“Yeah?”
“You’re not much of an actor, but I am sorry to hear about your brother.”
“Thank you,” I say.
He looks at me some more, then turns and leaves.
“You heard the man,” I say to Numi when the detective is gone. “Let’s hurry and not copy the file.”
“Americans are weird,” he says, and takes the file over to the copy machine and proceeds to not copy it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Laurel Canyon.
The day is bright. A smattering of clouds. The back road is quiet when Numi stops his Cadillac.
“You sure you’re up for this, boss?” he asks.
“I’m sure.”
He gets out and comes around to my side of the car. Having a grown man help me in and out of a car is hard on the ego. When you’re sick and dying, the ego is and should be the first thing to go. I know there’re gurus who teach people how to release the ego, to conquer the ego. I get it now, but I didn’t back when I was healthy. It’s moot now. The guy who falls off the toilet and knocks himself out no longer has an ego.
Numi helps me out of the car as he wraps a blanket around me, followed by his strong arms. I’m weaker today. That happens sometimes. Weaker some days, stronger others. Admittedly, the weaker days far outnumber the strong days.
He helps me down a gentle incline and over to a bench that overlooks the canyon. Beyond are trails and wilderness and nature at its best. Southern Californians are sort of nature-deprived, but Laurel Canyon is a fair substitute.
Before the drive out here, Numi gave me one of his natural body cleanses to extricate the toxins. The cleanse consisted of green tea with organic honey, and he also made me a lentil soup he insists will help me feel better. I do not tell Numi that I don’t feel better. I act as if I do, although I’m certain he sees through my charade. Mostly, though, he sees in me a renewed purpose. A reason for living. And Numi is all for me living.
It’s been two days since my visit with Detective Dobbs and I’ve read and reread Olivia’s police file, making notes until I couldn’t write any more. I feel even closer to Olivia now. Which is odd to say. Once I study up on them and the case, I always feel closer to the victims. That closeness drives me to find them or their killers. As if the dead speak to me from within the pages of the case files.
As Numi and I sit together, I shrug off his arm that’s around my shoulder. I need my space, dammit. Of course, that’s the ego talking. Maybe I haven’t eradicated it yet, after all.
Fifty feet below us is a trail through the canyon. One of many trails. Olivia’s body was found not too far from here, just off the trail.
The location is just feet from where my own brother’s body was found nearly twenty-two years ago. The same canyon. The same damn hillside. I am stunned by the proximity of two bodies found not far apart, but twenty-two years apart. There were, of course, more similarities. Disturbing similarities. My gut instincts wake up.
Something scurries in the brush nearby. In the branches above, a crow caws incessantly. A small wind lifts my just-trimmed hair. My head feels lighter since Numi’s haircut. On the wind are many scents, juniper being the only one that I recognize.
I recall Olivia’s crime scene photos and I involuntarily gasp all over again. Ever alert, Numi glances at me when I gasp. But I don’t really see him. No, I see her. A woman I had cared for and admired. I wish like hell that these weren’t the last memories of her I would ever have.
In the pictures, Olivia’s eyes are half open. She is also smiling—a fake smile, as the corners of her lips had been forced up after her death. Just like my brother’s had been.
Sick, sick bastard.
Olivia’s smile is, of course, a mockery. She had not died smiling. She had died painfully and alone and afraid.
Just like my brother.
Both wounds, of course, had been identical: slit throats.
Tears sting my eyes. Who the fuck slits the throat of a nine-year-old boy? That single, destructive act had destroyed all the love in my heart forever. Never again did I believe in love or hope or humanity. The world and God and human nature became my enemy.
Numi thinks my piss-poor attitude about life has led to my own bad health. Too much anger, he tells me, manifests in the body as a disease.
Well, that is certifiable proof that I am very, very angry.
Olivia had brought a piece of leftover pizza for her hike but never had the chance to eat it. The pizza slice and plastic Ziploc bag had been found back in Elysian Park and dusted unsuccessfully for fingerprints. The killer had placed Olivia’s arms at her sides in Laurel Canyon, her palms turned upward. In one hand, Olivia is holding a single pepperoni; in the other, a perfect square had been carved. The killer took a piece of pepperoni from Elysian Park to Laurel Canyon. I am blown away by that knowledge.
It is, of course, this last bit of evidence that reaches inside me and takes hold and gives me renewed purpose. It is this last bit of evidence that, for me, leaves little doubt about who I’m dealing with.
The same killer.
I’m sure of it.
I keep my eyes closed. I feel the sun on the back of my neck, on my face. There is no wind now, only the heat and the damn crow and Numi breathing lightly on me.
I take a deep breath, filling my tired and diseased lungs with as much air as they can manage. I am here but not here. I am in a deeply meditative state. There is no pain here. There is no death or disease or suffering. I am free here.
The sound of Numi’s perfectly working lungs briefly makes me jealous. But only briefly. Truth be known, anyone with a pulse and a lifespan longer than three months makes me jealous these days.
My brother’s case is cold, despite my best efforts. I have memorized every notation in his file. I have talked to every investigator and witness involved, many times over. They are all sympathetic to me. But the case is cold. Very, very cold.
Until now.
I begin rocking on the bench. I can’t stop myself, don’t want to stop myself. Tears collect in the corners of my eyes. I wonder again what my brother’s last thoughts were. Had he prayed for help? Had he prayed that I would find him? His prayers, of course, had gone unanswered. God, of course, had failed him.
But I had failed him most of all.
Numi doesn’t speak as he lays a hand on my shoulder. There are no words. I am slightly distracted by his touch although not enough to stop the tears.
The square that had been carved into Olivia’s palm had been done so meticulously, perfectly, each side measuring exactly the same length. Carved, right there in the center of her palm.