Burning Man

Dominic and Our Lady looked like, don’t you?”

I remembered only too well. “That concrete foundation saved my life.”

In a tone suddenly as serious as mine, Dottie said, “God saved your life.”

Even though we both knew that insurance was going to cover the repair of the statue, I said, “Forget the Benjamin and put me down for two fifty. But that donation comes with strings. Does the gift shop ship items?”

“That can be arranged.”

“In that case I want a monthly monastery candy-gram.”

Sounding all too pleased, Dottie said, “You want a box of our chocolates sent to you every month?”

“That’s what I said.”

“It worked, didn’t it? Talk about a miracle. You found a woman through that box of chocolates.”

“It wasn’t the chocolates.”

She offered up a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort and said, “Yeah, right.”

“The real miracle will be you giving me Karen Santos’s number.”

“Temperance is one of the seven heavenly virtues.”

“Right now it’s feeling a lot more like one of the seven deadly sins.”

She gave me the number.

Luck was with me-Karen Santos was home and said she would be glad to help me with my bird hunt. I waited while she turned on her computer and then directed her first to the Biola University site. As she studied their eagle she made a lot of uncertain sounds before finally saying, “It’s possible that’s the bird I saw, but I can’t be sure.”

From there she went to the Cal State, Los Angeles site, navigating from the athletic department, to a picture of the school’s mascot, to the T-shirt and sweatshirt offerings at the bookstore. With each jump of a webpage she became increasingly more enthusiastic. “The CSULA lettering looks very familiar,” she said, “and I am all but sure that’s the right eagle.”

I thanked Mrs. Santos. The eagle had landed.

Assuming Rose’s mother was a student at CSULA, I needed to find the best way to leave her a message. Since CSULA was mostly a commuter school, students would be dependent on getting their news online or from a school newspaper. I did another computer search and found the school had a student newspaper that came out every Friday called the University Times.

I started writing entries in my notepad. If I could get the student newspaper to run a story, Rose’s mother might take notice. I blocked out the story as I wanted to see it in print, omitting information I didn’t want to disclose, and embellishing on that which I wanted to play up. A cynical reporter might have said I was playing fast and loose with the facts. If I was lucky, the fledgling journalists working at the University Times weren’t old enough to be cynical.

Because Rose’s story needed a human interest angle, I decided Lisbet would fill that bill perfectly. Of course I didn’t bother to inform Lisbet of that.

I called the University Times in the hopes that some eager beaver was up against a deadline and working on a Sunday. Sylvia Espinosa, the news editor of the paper, was that eager beaver. By the sounds of it, she was the only person working the offices. When I told her I was calling about a murder with a potential tie-in to the campus, she sounded positively ecstatic.

“The only off-campus calls I usually get are from press agents trying to publicize some concert or speaker,” she said. “And this week’s on-campus stuff isn’t much more exciting. Our lead story is on a potential misuse of one hundred dollars in funds by the ASI-that’s our student government.”

“That’s not exactly grand larceny.”

“It was either that or a story on a rally attended by eight students for a history professor that was denied tenure.”

“I can see that would make for a tough choice.”

“Manna from heaven is a murder with a campus tie-in. Tell me about it.”

With her appetite whetted for some banner headline, I laid out the story for her. When I finished, I learned that Sylvia was old enough to be cynical.

“The connection with our school sounds iffy,” she said.

“There was a positive ID regarding the CSULA sweatshirt.”

“I’ve seen winos walking around wearing Cal State clothing, Detective Gideon, but that doesn’t mean they’re students here.”

“The profile of our person of interest fits the average student profile at your school.”

“It also fits me and half a million women in the LA area.”

“As you might imagine, this is a sensitive case and I’m limited in what I can tell you, but I can say that we have several significant leads that suggest Rose’s mother is, or has been, a student at CSULA.”

“And your eyewitness saw this woman carrying a covered basket near the Angels Flight landing?”

Because I didn’t want the monastery connection revealed, I had intimated that the sighting had taken place at Angels Flight, without actually saying it. Cops and the media have a strange symbiotic relationship: they use us to try and get a good story, and we try to use them to get the story we want.

“The sighting didn’t take place there, but we have a witness that offered a description of a young, heavy Hispanic woman in her late teens or early twenties. Our witness talked with this woman and said she was well spoken and didn’t have any discernible accent.”

I could hear Sylvia scratching away. “So you have more than one witness?”

“We’re talking to several people now that are assisting us in this case.”

By the sounds of it, Sylvia was continuing to scribble down all of my double-talk, but I wasn’t sure if she was buying it or was even planning on using it.

“Has your newspaper ever done a piece on the Safely Surrendered Baby Law? It’s what most people call the California Safe Haven Law.”

“Not that I remember. What is it?”

“It’s a law that allows any newborn to be dropped off at a hospital or a fire station with no questions asked. The mother doesn’t have to give her name or be fearful of any kind of punishment.”

I told her about Lisbet and her work to get the law on the books. I also mentioned her tie-in with Rose, and the Garden of Angels. That was the hook Sylvia needed. Having the makings of a human interest piece, as well as a public service feature, made her much more enthusiastic about the story. We talked for fifteen minutes, and I played up the bullet points I’d written down on my notepad, trying to spin the story of Rose and her mother as I wanted it written.

“I’d like to run this as our lead story this Friday,” Sylvia said, “but I can’t do that without pictures. I am going to need a close-up shot of Rose’s grave, and a big background shot of the Garden of Angels.”

“That would be just the thing for the story.”

“I know it would, which is why the story will have to wait. I have a hard enough time getting one of our staff photographers to do a shoot in downtown LA. No way will I be able to get one of them to agree to go out to the desert without at least a week’s notice.”

I found myself saying, “What if I was able to get you some pictures? I’ll be going to the cemetery today on police business and I am pretty good with a digital camera.”

“That sounds perfect!”

“I can probably even e-mail them to you tonight. Will that work?”

“That sounds great.”

“Will I need to do the shoot in black and white?”

“No, color is fine. Our photo editor has software that converts color shots into black and white.”

Now that she had a new lead story for the next edition, Sylvia went back to asking me questions. After grilling me for another ten minutes, she finally seemed satisfied.

“Friday’s issue is sounding a whole lot better,” she said. “I think I’ll make the safe haven story a sidebar to the death of Rose.”

“I’m sure Ms. Keane will like that,” I said and then gave her Lisbet’s numbers.

Sylvia asked for my cell number in case she had more questions. “Looks like we’ll both be working late,” she