Chapter Twenty-One

The LAPD Missing Persons Unit, located on the seventh floor of the Police Administration Building, looked nothing like the Robbery Homicide floor, despite covering a pretty similar-sized area. Classic floor screen partitions separated the investigators' desks in a confusing and chaotic way, creating a crazy labyrinth of uneven corridors that few outside the MP Unit could successfully navigate. The entire north wall was one huge photo board, displaying portraits of at least three hundred individuals whose investigation was still ongoing. The board had been split into two – children and adults. The children's side clearly overwhelmed the adults' one.

The large number of ongoing investigations did not surprise either Hunter or Garcia. Out of the fifty American states, California topped the charts with the largest number of reported missing person cases per year – over three thousand. In California, Los Angeles took the second spot on the list of counties with the highest ratios of people going missing, never to be found – behind only Humboldt County, a densely forested, mountainous and rural county, with about 110 miles of coastline. Their reported number of missing persons who were never found was so staggering that it had been dubbed ‘the black hole county'.

Hunter and Garcia didn't visit the Missing Persons Unit's floor very often, but every time they did they were mesmerized by the fact that every single person on that floor always seemed to be either navigating through the chaotic labyrinth of desks, or on their phones. And the conversations weren't exactly hushed. The place sounded and looked like a distressed beehive.

Just a couple of paces in front of both detectives, a short and slender man ended the phone conversation that he was having, reached for the empty mug by his computer screen, and quickly got up from his desk. Garcia seized the opportunity before he could step away.

‘Excuse me, could you please direct us to Detective Cohen?'

The man barely lost a beat, turning to face the rest of the floor. ‘Cohen,' he shouted. ‘Where you at?'

Hunter's and Garcia's eyes widened at him.

‘I could've done that myself,' Garcia whispered through the edge of his mouth.

About halfway down the detective's floor, just by the large photo board, Detective Graham Cohen stood up and craned his neck to look over his desk partition. ‘I'm at my desk. What's up?'

‘Right over there,' the short and slender man indicated before veering left and disappearing into the labyrinth.

Hunter and Garcia began zigzagging their way toward Detective Cohen.

‘If someone gets to the Robbery Homicide floor,' Garcia said, in a hushed voice, ‘and just shouts a name from the door like he did, he'd probably get shot.'

‘Several times,' Hunter agreed.

‘Detective Hunter… Detective Garcia,' Cohen said, extending his hand as the UVC detectives got to his desk.

‘Have we met before?' Garcia asked, as he shook Cohen's hand.

Hunter had remembered correctly: Detective Cohen really was a stumpy man. He looked to be in his mid-forties, with two graying islands of hair just above each ear. The rest of his smooth head glimmered under the strong halogen lights that lined the ceiling. His dark, beady eyes sat behind thick glasses, his teeth were lightly stained from years of smoking, and his blue suit was ill-fitting, mainly because his stomach protruded forward just enough to make his trousers slip down below the pouch of his belly.

‘No, never,' Cohen replied, addressing both detectives. ‘But from reputation, we all know who you are.'

Hunter and Garcia did know about their reputation. Inside the police headquarters and throughout the entire police department, many referred to the Ultra Violent Crimes Unit as the ‘Hell-No Unit' – the only detective unit inside the LAPD that no detective wanted to join.

‘Please, have a seat.' Cohen indicated the two chairs squashed between the floor partition and his desk, a desk that seemed too small for the mountain of folders and paperwork scattered all over it.

Hunter took the seat on the right, while Garcia had to reposition the chair on the left so that his legs could fit.

‘So how can I help?' Cohen asked, sitting back on his chair. The movement almost made him disappear behind a pile of blue folders.

‘Terry Wilford,' Garcia began, handing Cohen a printout of Terry's portrait and a copy of the Missing Persons Report. ‘You were the lead detective on his MP investigation. He was reported missing just over two weeks ago – June 24th.'

Cohen looked at the portrait for just a second. ‘Yes of course, I remember this case.' He pushed his glasses up on his bulbous nose. ‘But this case was closed just over a week ago. Mr. Wilford was never found, until he jumped to his death from the 7th Street Bridge on…' He began typing something onto his keyboard.

‘July 1st,' Garcia helped him.

Cohen's attention moved from his screen to Garcia. ‘Yes, that's correct – on the evening of July 1st. Apparently there were two witnesses to it.' He returned both pieces of paper to Garcia. ‘Whatever reason he had to disappear seemed to have finally taken its toll on him.' He shrugged as he nodded. ‘Unfortunately, missing-person suicides happen quite a lot.'

‘Could I ask you,' Garcia said, taking back the documents, ‘how far did you get with the MP investigation? Any leads as to where he might've been, or gone? Anyone he might've been with?'

Cohen's eyes returned to his computer screen for a moment before he shook his head. ‘Nothing. We got absolutely nowhere.'

‘No leads at all?' Garcia pushed.

Cohen's head angled slightly to the right. ‘We took every path available to us. Since Mr. Wilford only moved to LA five years ago, one of the first things we did was get in touch with Phoenix PD in Arizona for some help. As you know, that's where he's originally from, and since he still has friends and family back there, it stood to reason that he could've decided to take a trip back to Arizona without informing anyone.' Cohen shook his head. ‘Phoenix PD got in touch with everyone they could. Apparently none of Mr. Wilford's old friends have heard from him since he left Phoenix. His father passed a few years back, but his mother resides in a nursing home, paid for by her social security and a private pension scheme from a job she held for thirty-odd years. They tried talking to her, but they got nowhere. Mrs. Wilford suffers from late-stage dementia. She couldn't even remember that she had a son.'

‘Did any of the staff at the nursing home know Mr. Wilford?' Hunter asked. ‘Did he visit his mother often?'

‘They never met him,' Cohen replied, his lips forming a thin line. ‘According to the nursing home records, he never visited her. Not even once.'

‘How about his kid, Joseph,' Garcia, this time. ‘Does he still live back in Phoenix? Anybody talked to him?'

Cohen scrolled down on the page on his screen. ‘Oh yeah, now I remember. No, he doesn't. He now lives in Chandler, and he was a hard one to get in touch with.'

‘How so?' Garcia prodded.

‘First of all, he doesn't go by Joseph Thomas Wilford anymore. He dropped his father's name and now uses his mother's maiden name – Suarez.'

‘Joseph Thomas Suarez?' Garcia asked.

Cohen half-nodded. ‘And he hates being called Joseph.'

‘So what is it? Joe?' Garcia again.

‘Yep,' Cohen confirmed. ‘Joe Thomas Suarez. That name change added at least a couple of days to the process of tracking him down. He had also relocated from Phoenix to Chandler around the same time that Mr. Wilford relocated here.'

‘Just after his mother passed?'

‘Yep.'

‘But he was sixteen at that time,' Hunter commented. ‘Isn't that right?'

‘Yep.'

Hunter and Garcia's expression asked the same silent question.

‘I don't really know the ins-and-outs of what happened,' Cohen explained. ‘Not my place to ask, but one thing is for sure – Joe and his father did not get along.'

‘Is that what he told you?'

‘He didn't have to say it.' Once again, Cohen clicked and scrolled on his computer screen. ‘At least not in so many words.' He found what he was looking for and adjusted himself on his chair. ‘I was the one who spoke with him on the phone, after leaving him countless messages. He finally called me back the day before his father committed suicide, on June 30th, days after we left him the first message explaining that his dad had gone missing.'

‘He didn't seem to care?' Garcia asked.

Cohen chuckled before explaining. ‘I started recording the conversation after we'd already exchanged a few sentences, but I'm sure you'll get the gist.' He used his left hand to gesture Hunter and Garcia closer. ‘You'll need to move closer to hear it. This is a loud floor.'

‘We've noticed,' Garcia came back, as he and Hunter leaned forward, placed their elbows onto Cohen's desk, and craned their ears closer to the computer speakers.

On his screen, Cohen clicked ‘play'.

‘Listen, like I just told you,'Joe Thomas Suarez's voice came through the small desktop speakers. He sounded annoyed. ‘I don't care if my father is missing. I haven't seen or spoken to him in five years and truthfully, I hope I never will again, so please, stop calling me and leaving messages.'

‘So he hasn't tried to contact you in the past few days?'Cohen's voice came through in the recording.

‘Jesus, man. Why the hell did you call me if you're not going to listen to what I tell you? I'm not sure how I can make this any clearer – I haven't SEEN or SPOKEN to my father in five years, since my mother died, OK? Even if he tried to contact me, I wouldn't talk to him. I've got nothing to say to that man. I don't care if he's missing. I don't care if he turns up dead in a ditch. I don't care about him and he doesn't care about me. Now please, stop calling me, OK?'

The line went dead.

Hunter peeked at Garcia. The reference to Terry Wilford turning up dead in a ditch was clearly concerning.

‘Like I've said,' Cohen commented. ‘Joe and his father did not get along.'

‘Was he informed of his father's death?' Hunter asked. ‘Was Mr. Wilford's mother?'

‘We left messages,' Cohen said, his stare crawling over to the UVC detectives. He gave them a one-shoulder shrug. ‘Like I've explained, his mother can't even remember that she had a son. Informing her directly would make no difference, but we did notify the nursing home. In the case of his son…' Cohen's eyebrows arched. He used both index fingers to point at his screen. ‘You heard the phone conversation I had with him, right? He couldn't give a monkey's piss for his father, but yes, I did call him. Of course, he didn't pick up, so I left a message. That's the best I could do. He never called back.'

Hunter and Garcia nodded their understanding.

Cohen clicked his mouse twice then scrolled down on his screen. ‘Over here in LA, we talked to everyone we could – work colleagues, neighbors, friends… nothing. We couldn't even pinpoint the exact day that he went missing.'

‘Really?' Garcia asked.

‘Terry Wilford was last seen in the early hours of Friday morning, June 21st, after finishing his Thursday night shift at The Varnish,' Cohen began. ‘The place closes at 1:00 a.m. every morning. That same Friday evening – June 21st – he was off work. He was only expected back on Saturday at 5:00 p.m.'

‘And he never turned up.' Garcia stated rather than questioned.

‘No, he didn't,' Cohen confirmed. ‘Then he didn't turn up for his shift on Sunday either. On Monday morning, June 24th, he was reported missing by a Sabrina Davis, who also works at The Varnish.'

‘But according to these records,' Garcia interjected, ‘the investigation didn't really start until the next day, Tuesday, June 25th.'

‘And there's a reason for that,' Cohen explained. ‘The number of times that people try to report an independent adult as missing, only to have that person safely reappear two or three days later, would blow your mind.' He shrugged. ‘People do stupid things, especially over a weekend – they binge-drink and pass out somewhere… get high on acid, Xanax, opioids, whatever, and zone out for days. Sometimes they disappear with a lover that no one knew about… or simply have had enough and decide to clock off for a while without telling anyone. Things like that happen… a lot. We just can't afford to allocate people or resources every time somebody thinks someone has gone missing. That's why we waited one more day.'

Hunter and Garcia both nodded.

‘At The Varnish,' Cohen continued. ‘I was told that Mr. Wilford was friendly enough with everyone, including the customers, without ever stepping over the too-friendly line. I got the same response from all the neighbors I talked to. No one seemed to dislike him.'

‘Miss Davis,' Hunter asked. ‘The waitress who reported Terry Wilford as missing, did she seem to know Mr. Wilford well?'

‘Better than anyone else we've spoken to,' Cohen confirmed. ‘Not only did they work together at The Varnish most nights, but they also spent time together outside work.'

‘Time together as friends or as a couple?' Garcia asked.

‘According to Sabrina Davis, they were not a couple. But she did admit that they slept together sporadically – sometimes at her place, sometimes at his. She also told me that they were working together on the night of Thursday, June 20th – his last ever shift at The Varnish – and that Terry had suggested that they spend the night together, but Miss Davis declined. The subject's last sighting time was around a quarter to two in the morning.'

‘A quarter to two?' Hunter asked.

Cohen clarified that despite The Varnish closing at 1:00 a.m. every morning, it was common practice for the staff to share a beer or two after hours, but that night, out of the five-strong staff, only Sabrina and Terry had stayed behind.

‘And that sighting was done by Miss Davis?' Hunter asked.

‘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 who disappeared – 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 to re-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.

‘Not exactly,' Garcia replied. ‘He is the case.'