Microphones and Murder Read online

  “Amelia was a nice kid,” Richard said. “She was athletic. Played sports all through school.”

  I waited for him to continue but he didn’t. “Did she have other hobbies?”

  “She painted. The chef on the window is her work. She did that in high school.”

  This warmed my heart. I made a mental note to take a picture of the window to post on our website. “She was very talented,” I said.

  “Yes.”

  “Can you tell us about the week she disappeared?”

  “Janet and I were at a convention in San Francisco all week and returned late Friday evening. We called her several times. Went by her apartment. When we were unable to get a hold of her for several days, we called the police to file a report.” His voice was monotonic. You could tell this was a story he’d had to repeat hundreds of times before. “A week later they found her car with all her stuff inside. She’d been having a hard time and we thought she had taken off. But the police found blood on the seat and steering wheel and opened an investigation.”

  “Did you see the YouTube video?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  I rephrased. “What do you think of the video?”

  “People around town said she had a mental breakdown, some said she was anorexic.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “I think anyone who posts a video of a person with the intent to make fun of them deserves to be shot.”

  Wow. Okay. I could tell he meant it. Which brought me to the next question. “Have the police told you who posted the video?”

  “No.”

  “Have you tried to find out yourself?”

  “No.”

  “Have you talked to Detective LeClare recently?”

  “Yes.”

  Richard had a barbed wire, ten-foot high, impenetrable wall constructed around him. I hoped that, as episodes were released, and we were able to create more buzz, he’d be more open to talking because this was painful.

  “Do you know a man named Carlos Hermosa?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  I rephrased. “Who is Carlos Hermosa?”

  “He was her neighbor.”

  “So he was your neighbor, too?” I asked, confused. I thought Amelia lived at home.

  “No, Amelia lived at Santa Maria Way Apartments.”

  “How long had she been on her own?” I leaned across the table, better positioning the mic hidden in my shirt. Not that I would use this interview in the show without Richard’s permission, but so I could reference it later for information.

  “About three months.”

  Episode Three

  A Runner

  Carlos Hermosa could be a white rabbit leading us to a dead end, or he could hold all the answers. Either way, he was the only lead we had.

  So down the rabbit hole we went.

  Amelia’s old apartment was located in your typical eighties inspired apartment building. Ordinary. Bland. Nondescript.

  Which made describing it hard.

  “Santa Maria Way Apartments is a two-story building with a grass courtyard,” I said into the recorder. Camry and I were standing out front near a bus stop. “Each apartment has a patio attached and...” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “What do you call a building with those plank things on the side?” I asked Camry.

  She looked at me, then at the building, then at her phone. “Let’s ask the Internet. ‘What are those plank things on the side of the building called’?” she said out loud as she typed. “And...according to Google they are called clapboard. It’s a clapboard building.” Camry turned her phone to show me.

  “That’s a log house.”

  “It’s not a log house. Look closer.” She zoomed in and, yeah, she was right, it was a clapboard building.

  “Sorry.” I cleared my throat and continue. “A beige clapboard building, weathered, dull. I feel like a good analogy would work here.” My brain was fried. “Dull like...like...”

  “Like a twenty-minute description of a beige clapboard building everyone will fifteen-second skip through?”

  “You’re not helpful. I’m world building.”

  “I understand what you’re doing,” Camry said with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. “You’re attempting to narrate like Mara does on Cold in America with all her pointless analogies. ‘The car hops like a fat pigeon about to take flight,’ or ‘the lake glistens like a freshly washed babies butt.’”

  For the record, Mara had never used the pigeon analogy.

  The butt, yes.

  “No one cares what the apartment building looks like,” Camry said. “They want to know about the surrounding area. Is it sketchy? Could its location play a role in her disappearance? I’d say something like—” She slowly turned around, taking in a 360 view. “—the apartment is located on a busy street, near a freeway off-ramp, situated between the town’s drive-in theater and a gas station. Across the street sits a private Christian School. Schools out for the day. You can see a handful of soccer practices being held on the PE field. The cheers of children are mixed in with the cacophony of cars zooming by. Or whatever you want. You’re the boss.”

  For a moment, I stood there and stared at my kid stepsister, not sure if I was in awe or irked. Likely the former. Definitely the former. I lifted the recorder to my mouth. “Amelia’s apartment is located on Santa Maria Way, situated between the town’s drive-in theater and a gas station.”

  I kept the recorder on while we searched for unit 42B—Amelia’s old apartment. The original management company went under in 2010, and her property manager died in 2015. Our sole purpose for this visit was to get a visual of where Amelia spent her last days and to snap pictures for the website—if we happened to run into Carlos Hermosa—perfect. But over ten years later, there was a slim chance he still lived there.

  Apartment 42B was the furthest unit from the street. A neighborhood of modest homes sat on the other side of the property line wall. I could see the top of a man’s head walking slowly across and heard the roar of a lawnmower. The aroma of freshly cut grass filled the air, and I couldn’t help but wonder how the homeowners felt about having an apartment complex as their backyard neighbors.

  Unit 42B shared at least two walls and had an apartment directly below. Leon said there was no sign of a struggle in her home, but it was worth noting that if something would have happened here, it seemed unlikely there’d be no witnesses.

  Of course, at the time, Carlos Hermosa was in one of those four units.

  Which one? I had no idea. And Richard was of no help.

  Down a short walkway was apartment 42B’s covered parking space—less than twenty feet from her front door. I snapped a few pictures, took video of the walkway, and recorded description I’ll likely never use, but it was better to have too much material than not enough. And if today was an indication of how this case would go, I may need to dedicate an entire episode to world building.

  “We need to find more people to interview or this investigation is going nowhere,” I said to Camry. “We need high school friends. A prom date. Anyone she played sports with. Childhood neighbor. Someone who can give us insight into who Amelia was and her frame of mind the weeks leading up to her disappearance.” I’d sent a Facebook message to the Righetti High School Class of 2003 group, but had yet to get a response.

  “Oh! Oh! Oh! I got it!” Camry flapped her hands like a fat pigeon attempting to take flight (I may need to use that analogy in an episode). “I know the best place to find more people to interview. A Facebook mom’s group. My mom is part of one in San Diego.” Camry had her phone out, her fingers flying across the screen. “You can sell your old stuff, ask for advice, post current events, ask questions about lactating and crap like that. You know, mom stuff.”

  It took a minute for the brilliantness of her idea to sink in. “Holy hell,
that’s genius! Everyone who grew up with Amelia and went to school with her is in their early- to mid-thirties now. They’re probably moms.”

  “And old people love Facebook!”

  “I wouldn’t call early- to mid-thirties old.” Especially since I was nearing thirty myself.

  “Found it,” said Camry, almost signing. “California Central Coast Mom’s Group, they have over sixteen thousand members. By the way, I’m using your Facebook account.”

  “That’s...wait, what? Why don’t you use your own?”

  “I don’t have Facebook and your profile pic is of you and Taylor.”

  Taylor was my niece. She was eight. In the picture she was an hour old. I hadn’t updated my profile in years. I used Facebook for research only and...wait a second. “How’d you access my Facebook account?”

  “‘Cause you have the same password for everything,” she said as if it were obvious.

  “How do you know my password?”

  “Not important...request submitted. They won’t approve it until I’ve agreed to the rules.” She scrolled. “There are a lot of rules. Over fifty. No mommy shaming. Self-promoting is limited to once a month. Admins reserve the right to delete posts. No posting about deleted posts. Sale items...yada...yada...yada...Geez, moms have a lot of rules. Okay, submitted and...I guess it takes a minute to be accepted.” She pouted. “I like instant gratification.”

  Don’t we all? “Let’s get back to Hazel’s and attempt to organize Leon’s notes.”

  “And eat. I’m starving.”

  “Really? After everything that’s happened today, I don’t think I could eat.”

  “Yeah, you wouldn’t.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I dunno, I just felt like saying it.”

  As we turned to leave, a woman in pink scrubs pounded up the stairs to apartment 42B. Her arm was wrapped around a brown grocery bag, which she balanced on her hip while she unlocked the door.

  Camry and I shared a look, both thinking the same thing.

  Up the stairs we went. One-by-one. Camry knocked while I switched on the recorder. The door opened and the pink scrub-wearing woman answered. Per the name embroidered above the breast pocket, this was Susan.

  I greeted her with an exaggerated smile. “My name is Liv Olsen, and this is Camry Lewis. We’re doing a podcast series on the disappearance of Amelia Clark, the woman who used to live in this apartment.” I pulled a business card from my pocket and handed it to her. If I were lucky, she’d allow us in to have a look around. If I were unlucky, she’d call the cops.

  Susan looked as if she’d just swallowed a fly. “Who disappeared?”

  “Her name was Amelia Clark, she lived here in 2008,” I said.

  Susan scratched the back of her head. “Never heard of her...wait! Is that the YouTube chick who took off?”

  “Yes,” I said. “She used to live in your apartment.”

  “Seriously? The manager never told me that.” Susan grimaced and looked over her shoulder, as if making sure Amelia wasn’t standing behind her. “You should probably talk to my downstairs neighbor, Carlos. He’s lived here forever. He might have known her.”

  My breath hitched in my chest. “Carlos Hermosa does still live here?”

  “Yeah.” Susan checked her nail beds. “He’s a total jerk.”

  Camry and I said goodbye and flew down the stairs to apartment 41A. I could hardly believe my luck. What are the odds?

  Carlos’ patio was filled with sun worn toys that spilled out into the walkway, and I jumped over a sand bucket. Camry pounded on the door with a little too much vigor, but her knocks were muted by the television.

  I rang the bell, twice.

  No answer.

  I leaned over the patio. The glass slider was open, and the screen was closed.

  I cupped my mouth. “Hello! Anyone home!”

  The television muted. “Get the damn door!” yelled a woman.

  A man grunted. A kid screamed. The door opened. It was a guy who looked about as weathered as the patio toys. Balding, potbelly, wrinkled around the eyes, a tank top so tight I could see the indent from his belly button, dark sleeve tattoos on his right arm of a skull, an eagle, the names Presley and Ensley written in block lettering, and on the upper bicep was a pineapple. It was the only tattoo in color.

  I guessed this was Carlos.

  “We aren’t church going people” he said and swung the door shut.

  I rang the bell. The door reopened. Carlos was not amused.

  “We’re not proselytizing,” I said in a hurry. “We’re looking for Carlos Hermosa. Are you him?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Your neighbor upstairs told us to come talk to—”

  “She called management!” He stepped outside in his bare feet and looked up. “Why don’t you come downstairs and deal with it yourself!”

  “Wow, hey now.” I stepped in front of Carlos.

  “You say something to me?” Susan poked her head over the railing.

  Carlos pointed up to her. “If you got a problem you can come tell me directly to my face.”

  Camry reached for Carlos’ arm and he flinched back. “Don’t put your hands on me.”

  Well, this escalated quickly.

  “She didn’t say anything,” I said.

  Carlos ignored me.

  “You leave the toys in front of my stairwell and it’s a tripping hazard.” Susan’s entire upper torso was now hanging over the side of the railing, and I feared she would tumble over.

  “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?”

  “Learn to control your kids!”

  “That’s it!” Carlos clapped his hands. I had no idea what clapping meant, but neither Camry nor I were physically able to break up this fight. Especially Camry, who was now taking video with her phone.

  I shoved the recorder under my arm, stuck my fingers into my mouth and let out a high-pitched whistle. This got their attention.

  “Cool it, both of you!” I yelled. “We are not here from management; we’re podcasters doing a series on Amelia Clark.”

  Carlos stumbled backwards. “Did you say Amelia Clark?”

  The upstairs door slammed shut. Guess we’re done with Susan.

  “Yes, we’ve been told you knew her,” I said.

  Carlos took a step closer and peered down at me. I tried not to shrink. “You’re doing a podcast about Millie?”

  Camry was still recording video.

  “So you did know Amelia then,” I said.

  “Yeah, I knew her. Knew her enough to know she went by Millie not Amelia.” Like Richard, his words were sharp. Unlike Richard, he was not charming.

  “Would you be willing to sit down and speak with us? Now, or whenever is convenient for you.”

  Carlos spit into the flowerbed and wiped his mouth with the backside of his hand. “What’s the name of this show?”

  “It’s called Missing or Murdered,” I said.

  Carlos pulled his phone from the front pocket of his jeans. He tapped the screen with his pointer finger until he found what he was looking for. “Apple has never heard of ya.”

  “That’s because this is our first season. But we’re fully dedicated to this project.”

  “How dedicated are you?” he asked, like he’d just initiated a challenge.

  I held the recorder up higher.

  “I quit my job, sold most of my belongings, borrowed money from family, and came here indefinitely. That’s how dedicated,” I said. “Speaking of which, I’m recording this conversation.”

  Carlos jerked his head. “Why? I told the police everything in 2008. And I retell them every few years when they take interest in the case again. I ain’t got nothing more to say about it.”

  “See, the problem is the police w
on’t release the case file. So I don’t know what you told them,” I said. “And those listening to this won’t know either.”

  Carlos was stoned faced. Not a flinch of an eye, not a flair of a nostril. “Millie was my neighbor. We were friendly. Last I saw her was the Monday before she disappeared. We met for lunch during my break.”

  “Where did you work?” I asked.

  “Construction.”

  “What was the name of the company?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “Where did you two have lunch?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “What street was it off of?”

  “Not sure.”

  Great. The first person I interviewed today died. The second gave one-word answers. The third had selective amnesia.

  I need to work on my interviewing skills.

  “Look, Carlos,” I said, trying to reason. “Your name has come up during our investigation and this is an opportunity for you to clear up any misunderstanding.”

  “There’s nothing to clear up. I don’t know anything. Never have.”

  I didn’t believe him—but, oddly enough, I didn’t completely distrust him either.

  Honestly, I had no idea what to make of Carlos.

  “What was Amelia’s mood when you two had lunch?” I asked.

  “Some prick with a camera posted a humiliating video of her. How do you think she was doing?”

  “I imagine she felt embarrassed,” I said.

  “So why ask if you already know?”

  “Because I don’t know. It’s a guess. I want a first-hand account from someone who was with her during that time.”

  “She was embarrassed,” he said.

  “Can you tell us what Amelia was like? Her personality. Interests?” I asked.

  “She was funny. Strong. Impulsive. Artistic. Liked to decorate. A runner. Stubborn.”

  A runner? This was new.

  “Where would she run and how often?” I asked.

  “She’d run a few times a day, mostly up and down Santa Maria Way.”

  “A day?” Camry choked out.

  “Yeah, she was training for a New Year’s Day marathon.”