls from the Jungle.”

  “How does Allayna’s suicide note affect the case?” Lieutenant Rodriguez asked.

  “Don’t know if it does,” I said. “But it could add to our profile—a girl needing to be rescued. A monster offering her what her family couldn’t.”

  “Protection,” Colin said.

  “The two postcards he left,” I said, back to my list.

  “Written by the same right-handed person,” Zucca said, “with the same green marker.”

  “Jimmy Boulard is left-handed,” I said. “And his writing sample is wildly different than the postcards.”

  “The park ranger’s not looking like Olympus,” Pepe said.

  “And no prints on the card except yours, Lou,” Zucca said, “and on one of them, from someone here named Ruthie Lerner.”

  “Luke’s girlfriend,” Colin said with a smirk. “She’s the secretary in charge of the mail.”

  “L.T.,” I said, “can we pull video from the day that first postcard was dropped off?”

  My boss nodded. “I’ll get on it after this.”

  “How do you know he dropped it off?” Gwen asked me.

  “No stamp,” I said, shrugging. “Anything else, folks?”

  “This fucker likes puzzles,” Luke said.

  “Boulard is a navy man,” Pepe said. “He could’ve written it. He could be ambidextrous.”

  “Don’t have to be trained anymore,” Neil said. “There are computer scripts online that will write a cipher for you.” He tapped on his tablet. “Read me a few lines from one of those messages he sent.”

  I recited parts from the “six minutes in heaven” e-mail as Neil typed.

  “Look.” He turned the tablet around—the easy-to-understand words had become a substitution cipher, E for M and on and on.

  “He gets off on confusing people who he thinks are smart,” Colin said, pointing at me.

  “He wants control,” I said, “and he’s forcing me to play on his field. Forcing us to investigate these murders the way he wants them to be investigated.”

  “He wrote the ‘ha ha ha’ message in enough time to leave it at the park before you all arrived,” Zucca said.

  Brooks nodded. “A do-gooder. If you aren’t already, you may want to check out suspects in those professions: other police officers, teachers, firemen, ministers, doctors…”

  “Seriously?” Luke said. “A cop?”

  “Harold Shipman was a doctor,” I pointed out. “Kenneth Bianchi, one of the Hillside Stranglers, was a security guard. Michael Swango, another doctor.”

  “What about the obsession with nymphs?” Pepe said.

  I flipped through my notes. “I did some looking and learned that a subset of nymphs are classified as Muses. Arts.”

  “And both girls were in the arts,” Colin said. “Ballet and photography—”

  “And Trina wrote poems,” Gwen added.

  Neil tapped on his tablet, then read from it. “Poetry, history, song, tragedy, hymns, dance, comedy, and … astronomy?”

  “The e-mails he sent were…” I paused. “Sent from Olympus. A place. Not a person. The figurines he left—Muses. He saves these girls, changes them.”

  Colin snorted. “Let’s back up. Goddesses don’t die. That’s the point of being goddesses.”

  “Nymphs are not immortal,” I pointed out. “They don’t die of old age or disease like us, but they can die.”

  “And according to this, human females can be turned into nymphs,” Neil added.

  I turned back to older notes. “There are nine Muses.”

  “So is he planning to kill nine girls?” Colin asked.

  “Who says he hasn’t already?” Lieutenant Rodriguez said.

  “Because I’m still here,” I said.

  “He threatened her, remember?” Colin said. “And Lou is the ultra-Muse. The one who got herself out.”

  I turned to Neil. “Who’s one of the bigger gods? A do-gooder, like Brooks said.”

  Neil tapped his tablet. “Pan is both good and bad … Apollo, god of light and sun, truth and prophecy, brother of the … Muses.”

  “Bishop mentioned that he was a truth teller,” Colin said. “That’s why he was transferred to Madison from his old place.”

  “So what?” Pepe asked. “We monitor every girl in every arts program at Madison?”

  I sat still, eyes on the center of the table and the gnat buzzing over the open pizza box.

  No one spoke. All puffy, bloodshot eyes landed on me.

  “Lou?” Lieutenant Rodriguez’s voice cut through the quiet like a cement truck.

  I tugged my earlobe, then said, “If that’s what we need to do, then that’s what we’ll do.”

  Sunday, March 23

  43

  At almost one in the morning, in moist air that smelled of wood shavings and rosemary, I turtled up the flagstone walkway to Syeeda’s front door. Every muscle ached, and my mind … I had too many Internet browsing tabs open, and all of them had timed out. I had wanted to drive to Sam’s, but I was in no condition to discuss bullshit and suss lies. I’d keep my promise to him on another day—a day that included sleep and a proper meal.

  Syeeda sat on the living room couch, laptop bright, a late-night rerun of Twilight Zone muted. “I didn’t think I’d see you.” An open bottle of Cab and a near-empty wineglass sat on the coffee table next to a big bag of Doritos.

  “Why are you still up?” I asked, dropping my bag to the foyer floor. “Writing?”

  “Something like that, yeah.” She poured wine into the glass and slid it toward the armchair. “Working on something Mike turned in.”

  “The article about Chanita Lords?” I reached for the tortilla chips.

  “Uh huh.” She closed the laptop and forced herself to smile.

  I cocked an eyebrow. “You know Mike Summit writes like a lobotomized helper monkey with one eye and no thumbs.” I shoved three chips into my mouth and crunched.

  Syeeda rubbed her face. “It’ll be fine.”

  “Sure it will. It better be, or I’m gonna find a new paper to not leak to.”

  “Promises, promises.” She brightened some. “Hey, if I need to get more info—”

  “Nope.”

  “Or to confirm—”

  “Nuh uh.”

  “But—”

  “Good night, Sy.” I picked up the glass and guzzled the wine. Shoved three more Doritos into my mouth, then left the writer to her work.

  In my temporary bedroom, I placed my Glock on the nightstand, stripped out of my clothes, then took a long, hot bath. I fell asleep as the foam and bubbles broke apart. Somehow I dried off, slipped into a T-sh
irt, climbed into bed, and fell asleep.

  But a flock of screeching wild parrots made me open my eyes.

  I glanced at the digital clock beside the Glock.

  5:48 A.M.

  I burrowed deeper into the pillows, then pulled the comforter up to my neck.

  How long could I keep doing this job—finding dead girls in parks, finding dead cheerleaders in condos, finding dead wives in their own bedrooms—until I finally burned out?

  How did Lieutenant Rodriguez and other longtime murder police do it? If I’d had the time, I’d guzzle a box of wine a day; but there was never enough time and never enough boxes of wine to completely numb myself anyway.

  Why wasn’t I one of those psychotic cops always looking for a fight, always at the corner bar at end of watch, always marrying, then divorcing some floozy, broad, or stripper?

  Rumor had it that looking at the world through whiskey glasses lessened the evils of this world. With a gut full of single-malt Scotch, boogeyman transformed into babies wearing bad hats, and the mighty devil shrank into a harmless fly buzzing in your ear.

  Why the hell was I still sober?

  I pulled my knees to my chest.

  The heater clicked on, and a draft of warm air drifted to the bed. The light in the room changed from copper to gold as I lay there. Sober.

  I sat up and stretched, and my bones creaked and clicked as I climbed out of bed and stepped over to the window. I stared out at the dewy backyard still draped in shadows beneath the clear sky.

  No rain.

  I grabbed my phone and gun from the nightstand and found a one-sided text-message string from Victor Starr. I didn’t read any of it but held my breath as I tapped out one sentence.

  If you want to know what I think, meet later today. Your hotel.

  Seconds later, he replied. Yes. Thank you. Airport Radisson.

  I shuffled to the foyer and to my bag. The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee greeted me. I plopped right there on the tile floor and reviewed notes and sketches from both girls’ cases.

  Trail 5 … Canvas bag … leaves and berries … View-Master … 13 y.o.… music box …

  Nothing new stood out.

  I pulled from Chanita’s file that photograph of the deadly plant and used my phone’s magnifying app to peer at it enlarged. Inch by inch, I looked … searched … “What’s…?” In the far left side of the picture was a thin slice of … a tiny, tiny … a vertical … rope and a connected black … My eyes jumped from the flower to the rope and black thing, flowers … rope … black thing …