Buried Evidence (23 page)

My God, a dead ringer, she thought, leaving no question as to why Shana had become so excited. Even if he was not the right man, simply seeing his face propelled her back to the fear and humiliation, the degradation of that night. Her pain for what her daughter had suffered was agonizing. The man had an almost identical shape to his face, his eyes, his nose, his mouth. Even the way his hair was cut was similar to Hernandez’s. He looked younger, however, and Lily knew he was not the rapist. He couldn’t be. The rapist was dead
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She took her time and studied his face closely. She recalled how photographs were sometimes miles apart from the actual person. They were one-dimensional, and this man in the flesh, in profile, in body conformation, could look entirely different. Removing the paper towels from her neck, she felt the crisis had passed. Just go through the motions, she told herself, and even agree he looks somewhat like the attacker. Once they saw him in person, the whole thing would be dropped. Lily would state that he wasn’t the man and that would be it
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She picked up the package of photos and calmly left the office. Margie and Shana were walking through the doors to the detective bureau. Shana held a Coke in her hand and appeared subdued but anxious. Lily had her finger on the page containing the photo of the man she was certain Shana had picked
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The three of them met in the center of the room. “I admit, I have one that’s real close, but I’m pretty sure it’s not the man,” Lily said without enthusiasm. Seeing the taut look of frustration in Shana’s eyes, she quickly added, “But it’s real close and worthy of additional investigation.”

Setting the photos down on Margie’s desk, she turned to the correct page and placed a finger on his face. “Number thirty-six is the one I picked.” Her look was questioning, but she didn’t have to wait long for a response
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“That’s him,” Shana said, turning to the detective eagerly. “Told you. That’s him. Number thirty-six.”

“Shana, I don’t feel as positive as you. I want you to know
that from the start, and remember, I got a better look at him when he was leaving. You were terribly distraught.”

The visual image of him standing in the light from the bathroom appeared in Lily’s mind: the red sweatshirt, the profile—she even recalled the top of his head as he bent down to snap his pants. She glanced back down at the photo, but also noticed the other men on the page. Out of six, two were wearing a red T-shirt or sweatshirt. She then started thumbing back through the pages and saw more red shirts. One man was wearing a gold chain with a crucifix. She turned the page and saw another man wearing a crucifix, only smaller. If she let her imagination go now, she might end up in a mental institution. The man she had shot was the man. It must end there and end now
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“Mom, you didn’t even have your glasses on that night, and you don’t have them on now,” Shana snapped. “He raped me, remember, and I can see perfectly.” She turned to Margie and said sarcastically, “She’s supposed to wear them when she drives too, but she never does.”

“I only need them to read—just a little farsighted,” Lily informed the detective. “Anyway, arguing over it right now is counterproductive. Can you pull him in for a lineup?”

“I’ll get right on it and call you as soon as it can be arranged. Why don’t you two go home now, get some rest and try to put this out of your mind?” As Shana walked past her mother, heading for the door, Margie gave Lily a look with those Liz Taylor eyes and shrugged her shoulders. “Life’s a bitch, isn’t it?”

“You got that right,” Lily replied and started walking out, trying to catch Shana
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Margie’s voice projected and echoed in the large room. “Oh, I’m sure I don’t have to mention this, but it might not be a bad idea for you to wear those glasses when I can get this guy in here for the real thing.”

By the time Lily made it out of the building, Shana was waiting by the passenger door of the Honda. As she started the car, Lily told her, “They’ll get the lineup together and we’ll go from there, okay?”

“He’s still out there. I know it now. I thought he’d run away. He didn’t. He’s still out there. You told me he’d go away and never come back so he wouldn’t get caught.”

Lily hesitated, torn now, not knowing exactly what to say and thinking she must call the psychologist and get Shana in to see her tomorrow. She felt that assuaging her rising fear was the right thing to do, even if she became angry. “I really feel he’s long gone, honey, and like I said back there, I don’t think it’s him. I can see things far away better than I can close up; that’s what farsightedness means. When he was close, it was very dark, but when he was leaving, he was far away and in the light.” She reached for her hand, holding it tightly. “I don’t think the man you saw was him. He’s gone. You’re a smart girl. You know a lot of people look alike. Even you and I look alike, but of course, I’m a lot older. If we were the same age, people could mistake us even. See?”

Shana reached out and turned on the radio, a rock station. She then said over the noise, “It was him, Mom. When you see him with your glasses, then you’ll know.”

F
ortified with lunch and flying on a double espresso, Detective Jameson strode back into the detective bureau and picked up his messages, hoping Cunningham’s curiosity had gotten the best of him and he’d called back. No such luck, he thought, taking his seat and dialing the toll free number again. “Bruce Cunningham, please,” he said once a female voice came on the line.

“Is this in regard to an order?”

“Yeah,” he lied, “I need about five hundred of those power washers shipped out to my plant today.”

“What’s the name of your company, sir?” the woman queried in a clear, professional tone.

“Oh, Bruce and I are old buddies,” Jameson said, resuming his customary position with his legs tossed up on his desk. “I’ve been a customer of his for years. Since I’m giving you guys such a big order, maybe it would be fun if we surprised him.”

Jameson expected to hear Cunningham’s voice on the line immediately. Instead he found himself listening to a recording about all the various equipment the company supplied and the services they performed throughout the world. When the recording stated that they washed the statue of Christ in Rio de Janeiro, he thought he was hearing things. Where in God’s name did this guy work? Omaha was a long way from Rio de Janeiro. He’d never been to Brazil, but he’d seen pictures of the landmark they mentioned. He assumed it took an awfully powerful piece of equipment to wash a statue that large. Finally the detective came on the line.

“This is Bruce Cunningham,” he said. “Are you ready to fill me in on what’s going on, or would you prefer that I send you a bill for the equipment you said you were ordering?”

“I guess you folks have caller ID, right?”

“Something like that,” Cunningham answered, talking faster than he had during their earlier call. “Hernandez was a mass murderer, in case you aren’t aware of it. He and his gang butchered two high school kids. Then Hernandez splintered off from the group, kidnapped a prostitute, raped her, then later murdered her to keep her from testifying. I was there when they exhumed the body, and trust me, it wasn’t a pretty sight. Why would anyone in their right mind want to waste their time trying to prosecute his killer?”

Jameson ran his hands through his thick head of silver hair. “Bad guys get killed every day, Bruce. The laws wouldn’t amount to a hill of beans if everyone just decided to look the other way. That prostitute you just mentioned was breaking the law. You still wanted to see someone pay for her death, right?”

“Prostitution and murder don’t fall into the same category.”

“Point well taken,” Jameson said. “Look, there’s no reason for you and I to beat around the bush. All I’m asking for is enough information for us to access the records on the case and determine if there’s anything worth pursuing. The records from the department you used to work for didn’t make it over here completely intact. Finding anything in this massive database we have now is something of a nightmare, if you know what I mean.”

“I can’t help you,” Cunningham told him. “Besides, I was about to walk out the door” He paused and then added, “I only have one suggestion for you, Fred. Concentrate on the present. I’m certain you’ve got plenty of homicides to keep you busy. This Hernandez thing isn’t worth either your time or mine.”

Jameson once again found himself listening to a dial tone. The fact that Cunningham had reacted the way he had about the Hernandez case made him suspect that what John Forrester had told the Los Angeles authorities about his wife killing the man to avenge her and her daughter’s rape was factual. He placed a call to Hope Carruthers, asking her if she could arrange for him to interview John Forrester at the jail.

“He’s not in custody,” she told him. “His ex-wife posted his bail.”

“No shit,” Jameson exclaimed. “Can you give me his home phone number?”

“No problem,” she said, typing in John’s name and pulling up his booking sheet on her computer screen.

“Thanks,” the other detective told her. He was ready to hang up when another question popped into his mind. “How did you find out that this case had never been resolved so quick? I’ve been beating my head against the wall all morning, kicking this damn computer and getting nowhere. The name is too common, and we’ve got problems relating to our record files for those time periods.”

“Check the newspaper archives under the date of the rape,” she told him. “That’s the way we found it. Then you should be able to cross-reference, retrieve your file. Sometimes they’re not lost. It just takes awhile to find them.”

“Which rape are you referring to?” Jameson asked, thinking she meant the rape of Lily Forrester and her daughter. He wasn’t certain if there were any newspaper articles on that crime, since the law precluded them from publishing rape victims’ names back in those days.

“Try checking under the McDonald-Lopez killings,” Hope advised. “According to John Forrester, Hernandez and his brother were both participants in those crimes, although Bobby had killed in addition to that. If I remember right, the Oxnard P.D. shot him before the remaining defendants went to trial.”

“I know the guys in Oxnard killed Manny Hernandez,” he said, deciding he had enough to find what he needed regarding Lily. “I wasn’t working here at the time, but at least I’ve heard people mention it. How is your investigation going on the hit-and-run, by the way?”

“We’re trying to patch together an airtight case,” Detective Carruthers told him, still coughing from the same cold. “I’m convinced the father is our man, but my partner doesn’t completely concur. He’s got both experience and rank over me. I have no choice but to follow his instructions.” She took a few moments to explain their problems with the case, essentially that they had
to rule out any possibility that Shana had been driving at the time of the accident.

“Thanks for your help,” Jameson said, slowly replacing the receiver. In his estimation, his dislike of Lily Forrester was justified. He admitted he might have been overzealous in his efforts to convict the man who had murdered his longtime friend, Walter Evans. But in his entire career he had never once tampered with a report or falsified evidence. No one was infallible, he realized, and he didn’t doubt that he’d been responsible for arresting his share of innocent people during the course of his career. In that regard, perhaps Lily had simply made an error in judgment. His gut instinct, however, told him that she might very well have gunned down the man she thought had raped her daughter. Cunningham was probably right and Hernandez had deserved to die, but Lily Forrester had no right to make herself his executioner.

Jameson had to admit, though, that he felt sorry for at least one member of the Forrester family. He had never met Shana Forrester, and he wasn’t about to speculate as to whether or not she had been involved in the death of the young man in Los Angeles. He did know one thing. This was one young lady who was no stranger to problems.

S
hana shook her mother by the shoulder. “Wake up, Mom. It’s getting late.”

“Oh,” Lily said, staring out over the room in a daze. “I guess I was exhausted. What time is it?”

“Almost five,” she said. “I woke you because I wanted to know what we were going to do for dinner.”

“Are you hungry now?”

“No,” Shana said. “I can’t find the TV remote, though.”

Lily found the remote stuck between the cushions of the sofa, handing it to her and then excusing herself to go to the bathroom. She couldn’t stop thinking about the events which had occurred in the days following the rape. She splashed water on her face, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Returning to the living room, she told Shana she was going to soak in a hot bath. “We’ll figure out what to do about dinner when I get out, okay?”

“Take your time, Mom,” she said. “We had a big lunch.”

Lily filled the tub with water, then stripped her clothes off and climbed in, leaning back and closing her eyes again. After Shana had identified Marco Curazon from the photo lineup, Lily had taken the mug shot out of Hernandez and compared it to the one Margie Thomas had given her of Marco Curazon. With her glasses on, she’d noted a number of differences in the two men’s appearances, yet she’d continued to refuse to believe that she’d killed the wrong person.

As she pressed on her eyelids with her fingers, another crucial incident appeared, the images and details so real, she felt as if she were watching them projected on a screen. They had tracked down Marco Curazon and brought him in to participate in an actual lineup. Shana had been the first to view the men.

“Mom, give me the car keys,” Shana said. “I’ll wait there. I can start working on some of my homework.”

Lily desperately wanted to know what had transpired inside that room, yet she knew she was forbidden to ask until it was over. She tried to read Shana’s eyes when she came out, searching for something, but she appeared remarkably composed, calmer now than before. If she had just seen the man who had raped her, would she be this composed? It must have been exactly as she’d thought from the start—that once she saw him in person, she’d know it wasn’t him. She started to follow Margie, who was already headed toward the room with the two-way glass where they conducted the lineups
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