Outside the sun begins to set as I hop in my Uber, an unexpected dread brewing inside me as I head to Nick’s to play out the last step of my plan.
Around West Hollywood I catch sight of what I’ve been looking for through the car window and ask the driver to pull over. I trot back along the sidewalk to an old public phone booth and pull out the crinkled scrap of paper with the phone number. It’s the LAPD twenty-four-hour anonymous hotline, anyone can call in and report a crime anonymously.
I’m calling Marla in then running. I curse myself for not having done so from day one instead of getting back in contact with Officer Cortez. But what’s done is done and I don’t have time to berate myself now. I’ll have an eleven-hour flight to do that. I take a breath and key in the tip-off number.
An automated system tells me to disclose the state, city, or area I am calling in relation to then asks me to hold for an operator.
A fizz of fear flutters through my veins when suddenly I’m connected to a human voice.
“Crime Stoppers USA, how can I help you?” a female voice intones. The immediate reality of a person on the end of the line, and the question, throws me for a second. I have to actively reassure myself that there is no possible way she could know who, or where, I am. Or what I’ve done.
“I’d like to report a crime,” I stutter.
“Okay, ma’am, and what’s the location you’re calling for?”
I tell her and she redirects my call. Another woman answers, her voice bright.
“Los Angeles Regional, how can I assist you?”
“I’d like to report—something.”
“Okay…” she prompts.
“There’s a body.” The words sound awkward and harsh. “It’s in the ravine in Griffith Park. Beneath the sign.”
“I see,” she says, her tone sober, careful. “And are you there at the scene?”
“No. I was hiking earlier. I saw her in the ravine.”
“It was a woman you saw? Can I ask when this was?”
“This morning.”
“And the body is female?”
“Yes.”
“Did you call an ambulance at the scene?”
“She must be dead,” I hear myself say, the facts bald and heartless. “I think she’d fallen. A long way. She must be dead. Somebody needs to go and get her.” I recoil at my own choice of words but it will not serve the situation to be emotional.
“I understand, I’m sorry you had to witness that, that must have been traumatic.” I’m sure her consoling words must follow a call-center script but I still find them a comfort. “If you can give me as exact a location as you can, then we can get someone down there as soon as possible. I can give you details of a counselor if you feel you need to talk to somebody about what you witnessed today?”
I decline but tell her as accurately as I can where to find Marla. I can only pray that given the relatively short time she has been outside in the elements someone, somewhere, will be able to identify her. I give the operator as much information as I can before hanging up and heading back to my waiting Uber with a fresh crime report number scrawled carefully onto the back of my scrap of paper.
* * *
—
Nick is waiting for me in his driveway. He clocks my bruised face as I get out and looks at me horrified.
“This happened just after you left my house?” he asks, clearly filled with guilt.
“Well, it happened Downtown actually. I rear-ended a garbage truck at a traffic light.” I shake my head. “I don’t know how it happened, something wrong with the car’s relay again I guess, or something. Someone explained it to me but I was out of it,” I tell him.