Blessed are the Dead (20 page)

 

Chapter 43

I
RESIST THE
temptation to turn on the TV and watch more footage of Johnson grinning at reporters as he drives away. Instead, I open my laptop.

I start writing down everything I know about Jasmine and Jack Dean Johnson, so I can use it as background when I come back tonight with the details of my interview. I sift through the piles of notes that I snuck home from the office a few weeks ago. I set the file with Caterina's news clippings on a corner of my desk. As I'm rummaging through my messenger bag, I find Jasmine's school essay—­the one I stole from her apartment—­and reread it before I begin. I will craft my last story about Jasmine with everything I have, so it honors her memory. That is probably the only justice she will ever get: having someone tell her story.

As I'm writing, my phone rings more than a dozen times, but I don't even bother to see who calls. Around eight, the enormity of what I'm going to do hits me. After nearly two months, I'm going to find out what happened to Jasmine and Caterina. I think I need some backup. I dial Lopez.

“I have another huge favor to ask you. Something has come up. I need to meet a source over at the Oakland Harbor tonight, but I don't really trust him. He wants to meet in an isolated place, and I think he's a little shady.” That's an understatement.

He ignores the fact that I'm being vague and evasive.

“You want me to come with you?”

“No.” I say it too quickly. “He wants me to come alone, but do you think you can swing by the harbor tonight where the veteran's memorial dock is and make sure I'm okay? Around midnight? And do it so he can't see you but you can see that I'm okay and maybe watch until I leave?”

“Sure, man.” He sounds skeptical, but I know I can count on him to be there.

I feel better after I talk to Lopez. I fix an omelet with fresh herbs for dinner and skip the wine. I want to have my wits about me when I meet with Johnson. I'm only able to choke down about three bites of my omelet. I toss the rest in the garbage disposal and go back to my story, polishing it, making it sound more like a novel than a newspaper article.

Right now, I'm writing background for the story. I'm still not sure what my lead will be. I just don't know how to begin the story yet.

At quarter to eleven, I change into jeans, motorcycle boots, a black turtleneck sweater, and a big navy peacoat. Right before I leave, I send an e-­mail to Kellogg, which I'm sure he won't get until the morning: “I'm going to have a huge scoop on Jasmine. Call me
A.M.
”

I stuff the pistol into the deep coat pocket. It weighs my coat down on one side as I walk down my stairs.

As I drive toward the Bay Bridge, thoughts crowd my head as I try to access how dangerous Jack Dean Johnson is to a physically fit grown woman. For starters, I think he preys on little girls because grown women scare him. Although he did poke out that inmate's eye . . . but the guy was sleeping. He can barely walk and has to use a cane. If I needed to, I'm sure I could easily outrun him.

The bottom line is if I don't talk to him now, he's going to disappear, and I will never know what happened to Caterina. Or Jasmine. But there is an even bigger reason. I can't do anything about Caterina and Jasmine. But I can maybe stop him from ever doing this again. If I can prove that he took Jasmine, he'll go back to jail. Because there is one thing I know deep in my heart—­he is going to kill again. Men like him don't just decide to stop. If I don't stop him, more little girls are going to die.

I can turn over the pictures of Jasmine to the police as evidence. I'll give them to Donovan. He'll do whatever it takes to get Johnson convicted. Thinking of Donovan, I feel a tiny flicker of guilt, wondering if I should give him a heads-­up that I'm meeting Johnson? But I know if any cops show up, Johnson will split. He'll be gone forever, off killing again, taking with him anything he might tell me about Caterina. And my big scoop will go with him.

So much rides on this meeting that it helps me clamp down on the fear that zips through me when I think about meeting Johnson without a thick glass window between us. I feel a little better knowing that Lopez will swing by. But I still need to be ready for anything and never let Johnson get close enough to touch me. I also know that I will shoot him without hesitation. My resolve about this almost frightens me. Am I that cold-­blooded? Could I live with having killed someone, even in self-­defense? I think so. I absentmindedly rub the talismen I wear around my neck—­the miraculous medal and my dad's
cornicello
—­hoping they will protect me against evil tonight. If not, I'm packing heat, and I'm not afraid to use it.

 

Chapter 44

T
OWERING LIGHT POSTS
in the industrial Oakland Harbor area combined with a foggy mist light up the area in an orange haze. Larger bright spotlights illuminate machines unloading giant boxcars from cargo ships at the foot of the bridge. I pass them and drive on, deeper into the harbor area, where the lights are dimmer, and there are no ­people around. Terminal Road dead-­ends in a dirt road that continues south. I drive slowly down the dirt road, which runs parallel to the dark waters of the Oakland Outer Harbor.

To my right, a tugboat slowly chugs along in the same direction, ghostlike as it sporadically disappears into the fog floating on the water. As I go around a slight curve, I notice the steering wheel is damp from my hands. I wipe my palms on the legs of my jeans. A cigarette would calm my nerves right about now. It is dark, and the drifting fog makes the area feel even more isolated than it already is. I lean forward toward my windshield, peering through the fog, looking for the dock.

Finally, I come around a bend and spot it. Nearby, a beat-­up brown van without any side or rear windows is parked helter-­skelter. I make the sign of the cross and park fifteen feet away with my car pointed perpendicular toward the van. Turning off my lights, I wait a minute, but don't see anything moving. I stuff my keys, phone, a pen, and notebook in one roomy pocket of my coat, leaving my purse on the passenger seat. In the other pocket, I wrap my fingers around the gun as I get out of my car and walk a big circle around the van. I see Jack Dean Johnson's white face floating eerily in the darkness of the driver's side window. He gestures to the passenger door.

“Get in.”

“I don't think so,” I say.

He chuckles. “Don't worry. I'm not itching to get locked up again. I'm not going to stick around long enough to get in trouble. In less than an hour, I'm out of here. If I was smart, I would already be gone. If some cop recognizes me, they'll pull me over for nothing, and I'll end up dead.”

“Why are you taking the time to talk to me then?”

“I told you. I always keep my word.”

I still don't buy it.

He reaches around behind his seat for a moment and then comes back with a cane. He opens the driver's door and slightly stumbles out, then turns to grab his cane from the seat. Hunched over, he walks around the front of the van toward me. It takes him a good minute to get there.

“There's a bench right there.” He points with his cane.

I figure it is as good a place as any. If I stand, I can watch the dirt road behind us, and Lopez will be able to see me. I tell him to sit, and I'll stand.

“Fine.” he says. He sounds weary. He is wearing a camouflage jacket and jeans with sneakers. They hang on his almost skeletal frame. He looks frail without the big baggy orange jumpsuit. He moves slowly and loses his footing once on the loose soil on the way to the bench, overlooking the bay. A few feet away, a small path leads to a dock. I can barely see well enough to take notes by the orange light making its way over from a distant lamppost. Johnson slumps onto the bench. He lights a cigarette.

“Ah, it feels good to be out in the fresh air,” he says, and laughs. “You can sit down by me. Don't worry, you're safe. I'm not about to do anything to get locked up again. At least not until I'm out of this country.”

I stand a few feet away. I want a cigarette, but can't smoke and take notes. It's bad enough I have to let go of the gun in my pocket to hold my small notebook and pen. I do not take my eyes off him. I stare right at him. I'm not in the mood for idle chitchat. Lopez will be here in a few minutes.

“Caterina? How? Why? Start talking. Where are the pictures of Jasmine?”

“Listen, I promised to talk to you, but I need one thing from you. I need to know that you are not going to call the police until I'm on that freighter and out of the bay. I want you to give me your cell phone and your car keys so I have enough time to get out of here before you can contact anyone.”

“I can't do that,” I say.

“That's the deal. I can't risk your calling the cops before I'm gone. I'm gonna take them with me when I drive over to the dock parking lot. It'll only take you about half hour to walk there and get your shit back. I'll leave your phone and keys in the van, with the pictures.”

“I want to see the pictures now,” I say.

“Sorry, no can do,” he says. “I need to be long gone first.”

I think about it. I'm not sure I have a choice at this point. He's mistaken in thinking he'll be safely out of the harbor in that time frame. Maybe that is what will be his downfall. As soon as Lopez shows up, I'll have a ride and be able to call the cops. They'll be able to find him before he's out of the bay. I agree, so he'll start talking.

“Okay,” I say. “But I'm not giving them to you until after we talk.”

“Hand me your keys and your phone.”

Suddenly, I'm afraid not to do what he asks. But I also worry I'm making a mistake, leaving myself without a way out of here, but I also know Lopez is going to be here any minute so I fish my car keys and cell phone out of my pockets and throw them in his direction. They clatter on the gravel. He reaches down and scoops them up.

 

Chapter 45

“S
HE WAS PLAYING
jump rope when I drove by,” he says as he pockets my phone and keys.

I suddenly flash back to that day. Caterina and I had been fighting over who could use the pink jump rope first. I was halfway out the door when my mom called me back in, saying I couldn't go outside until I brushed my teeth.

Standing in front of the mirror with a mouth full of frothy toothpaste, I fumed about how unfair it was that my older sister always got everything first. All I ever got were her leftovers and hand-­me-­downs. Life was so unfair. I threw my toothbrush down and rushed outside. The yard was empty. I called for Caterina. The neighborhood was silent. In the distance, below our house on the sloping hillside, I could hear the hum of traffic far away on the freeway below. I looked around. I thought far down the road I could see the exhaust left from a car. No Caterina. Then I noticed the jump rope on the side of the road.

“I asked her for directions, and when she came over to the car, I pulled her through the window and drove away. Nobody was any wiser. She didn't make a sound. Didn't fight or scream. Just sat there in her seat and stared straight ahead.”

She would have been too frightened to move. She would have been paralyzed with fear.

I swallow and close my eyes for a second before they snap back open in alarm.

My pen has been poised above my notebook but I drop it on the ground. I was foolish to think I had to take notes. Everything he says is going to be permanently engraved in my memory whether I like it or not. I stick my right hand in my pocket and wrap my fingers around the metal of the gun, which is warm and smooth under my touch.

“Why? Why her?” My voice is shrill. I barely can control the mixture of horror and anger surging through me. At the same time, I feel like a helpless child again.

“I just was in the neighborhood, and the opportunity presented itself,” he says. “I really did enjoy her company, though. We had a really good few days, together. She was a sweet kid, cried all the time, but sweet. I'm sorry it had to end the way it did. Maybe if the laws in this country were different, I wouldn't have to eventually kill my girlfriends in order to avoid prison.”

I feel bile rising into my mouth at the word “girlfriends.” My hand closes tighter around the gun in my pocket and my other hand clenches into a fist, bending the small reporter's notebook before I stuff it in my pocket. I can feel beads of perspiration on my neck even though the air is cold.

I now know I could kill him with my bare hands. Now I know what ­people mean when they say they see red. My vision is obscured, and my heart is thudding so loudly it drowns out the sounds around me. I try to stay focused by rubbing the gun in my pocket. My fingers flex again, feeling the reassuring hardness of the gun. I run my thumb up and down the smooth metal. My eyes focus again, and I slit them at Johnson.

“You bastard. You fucking ruined my family's lives.” Everything seems surreal. I refuse to believe what he is saying. “You still haven't told me anything that proves it was you.”

“I told you, you're just gonna have to take my word,” he said. “Do you want to know more?”

I can barely stand up. I thought I wanted the truth, but I don't think I can handle any more. My legs feel like they are going to collapse. All I want to do is sink down on the bench, but that's where he is. The monster. A rage I have never felt before surges through my limbs. My hand squeezes the gun. I could shoot him right now. I could shoot him without blinking. I want him dead. If I hear him say Caterina's name one more time, I won't be able to stop myself. I'll kill him. I make myself breathe deeply. In and out. Ten times. He is waiting and watching.

I need to talk about something else for a minute.

“Tell me about Jasmine.”

“She was easy,” he says. “I'd seen her at the bus stop on Tuesday mornings when I picked up Mrs. Delaney for her weekly shopping.”

I flash back to my conversation in the biker bar with Burt. He had said the only ­people they ever saw on that road were the bus-­stop kids and a “little old lady with her grocery bags waiting for a cab.” Holy Mother of God.

“Why Jasmine?” I ask. “A lot of kids go to that bus stop.”

“You could tell she didn't have money. You knew right away her parents didn't care about her.”

“What do you mean?”

“Her hair was tangled and her clothes dirty. It was cold, and she didn't have a jacket—­that kind of thing. Little kid like that, they are looking for love. They are quick to trust you.”

“How long did you watch her before you took her?”

“It's not like that. You act like I was stalking her. I wasn't. I just happened to come across her alone one morning. It was just a day when opportunity presented itself. Just like with Caterina”

He pauses. I just stare at him.

“How did you get her in your car?”

“I asked if she wanted to go to McDonald's and told her I would drop her off at school after so she didn't have to ride the bus.”

“That's it?” I can't believe it took so little for him to lure her to him.

“That's it,” he says.

“What did you do after she was in the car?”

“I took her to the hardware-­store parking lot and told her to change into a pretty dress. She liked it. Thought she looked pretty. I told her she was a knockout.”

I wonder if he made Caterina do the same? I can't bear to know. “Then what?”

“I drove through McDonald's, bought her a Happy Meal, and took her back to my bachelor pad. I told her that I had talked to her mom and that it was okay if she skipped school today and hung out with me. She was excited about it. I told her we would watch movies together and eat popcorn.”

Oh my God. Is that what happened to Caterina, too? I'm trying to listen to his horror tale about Jasmine, but Caterina's little face keeps appearing in his tale. I'm starting to lose it. I need to focus. Think like a reporter, Gabriella. Or better, yet, like a chess master. Plot your strategy. Get him to say what you want.

“Did you take her to your home in San Jose? What happened when you got there? I don't mean I want specifics about anything you did to her. Just generalities. Where did you keep her?”

“You don't need to know where I took her. She stayed with me during the day, but I locked her up in the closet when I left, you know, to get food and stuff.”

I didn't even realize he had kept her for so long. That means she was still alive when investigators were looking for her. He must have killed her right before he took that other little girl.

“How long did this go on?”

“A few days, then it was time . . .”

“No details,” I say, interrupting him.

“Well, let's just say it ran its course. You know what happened after that. I still can't believe they found anything. Some animal must have gotten to her.”

I feel the blood rush to my face. My arms feel tingly, and I'm suddenly cold.

“Anything else you want to know?” He watches me. “I gotta go now.”

“Why me? Why are you telling me this? Why did you agree to talk to only me? Did you know I was Caterina's sister?”

“I knew. I saw you leave your card for those scumbag parents, and as soon as I saw your name, I knew. And I watched you. I took that other girl for you—­so you would stay in Rosarito working on those stories.”

He took that other girl for me? I feel the sour taste of bile fill my mouth. I gag, then swallow it back down.

“And when I got caught? Well, that's why I agreed to talk to you and not the other reporters. You are the one.”

A chill races across my scalp. “What do you mean?”

“Not a lot of ­people understand, but you do. Because of your sister, you understand. That makes you special.”

Fear courses through me. Special?

I try to glance over at the road without his noticing, but he does anyway.

“Are you expecting someone? If you told the cops to meet me here, it's just your word against mine. That's not enough, and you know it. As far as I'm concerned, we're just having a nice friendly conversation here about the Giants' winning streak.”

He's right. What he told me means little without the photos. I'm kicking myself for not bringing a tape recorder. Dumb.

I highly doubt my telling investigators his sick tale will mean anything. They already suspect him of everything he's told me. That's nothing new. He's said nothing that proves he took Caterina. And what he's said surely won't mean justice for Jasmine. Or Caterina.

What he told me won't mean much to the cops. Not without proof. Now, I'm wondering if the newspaper will even believe me? What if they think I made it up in a desperate attempt to get my job back? I need the photos, as awful as they may be.

“Time for me to go get on that freighter,” he stands up and fumbles for his cane.

What is stopping him from getting on that freighter without giving me the photos?

“I need those photos. Give them to me now. I'll still need to walk over to the dock to get my keys and then back again to drive away. You'll be long gone.”

He flicks his cigarette, stands up, and scowls. “You have my word, what I'm telling you. You're going to have to take that chance. The walk won't be bad.”

I'm taken aback by his voice. It reminds me of the one time I confronted him in jail, and he threw the phone at the glass. That's the only time I think I ever made him angry. But in the way he just spoke to me, I can sense a shift. I can sense something is different now that there is not a piece of glass between us. I don't know what it is, but it makes me uneasy. I look back toward the road, praying I'll see Lopez sitting in his car in the dark.

Nothing. Thank God Johnson can barely walk. I look around, deciding where I should run if he turns and takes even one step my way.

I stick my other hand in my pocket and grasp the pistol. I stand back and let him walk about ten paces in front of me to his van. Again, he loses his footing a few times when the cane hits gravel instead of solid ground, as he makes his way to his van. I wait and watch him. As soon as he leaves, I'm going to grab my purse off my car seat and start walking.

I hope I won't have to walk far before Lopez arrives. Where the hell is he anyway? He is ex–Green Beret. Maybe he's hiding nearby, waiting for Johnson to leave. All I know is that as soon as Lopez gets here, I'm crawling into his warm car, grabbing his phone, and calling the cops to come pick up Johnson. But right now, I'm glad Lopez is either hiding or late. I'm afraid if Johnson sees him, he won't leave the photos in the van for me.

Now I'm impatient for Johnson to leave before Lopez arrives. Hurry, hurry, hurry, I think, watching Johnson's slow walk. I linger back several feet and watch as he slowly maneuvers his legs inside his van and turns the ignition.

When I hear the van's engine rumble, I turn and hurry toward my car.

Suddenly, I'm slammed to the ground.