Buried Evidence (36 page)

“Aren’t we going over old ground here, detective?”

“To some degree,” O’Malley said, pausing to look over his notes. They had a serious problem on their hands. The records on the McDonald-Lopez case were complete, the majority accessible by means of the department’s computer system. The Patricia Barnes and Bobby Hernandez murders, however, had been investigated by the now defunct Oxnard police department. The two detectives didn’t want to tip their hand and let Lily know that they weren’t as yet certain what percentage of the evidence and records relating to these interlocking crimes had been lost or accidentally destroyed during the consolidation of the two police departments. They needed information and they needed it fast. A conference was scheduled the following week at the district attorney’s office. Ironically, Lily was one of the three individuals who could fill in the missing blanks. The challenge was to tap into her memory without revealing that they were using her as a source for information.

Richard Fowler had been involved in the combined investigations, but Jameson had been dead set against approaching him. Fowler was a highly respected defense attorney, and according to Jameson, his friendship with Lily had extended beyond the office. When Lily had shown up alone for their one o’clock meeting, the two detectives had released a collective sigh of relief. They were both expecting Fowler to have already signed on as her attorney. From the attorney’s statements regarding Marco Curazon, even if Lily brought in another attorney to represent her, Richard Fowler was firmly entrenched in her corner.

Overall, Bruce Cunningham held the greatest wealth of information.
The former Oxnard detective had investigated both the Hernandez and Barnes homicides. His reluctance to cooperate might be frustrating, but O’Malley didn’t consider it spiteful. Cunningham had relocated to Nebraska and was no longer involved in law enforcement. His analysis was simple—the man didn’t want to be bothered.

“The Barnes homicide wasn’t handled by our department,” O’Malley continued, clearing his throat. “Can you explain how Mr. Hernandez came to be identified as her killer?”

Lily stared at him for a long time. “Why are you asking me this question? Are you implying I had anything to do with the death of Patricia Barnes?”

“Of course not,” O’Malley said, shaking his head. “We’re just attempting to put together the overall picture. Mr. Hernandez was never arrested in the McDonald-Lopez case, correct?”

“Correct,” Lily answered.

“He was never arrested because by the time his involvement came to light,” O’Malley continued, “he was already dead. Is this true?”

“Yes.”

“Then Mr. Hernandez killed Patricia Barnes after he killed Peter McDonald and Carmen Lopez, right?”

“Yes.”

“How was it determined that Hernandez killed Barnes?”

“You have the files,” Lily snapped. “Why are you asking me something you already know?”

“Rather than talking in circles,” O’Malley told her, speaking softly, “why don’t I explain where we stand. Your former husband claims you murdered Bobby Hernandez because you mistook him for the man who raped you and your daughter. There’s also evidence—”

“You’re aware John’s been arraigned on vehicular-manslaughter charges in Los Angeles?” Lily told him. “I don’t think a jury would view him as a credible witness.”

“I’m aware of the circumstances,” O’Malley said. “The truth of the matter is, his statement correlates with the evidence or you wouldn’t be sitting here.”

“Exactly what evidence are you referring to, detective?”

“You know I can’t discuss that with you.”

Lily rubbed the side of her nose. “I thought we were going to put our cards on the table.”

“May I continue, please?” O’Malley said, attempting to maintain control of the conversation. “Bobby Hernandez might not have been charged with the murder of Peter McDonald and Carmen Lopez, but he was arrested for the kidnapping and rape of Patricia Barnes. You were supervisor over the sex crimes unit at that time. Why was Hernandez released?”

“We had no choice,” Lily told him, rubbing her sweaty palms on her slacks. “Barnes was a prostitute. It isn’t uncommon for a prostitute to claim they were raped when a customer fails to pay. We had to dump the case against Hernandez because Barnes failed to show up in court. We continued the case three times. Finally I had no choice but to dismiss and release him.”

Jameson stepped back into the room carrying a tray with a pitcher of ice water, several glasses, and his oversized coffee mug. He could tell that O’Malley had made progress during his absence when Lily immediately reached for a glass and filled it with water. When she brought the glass to her mouth, he detected a light tremor in her hand. He quietly took his seat, not wanting to interrupt his partner’s momentum.

“Patricia Barnes didn’t appear in court because she’d been murdered,” O’Malley continued. “Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Lily told him, her eyes focused on a spot over his head. “Hernandez murdered her after she reported the rape. Her status as a prostitute caused the Oxnard P.D. to drag their heels, so an arrest warrant wasn’t issued for quite some time. As soon as the case landed on my desk, I insisted that we move forward with it. Hernandez must have picked Barnes up off the street after she went to the police with the original rape complaint, killed her, then buried her in a remote area on the outskirts of town.” She stopped and took another drink of water. “The Oxnard P.D. found the victim’s purse near the grave. The crime lab positively identified Hernandez’s fingerprints from the plastic surface of the purse. This is the point where the two cases began to converge.”

“You mean McDonald-Lopez and the Barnes homicide, correct?”

“Yes,” Lily said, sucking in a deep breath.

O’Malley waited a few moments and then continued: “We know Bobby Hernandez and Marco Curazon resembled one another. We also know you left the office the night you and your daughter were raped with Mr. Hernandez’s file in your possession, as we’ve already confirmed this information with Clinton Silverstein.”

Lily jerked her head back as if she’d been slapped. Whatever was done was done, she told herself, looking down at her hands. She couldn’t resent Clinton for telling the truth. For all she knew, the attorney hadn’t been aware at the time that his statements would be used to incriminate her.

O’Malley stood, deciding to turn up the heat now that Lily was unnerved. “You had a mug shot of Bobby Hernandez at your house,” he said forcefully. “You had his address. You were certain that this was the man who had just brutalized you and your daughter. Your ex-husband told us that you insisted that he take the girl back to his house, telling him that you would drive over soon as you collected some of your things.”

The detective walked toward the opposite side of the room, then spun back around and faced her. “You were already planning your crime, weren’t you? Isn’t that why you talked the girl’s father into not reporting the rape? Why would a district attorney not report a crime, especially one committed against her child? You’d already made up your mind that you were going to execute Bobby Hernandez. You only sent your daughter home with her father so you could get in your car, drive to Oxnard, and pump the man full of lead.”

Lily remained silent, her hands locked on the arms of the chair.

O’Malley circled her like a shark, pointing and gesturing, his voice loud and accusing. “This wasn’t an act of self-defense. You and your daughter were raped sometime before midnight. Hernandez wasn’t killed until the following morning. Sure, you were traumatized. If someone had raped my daughter or another member
of my family, I might want to blow their brains out, too.” He stopped, grabbed his chair and turned it around backward, then straddled it only inches away from Lily. “The difference between you and me, Lily, is no matter how outraged I became, I wouldn’t act on those impulses. And you did, didn’t you?”

Lily spontaneously placed her hand over one ear. She was locked inside the horror of that morning in Oxnard. O’Malley’s voice reverberated inside her head like the blast from her father’s shotgun. She saw the gaping hole in the center of Hernandez’s chest, the blood pumping out. Bile rose in her throat. She coughed, then managed to swallow it. She remembered vomiting on the ground before leaping back in the Honda and fleeing.

“You know what constitutes first-degree murder, right?” O’Malley was back on his feet, relentless now that he sensed Lily’s fear, certain there if he pushed just a little harder, she would crack and confess. “I’m certain you know what the term ‘lying in wait’ means, Lily. Both premeditation and lying in wait are elements used to prove that special circumstances existed during the commission of a crime. That means you committed an act that could merit the death penalty.”

“You made certain Hernandez got the death penalty,” Jameson said. “The only problem, Lily, is the man never went before a jury.”

Lily’s eyes narrowed, her inherent sense of self-preservation returning. “You don’t have an arrest warrant, do you?” The room fell silent.

“Not at the moment,” O’Malley finally answered, his face flushing. Lily had picked herself off the floor and, for all practical purposes, kicked him in the balls. It was one thing to speculate and intimidate a suspect, but to get a court to issue an arrest warrant on a case of this severity, they needed documented proof.

“We can arrange a meeting with the district attorney,” Jameson said, “see if they might consider accepting a guilty plea on a less serious offense. The first step toward that direction is to come clean. You’ve been sitting on this for six years, Lily. That’s not going to sit well with a judge. Know what I mean?”

“I know everything,” Lily said, standing and glaring at the
detectives. “Next time, don’t call me until you have an arrest warrant, or I’ll have my attorney sue you for harassment.”

S
HANA WAS
sitting Indian-style on the bed in Jennifer Abernathy’s room, the portable telephone in her lap and the stereo blasting. “Can you turn the music down?” she asked. “I want to call my dad again.”

“Yeah, no problem,” said Jennifer, a small, slender girl with brown hair and hazel eyes. Seated at her desk, she was engrossed in a fashion magazine, flipping through the pages and staring at the images. “Should I bleach my hair this color?” she said, holding the magazine up so Shana could see the picture. “What do you think?” She glanced in the mirror across the room. “Blonde hair would make my face look too fat, wouldn’t it?”

Although not clinically anorexic, Jennifer was convinced she had to starve herself to be attractive. At five-six, she weighed one hundred and twenty and considered herself fat. Shana walked over and turned the stereo down herself, then tried to reach her father at the duplex. When the answering service picked up, she decided not to leave another message. She’d called five times since she had arrived at Jennifer’s house, and on each occasion she had left her friend’s number. Her mother’s statement before she had left Santa Barbara had disturbed her, made her feel bad that she’d refused to speak to her father. “I want to get some of my things,” Shana told her. “You don’t have to go with me.”

“I said I’d help you,” the girl said. “Weren’t we going to wait until tomorrow when my brother gets off work? That way we can use his pickup.”

Because the two girls had been friends since junior high, Shana had found it impossible not to tell her about her father and the accident. “I’m only going to get a few clothes for now. I’m worried about my dad, Jen.”

“Why?” the girl asked. “You said you didn’t want to see him the last time I talked to you.”

“I changed my mind,” Shana answered, finding a box of tissues on the end table and blowing her nose. She changed the
subject, not wanting to express her concern that her father might have killed himself. “I thought I was over this stupid cold. Now it’s coming back again.”

“It’s probably an allergy,” Jennifer said, touching up the polish on her toes. “That’s why it’s so hot today. When the Santa Ana winds start blowing, all I want to do is guzzle water. I bet it’s nice and cool in Santa Barbara, being near the ocean and all.”

“Are you coming?” Shana said, in the wrong frame of mind to discuss weather. “I’ve been wearing the same clothes for the past two days.”

“Sure,” Jennifer said. “We’ll take my mom’s van. It’s probably better than the truck anyway. At least if it rains, your stuff won’t get wet.”

T
he green Ford van pulled into the driveway of the duplex on Maplewood Drive at seven-fifteen Saturday evening. When the two girls opened the door and went inside, Shana was appalled at the filth and clutter. “My father’s not only a drunk,” she said, angrily kicking an empty beer can across the floor, “he’s a pig. He probably doesn’t care about leaving the place clean, since my mother put up the damn deposit.”

“It’s okay,” Jennifer said, patting her friend on the shoulder. She glanced down at the coffee table and saw the picture of Shana that was singed around the edges. “Look,” she said, holding up what was left of the snapshot, “someone ripped your mother out of the picture I took at our graduation. Do you think your dad got mad and set fire to it?”

Shana had already started down the hall to her bedroom. When she came to her father’s room, the hairs prickled on the back of her neck. Drawers were pulled out, clothes were tossed everywhere, a lamp was toppled. She quickly checked her own room, finding it in the same state of disorder. “Jen,” she called out. “Hurry, come here.”

“Gee,” Jennifer said, stepping up beside her, “maybe we should call the police.”

“That’s the last thing I need,” Shana said. “The last time my mother called the cops, I was certain they were going to arrest me.” She bent down and picked up some of her underwear off the floor, more despondent than ever. “Dad was probably drinking. And Mom pressured him. She told him he had to be moved out by Monday, or the landlord would throw everything out in the street.”

“Your mom was going to let them throw your stuff out?”

“Of course not,” Shana told her. “You don’t understand how
booze fries a person’s brain. My father’s desperate for money. He could have taken the clothes from the drawers because he was going to try and sell the furniture. I’m so embarrassed.” She placed her hand over her mouth. “Please, promise me you won’t tell anyone. Not just about this, but all the things I told you about my dad and the accident.”