Paul Alexander - Homicidal

HOMICIDAL

Paul Alexander

Copyright

HOMICIDAL

Copyright 2013 by Paul Alexander

Cover art, special contents, and Electronic Edition 2013 by RosettaBooks LLC

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

Cover jacket design by Terrence Tymon

ISBN ePub edition: 9780795333996

All of the information in this work of nonfiction is true. My reporting is based on primary and secondary sources. No dialogue has been invented.

Contents

Something smelled funny.

Donna Harris had lived on this block in South Los Angeles for most of her life. For the last three years, she had resided in a large brown bungalow on the south side of the street near Western Avenue1742 West 81st Streetbut she had grown up in a house across the street where her elderly parents still lived. She chose this bungalow because it was big enough for her familya son plus four foster childrenyet close enough to her parents so that she could care for them. Her father, William, now retired after putting in 48 years as a construction worker, was a real character. His salty language and good-natured prickliness were matched only by his astute sense of observation. Nothing got past him, and he said what he thought in direct, unvarnished terms. Donna was just like him.

On this beautiful summer dayJuly 3, 2010Donna had all the windows open in her house. It was not so hot she needed air conditioning, and, when possible, she preferred fresh air. Only today, the air was not so fresh. As morning segued into afternoon, she noticed a distinctly appalling odor. It became so bad she found herself thinking, What is that?

Eventually, Donna concluded the odor was coming from the fertilizer her next-door neighbors put on their lawn the day before. But, honestly, the smell was too strong for fertilizer, even fresh manure. It was so pungent it cut off your breath. Finally, she couldnt stand it any longer and closed the windows. Irritated, Donna, spotting her neighbors out front, decided to confront them. When she got to her porch, she saw her father in his yard. He headed for the neighbors as Donna did.

Where the hell did you get that manure from? he said. It smells like a dead person. That stinks too loud to be regular fertilizer.

The neighbors didnt understand how the fertilizer could be causing such a stench. As they were all talking, Donna spotted Lonnie Franklin, whose house was two doors down from her neighbors at 1728 West 81st Street. He was in his yard too. Donna had known Lonnie since he and his wife, Sylvia, a hard-working, church-going woman who immigrated to the United States from Belize, moved into the neighborhood in the early 1980s. Donna had been raised with Lonnies children, Christopher and Crystal, both of whom had moved off 81st Street when they grew up. Formerly a worker with the City of Los Angeles, first as a garage attendant for the nearby 77th Street Community Police Station of the Los Angeles Police Department and then as a truck operator for the Department of Sanitation, Lonnie was the neighborhood mechanic. He had three garages, all attached to one another, in his backyard where he worked. Whenever anything was wrong with your car, you took it to Lonnie. He was efficient. If he couldnt fix it, he knew someone who could. Best of all, he didnt charge the high prices youd pay at a regular mechanic shop. Because he was excellent and inexpensive, Lonnie was always in demand.

He walked over from his yard to join them.

What yall smell? Gas? he asked. Is there a gas leak?

No, Donna said. Theres no gas leak. Dont you smell it?

Smell what?

That odor.

I dont smell anything, Lonnie said.

We think its coming from some fertilizer they put on the yard here, Donna said.

That aint no regular shit, Donnas father said to the next-door neighbors. It smells like somebody got ground up in there. That dont smell like no fertilizer. Somethings up with that. He waited, then added, Whered yall get that from anyway, Mexico?

Since the neighbors were originally from Mexico, that comment seemed to end the conversation. Continuing to downplay the odor, Lonnie headed to his house where, Donna had noticed, he was staying without his family for the long holiday weekend. This was unusual. In previous years, during the week before the Fourth of July, Lonnie loaded up the family in their RV and drove up north for a vacation near Sacramento, where Sylvia had family. But this year Sylvia went alone, leaving Lonnie at the house on 81st Street. She didnt even take the RV. It was parked in the back yard.

Donnas father went home too, and Donna returned inside. She would just have to stick out the odor. There was nothing else to do.

Then, the next morning, when she went out onto her porch to see what kind of day the Fourth of July was going to be, Donna noticed, much to her amazement, that the odor was gone. Not partially. Completely. Gone. Yesterday, it was so bad it made her sick. Today, she didnt smell anything. Just air. Fresh air. When she tried to imagine what happened, she chalked it up to the neighbors watering their lawn heavily last night before they went to bed. The water must have forced the fertilizer deep into the soil. Or so she guessed. In a way she didnt care. She was just happy the odor was gone.

On major holidays like Christmas or Thanksgiving or the Fourth, Donna had a tradition of preparing a tray of strawberry daiquiris and Jell-O shots and taking it around to her neighbors to offer them a toast. It was a simple gesture, but her neighbors got a kick out of it, especially the older ones. So later that day, Donna made up her tray of drinks. As she proceeded from house to house, she realized Lonnie was watching her. When she headed toward his house, he rushed out to meet her at the gate so she wouldnt come onto his property. As they lingered on the sidewalk at his driveway entrance, his neatly painted mint-green bungalow with its immaculately groomed lawn there behind him, Lonnie picked up a daiquiri.

Cheers! he said, taking a sip.

Sure am glad that odors gone, Donna said.

I still dont know what yall were talking about, Lonnie said. I didnt smell anything.

It doesnt matter, Donna said. Its gone now. What are you doing Wednesday? I need my car worked on.

Once they made plans for Lonnie to repair her car, Donna walked home. As she went about the rest of her day, she completely forgot about the odor from yesterdaythe odor that smelled like a dead person.

William Harris was not the type of man to stick his nose into other peoples business. But, after his retirement, he enjoyed sitting on his front porch. Not for any particular reason; he just found it relaxing. From his vantage point, one of the houses he could see best was Lonnies, since it was directly across the street. Harris knew that Lonnie was running a chop shop in his backyard, stripping down stolen cars and selling off the parts. Everyone on the block knew it. It would have been hard to miss; over the last two decades, Lonnie kept getting arrested for grand theft auto. Most of the arrests ended in dropped charges or probation. But, one night in February 1993, police found Lonnie in the backyard stripping a stolen Jeep Wrangler with the help of Christopher, his 11-year-old, a stolen Toyota waiting in the garage to be next. Because of the flagrancy of the crimethe cars were right thereand the participation of his young son, Lonnie got convicted and sentenced to a year in jail. After this episode, some neighbors, Harris among them, became concerned that Lonnie was passing down his shady ways to his son.