The Saturday morning after Michael’s body was discovered, and just after Karen herself had gotten the call about Michael’s body from the police, a Los Angeles County sheriff’s car was parked outside her house. It was still the early dawn. A dread-filled Roslyn, having grabbed whatever sweats and hoodie were to hand and rushed out of her own house at her mother’s vague call, spotted the car and knew that her baby brother was dead. Her mother was relieved that she had come. She didn’t have any information that she could give the police, but she thought that Roslyn, who was so close to Michael, might provide more help.
My aunt had expected Michael home Thursday night, two days before, and so was consumed with anxiety all day Friday and into the night. Over the course of the week, the normally warm July temperatures had slumped below average. Her dread had only increased alongside the chill. Roslyn, too, had been consumed with worry. On Monday, she dreamed that someone had told her Michael was dead. She woke in tears. When she told Michael about the dream, he said, “My life ain’t like that to where I’ll be dead.”
But he also said, “Sis, if anything happens to me, tell the police it was Bree.” Bree was Michael’s girlfriend.
Roslyn and Michael spoke by cell phone almost every day. That week, increasingly anxious, Roslyn redoubled her efforts to stay in touch. On Friday, Michael didn’t pick up for her all day. When he didn’t pick up, she could sometimes tell from the sound of the ring that he was traveling, or had turned his phone off. His phone had rung funny like that on Friday.
Like her mother, Roslyn didn’t have much to tell the police, beyond the story about her dream and her brother’s warning, but the detectives had things to tell them.
To them Michael was not Michael but “Big Mike.” He was someone not to be messed with on the street. This was news, and shocking.
I myself would learn this only much later on. The day before Michael died, evening UK time, while I was conversing with my philosopher husband and catching up on some pleasure reading, I got a rare message from Michael. It would have been Thursday, midmorning, L.A. time, when he’d sent it. Just a few weeks earlier, he’d been at our wedding in New Jersey, where I had an appointment at a distinguished research institute, famous for being Einstein’s place of abode. The trip to our wedding was Michael’s first airplane flight since his release.
THE AUTHOR AND HER COUSIN, MICHAEL, AT HER WEDDING
That June wedding in New Jersey was my second one. I hadn’t invited anyone but my parents and one friend to the first. To my eternal shame, I hadn’t even invited my brother. This time I wanted all my family standing by me, joining in the bond I was about to form. Despite having been close to Bob, my first husband, Michael was the usher, greeting every guest at the door with joy.
After that celebratory day, I’d sent Michael a photo of the two of us, me in my splurge Armani dress, he, typically handsome in a beige jacket and crimson shirt. His matching crimson alligator-skin shoes, which made us smile, were, sadly, not visible in the frame.
After he got the photo, he’d written me to say thank you:
7/16/09
MICHAEL ALLEN <MICHAELALLEN4@YAHOO.COM> 6:47 P.M.
Thank you for my picture. I’m sorry to say that I don’t check my e mail often and haven’t since I printed the plane tickets. I love you so much and I am happy that you are happy and enjoying yourself. I will call you Saturday but I don’t know what time is good so be sure to let me know. I love you and I miss you.
Love Always,
Michael
These were the kinds of small scraps that we could share about his final twenty-four hours: that on Thursday at 10:47 A.M. he’d used a computer. I am lucky, I suppose, that those words were my final contact.
The police put out a request for help:
Anyone with information about the incident is encouraged to contact Criminal Gang/Homicide Group, 77th Homicide Squad Detectives R. Guzman and K. White at 213-485-1383. During off-hours, calls may be directed to a 24-hour, toll-free number at 1-877-LAPD-24-7 (527-3247). Callers may also text “Crimes” with a cell phone or log on to www.lapdonline.org and click on Web tips. When using a cell phone, all messages should begin with “LAPD.” Tipsters may remain anonymous.
Beyond this, all we knew was that the police were looking for a woman, and that Bree, Michael’s good-looking hair-stylist girlfriend, was nowhere to be found. Nor, presumably, was her gold Mercedes.