Destination by James Ellroy Page B

black Houston.
    The strip malls were old. The houses were shabby. Triple locks and window bars reigned.
    The color scheme held. Southwest shades abundant. The bars and steel doors clashed.
    Witness Skillern didn’t call. We left a card in her mailbox. Witness Hubbard didn’t call. We left a card on his door.
    It was hot. Pedestrians walked slow. Houston was heat-warped.
    We drove by the alibi alley. We drove to the Safeway. We logged six miles between.
    The Safeway was defunct. The building was a new-car show-room.
    We toured the parking lot. We toured in daylight.
    I turned off the sun. I turned on the night lights. I added vintage cars.
    I added flustered witnesses. I saw what they saw.
    Witness Skillern sees Gary Graham. Graham’s 5′9″. Graham is thin.
    Witness Grady sees a man. He’s “tall and slim.” He wears a white sport coat.
    Witness Amos sees a man. He’s “in his twenties.”
    Witness Etuk sees a man. He wears black slacks and a white blazer. Windows blur his face.
    Witness Hubbard sees a man. He’s 5′5″, 130. He’s “in his early twenties.” He hides his face.
    Three boys see a local dude. They recognize him. They provide no other description.
    The initial statements cohere on clothing. The initial statements diverge on height.
    Subsequent affidavits recohere.
    Witness Etuk—’93 affidavit—less than 5′6″. Witness Amos— ’93 affidavit—5′4″. Witness Stephens—’93 affidavit—5′5″. Witness Wilkerson—’93 affidavit—shorter than the 5′6″ victim.
    Ambiguous. A partial consensus in 1981. A greater retrospective consensus.
    I said it was all fucked up.
    Rick praised indoor murders.
    We braced Alfonzo McDonald. We braced him at his pad.
    His family watched. They ran the TV concurrent.
    Rich charmed them. He played up his white beard. He said he was Saint Nick in disguise.
    We questioned McDonald. He offered this story:
    He’s eight years old. He’s in his mother’s wagon.
    He’s with Leodis and James. He sees a tussle. The white guy’s shorter and heavier than the black guy.
    He hears shots. The white man runs in the store. The black man runs away.
    The cops quizzed Leodis mostly. Leodis was twelve. Some cops came around. Some cops displayed pictures.
    That’s all he knew. He was a kid then.
    WE BRACED SHERIAN ETUK. She offered this story:
    She was a fast checker. She worked the express line. She got bored. She watched people for fun.
    5/13/81:
    She’s checking. She’s got downtime. She looks out the window.
    She sees a man. She thinks he’s cute. She studies him.
    He’s black. He’s short. He’s muscular. He’s dark complected. He’s wearing a turtleneck. He’s wearing dark pants and a tan jacket. It might be vice versa.
    He’s late 20s/early 30s. He’s got a low-cut Afro.
    She’s inside. He’s outside. He’s leaning on a column.
    She’s checking. He’s loitering. She peeks at him. She peeks ten to thirty minutes.
    Their eyes meet. He’s good-looking. He’s well-dressed.
    She’s checking. She’s bored. An old girl’s counting coins.
    She looks outside. She hears a “pop!” She sees muzzle light.
    A white man staggers up.
    He makes the store. He collapses. The cute man walks off.
    She transfers to another store. She fears reprisals. The killer might be a “hit man.”
    Her account contradicted her initial account. She said she never saw the man’s face.
    I said it was all fucked up.
    Rick said hit men were out. Serial killers were in.
    RON MOCK HAD asuite downtown. His office was Black History Month.
    Wall paintings. Photos. Malcolm X and Dr. King. Muhammad Ali.
    Mock was gracious. Mock was feisty. Mock was blunt.
    Mock said, “Gary Graham’s a dumb-ass son of a bitch.”
    Mock said, “His lawyers educated him to be