Bj. and Bob conduct interviews. They go over minute points of perspective and indoor and outdoor lighting repeatedly. Questions are phrased and rephrased; answers are cross-checked against the three preliminary statements. A single short narrative emerges.
At 8:20 P.M., three black teenagers enter the video store. They behave in a raucous fashion; Li Mei Wu tells them to leave. The kids peruse the skin-flick section and touch numerous fingerp rintsustaining surfaces. They walk to the laundry, behave in a raucous fashion, return to the video store and approach Li Mei Wu. One boy says, “Give me your money, bitch!” One boy pulls a rifle from under his clothes and shoots Li Mei Wu–just like that.
It’s Christmas morning now. Yuletide greetings, Bulldogs– your new case is senseless blasphemy on this day of peace and joyous celebration.
Days pass. Bejarano and Perry work the Li Mci Wu snuff.
They interview four more witnesses and get their basic scenario confirmed. They run mug shots by the witnesses and come up empty. They run a previous-incident check on the video store– and hit just a little bit lucky.
The place was robbed in November, while Li Mei Wu was working the counter. The perpetrators: three black teenagers.
The same kids robbed a nearby pizza joint that same November night. Li Mei Wu ID’s one boy as the grandson of one of her customers. Deputies went by the family pad to grab him–butJunior was long gone.
Bj. and Bob think the December incident report through. One fact stands out: Li Mei Wu hit the silent alarm when she was robbed in November–but did not rush for it on the night of her death. She obviously did not recognize the kids as the kids who robbed her the previous month. Bejarano and Perry get their gut feeling confirmed: The murder was committed by local punks. The killers ran away on a rainy night–they didn’t have a car and got soaked dispersing back to their pads. One robbery threesome; one trio of killers. Word would be out in the neighborhood–and loose talk would give them a good shot at solving the case.
While other cases accumulate.
There’s a big post-Christmas murder lull. Entire on-call shifts are rotating through sans killings. The lunchroom tree is wilting under the weight of decomposed fake snow.
Bulldog eyes are bloodshot. Bulldog waistlines have expanded. High-octane coffee can’t jolt Bulldog talk out of a desultory ripple.
Rey Verdugo’s recalling other murder lulls. A few years ago the County of Los Angeles went nine days without a single murder. One of Rey’s buddies put a sign reading KILL! in the squad-room window. Sheriff’s Homicide notched twelve righteous whack-outs over the next twenty-four hours.
Dave Dietrich’s showing off some threads he got for Christmas. His wife reads men’s fashion mags and shops for him accordingly. You’d call him “Dave the Dude”–if he didn’t look so much like a college professor.
Bill Sieber’s drinking Slim-Fast in anticipation of his New Year’s diet. He’s monologuing between sips–in an uncharacteristically subdued fashion. Ray Peavy and Derry Benedict are discussing the Christmas party at Stevens Steak House. Ray worked the bash as a disc jockey–between his regular off-duty deejay gigs.
Talk shifts to famous unsolved murders. Derry brings up his favorite: the 1944 Georgette Bauerdorf job. When he retires he’s going to write a novel about the case.
Louie Danoff and Rey Verdugo compare shaved heads. Gary Miller pokes at a cookie like it’s a hot turd.
The killers of Carlos and Delia Guevara, Donna Lee Meyers, and Li Mei Wu are still at large. Soon the year’s murder tally will stop–and a new list will begin.
Nineteen ninety-four winds up three short of the all-time murder high. Gunfire rings in 1995–celebratory shots all over the county.
Gunshots and firecracker pops start to sound alike. The locals get used to the noise but expect it to diminish before January 2.
Five shots explode at 6:45 New Year’s night. The location is California and Hill, in the city of Huntington Park.
The shots are very loud. The shots in no way, shape, matter, or form sound like anything short of heavy-duty gunfire.
The shots have a gang-killing timbre–maybe the H.P. Brats and H.P. Locos are at it again. A dozen people on Hill Street call the Huntington Park PD.