CHAPTER ELEVEN
Jessie had to give Sam Goodwin credit for the idea.
They were on their way back to Central Station to join the research crew, where they would pore over any potential connections between Yuki Tanaka and Maria Cain besides the manner of their deaths. About halfway there, Sam posed a question.
“Do we think the killer had a bone to pick with these individual immigrants or could they be using these women as examples, part of some deeper hatred against foreigners in general?”
“I’m not sure that it has to be one or the other,” Jessie said. “Can’t whoever did this be motivated by both personal and political hatred?”
Sam went quiet, but Jessie sensed that he wanted to say something more.
“What are you thinking?” she asked.
“Just that our standard investigative techniques are well equipped to deal with the personal motivations for violent crime, but maybe less so when it comes to political motives. I feel like we need to get a more comprehensive sense of the kind of folks who might hate out of more than just personal animus.”
“Sam,” Jessie said, turning to study the young detective, who was aggressively staring straight ahead while driving, “I get the distinct impression that you have a suggestion in mind but are holding back. What gives?”
He shrugged.
“I may know someone who can help,” he said, blushing slightly.
“Who?”
“Her name is Claire Vallejo,” he said quietly. “I’ve worked with her before, back when I was in Vice.”
His cheeks had gone from pink to red. Jessie chose not to comment on that for now.
“Tell me more,” she requested.
“Okay, back when I worked Vice, we dealt with a lot of undocumented women who were being sexually trafficked. In a few instances, they were abused by men who weren’t just out to harm women in general, but immigrants specifically.
They got a thrill out of sexually assaulting women who were foreign and had little legal recourse.
I learned that some of these guys were affiliated with virulently anti-immigrant groups, some of which were known for violence. That’s how I met Claire.”
“Go on,” Jessie prodded.
“She runs a small non-profit that focuses on victims’ rights, specifically those of immigrant women.
As part of that, she built a database tracking local hate groups that target that demographic.
On at least a couple of occasions, she was able to point us toward potential suspects.
In one case, a man carved an image into the arm of a woman he assaulted.
Claire determined that the design was associated with a particular hate group.
With that information, we were able to show the victim pictures of men affiliated with the group.
She picked out her attacker within seconds.
In another case, we found a comatose woman from Moldova who had been beaten within an inch of her life.
Based on where she was found, at a notorious shipyard at the Port of Los Angeles, Claire connected her to a gang known to use the area to sneak in Eastern European women that they subsequently trafficked. ”
“And you think she might have some leads for us on groups that would do this?” Jessie asked, slightly dubious.
“I think that she might be able to connect the individual responsible to a group that shares their philosophy,” he corrected.
“Our victims are from Colombia and Japan, two vastly different countries from opposite ends of the world. Maybe there’s a correlation between them that she can see but we can’t. ”
“I’m certainly willing to give it a shot,” Jessie said. “It’s not like Jamil and Beth can’t scour through Cain’s and Tanaka’s metadata on their own. We can always help out later. Where is Vallejo’s non-profit located?”
“About six blocks from Central Station,” he said.
“In that case, let’s go there now.”
*
Ten minutes later, while Jessie stood a step behind him, Sam was knocking on the door of IVA, or Immigrant Victim Advocates.
The “offices” were really just one small office in a run-down office building with outside entrances.
Claire Vallejo’s was on the second floor, in between a travel agent and a fortune teller.
The door opened to reveal a woman in her mid to late twenties.
Jessie suspected she knew why Sam had blushed when mentioning her.
With her short dirty-blonde hair and athletic but slightly curvy build, Claire Vallejo was attractive in an unassuming, low-key way.
Her eyes were ocean blue, though they looked tired, not a shocker considering how exhausting her work must be.
She wore tan slacks and a casual, untucked black blouse.
Jessie noted that the outfit could easily be made more professional by simply tucking in the top and throwing on the blazer that was resting on the hanger next to the door.
“Detective Goodwin,” she said, her eyes growing wide, “this is a pleasant surprise. At least I think it is. Are you here to ask for my help or to arrest me?”
The slightly flirty way that she emphasized the second option suggested that she might not mind a little role-playing with Sam, who blushed the second he heard the words.
“The former,” he said, failing horribly at playing along.
“Ah, well in that case, please come in,” she said, holding the door open wide, “and bring your friend with you.”
“Ms. Vallejo—,” he began once they were inside.
“How many times have I reminded you to call me Claire, Detective,” she interrupted, notably not calling him by his first name.
“Claire,” he tried again, “this is Jessie Hunt. She’s a profi—.”
“Of course I know who this is,” Claire said, turning to her. “You’ve done more for victims that I could in a lifetime. It’s an honor to meet you, Ms. Hunt.”
“Thanks, and call me Jessie.”
Vallejo smiled broadly at the offer.
“And you should call me Claire. What can I do for you and the detective, Jessie,” she said before turning serious again. “I assume that if you’re coming to me, it’s not just to hang out.”
“Have you heard about the recent killings we’ve been investigating?” Jessie asked her. “They’ve been on the news.”
“I’m afraid not,” Claire said. “I’ve been running around the last few days, focused on finding housing for a few women who managed to get clear of a gang that had been running a massage parlor in name only. It’s been pretty all-consuming. Tell me about these killings.”
Sam proceeded to explain the basics of what they knew, focusing on the ethnicity of the women, on their wealthy husbands, and on the green cards found on the plates in their dining rooms.
“That’s terrible,” Claire said, her eyes welling up slightly. “How can I help?”
Jessie took that one. “Sam here thought that you might be able to suss out some connection between the victims based on the hate group database you created. Obviously, if you know of a group that has particular animosity to both Colombian and Japanese women, that would be a home run. But we’ll take anything we can get. ”
Claire sat down at her desk and motioned for them to take seats in the metal folding chairs opposite her. As Jessie settled in, she appreciated that the woman didn’t waste money on fancy furniture. She got the impression that it all went toward the cause.
“Unfortunately, I don’t know of any group that targets those specific ethnicities,” Claire admitted, “but that doesn’t mean we don’t have options.
Most of my work deals with indigent immigrant women who were snuck into the country illegally.
They’re easy victims because they tend to fall through the cracks.
But of course, rich folks aren’t immune from hate either.
You said that both these women were married to very wealthy men, right? ”
“Correct,” Sam said.
"Well, there are definitely groups out there that resent women like that too.
Some don't think that rich American men, especially white ones, should be marrying outside their race. Those charmers think it dilutes the gene pool. That might make sense with this Cain guy but maybe less so with the Japanese couple. A lot of these groups would hate him just as much as her. Of course, it could be as simple as just not wanting to see an immigrant woman do well, whether through marriage or any other means. If these couples were high-profile enough, or if their weddings made it into the press, that might be enough to capture the attention of the more rabid anti-immigrant groups. I can go through my files to refresh my memory and see if anyone jumps out.”
“We’d appreciate it,” Sam said.
Claire nodded, giving him an extra twinkly smile. He shifted gawkily, unsure what to say in response. As Claire punched up a screen on her desktop, Jessie tried to fill the awkward silence.
“Can I ask you a rude question, Claire?”
“Those are my favorite kind, Jessie,” the woman responded. “I’m famous for asking them myself. Go for it.”
“You look Caucasian but your last name is Vallejo. Is that your married name?”
“I’m not married—yet,” Claire said, clearly happy to get that fact out to anyone who might be paying attention.
“And I am white, but my parents died when I was young. I was adopted by a wonderful couple, Henry and Lupita Vallejo, who couldn’t have kids of their own.
They both worked two jobs to support our family and managed to help put me through college.
When I graduated, they said I would be the ‘first in the family but not the last.’”
She quickly wiped away a tear before continuing.
“But because I was white, I had a unique perspective on what they went through. I saw them called all kinds of names, yelled at, spat on, told to go back home, even though both of them were born in California. No one noticed the little blonde girl nearby. No one assumed I was with them. So I got to see the vitriol without facing it myself. In fact, my parents told me that in those moments I should pretend I didn’t know them so I wouldn’t get caught in the crossfire.
I was a witness to relentless racism without suffering through it myself.
It was a powerful perspective. But I always felt guilty that they suffered those indignities and—even though they insisted that I not do so—that I never spoke up.
So eventually, when I got older, I started to.
First at protests, and eventually through this organization.
I couldn’t prevent my parents’ pain, but I could try to help others through IVA.
And when I felt like that wasn’t enough, I started to build the database of the most consistent perpetrators of organized hate against these women. ”
She stopped talking to catch her breath and fixed her eyes on the computer screen.
While she scanned her database, Jessie glanced over at Sam, who looked thoroughly smitten.
She was tempted to text him to just ask the girl out, but under the circumstances, it felt inappropriate. She’d put the pressure on him later.
“I think I found something,” Claire said suddenly.
Jessie turned back to her and could tell from the gleam in her eye that she was excited. Claire turned her monitor to face them.
“This entry is for a group called ‘Traditional Citizenry.’ The name may sound innocuous but trust me, the group is virulently anti-immigrant. They’re big on keeping naturalized citizenship limited to people from traditionally Western countries.
We’re talking the United Kingdom, Scandinavian countries, places like that.
You know, where the people are mostly white.
They even consider immigrants from France and Italy undesirable.
That’s par for the course with a lot of these groups.
But what sets these guys apart is their opposition to what they call ‘citizenship fraud through marriage.’”
“What’s that?” Sam asked.
“Based on the language on their website, it sounds very much like the situation with your victims. They view green card marriages as illegitimate and a way to work the system. And they especially don’t like it when dark-skinned women marry successful, white American men who should be, in their view, looking for white wives. ”
“That absolutely sounds like a group we’d be interested in checking out,” Jessie said, leaning forward to study the screen.
“They’d probably be overjoyed to communicate their views,” Claire said.
“After all, they post screeds—excuse me—‘essays’ on their site decrying the practice. They’ve put recruiting ads on other, higher-profile anti-immigrant sites.
And their founder, Thomas Bradford, has appeared on countless podcasts and in interviews, spreading their message.
I don’t know if they’re involved in this, but at the very least, they might know who is.
And from everything I know about this Bradford guy, I bet he’d be more than happy to share his bile with you. ”
Jessie turned to Sam. “I think we need to have Jamil find this guy so we can talk to him.”
“I’m sure Jamil is great, but there’s no need for him,” Claire said, pointing at the screen. “I have all of Bradford’s contact information right here.”