‘Correct. She also told us that Mr. Wilford was his normal self that night and that he didn’t seem concerned, or troubled, or anything at all. She said that she had no reason to worry.’
‘Did she know if he went straight home that night?’ Garcia tried.
‘We did ask her exactly that,’ Cohen confirmed, his attention pinging to his screen for a moment. ‘She said that she had no idea, but she did tell us that sometimes, after a shift, instead of going home, Mr. Wilford would go to one of two underground drinking dens – The Hole in the Ground, in the Fashion District, or Bottoms Up, in the Art District.’
‘I’ve never heard of them.’ Garcia frowned first at Cohen then at Hunter.
‘I’m not surprised,’ Cohen agreed. ‘I didn’t know about them either because these aren’t well known or popular places. They don’t even advertise.’ He sat back on his chair and crossed his left leg over his right one. ‘Apparently, cocktail bartenders don’t really like to go drinking in the same kind of places they work at. They have their own “special hangouts”, just like us cops do. Drinks are considerably cheaper than on the high street and they stay open until quite late.’
Hunter nodded. ‘They don’t advertise because they don’t really cater for the open public – industry people only. I’ve heard of such places. For you to get in you need to show them your work ID at the door.’
‘That’s right,’ Cohen confirmed. ‘Though your LAPD badge will also get you in.’ His lips stretched into a humorless smile. ‘We checked both places. Talked to everyone we could.’ A despondent shake of the head. ‘People certainly knew who Terry Wilford was. He was a regular at both places, but no one remembered seeing him on the night in question, and before you ask, no, neither place had CCTV going. We asked, and probed, and dug just about everywhere we could… nothing. Our disappearance window never narrowed.’
‘And that window is between a quarter to two in the morning on Friday, June 21st, and his work shift starting time the next day – Saturday, June 22nd, 5:00 p.m.’ Garcia said.
‘That’s it,’ Cohen confirmed. ‘None of his neighbors could recall seeing him either, neither that Friday nor Saturday, which wasn’t unusual. People who work night shifts tend to sleep throughout most of the next day.’
‘How did he usually get home at that time in the morning?’ Hunter again. ‘Cab?’
‘No, he drove a beat-up 2008 Buick LaCrosse.’
‘They’re good cars,’ Hunter commented.
Cohen’s eyes moved to him and he frowned. ‘No, they aren’t.’
Garcia half-coughed a laugh.
Hunter knew that there was no point in arguing. ‘Was the car ever found?’
‘It was,’ Cohen told them. ‘But not until the night that he jumped from the 7th Street Bridge.’
‘Let me guess,’ Garcia interrupted. ‘Parked on the bridge?’
‘No, but very close. His car was parked on the corner of South Mission Road and East 7th Place – less than two hundred yards from the bridge.’
‘Was there a note found?’ Hunter again. ‘Either on him or in his car?’
‘Nope. Nothing. But that isn’t unusual. Especially with loners like Terry Wilford. People like that simply don’t feel the need to explain their decision.’ Cohen shrugged. ‘To whom would they be explaining it, anyway? Many of these lone suiciders feel that no one really cares. In many cases, that’s the reason why they’re doing it.’ Cohen swiveled his chair around to face the north-wall photo board. ‘Unfortunately, Detectives, the ugly truth about so many of these people – so many of these faces you can see here – is that they’ve gone missing out of their own choice. They don’t wanna be found.’
Hunter and Garcia didn’t object because they both knew that Detective Cohen was right. They understood that not only in the USA, but all around the world, so many of those whodisappeared – who seemingly went missing – did so because they wanted to, not because they were taken. It happened on a daily basis.
‘And that’s pretty much all we had, Detectives,’ Cohen added, using his left hand to massage his neck, while at the same time stretching back his shoulders – classic body language that he was ready to end that meeting. ‘A pieceless puzzle – no leads… no clues… nothing. Terry Wilford had simply vanished without a trace until the case solved itself when he ended his own life eight days ago.’ Once again, he lifted his hand, anticipating the question that he was sure was about to come. ‘Everyone we’ve spoken to said that, no, Terry Wilford did not appear depressed… he did not look like he was about to do what he did, but so many of them never do. I’m sure that you’re aware of that.’
Hunter had picked up on Cohen’s ‘we’re done here’ body language, but he wasn’t quite through yet. ‘Any indications that he was struggling financially?’
‘None whatsoever. We checked his bank account and all transactions going back a whole year. He wasn’t a big spender.’ Cohen checked his watch before opening his top-left drawer and reaching for the packet of cigarettes inside it. ‘Like I’ve said, whatever was troubling Terry Wilford, unfortunately became too much for him to handle and he gave up.’ He got to his feet and searched his pockets for a lighter.
Hunter and Garcia also got up from their chairs.
‘We appreciate you giving us your time, Detective Cohen,’ Hunter said. ‘It was a great help. Could we maybe get a copy of all those files?’
‘Absolutely.’ Cohen nodded at both detectives, reaching for the keyboard on his desk. ‘I can do it now.’ He clicked a couple of times, typed, then clicked again. ‘Done.’
‘Very much appreciated,’ Garcia said, as they turned to leave.
‘Detectives.’ Cohen paused them just as they were about tore-enter the partition labyrinth. ‘Can I ask – what’s the interest in Mr. Wilford? Was he linked to a UVC case?’
Hunter and Garcia exchanged a quick look.
