On Monday afternoon, about a week after Lourdes Unson was killed, her two brothers and two sisters, who have just flown twelve hours from the Philippines, knock on the squad room door. The brothers look dazed, and the sisters clutch handkerchiefs and dab their red-rimmed eyes.
Knolls and McCartin usher them into the captain’s empty office and explain that they will be able to investigate their sister’s death more effectively if they can learn more about her personal life and habits. Cesar Unson, who serves as the family spokesman and who speaks excellent English, says he understands.
“How often did all of you talk with your sister?” Knolls asks.
“Not too often,” he says. “Recently we just exchanged cards.”
“We found it curious that Lourdes lived in the apartment for two years, but we couldn’t even find a dish in the house,” Knolls says.
“That’s the way she lived. She ate out every night. She didn’t like to cook.”
McCartin asks where she lived before.
“She owned a house. But it was broken into. She was frightened. She moved to an apartment because she felt safer around other people.”
McCartin describes how Unson stuffed all her clothing into plastic garbage bags and lined them up against the bedroom walls.
“She didn’t live like that in the house,” says one of her sisters. “She had a dresser.”
The detectives know that Unson planned to retire and return to the Philippines. They figure that she viewed the apartment as only a way station.
“Did she have any close friends here?” McCartin asks.
“No,” Cesar says. “She wasn’t very sociable and she was very secretive. Even in the Philippines she wasn’t too sociable.” He fiddles with his ring and asks, “Do you have any suspects?”
“We have some ideas,” McCartin says.
“Were you able to establish how this person entered her apartment?”
“There are some things we call ‘keys,’ which are details of the crime, and we have to hold off on giving them out,” McCartin says.
Knolls asks them about Unson’s husband.
“When she arrived in the U.S., she was holding a transit visa,” Cesar says. “She married someone here—just for convenience, to get a permanent visa. I heard that the man was arrested later and my sister was a bit worried about it. Is he a suspect?”
“We’re going to look into it,” Knolls says.
After the interview, as the detectives drive Cesar to Lourdes’s bank to close out her accounts and clear her safety deposit box, he tells them about his family’s background. When World War II erupted, his father, who managed the family’s sugar and rice plantations, enlisted in the army. After the war, he moved to Manila, married, and managed the farm, which was about sixty miles away. All ten of his children graduated from college. One son was the vice mayor of Manila, the oldest is a monsignor, another is a physician, and a younger son is a pharmacist. When the last child graduated from college, the parents threw a large party at the Manila Sheraton.
“They were so proud,” says Cesar, who manages the family farm. “They felt that they had fulfilled their obligation.”
Lourdes, the second-oldest girl, was an excellent student and a devout Catholic. She was accepted into the two finest medical schools in the Philippines, but chose the Catholic university. “She was very devout,” Cesar says. “She was what you might call a prude.”
For four years Lourdes was the chief resident at a Manila children’s hospital. She chose pediatrics, Cesar says, because she loved children. She applied many times for an American visa, but was always turned down. Finally, in 1976, she vacationed in the United States and never returned home.
“She had no serious boyfriends in Manila, because my father was very strict,” Cesar says. “But not long after she arrived here she dated a CPA. He was an ardent suitor and was ready to marry her. The problem was that he was a Protestant. She was really worried about that. And she was very devoted to her career. She was afraid that a man wouldn’t understand this.”
As Knolls drives north on the freeway, Cesar pauses and studies the landscape. Desert winds have blown the smog to the ocean, and the day is radiant. To the east, the San Gabriel Mountains are clearly visible, the ridges dusted with snow that glistens in the bright sunshine. The sky is an electric blue, and the puffy cloud banks that mass over the Hollywood Hills, verdant now after the winter rains, are a milky white.
“I didn’t realize Los Angeles was so beautiful,” Cesar says.
“This is what the city used to be like before all the sprawl and smog,” Knolls says.
“In the Philippines we watch a lot of television shows about the LAPD.” He sighs and says, “I never thought I’d go to your building for something like this.”
When they arrive at the bank, an assistant manager leads them to a small room, where Cesar opens his sister’s safety deposit box. The detectives are stunned. The deep metal box is filled with expensive jewelry. Cesar opens the boxes and small plastic bags and inspects the pieces—gold, diamonds, emeralds, pearls—while Knolls itemizes the contents on a yellow legal pad. Unson stashed away thirty-five pairs of earrings, twenty-three rings, fourteen bracelets, eight necklaces, and six pendants.
When Cesar dangles a dazzling emerald and diamond pendant, which sparkles under the fluorescent lights, the assistant bank manager shakes her head and says, “My God, this woman had some beautiful things. A man should have bought her all this.”
Knolls says he is surprised that a woman who lived so frugally and drove a battered twelve-year-old Toyota had such extravagant tastes. Cesar says his sister did not want to attract attention because she was afraid of carjackers and robbers.
“Filipino women love jewelry,” Cesar says. “All my sisters are the same way. The Spaniards influenced us. Maybe my sister bought all this jewelry because she planned to wear it when she returned to the Philippines. She felt safer there.”
When the detectives drop Cesar off and return to the squad room, they attempt to learn more about the Armenian suspect. McCartin calls the Glendale Police Department, where the man was arrested a few years ago for a sexual assault. Unfortunately, a detective tells McCartin, the department does not have the Armenian’s DNA sample … and he is currently “a parolee at large,” having failed to appear in court after a stabbing. The detective explains that the sex crime he was arrested for was a kidnap-rape. But no charges were ever filed, because “the reliability of the sixteen-year-old victim was in question.” Still, the suspect has a criminal record. The detective agrees to share his files on the suspect and his “running buddies.” McCartin tells him he will stop by the Glendale Police Department tomorrow.
Knolls flips open the murder book and the detectives spend the afternoon struggling with the revamped homicide time line. They wait for a call from the bank manager about the ATM video, which they hope will reveal a suspect. McCartin mentions how Cesar seemed reassured when he discovered that both detectives are Catholic. Then McCartin asks Knolls, “You don’t believe in evolution, do you?”
Knolls smiles. “You’re going to hell.”
McCartin shrugs. “Hell’s more fun, anyway. That’s where all the strippers and hookers are.”
“Yeah, but it’s hell because you can look but you can’t touch.”
“Hey, don’t I get any bonus points for putting all those killers in prison?” McCartin asks.
“Probably not—you Irish-Jew bastard,” Knolls says, laughing.
Although all four of McCartin’s grandparents are Irish, a confused murder suspect once called him an “Irish-Jew bastard.” Knolls finds the epithet amusing. The detectives still clash occasionally, but now that they are accustomed to each other’s methods and idiosyncrasies, the partnership has developed a new ease and camaraderie.
When the bank manager finally calls, the detectives grab their phones. A security officer repeatedly studied Monday’s ATM videotape, but could not spot Unson. The officer then checked the tape for Saturday, and discovered that Unson had deposited a check and withdrawn $100.
“This is the confusing part,” the bank manager says. “If you make a transaction on Saturday, they stamp it the next business day—which is Monday. So we’ve confirmed that she did not go to the bank on Monday. It was Saturday, like you thought all along.”
“This means the lady who heard the two screams Sunday night could be an important witness,” McCartin tells Knolls.
“Let’s get her tonight,” Knolls says.
The detectives arrive at the apartment building at dusk. Because they know the woman who heard the screams is skittish, they did not call to set up an interview; they plan to surprise her at home. Striding across the courtyard, they pass the elderly man in his lawn chair and he motions to them with his cigarette, its tip drawing iridescent streaks in the dying light. He tells them that the woman they are about to meet once borrowed $150 “from the Armenian lady with the convict son.”
“This Armenian lady had a hard time getting her money back,” he says. “Maybe the Armenian lady needed the cash so she then turned to the Filipino lady and borrowed money from her. Maybe she never paid her back. Maybe the Filipino lady made a big stink about it. Maybe the son got some Armenian gangs to come and kill and rob her.” He puffs on his unfiltered cigarette and is suddenly convulsed by a phlegmy coughing fit. He clears his throat and says, “I was watching Diagnosis Murder last night on television. It gave me some ideas,” He looks up at the detectives and asks earnestly, “Do you think what I said is a possibility?”
McCartin stifles a smile. As they walk off, Knolls mumbles over his shoulder, “We’ll certainly look into it.”
The detectives peer through the witness’s curtains and are encouraged by the gray luminescence of a television screen. When she answers the door, Knolls and McCartin introduce themselves and hand her their cards. She blinks hard a few times and invites them inside. In the corner of the living room, on a wooden table, is a shrine with several statues of Jesus surrounded by Easter cards, a dozen votive candles, and rosary beads. The detectives ask a few general questions about the victim first, to put the witness at ease.
“Unson would hardly talk to anyone,” says the woman, who is barefoot and wears a large silver cross around her neck. “She walked around here with her head down. At first, I thought she was a mute. Then we talked once in the parking lot.… We both attended the same Catholic church. She told me she wouldn’t prescribe birth control for religious reasons, that it was against God’s will. The last time I talked to her was by the mailbox. I told her I liked to say the rosary, and she told me she did too.”
Knolls asks if she saw Unson at church on Easter Sunday.
“I saw her in church at Saturday night mass.”
“Did you see her at the apartment on Sunday?”
“I can’t remember. On most Sundays, I saw her doing her laundry and we’d talk. She’d also talk to the Armenian lady. That was the only other person I saw her talk to.”
After they chat for a few more minutes, the woman confides that she heard something disturbing late at night on Easter Sunday. “I’ve been so scared. I can’t sleep.” She nervously shuffles the detectives’ cards. “I’m so scared.”
“Tell us what you heard,” McCartin says.
“That’s what’s scaring me so much.” She hugs herself, digging her fingernails into her arms. “I was watching TV when I heard someone walking hard. Then I heard two people walk by my door.” She stands up and demonstrates, marching and pounding her feet on the carpet.
“How did you know it was two people?” Knolls asks.
“I lifted up the blinds. They stopped at the top of the stairs. They were talking in another language—very nervous and very loud. Then I heard a woman scream. It faded away. And I heard it again.” She waves her hand. “It wasn’t really a scream. More like this.” She moans loudly.
“Was it a scream or a sigh?” McCartin asks.
“The first sound was high pitched and sharp, like a scream. The second one was lower.”
“Was it a female?”
“Yes. Then I heard two men’s voices, very clear. It sounded like they were arguing with each other. I thought they were speaking Armenian, because the lady upstairs is Armenian. I didn’t know then that the Armenian lady had moved. I thought that these people were very rude to be talking so loud. Then someone slammed a door. I’m sure nobody came by this door. I would have heard that. If they left, it was down by the laundry room.”
The laundry room is near the back parking lot, where the bloodhound followed a trail.
“When I heard the first noise I checked my watch,” she says. “It was eleven-fifteen.”
“What made you check your watch?” Knolls asks.
“The guys were making so much noise and it was late.” She drops the detectives’ cards on the coffee table and says, “I peeked through the windows, but I didn’t see anything. My lights were on. Maybe when I opened the blinds …” She picks at a cuticle and says, “Maybe they saw me. That’s why I’m scared.”
“Did they sound drunk?” McCartin asks.
“No. It was like they were arguing.”
“You ever hear Armenian before?” he asks.
“Yes.”
“Did it sound like it?”
“Yes. The Armenian people talk loud.”
“Did the Armenian lady have any other family members living with her?” McCartin asks.
“A daughter and a son,”
“Did you see them lately?”
“I saw the son.”
“When?”
“A few weeks ago. In the evening. I was coming home—we passed and he said hello.”
“Did he and his mom speak Armenian?”
“Yes.”
“You sure you didn’t see these guys?” McCartin asks.
“I couldn’t see anybody.” She takes a deep breath and exhales loudly, shaking her head. “I can’t sleep. Last night I didn’t sleep at all. Should I be scared?”
“We don’t think there’s a predator in the neighborhood targeting women,” McCartin says. “We think this is a random attack. But be aware of your surroundings. When you drive, make sure no one is behind you. When you’re in the apartment, make sure your door is closed and locked.”
As she walks the detectives to the door, she whispers, “I sure hope you’re successful.”
McCartin nods reassuringly and says, “We’ll get him.”
The detectives then climb the stairs to the second floor and knock on the door of the woman who claimed she was raped and later recanted. Again, no one is at home. They return to the courtyard, drop their briefcases and murder books on a metal table, and pull up chairs. The tops of the towering palm trees sway in the warm breeze and cast shifting shadows on the grass. The detectives slip off their coats and loosen their ties.
“What she said makes sense to me,” Knolls says. “Unson wouldn’t let out a bloodcurdling scream. She wouldn’t be yelling, ‘What the fuck you doing here?’ I see her as the passive type. But she was so cautious. How could someone get close enough to her to get into the apartment?”
“If it’s the Armenian, Unson knows his mother and knows him from living next door,” McCartin says. “That could explain it.”
“So what’s our game plan for tomorrow?” Knolls asks.
“Let’s try to figure out when she left the house Sunday and when she returned,” McCartin replies.
“I’ll call the priest and find out what time mass was over,” Knolls says. “Let’s track down where she ate dinner that night.”
The detectives spend the next morning studying sexual assault statistics. They discover that during the past fifteen years, 255 women in Los Angeles were killed during sexually motivated homicides, 105 of whom were strangled. They search for cases where the modus operandi parallels that of Unson’s murderer. If they find any, they will meet with the investigating detectives and compare notes.
The Santa Anas blew through the city again this morning, jacking the temperature up to 93 degrees, a record for the date. This afternoon, the winds have abruptly died and smog shrouds the horizon. The detectives climb into their car, slip on their sunglasses, and turn up the air conditioner. From her receipts, they know Unson frequently dined at a Filipino restaurant in Hollywood. They wonder if she had her last meal there. McCartin drives and Knolls, in the passenger seat, has the murder book in his lap.
The restaurant’s manager recognizes a picture of Unson. She stopped by several nights a week, he says, but often asked for her dinner to go. He rarely talked to her and says he cannot recall whether she stopped by on Easter.
The detectives decide to visit the other restaurant where she was a regular. Heading east on Sunset, they pass a Peruvian, a Cuban, and a Guatemalan restaurant, a Salvadoran pupuseria, an Armenian market, a Russian nightclub, a Baltic crafts store, and a Cambodian doughnut shop. Finally, about a mile west of downtown, in the heart of a Filipino neighborhood, they pull up in front of the second restaurant. The stark dining room, which has tan tile floors and Formica tables, is stifling. It smells of hot oil and fried fish. A fan rattles and clicks overhead.
The detectives introduce themselves and the manager invites them to sit at a table. When they tell her that Unson has been murdered, she shouts, “Oh my God!” and clutches her stomach. “I’m so upset, my stomach hurts. I knew Dr. L. very well. She ate here often for the past four or five years, sometimes every night. She was so nice. If I wasn’t feeling good she’d tell me to take this or that medicine. But I haven’t seen her for a while. I thought she was on vacation.”
The woman confirms that the restaurant was open on Easter, but she tells the detectives she did not see Unson that night. “A few weeks ago … I asked her when she was moving back to the Philippines and she said she had two more years to go before she got her pension. Then she was going to return home and live with her sister.”
She peers furtively around the restaurant, and says, “Was it a gunshot?”
“We can’t tell you,” McCartin says.
She makes a stabbing motion and says, “A knife?”
McCartin shakes his head.
She ties an imaginary rope and stretches it, her eyes bulging. “Strangled?”
“Again, we can’t say.”
“Maybe it was a burglar,” the owner says. “She was a doctor. She looked like she had money.… Maybe someone forced entry into her apartment looking for cash.”
McCartin chuckles. “You must have been a detective in the Philippines.”
“You’re a female Columbo,” Knolls says.
“Did she dress with a lot of jewelry?” McCartin asks.
“No. She dressed simple but elegant. She looked regal,” the owner says, shaking her head with admiration. “She was very neat and clean, from head to toe. She was so neat she’d clean the table herself, even if it was already clean.”
“You know anyone who’d want to attack her?” McCartin asks.
“No.”
“How long would she stay here?” Knolls asks.
“About a half hour. She’d eat and leave.”
“Did she ever come in with anyone?” Knolls says.
“No. Always alone. She liked fish. When I’d see her in the parking lot I’d start making fried milkfish and mango.” The owner extends her palms. “If you talk to the family, tell them I’m inviting them to come here. I want to do something for them. I want to make the family a meal before they go back to the Philippines.”
The next morning, McCartin calls the department’s fingerprint unit. He tells a technician he wants to compare a suspect’s prints with those lifted at the apartment. McCartin is accustomed to the LAPD’s bureaucratic inefficiency, but he is stunned anyway by the response: he will have to wait several months for the results. When he tells the technician to “put a rush” on the request, the specialist says that “every detective wants a rush for their murder,” but only a captain can speed up die timetable. Like every other LAPD department, the specialist says, the print section is understaffed and overworked. McCartin and Knolls know that because there are hundreds of murders a year in the city, rush orders are usually granted only for extremely high-profile homicides or emergencies, as when detectives have evidence that a suspect plans to kill again or is prepared to flee the country.
Crossing the squad room, Lambkin overhears the detectives. “I had a rape case in the Harbor Division last year,” he says. “Hairs were found in the suspect’s car. I kept asking for a DNA test. Then the guy was convicted. A few days later, I got the results.”
On the way to Glendale, the detectives discover the heat wave has dissipated. Ocean breezes blow a gauzy scrim of fog into the San Gabriel Valley. High clouds obscure the sun and just a faint, one-dimensional outline of the mountains is visible.
Knolls and McCartin pull up chairs beside the desks of two Glendale detectives who previously arrested the Armenian suspect. The Glendale detectives say that they recently investigated and then tailed two burglars, one of whom is related to the Armenian.
“This might get your attention,” a Glendale detective says. “Our two suspects frequently cruised right by the street where your victim was killed. The other thing is that our two guys go after high-end jewelry. Your guy could have tipped them off that the lady had a lot of jewelry.”
Knolls and McCartin both nod, recalling the empty jewelry boxes on the ironing board in Unson’s apartment.
The other Glendale detective counts on his thumb and three fingers. “You’ve got a dead lady. This guy’s mom lives next door. These two assholes frequently drive by the apartment. And they like jewelry. What are the odds?”
Knolls tells them about the trail the bloodhound followed.
“That makes sense,” a Glendale detective says. “If they pulled it off, they’d park a few blocks away.”
“Did our suspect visit his mom much?” McCartin asks.
“Oh, yeah.”
McCartin asks them how long it would take to compare a suspect’s fingerprints with those found at a crime scene.
“If we had both sets of prints, we’d just walk it over,” the Glendale detective says. “It would take a minute or two. If we didn’t have both sets, it would take a day or two.”
When McCartin tells them he might have to wait months, the Glendale detectives shout in unison, “No way!”
“I know you’re a much bigger department,” one says, “but that’s ridiculous.”
McCartin then asks them if their two burglars are coldblooded enough to rape and strangle a sixty-three-year-old woman.
“You talk to these guys and they have that shark stare,” a Glendale detective replies. “It wouldn’t surprise me at all if they did something like this.”
The other detective says, “There’s a lot of coincidences involving these suspects and your murder. And when it conies to homicide cases, I don’t like coincidences. I don’t like them one bit.”