Trail of Echoes

by Rachel Howzell Hall

  Maybe she … Maybe he …

  My mind worked to explain away the snapshot, but my thoughts sputtered and stopped, a lawnmower out of gas. Was there an innocent reason for an adult to possess a picture like this?

  Maybe she … Maybe he …

  I wanted to tear up this picture and flush it down the toilet. Then buy a new toilet.

  My hands shook as I slipped the picture back into its place. Didn’t want to, but I had to turn the page and see how this ended.

  JOY)AIRS.

  OD=psamm

  Bl`cicfo

  MA[glove

  Dh=kovyl

  “Passwords?”

  In the last pages, a slip of paper had been folded into a tiny square, then tucked into the journal’s crease.

  I unfolded it: www.littlelola.com.

  I closed the journal with a pop. Enough. No pictures or mentions of Allayna Mitchell or Chanita Lords. Hell, that could be in another journal. I stared at my desk, at Sam’s dying roses, at the picture of Syeeda, Lena, and I posing with a sombreroed donkey in Tijuana fifteen summers ago. A stone the size of Orlando sat in my gut.

  Payton Bishop would be looking for this book.

  He’d kill to have it back.

  Back in interview room 1, every pair of eyes turned to me, hopeful and bright.

  “Okay,” I said. “So this journal is not … good.”

  Brandi whispered, “Thank you, Jesus.”

  Colin’s eyebrow cocked. That bad?

  I nodded. Worse.

  “When was the last time you saw your friend Chrishonda?” I asked Nicole.

  “This morning, at service.”

  “And Peaches?”

  “She’s my niece,” Brandi said. “I talked to her momma, my sister, last night.”

  “Does your sister know about…?”

  “Nuh uh,” Brandi said. “I’m not sayin’ nothing to nobody until you say it’s okay. Alice only know cuz Nikki on them pills and gotta go to the office to take ’em.”

  “Miss Alice asked me what was makin’ me so anxious,” Nicole explained, her knees jiggling. “And it just … poured out of me.”

  I smiled at the girl. “So Nicole. When is the next big school event?”

  “Tonight,” she said. “We play Orville Wright.”

  I squinted as the idea gelled in my mind. “What if—?”

  “I’ll do it,” the girl blurted.

  I chuckled. “I haven’t even—”

  “But you will ask me to do something,” Nicole said, nodding, “and I’ll do it.”

  46

  Colin didn’t want to hold Payton Bishop’s journal even though it had been stuffed into a plastic bag. It now sat on his lap like a soiled adult diaper.

  Drizzle from the platinum-colored clouds above spotted the windshield, and pedestrians already hoisted a rainbow of open umbrellas. Heart in my throat, I raced east on King Boulevard, shoving the Crown Vic between buses and cars, all Sunday drivers at twenty-five miles per hour.

  “Put on some gloves,” I told my partner, “open the bag, and look for yourself. You shouldn’t take my word for it.”

  Sam texted me back. Yes I’m here. Can we talk about last night now?

  Colin glared at the journal. “I’m homicide, not … this shit.”

  “You’re a cop,” I snapped. “Don’t know about training in the Springs, Detective Delicate Orchid, but I had to look at child porn, taste cocaine, and get blasted in the face with pepper spray, among other fucked-up things. Geez, Colin, make life nice and easy for once. Please?”

  Colin opened the journal, still in the bag, to the picture of Peaches. “Aw, hell, Lou.” He closed the book. “So are we gonna arrest this Chester?”

  At the sports arena, I made a left onto Figueroa. Five miles ahead, the city’s skyscrapers peeked from behind the veils of marine layer and rain clouds. “I’d like to make an informed decision first.”

  The tall white building of the district attorney’s office looked dingy and lopsided beneath those stark gray clouds. Sam’s office was located on the fourth floor, and the only light came from the open window looking out to Temple Avenue. He sat at his desk in jeans and a gray T-shirt, and my breath caught seeing him there. He smiled when he saw me, but that smile strained as he saw Colin trundling behind me.

  “So this visit is business,” he said as he moved manila folders from the chairs to the credenza. “Your text didn’t say.”

  “Cuz I wanted to make sure you’d stay here,” I said.

  He grunted, then moved back behind his desk. “So what’s up?”

  “This.” I placed the bag with Payton Bishop’s journal in it on Sam’s desk. Then, Colin and I plopped into the guest chairs.

  Framed pictures sat on Sam’s desk: his parents, his sister Phoebe, President Obama, his Jack Russell terrier, Roscoe. The note card I sent along with those sea-salt-caramel cupcakes now lived on the edge of his computer monitor.

  “Remember when you told me to focus … somewhere?” I said.

  Sam hesitated before saying, “Umhmm.”

  I bit my lip, then stared at the journal.

  Colin, eyes also on the journal, tossed a pair of latex gloves onto the desk.

  Sam squinted at us, then picked up his coffee mug. He sipped slowly, then tugged on the gloves, pulled the book out of the bag, and flipped through the first pages. “Lesson plans, lists. And you got this where?”

  “A student kinda stole it and gave it to us this morning,” Colin said.

  Sam placed the book back on the desk. “Ah.” He clicked his nails against the coffee mug.

  “Is it admissible in court?” I asked.

  “Did you ask her to kinda steal it?” Sam asked, eyebrow cocked.

  Both Colin and I shook our heads.

  “Then, it may be admissible. No guarantee, though.”

  “You should keep browsing, then,” I said.

  Sam scratched his jaw. Then, he did as I asked, pausing at every school portrait he found, reading the salutation, freezing once he reached that five-by-seven bedroom shot. His jaw clenched, and his lips thinned into a grim line. “Does he know that you have this?”

  I whispered, “No.”

  He reached the page with the crossed-out words and the questionable URL. His eyebrows lifted and he grunted.

  “So?” I held myself rigid, threatening to break in half if he said something I didn’t want to hear.

  “Are you now one hundred percent he’s the one?” Sam asked. “Or even eighty percent?”

  I shook my head. “Although this helps.” And then I told him about the postcards and figurines, and Bishop’s self-regard as an enlightened truth teller inspiring gifted girls.

  “He’s supposed to come in and give DNA,” Colin added, “but he hasn’t yet.”

  Sam rubbed his mouth, then turned to type into his computer.

  Colin and I glanced at each other and shrugged.

  Sam kept typing, stopping to read every now and then before typing again. Finally, he pushed away from the computer. “Three years ago, Payton Bishop was dismissed from his prior position as vice principal at a middle school over in Mount Washington. Improper conduct with one of the students.”

  “What?” I yelped.

  Sam held up a hand. “In some ways, the charge was hard to prove. He pled to a misdemeanor—soliciting a minor for lewd conduct. He got a demotion and a transfer.”

  “A demotion?” Colin screeched.

  “With the understanding that if another student came forward, we’d go nuclear on him.”

  Awed, I shook my head. “What the hell, Sam? Did you all need to catch him in the act?”

  “A lot was unclear,” he said. “And in a case like this, the plea made sense. It was his first offense, combined with murky details and an unreliable witness.”

  I sighed. “Unreliable because…?”

  “Because he married her as soon as she turned eighteen, which means she’d never testify against him. So we had nothing.” />
  “Okay,” I said. “You all slapped his hand, which meant…”

  “He wasn’t required to submit DNA,” Sam said.

  Colin scowled at him. “Are you kidding me?”

  Sam shrugged.“You don’t like it, but it’s the law.”

  “And the fox,” Colin said, “gets to stay in the henhouse.”

  “So what do you want to do?” Sam asked.

  I told him my plan and watched his face for any tells.

  But there was no flushing. No twitching nerves. No clenched jaw. Sam was a poker-faced pro. Except for his eyes, which were now the color of stormy seas.

  “Well?” I asked.

  He sat back in his seat. “Defense could argue entrapment. Or his wife could back out of it after having second thoughts.”

  “She’s young enough to be pissed off, though,” I said. “She thought she was the only one, and now she finds out that he’s messing around with other girls and possibly killed two?”

  Sam squinted at me. “And if he catches on that she’s working with us?”

  “Then…” I shrugged.

  Sam sighed, then clicked his teeth together. “If you wanna grab him for this”—he pointed to the journal—“you can. But then hold your breath and hope that his attorney loses the motion to have his client’s little book of sick tossed out because of how it came into your possession. And unless you get hard evidence—hell, even circumstantial evidence—of him killing Chanita and Allayna, he’s only looking at a year or so for the picture. Your call.”

  47

  Colin and I had barely stepped into the squad room when an ashen-faced Pepe came to stand at my desk. “Lou, L.T. wants to see you.”

  “Okay.” I ignored his stricken look, especially since Pepe and Luke had been fighting all week and since I was finally in a good mood and a great place for solving this case. I sat at my desk, logged onto my e-mail account to search for Hayley Bishop’s phone number.

  Pepe cleared his throat. “He wants to see you now.”

  My buoyant heart fell to my feet. Mind whirling—What happened? Who died?—I hurried to my boss’s office.

  Even though the air conditioner worked, the air in Lieutenant Rodriguez’s office felt thick and charged. Arms crossed, the big man stood at windows that offered a view of a palm-tree trunk and bricks from the bail-bonds joint across the street. The twenty-six-inch television on the credenza glowed—a news story had been paused, and the red chyron at the bottom of the screen said “BREAKING NEWS.” The close-up shot of blond reporter Olivia McAllen kept viewers at home from seeing where she was now reporting.

  I cleared my throat. “Pepe said you wanted to—”

  “Read that.” He pointed to a sheet of paper left on the guest chair.

  DNA Analysis … Raul Moriaga … DNA profile from #R12-3 (Lords) is not consistent with the DNA from #M39-7 (Moriaga) …

  I dared to smile. “So I was right: Raul Moriaga didn’t do it.”

  His glower deepened. “Read the newspaper on my desk.”

  I only spotted OurTimes, which, I guessed, qualified as the newspaper.

  “The article beneath the fold,” Lieutenant Rodriguez added.

  The article had included the glamour shot of Chanita and a recital picture of Allayna.

  Potential Suspect Named in Kidnapping-Murders

  By Mike Summit

  Raul Moriaga has been identified as a potential suspect in the kidnappings and murders of Chanita Lords, 13, and Allayna Mitchell, 14, crimes that have shocked the small suburb of Los Angeles known as Baldwin Village.

  Lead Los Angeles Police Department homicide detective Elouise Norton would not offer comments about the two cases, but believes that the two girls’ murders are connected. Law officials were recently seen leaving Moriaga’s apartment with several bags of evidence. An unnamed source not authorized to speak about the case said that Moriaga’s shoes may match the shoe print left at the crime scene, and that he has been spotted multiple times with minor girls in the neighborhood. In a strange coincidence, the suspect lives in the same apartment complex as one of the young victims.

  A search through public records shows Moriaga’s multiple arrests and convictions for child-related sex crimes including rape and oral copulation. Moriaga, a native of Chihuahua, Mexico, has legally resided in the United States since 1975.

  According to the Legislative Analyst’s Office, in 2013, Latinos comprised almost 41 percent of California’s jail population, a group that makes up more than half of the State. Statistics from the Bureau of Justice report that sex offenders are about four times more likely than non–sex offenders to be arrested for another sex crime after their discharge from prison—5.3 percent of sex offenders versus 1.3 percent of non–sex offenders. Of released sex offenders who allegedly commit another sex crime, 40 percent perpetrated the new offense within a year or less from their prison discharge.

  OurTimes writer Syeeda McKay contributed to this report.

  “No. No, no, no.” My face had numbed, and my heart pounded as though a giant tried to burst through its back door—not only from seeing my name in an article that I had specifically said “no comment” to but also from reading my off-the-record mention to Syeeda about Moriaga living in Chanita’s apartment complex and from reading that someone (Mike Summit?) had watched Colin and me leave Moriaga’s apartment with bags of his shoes, and especially from reading inflammatory remarks and insinuations about Latinos and sex crimes. And who the hell was this unnamed source who’d seen Moriaga with girls?

  This has to be a dream. Any minute now, Lena will say to me, “Wake up, Lou. You fell and hit your head. You’re okay now.”

  Lieutenant Rodriguez snatched the newspaper from my hands. “What the fuck? Raul Moriaga isn’t a suspect. Or have you already forgotten that you stood right where you’re standing now and busted Taggert’s ass about it? You all but cleared Moriaga an hour ago!”

  “No, sir. I haven’t forgotten. But I didn’t—” I swallowed my excuse. The article had my name right there at the beginning of the second paragraph. “I was asked a question and—”

  “You shoulda said, ‘No fucking comment, motherfucker, now fuck off,’” he yelled. “Are you that desperate to be a Hollywood Cop? To see your name in lights?”

  “No, sir.” Tears burned the back of my throat.

  “Your friend,” he shouted, pointing at me. “She did this. She got you to say shit off the record, and you fell for it. And I know it’s her because you don’t say shit to anybody else but her. She’s your fuckin’ Achilles’ heel, Detective.”

  “Lieutenant Rodriguez—” I blinked and blinked and panic made me cold and sweaty. “I’m sorry—that sounds lame, I know that, but in all honesty: I had nothing to do with this story. Anyone with an Internet connection could find out Moriaga—”

  “Bullshit.”

  Then, anger burst in my belly. “I’m not falling on my sword for this. I didn’t tell them any of this. I never mentioned shoe prints. I’m not the unnamed source. I didn’t leak—”

  “Look at this shit.” He grabbed the television’s remote control from his desktop. “I paused it just so you know I’m not some church-lady Henny Penny sayin’ the sky’s fallin’.”

  The camera zoomed out—Olivia McAllen stood in front of apartment security gates.

  I knew those gates.

  It was obvious that Olivia McAllen didn’t frequent the Jungle—fear glistened in her wide, blue eyes. Apartment residents and bystanders lingered in the reporter’s shot. Mugging for the camera, waving, hopping up and down, seeking any attention from the world—even a news story about two dead black girls was akin to appearing on American Idol.

  The reporter shouted over the ruckus behind her. “New developments in the brutal kidnappings and murders of two teen girls from Baldwin Village. Police have identified a suspect known to law enforcement as a past sex offender. Raul Moriaga, a twenty-eight-year-old day laborer, has been in and out of prison for several felonies, includ
ing”—she glanced at her notepad and shook her head—“rape, assault, molestation … The list goes on and on. Police believe that Moriaga may be a person of interest in these two cases that have shocked and saddened this tight-knit community.”

  The frame jumped to earlier tape of Raul Moriaga climbing out of his shiny black Camaro. Wifebeater, tattooed arms bared to the world, the wispy porn mustache, that long scar that ran from his nose to his jaw …

  Of course he did it. Look at him. Look at that blue teardrop tattoo beneath his eye.

  Moriaga tried to move past the reporters to enter his apartment. Unsuccessful, he shoved the camera away from his face. “Just leave me alone,” he said. “I ain’t done nothing to those girls. Just leave me alone.”

  Lieutenant Rodriguez turned off the television but kept his eyes on the dark screen. “Well?” he asked. “You got somethin’ else to say?”

  I could barely speak—a cabbage-sized lump sat in my throat. “I have nothing to add, sir.”

  He glared at me and chuckled without humor. “Be a cop or be a girlfriend. You can’t be both. Especially with—” He pointed to the newspaper, then waited for me to nod.

  I did not nod.

  “Get the hell out of here.” Then he threw the remote control at the television and turned back to the window with no view.

  I stomped down the hallway, reaching the detective’s bull pen. Pepe, Colin, and Luke gaped at me as my stomp weakened into a stagger. But I didn’t stop moving.

  The fluorescent bulbs in the women’s bathroom were too white-hot, too bright and dazzling to be anything except the sun. I stumbled into the last stall as tiny bursts of pain exploded in my head. My eyes watered with tears thick with glass shards. My knees gave, and I dropped to the tile and gripped the sides of the toilet. I leaned forward until my forehead touched the cool seat. My mouth filled with warm spit, and my belly shimmied—

  I vomited.

  Bacon, toast, coffee—all of it spewed out of my mouth and formed a brackish island in the middle of toilet water. I shuddered, then heaved again. Then again. And then … nothing.