Silent Echo (11 page)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“Same MO,” Dobbs is saying as I gaze down at the overweight Latino boy. He looks to be around fourteen and his neck is slit and his lips have been obviously maneuvered to an upward position. The ground around him has been cleared in a circle as before. His arms have been positioned out and up. If he’d been standing, he’d be pointing towards the heavens. The boy’s mouth is open and stuffed messily with something white and creamy.

Sweet Jesus.

A combination of revulsion and horror racks me and I find myself rocking in the chair. Rocking and running my fingers through my hair.

Yes, I have seen a lot of murder victims—and many of my missing person cases turn into murder cases—but I am not prepared for this. It hits too close to home, and the horror of discovering my little brother had been murdered in a similar fashion sweeps through me. I feel myself shutting down. I feel myself wanting to leave this miserable fucking world once and for all.

No,
I think as I rock and now hold my arms.
No. Not until this motherfucker is found.

“What’s in his mouth?” I hear myself ask after a few minutes.

“A piece of cheesecake,” Dobbs answers with a professionalism I am trying to match. But I sense his own horror. And this is coming from an LAPD homicide detective. A guy who eats donuts while reading homicide case files.

“When was he found?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“Time of death?”

“Only a few hours before he was found.”

Two days ago, this boy had been alive and well. Two days ago, this boy might have been on his way to a Dodgers game with his own older brother, only to have his world torn apart, even as his throat had been torn apart.

Sweet, sweet Jesus.

“Who found him?” I ask. I know the info is in the report, but I can’t take my eyes off the horrific picture. My voice doesn’t sound my own.

“Hikers. Not far from the main path. Like with Olivia…”

“And my brother.”

“Yes, your brother. I’ve been looking into your brother’s case, Booker.”

“And?”

“I think you’re right. They’re related.”

Numi makes a noncommittal sound that could have been a snort. To the uninitiated, it could have been a cough. I knew, however, it was Numi’s way of saying, “No shit, Sherlock.”

Dobbs looks over at my friend, who is sitting back on the couch with his eyes half-closed. Numi could have been asleep, or disinterested. He is neither, I know. He is hearing everything, digesting everything, making sense of everything.

Dobbs looks back at me after giving Numi a hard look. Numi gives no indication of seeing him, although I knew he had. Dobbs says, “Look, Booker, I’m sorry I didn’t believe you before. I never said I wasn’t a stubborn ass.”

I nod. I am anxious now. Being anxious means I will soon have trouble breathing again and I cannot allow this to happen. Not now, not in front of Detective Dobbs.

“Please excuse me,” I say. I avoid Numi’s raised eyebrows—his indication of concern—and command my feet to take me into the bathroom.

Once there, I drink from the faucet. I urinate into a toilet that seems to be on rollers. I mostly miss. At least my kidneys are functioning, working hard now to rid my body of the toxic liquids I’ve just ingested. I wet a washcloth and wipe my face, careful not to touch any of the Preparation H. Then I focus on my breathing, aware that I’ve been in here too long already. I close my eyes and envision my lungs as healthy and alive, open and calmly inhaling and exhaling. Thirty seconds of this seems to help. I wipe my sweaty face one last time, and then open the door to find Numi waiting outside, casually leaning a muscular shoulder against the door frame.

“You okay, cowboy?” he asks. I’m suddenly aware of the many, many times he has asked me this very same question.

I’m also aware that mostly no one else asks.

Just Numi.

“I’m fine. I just needed a moment. Please, Numi, go back out there. Talk to him.”

My friend studies me some more, and I realize again how much of my life is in his hands. Should he decide that I’d had enough excitement for one day, he would usher the detective out, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. But Numi knows this is important to me. More important than anything I have left in this life
. Even Mary.

“Please,” I whisper.

He doesn’t like it. He doesn’t like any of this. But he finally nods and eases off from the doorjamb. Soon, I hear quiet conversation in the living room.

I breathe and envision my lungs healthy and working fine. I make sure my shirt is tucked in properly and then rejoin them.

“Sorry about that,” I say lightly to Dobbs. I ease myself into my chair, propping myself up. “Small side effects from my new regimen.” This is somewhat true.

Dobbs regards me for a moment. I do not smile as I pick up the file again and pretend to study it. It’s a copy of the original, and I know Dobbs will leave the file with me, as well. All I have to do is maintain a healthy appearance until he leaves.

Just a few more minutes, goddammit.

I motion to the gruesome pictures. “Was he murdered prior to being left in Laurel Canyon?”

“We think so.”

“Like the others,” I say.

“Yes. Murdered elsewhere, dumped in Laurel Canyon.”

“But not quite dumped,” I say. “Carefully arranged.”

The detective nods, and then shakes his head all over again.

I say, “But unlike the others, this one isn’t marked.”

I could have said carved or inscribed, but that seemed too horrible to say aloud.

Dobbs glances at me and I see the confusion on his face. He’s at a total loss. And there’s a lot riding on this case, on him. A serial killer loose in L.A. doesn’t reflect well on the city. He needs me. Hell, he needs anyone who will help.

“I was hoping you’d have some insight about that, Booker.” Dobbs reaches into his shirt pocket and removes a packet of cigarettes. “You mind?”

“Yes,” says Numi. “We do mind.”

My friend, who has been sitting back on the couch with his eyes half-closed hasn’t opened them any wider, hasn’t given any indication that he has seen what Dobbs has been referring to. But the force of his word is unmistakable and unshakeable.

Dobbs, a man who hunts down the scum of the earth for a living, swallows and puts the box back into his pocket. Numi never moves.

After Dobbs collects himself, he continues, “As I said, I was hoping you might have some insight. Between me and you and your bodyguard—”

“Friend,” I say.

“Whatever. Look, between me and you, you’re the best private dick I’ve ever worked with. If anyone can help me with this, it’s you.”

“Takes a big man to admit it,” I say.

“You noticed I emphasized dick,” he says.

“I noticed,” I say. “Tell me more about the boy.”

Dobbs nods. “He was a special kid. His mother told us he’d been bullied in school about his weight. He’d gotten together some other overweight kids, and some others who’d been bullied in other ways, and established an after-school program for latchkey youths. Not a month ago, he was interviewed for his fund-raising and educational efforts. The day of his death, he’d lost a little over thirty-one pounds. Said he had another forty-two to go. He was happy for the first time since kindergarten, his mother said.”

I make my own noncommittal sound, mostly because my broken heart has broken all over again. Jesus, who could do this to such a sweet boy? I also notice I have started shaking and perspiring again. I wipe my forehead with the paper napkin I’d brought along with the drinks.

“Let’s start with the similarities,” I say. I don’t have the strength to list the similarities, but the healthy detective certainly does.

He leans back, an indication that he doesn’t plan on leaving anytime soon. “We have the obvious ones: all three found near the same clearing in Laurel Canyon. Two of the three marked. All had been killed prior to placement. All three posed like dolls, including their expressions.”

I think about that, and then add, “What about fast food? Olivia had a pepperoni in her hand. This kid had cheesecake stuffed in his mouth.”

Dobbs nods. “That, too. Except your brother.”

My brother, who had only the number “8” carved into his chest. Dobbs seems reluctant to point that out. He knows that I know the circumstances of Matt’s case all too well.

“None are related,” I say.

“No. Neither did they appear to know each other.” He glances at me. “Do you recognize the boy?”

“No.”

“Is anything else standing out?”

I hear the desperation in his voice.

“Where was the boy last seen?”

“Brentwood. Walking home from school.”

I think of the O.J. Simpson case in the same Brentwood neighborhood for no reason other than my brain is free-associating right now. “Did anyone see anything?”

“No. He didn’t arrive home. He was last seen saying good-bye to some friends.”

I study the crime scene pictures and remove my emotion. Something wants to click inside me, but it’s not there yet. Perhaps not even close. But it’s there… waiting to snap open.

“I need time, Detective,” I say.

He nods, disappointed.

Numi takes this as a cue and sits forward smoothly. “Thank you for your time, Detective.”

Dobbs gets the hint, although he doesn’t like it. No homicide cop ever wants to be shown the door. He stands. I stand, too. On shaky legs, of course. I should be in a hospital bed. Not discussing the most important case of my career.

At the door, Dobbs pauses and stares ahead, his back to me. “Let’s find this fucker,” he says without turning.

“We will.”

He continues standing there, staring ahead, and then he moves off, without looking back.

And without shaking my hand.

CHAPTER TWENTY

It is the next day.

My living room now looks like a CSI investigator’s office. At my request, Numi has bought four easels and now they stand next to each other so I can study them from my chair. The first three are reserved for each murder, consecutively.

My brother is up first. Notes down the left side, photos on the right. Next is Olivia’s, set up in the same fashion. Then the latest victim, the fourteen-year-old boy. Each disturbing, heartbreaking, and fucked up beyond reason.

The far right easel is for my notes. I have two columns on this one as well. The left side contains official evidence the police have gathered. Times of death, locations, statements from witnesses. All condensed in my shaking, scribbled notes. I have documented the bodies’ positions, their conditions. I have included anything else that I think might have some meaning.

As I scan the notes, I’m mildly surprised there are neither footprints nor fingerprints found in any of the cases.

Clever son of a bitch,
I think, and sip from the hot tea Numi has made me. I know it will take a lot of forethought and, quite frankly, luck to leave neither type of evidence.

He’s strong,
I suddenly think. I nod to myself. Yes, this much was obvious. Would take a damned strong man to maneuver the bodies without messing up the crime scene.

Also among my notes, I have laid out what I consider the most important clues left by the killer. I focus on these clues: the position of the bodies, the cleared ground, the markings, even the cheesecake, crazy as that seems.

I continue sipping the green tea. Numi has left for the time being, but I know he will return in a couple of hours to check on me. Before leaving, along with the tea, he makes me a natural liver cleanser, frappéed from the blender with God knows what. It is green in color and looks awful. Welcome to my world. I can still taste what I assume is ginger, kale, cayenne pepper, and blackberries. He insists I drink it before he leaves and although I have to choke down the last quarter, I am grateful for his effort. But I don’t tell him I am grateful. I put up a mild fight. I resist. I make his job harder than it has to be. I am a dick to him sometimes. Okay, often. I hate that about myself.

But still he comes back. Still he helps. Still he cares for me. Still he loves me. Why, I don’t know. He just does.

I have my cell phone next to me, my hand ready to pick up if and when it rings. Mary finally called last night and I tried in vain to sound energetic and upbeat, but I could tell she detected this farce. What she thought of the farce, I didn’t know. But Mary, better than most, knew the full extent of my situation. She also knew what she was getting into. I would have loved to have seen her last night. I would also love to not be dying. Anyway, I kick myself for not doing a better job of feigning improved health; perhaps she would have come to me. Instead, she’d promised to call me today.

Better than nothing,
I think.

And so I keep my phone next to me and I focus for the hundredth time on my clues. A figure “8.” A circle and a square. Fast food: pepperoni and cheesecake. What do they all have in common? I cannot for the life of me, no pun intended, see the connections.

My mind is slipping now, and I think Mary will not call. Why should she? I’m dying. Perhaps she wanted to give me some sense that I am still alive, still human. A gift for the dying. If so, it was a kind and thoughtful gift and I have no hard feelings towards her if she doesn’t want to see me again. At least this is what I try to convince myself of.