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Authors: Chris Carter
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Hancock Park is one of the most affluent and desirable areas in all of Southern California. In sharp contrast to most Los Angeles neighborhoods, houses in Hancock Park are set well back from the street, most power and telephone lines are buried, and fences are strongly discouraged. As Hunter turned into Fremont Place, it became obvious that invasion of privacy wasn’t one of the area’s main concerns.
The house’s half-moon-shaped driveway was paved in cobble block and merged into a parking area large enough for two buses. At the center of it stood a massive stone fountain. The sun was just reaching the horizon, and the sky behind the terracotta brick two-story house was being painted in ‘photo moment’ fiery red streaks. Hunter parked his car and climbed out.
The front door was answered by a woman in her mid-fifties. She was a picture of elegance, with longish hair neatly tied in a ponytail, a magnetic smile, and skin most women half her age would kill for. She introduced herself as Denise Mitchell and showed Hunter into a study rich with art, antiques, and leather-bound books. Standing before a tall mahogany sideboard crowded with photographs was a stocky man, a donut shy of being fat. He was at least half a foot shorter than Hunter with a full head of disheveled gray hair and a matching moustache.
‘You must be the detective I spoke to on the phone,’ he said offering his hand. ‘I’m Roy Mitchell.’
His handshake was as practiced as his smile, strong enough to show strength of character but soft enough not to intimidate. Hunter showed him his credentials and Roy Mitchell tensed.
‘Oh God.’
His whisper wasn’t quiet enough to escape his wife’s ears. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, moving closer, her eyes pleading for information.
‘Can you give us a moment, honey,’ Roy replied, trying in vain to conceal his concern.
‘No, I’m not giving you a moment,’ Denise said, her stare now fixed on Hunter. ‘I want to know what happened. What information do you have on my daughter?’
‘Denise, please.’
‘I’m not going anywhere, Roy.’ Her eyes never left Hunter. ‘Did you find my daughter? Is she OK?’
Roy Mitchell looked away.
‘What’s going on, Roy? What got you so spooked?’
No reply.
‘Somebody talk to me.’ Her voice faltered.
‘I’m not with the Missing Persons Unit, Mrs. Mitchell,’ Hunter finally offered, showing her his credentials once again. This time she looked at them a lot more attentively than she had at the door.
‘Oh my God, you’re from Homicide?’ She cupped her hands over her nose and mouth as tears filled her eyes.
‘There’s a chance that I’m in the wrong house,’ Hunter said in a steady but comforting voice.
‘What?’ Denise’s hands started shaking.
‘Maybe we should all have a seat.’ Hunter indicated the leather Chesterfield sofa by a six-foot-tall Victorian lampshade.
The Mitchells took the sofa and Hunter one of the two armchairs facing it.
‘At the moment we’re trying to identify someone who shares several physical characteristics with your daughter,’ Hunter explained. ‘Laura’s name is one of four which have come up as a possible match.’
‘As a possible match to a homicide victim?’ Roy asked, placing a hand on his wife’s knee.
‘Unfortunately, yes.’
Denise started crying.
Roy took a deep breath. ‘I gave the other detective a very recent picture of Laura, do you have it?’
Hunter nodded.
‘And still you can’t be sure if this victim of yours is Laura?’ Denise asked, her mascara starting to run down her face. ‘How come?’
Roy clamped his eyes shut for an instant and a single tear rolled to the tip of his nose. Hunter could see he’d already picked up on the possibility of the victim being unrecognizable. ‘So you’re here to ask us for a blood sample for a DNA test?’ he said.
It was obvious that Roy Mitchell was a lot more clued up on police procedures than most people. Since the
Hancock Park is one of the most affluent and desirable areas in all of Southern California. In sharp contrast to most Los Angeles neighborhoods, houses in Hancock Park are set well back from the street, most power and telephone lines are buried, and fences are strongly discouraged. As Hunter turned into Fremont Place, it became obvious that invasion of privacy wasn’t one of the area’s main concerns.
The house’s half-moon-shaped driveway was paved in cobble block and merged into a parking area large enough for two buses. At the center of it stood a massive stone fountain. The sun was just reaching the horizon, and the sky behind the terracotta brick two-story house was being painted in ‘photo moment’ fiery red streaks. Hunter parked his car and climbed out.
The front door was answered by a woman in her mid-fifties. She was a picture of elegance, with longish hair neatly tied in a ponytail, a magnetic smile, and skin most women half her age would kill for. She introduced herself as Denise Mitchell and showed Hunter into a study rich with art, antiques, and leather-bound books. Standing before a tall mahogany sideboard crowded with photographs was a stocky man, a donut shy of being fat. He was at least half a foot shorter than Hunter with a full head of disheveled gray hair and a matching moustache.
‘You must be the detective I spoke to on the phone,’ he said offering his hand. ‘I’m Roy Mitchell.’
His handshake was as practiced as his smile, strong enough to show strength of character but soft enough not to intimidate. Hunter showed him his credentials and Roy Mitchell tensed.
‘Oh God.’
His whisper wasn’t quiet enough to escape his wife’s ears. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked, moving closer, her eyes pleading for information.
‘Can you give us a moment, honey,’ Roy replied, trying in vain to conceal his concern.
‘No, I’m not giving you a moment,’ Denise said, her stare now fixed on Hunter. ‘I want to know what happened. What information do you have on my daughter?’
‘Denise, please.’
‘I’m not going anywhere, Roy.’ Her eyes never left Hunter. ‘Did you find my daughter? Is she OK?’
Roy Mitchell looked away.
‘What’s going on, Roy? What got you so spooked?’
No reply.
‘Somebody talk to me.’ Her voice faltered.
‘I’m not with the Missing Persons Unit, Mrs. Mitchell,’ Hunter finally offered, showing her his credentials once again. This time she looked at them a lot more attentively than she had at the door.
‘Oh my God, you’re from Homicide?’ She cupped her hands over her nose and mouth as tears filled her eyes.
‘There’s a chance that I’m in the wrong house,’ Hunter said in a steady but comforting voice.
‘What?’ Denise’s hands started shaking.
‘Maybe we should all have a seat.’ Hunter indicated the leather Chesterfield sofa by a six-foot-tall Victorian lampshade.
The Mitchells took the sofa and Hunter one of the two armchairs facing it.
‘At the moment we’re trying to identify someone who shares several physical characteristics with your daughter,’ Hunter explained. ‘Laura’s name is one of four which have come up as a possible match.’
‘As a possible match to a homicide victim?’ Roy asked, placing a hand on his wife’s knee.
‘Unfortunately, yes.’
Denise started crying.
Roy took a deep breath. ‘I gave the other detective a very recent picture of Laura, do you have it?’
Hunter nodded.
‘And still you can’t be sure if this victim of yours is Laura?’ Denise asked, her mascara starting to run down her face. ‘How come?’
Roy clamped his eyes shut for an instant and a single tear rolled to the tip of his nose. Hunter could see he’d already picked up on the possibility of the victim being unrecognizable. ‘So you’re here to ask us for a blood sample for a DNA test?’ he said.
It was obvious that Roy Mitchell was a lot more clued up on police procedures than most people. Since the
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