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She knew it was him even before she was told to meet him at window four. The man, who looked to be in his early forties, shuffled to the window slowly, as if he worried that taking full strides might lead him to fall over. His graying black hair was poking in every direction. He had a good four days’ worth of stubble and though the sclera of his eyes was more red than white, they were otherwise the same as Michaela’s. As he eased himself into the chair, almost missing it, Jessie realized he was still drunk.
She walked over, sat down across from him, and picked up the phone. He just stared at her so she motioned for him to do the same. He looked confused but did as she instructed.
“Mr. Penn,” she said when he put the phone to his ear, “my name’s Jessie Hunt. I consult for the LAPD. I was hoping you could answer a few questions for me.”
“Is this about Michaela?” he asked.
“Why do you ask that?” Jessie asked, surprised.
“Because no one will tell me anything. No one even cares.”
“What do you mean?” she pressed, increasingly confused.
“I’ve been trying to find out what happened to my baby for hours now but no one has told me anything since that first cop.”
“What first cop?”
“I can’t remember his name,” Penn said, mumbling. “Constant or something. He called me last night and said my daughter had been killed in a robbery and that they would release her remains to me today. I thought someone was screwing with me so I hung up. But he called back and said it was true.”
“He just told you flat out like that?” Jessie asked, horrified.
“Yeah,” he said, his voice disconnected and flat. “He said they had positively identified her. He said I should come to the station and someone would take me to the morgue. So I drove down. But I got picked up when I got here and thrown in jail.”
“Picked up?”
He sighed deeply, as if telling this story was physically intimidating.
“Yeah,” he finally said. “You see, I was real upset. So I stopped off on the way down here—I live up in the mountains—for a drink to take the edge off. You know, in her honor.”
“Which was it?” Jessie asked, knowing she shouldn’t bait him but unable to stop herself. “To take the edge off or in her honor?”
Penn looked at her blankly, still too soused to be offended by the edge in her voice.
“Both. Anyway, one drink turned into two and I guess I lost control a little. But when I left, I came straight to Van Nuys. That’s when I got pulled over. I told them why I was here. But I couldn’t remember the name of the cop who called me and they didn’t care anyway. They just booked me and threw me in the cell. You’re the first person I’ve gotten to actually talk to me since then.”
“Mr. Penn, I just want to make sure that I’m understanding all this correctly. You’re saying that you were in Lake Arrowhead last night when you got a call from a Van Nuys police officer telling you that your daughter was murdered and you should come here. You left your home and drove here through the night, stopping at a bar for several drinks. Then you continued to Van Nuys, where you were picked up for drunk driving and taken here, where you’ve been held until now. Do I have all that right?”
“Mostly,” he said, his voice thick and slurry.
“What did I get wrong?”
“I didn’t come here from my place. I spent the weekend crashed at my buddy’s in Running Springs. But other than that, you got it.”
“You spent the last few days at a friend’s place?”
“Yeah. We were hunting and fishing and drinking and stuff.”
“Your buddy can confirm all this?” Jessie pressed.
“Sure. He’s actually kind of pissed ’cause I messed myself a bit in his extra bed.”
“I’ll need his contact information,” Jessie said.
“His name’s Buck Crowder. I don’t remember his number but it’s in my phone if you look. If you get me out of here I can show you.”
“I don’t think they’re going to let you out to show me, Mr. Penn. But I’ll look into it. Let me ask you just a few more questions. The officer who called you with the news about Michaela—was his name possibly Costabile?”
“That sounds right,” Penn said, nodding.
