Y’ALL GOT MY PHONE? THE FIRST WORDS OUT OF NICOLE BREWER’S MOUTH AFTER rescuing her from that cheese-curls-littered blanket in the park.
After assuring her that her iPhone made it out okay, after swearing that I’d get it back to her after downloading the recording, I hugged the brave girl and left her with her mother.
Colin sat at his computer. “Sounds a little muffled but …” He clicked PLAY, and Bishop’s voice crackled from the computer’s speakers. “Couldn’t wait to see you … Got your favorite Smirnoff apple things … Man, you are fine as hell … These aren’t from CVS. Got ’em at that erotica shop on Sepulveda …”
“We got him,” I said, high-fiving my partner. “His ass is grass.”
“We gonna mention this?” he asked.
“Nope,” I said, smiling wide. “Let’s keep it in our pocket. He may need a nice surprise.”
* * *
The temperature in interview room 3 was kept a brisk sixty-one degrees. The room’s hard metal chairs made your tailbone ache. The bare white walls closed in on you after ten minutes of sitting and staring at nothing except bare white wall and the one-way mirror. Soon, the Slump took over your spine and shoulders. Soon, your forehead was just three inches from hitting the cold metal table. You shivered. Your teeth chattered. Your ass ached. Interviewees started talking to us just to feel warm and comfy again, even if that meant warm and comfy in a jail cell. Interview room 3 worked.
But it didn’t work on Payton Bishop, who, after an hour of being left alone in that room, sat upright in one of those metal chairs. Hands clasped before him, he looked as though he were waiting for the accountant to tell him that he’d be getting a refund after all. Even in his stiffness, he kept glancing at the walls, swiping his sweaty face against the shoulders of his dirty green polo shirt, then rubbing the angry welts on his wrists left by my handcuffs.
Colin and I stood on the other side of that one-way mirror. The part of me that Snoopy-danced had now slumped in a corner. I winced as I rotated my left wrist—injured back on Wednesday, better on Saturday, aching like hell again today.
“You should get that checked out,” Colin said with a chuckle.
I smiled at him. “I’ll go on Monday.” I grabbed a manila folder from the tabletop that was filled with pictures of missing children. “Let the wild rumpus begin.”
Colin and I strolled into the frigid room.
I glanced at my watch—going on eleven o’clock.
Colin sat knee to knee with Payton Bishop. “Nice seeing you again, sir. So, first, there’s this.” He slipped a form near Bishop’s hands that explained his rights. “Of course, we’re hoping that you just tell us your side of the story.”
Bishop smiled. “What time is it? And why are you treating me like a criminal?”
Seated across from him, I wanted to vomit and then shove his face in it. “Tell us what we’re misunderstanding. Because that’s obviously what this is, right? A misunderstanding?”
Payton Bishop stared at his clasped hands.
“Also,” I said, “you can voluntarily give me the DNA that I asked for days ago. I emphasize ‘voluntarily’ cuz now that you’ve fucked up the deal you made with the DA, guess whose spit I can take without saying, ‘May I?’ or ‘Please?’” I pointed at him, then cocked my head. “Giving me spit may not help you with the necking session in the woods, but it may eliminate you as the number one suspect in the murders of Chanita Lords and Allayna Mitchell.”
Bishop continued to stare at his hands.
Colin winked at me. “Let him think about it.”
“Okeydokey.” I leaned back in the chair, crossed my legs, and stared at our guest.
White-hot rage crackled just beneath my skin. My left eye twitched, and heat from my nostrils burned my upper lip.
Five minutes passed in silence.
Then Colin started popping his pen against his teeth—a habit that drove me loony but right now came in handy.
Bishop winced and closed his eyes.
We sat in the quiet for another minute.
I swallowed my anger and opened the manila folder. “Margaret Thatcher said, ‘I am extraordinarily patient, provided I get my own way in the end.’ Guess who’s gonna get her way in the end?”
Payton Bishop smirked. “Nine wise men said that I have the right to remain silent because anything I say can be used against me in a court of law.”
“Yeah, they did. And you were Mirandized back at the park.” I dropped a picture in front of him. “You know this girl?”
The counselor gazed at the photograph. Flat eyes. Tight jaw.
I replaced that picture with another. “What about this girl?”
Payton Bishop looked at the photograph. No reaction.
I presented six more pictures.
Each time, the counselor’s expression remained blank.
I considered two more pictures in the folder, then selected the double-exposure picture of Peaches, the girl in his journal. “What about her?”
Payton Bishop sank in his chair and pretended to be bored.
I plucked the picture of naked Peaches in the pink room from the folder. Seeing this photograph again made my hands shake. “She look familiar now?”
He flushed, then tried to find something interesting to look at on the ceiling.
“Detective Norton,” Colin said, “maybe you’re going about this the wrong way. You’re making certain assumptions.”
“I am, indeed.” I fake smiled at Bishop again. “I apologize. I’m only human.” I sifted through the remaining pictures in the folder and found another. “So …” I slid the shot before the counselor. “You know this boy?”
Bishop pushed away from the table. “What the fuck are you suggesting?”
I held up my hands in mock protest. “Stop bein’ an old lady about it, all right? I’m just accommodating any preferences you may have.”
Payton Bishop settled back into his chair. “I’m not gay.”
“You’re into girls, then,” Colin confirmed.
“This is ridiculous,” Bishop shouted. “I cannot believe … Why have you arrested me?”
I cocked my head. “You know why we arrested you.”
“How long you been dating children?” Colin asked.
“They’re not children,” Bishop spat.
Colin and I exchanged amused looks.
“Okay,” I said. “Fine. How long have you been dating females who are under the age of consent, which, in the state of California, is eighteen? That better, Professor?”
Payton Bishop didn’t speak, but the bulging vein banging in the middle of his forehead was calling me every m-f, four-letter, c word in the English language.
“Okay, not professor,” I said. “Should I call you Apollo?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Allayna and Chanita,” I said. “What happened there?”
“Nothing happened there.”
“Why did Trina leave Madison?”
He drummed his fingers on the tabletop.
“Counseling went too far and they threaten you?” I asked. “They say they were gonna tell your secret?”
“I have no secrets,” the counselor boasted.
“Your wife know about the sushi dates with your students?” Colin asked. “Or about the donuts and cupcakes they bring you? Cuz if she doesn’t know, then that’s called a secret.”
I snapped my fingers. “Oh, wait. Wasn’t your wife your student, like, only yesterday?”
Colin gasped and clutched his imaginary pearls. “Get the fuck outta here.” He grinned and pointed at Bishop. “It’s like that Van Halen song, ‘Hot for the Teacher,’ but reversed.”
“How did she feel about your demotion?” I asked. “Was she all, ‘That husband of mine, up to his old tricks again. And will he pick up his damned socks already?’”
Payton Bishop smirked. “Mock me all you want. My wife and I started dating only after she became eighteen years old. Legal in the state of California. As far as my career goes, I am one of the most accomplished educators in this city. Two times awarded—”
I waved my hand. “Yeah, and you were certainly teaching Nicole Brewer at the park tonight. Talk about going above and beyond. Where shall I mail your trophy? And do you spell ‘Payton’ J-E-S-U-S?”
He shot me a glare. “You really are a bitch.”
I grinned. “Guess who’s gonna be somebody’s bitch next week this time?”
“Tell us about Nicole Brewer,” Colin said.
Bishop gave a one-shouldered shrug. “There’s nothing to tell.”
“You’ve fucked her up good,” Colin said. “Poor girl’s in therapy. Taking handfuls of antianxiety meds. Kept it all in. But then she accepted Jesus as her personal savior, and she told us everything.”
Bishop rolled his eyes. “What’s my bail price?”
“Don’t know,” Colin said. “That will take some time to figure out. Hell, you may not even get bail since you’re a flight risk.”
“I’m not a flight risk,” he said.
“You was sure ‘flighting’ in the park a few hours ago. Which means more jail time.” I glanced at his brown suede boots. “You’re pretty quick for wearing those things.”
Colin also looked, then cocked an eyebrow. “Could you lift one up so I can see the sole?”
“Do I have to?”
“He’s asking nicely,” I said. “He can always confiscate them and give you complimentary, jail-style flip-flops to wear.”
Bishop paused, then lifted the left boot.
Swirls. Whorls. Timberland logo.
Yes! All I needed now was DNA.
Colin used his camera phone to take pictures of the boot’s tread. “Back to Nicole,” he said as he shot. “She could be wrong, you know. You work in these schools. A lot of these girls have no dads, no positive male role models around. So they mistake a man’s genuine concern as sexual interest. That’s very possible, don’t you think?”
Payton Bishop swiped his hand across his sweaty brow. “Yes, that is possible.”
“Do you think that’s probable in your situation?” Colin asked. “That some of your female students aren’t familiar with nonsexual, mentorlike relationships?”
Payton Bishop relaxed some and offered Colin a grateful look. “I think that’s what it is. Yes. They don’t understand.” Then, he turned to me. “You must remember what it was like to not have a father around.”
“I do,” I said. “And, yes, you know, I had to learn that my male teachers weren’t interested in me in that way. I get it.” Then I scowled. “But I’m not stupid, either. Fathers don’t put their hands up young girls’ skirts.”
“I didn’t mean …,” the counselor said. “These girls are so bright. I thought they’d know that I … that … They have so much potential. But there’s no one else in their lives who are committed to helping them.”
“You’re just doing your job, right?” I said, bile burning my throat. “Exposing them to better things. More promising paths in life. ‘Each one, teach one.’”
He clapped twice, then pointed at me. “Exactly.” He pointed to the picture of Peaches. “I complimented her once. Told her that she had pretty eyes, and all of a sudden she’s sending me pictures, bringing me cupcakes …”
“So help me understand, then,” I said, crossing my arms. “We searched your car at the park, and I found condoms. You and your wife use rubbers? Also, those pictures I showed you earlier? I found them, along with passwords to child porn sites, in your journal. This is all just my casual looking. What will I find when I poke around in the dark corners? Girls tied up in the basement of your house? That seems to be in vogue right now, tying up females and keeping them captive in guest rooms and basements and whatnot. So help me understand all this.”
Payton Bishop shrugged. “Don’t know what to tell you.”
With a trembling finger, I pointed at the picture of Peaches. “You reacted when I slipped her picture in front of you.”
“I didn’t react.”
“Tell me about her,” I demanded, my voice tight.
The counselor’s knees bounced and he folded his arms.
I leaned forward and growled, “I’m gonna serve a warrant to search your house. And your office. And your phone.”
Payton Bishop’s lips quivered, and he closed his eyes.
I sighed. “Nicole says—”
“She came on to me,” Bishop said. “Nicole—” He dropped his head and closed his eyes.
A knock on the door, and Pepe stuck his head in the room. “A moment, please?”
I squinted at him. Now?
Pepe nodded. Uh huh.
We met him in the hallway. “They found another girl,” he said, then quickly added, “She’s alive. She’s at Freeman Hospital in the Marina. She’s in pretty bad shape. Conscious and then not conscious.”
“Who is she?” I asked, my heart pounding wildly in my chest.
“Right now, she’s Jane Doe. African American. Thirteen or fourteen years old. She may or may not be connected. Broken bones, cuts, bruises … It’s a miracle she survived.”
“Who found her?” Colin asked.
“A woman in a minivan saw her wandering La Brea, right below Bonner Park.”
“When?” I asked.
Pepe swallowed. “Tonight, while we were there.”
“She may not be related,” Colin offered. “She may be just … some …”
“We really need her to come out of it, don’t we?” Pepe said.
This case was like sculpting water.
Colin and I returned to the box, trembling with a mix of fear and anticipation. Who is she? Is she a Muse? Is she—?
Colin noticed my averted eyes, then kick-started the interview with Payton Bishop. “We should be transferring you to Men’s Central soon since we have enough to hold you.”
Bishop paled. “Men’s Central? Hold me? For what?”
“Statutory rape,” I said, barely containing my glee. “Soliciting a minor. Possession of child pornography. Resisting arrest. Being a fucking asshole. Quick question. You into botany?”
“What?” the counselor said as tears now slipped down his cheeks.
“Botany. You know, plants?”
He blinked at me, not understanding the question’s relevance.
“We found a few berries in the trunk of your car.” A lie but a good lie. “Purple, shiny. Glossy, green leaves. You visit any places with lots of leaves and berries?”
Payton Bishop wiped his face with the heels of his hands. “I sometimes drove Chanita to Bonner Park.”
“I see.”
My inner-Snoopy was dancing again.
“Just to take pictures,” he explained. “Nothing else.”
“Uh huh.”
“You own a house up there?” Colin asked.
That made Payton Bishop laugh. “On my salary?”
“Do you rent a house up there?” I asked.
The counselor swallowed, then said, “Yes.”
Yahtzee!
“You like puzzles?” Colin asked.
Bishop’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean? Like crosswords and …?”
“Yeah,” Colin said. “Puzzles.”
Payton Bishop blinked again, uncertain of the right answer. “No, I don’t like puzzles.”
I rolled my eyes, not believing him.
Two uniforms entered the room.
“Wait!” Payton Bishop stood from his chair. “Nothing … illicit happened between Chanita and me. She was too … fractured. I didn’t kill her. Don’t send me to Men’s Central.”
“And Allayna?” I asked.
Payton Bishop’s mouth opened and closed. “I … I’m done talking. I want my lawyer.”
And that was fine with me—for the moment. I would have a man who had preyed on the most vulnerable girls behind bars. And he fit the profile of the monster—a self-appointed protector of smart, young women, a god who lived (rented, owned, who cared?) on a hill high above the park. His Olympus.
A Jane Doe survivor and Nicole Brewer’s recording: two Christmas miracles three months late or nine months early. I’d take it.
After booking the counselor, I dashed out of the building, heart racing, lips moving in silent prayer, pleading with God to let Jane Doe awaken long enough to name Payton Bishop as the monster.