“May I take this?”
“Of course, Mr. Cole. I printed it for you.”
Beth Lawrence walked me out. Forty-three hundred acres of steep slopes, canyons, and tourist attractions was a lot to search, but I had a good idea where to find him.
The coroner investigator’s notes contained a hand-drawn map of the park. A tiny “x” marked the exact location where Rachel Belle Bohlen’s body was found. The killers knew where to look, but I needed the map.
I hoped he didn’t go back.
I hoped he was still alive.
I called Joe as I drove.
40
Jared Walker Philburn
Jared was walking up Hillhurst Avenue on his usual route, collecting plastic bottles and aluminum cans from refuse bins, when a man called out behind him.
“Sir! Wait up!”
Jared turned and was horrified to see a young gentleman running toward him. Jared lurched sideways and prepared for the blow, but the young man stopped and offered a large white paper bag.
“For you. Enjoy it.”
Jared took the bag suspecting a ploy, a snake inside or poop, but the young gentleman seemed pleasant enough. He smiled and walked away.
Jared carefully opened the bag and peeked at the contents.
“Holy moly rockin’ rolly!”
The bag was filled with food. Six tacos, two burritos, and six plastic containers of salsa. Too much to eat in a single sitting and far too delicate to brave the day’s heat, Jared opted for home. He could store the young man’s generosity in the cool confines of the shade and feast at his leisure.
Jared cashed his recyclables at the nearest purveyor and hurried up Hillhurst and into the park. He passed the golf course and the Theatre and didn’t notice the dusty red pickup parked beside the filthy white SUV facing the road. He did not see the driver with the ponytail or the driver with the wraparound sunglasses, but the drivers saw Jared.
They started their vehicles.
41
Elvis Cole
Rachel’s body had been found below one of the two streets leading to the observatory. The observatory’s parking lots were crowded when I arrived. Drivers had parked along the road, forcing walkers and joggers to dodge tourists who’d come for the views. I parked a quarter-mile away and walked back. Rachel Bohlen’s final resting place was easy to find. Removing her body had left an obvious path of broken chaparral, flattened sage, and disturbed soil from the chaparral below to the top of the slope.
The light-colored vehicle would have been parked nearby. The killers had lifted her body over a guardrail, carried her to the edge of the slope, and heaved her over. One of the park’s old streetlights was only a few feet away, so either the lamp didn’t work or the people who dumped her believed the park was deserted. They had fallen for the illusion. Venture into a canyon and you could forget you were surrounded by millions of people.
Her body had been dumped on a short stretch of street bracketed by sharp curves at either end. Jared couldn’t have seen them if he’d been in the canyon below or beyond the curves. He needed to be in a line-of-sight view and he needed to be close. This left a small stand of trees near a turnoff to the observatory and a steep upslope shoulder directly across the street. The shoulder was too steep to climb, but appeared to flatten about twenty feet above the road.
I walked east searching for a path up, but the slope only grew steeper. When I reached the far curve I turned back and found a weathered erosion cut. The cut climbed a dip in the slope and wound behind the shoulder.
The path was a slippery mix of crumbling soil and dislodged rocks between hulking balls of coastal sage. I passed between gnarly oaks, pushed through some sage, and reached a flat area crowning the shoulder. I went to the edge. Rachel Belle Bohlen had been found in the brush directly below me.
Scattered footprints dotted the clearing, but no fires had been built and the area was free of litter and trash. It might be a place where hikers admired the view, but it didn’t look like a campsite.
I called out.
“Mr. Philburn? Are you here?”
Maybe he’d never been here. Or maybe he returned for his things as Beth Lawrence believed and would never return.
I called louder.
“I come in peace.”
I didn’t expect an answer. I just wanted to say it.
I circled the clearing and spotted the faded remains of a rusted water tank beyond the ridge above me. A narrow path led up to the tank, so I followed it, circled the tank, and peered inside. The rusted metal was layered with faded graffiti, but I saw no evidence of habitation, recent or otherwise.
I spotted a pop of blue between the branches of a gnarled scrub oak on my way down. The change of angle was revealing. A tightly rolled sleeping bag and faded blue duffel were hidden beneath the oak. I did not want to search his belongings, but I did. A thin billfold beneath his clothes held three worn photographs, his teenage driver’s license, seven library cards from seven cities, and forty-two dollars. The driver’s license had been issued to Jared W. Philburn. The billfold was folded around a page torn from a small spiral notebook. The page bore a note written in square block letters.