October, 2002
Saturday morning, 7:30 am. I should have been asleep. But instead I was assigned the honor of driving my 18-year old sister to work.
“Should we take Colima or Hacienda?” I asked Lori. Both routes would get us to the Whittier dealership where she was a receptionist and cashier.
She shrugged.
Her indecision didn’t matter, because a few seconds later we came upon a crime scene on Hacienda Boulevard, the main north-south thoroughfare through Hacienda Heights. Ahead of us, other drivers turned their cars around rather than crash into police tape, LA County sheriffs, their vehicles and a conspicuous coroner’s truck.
It was the first time I had seen one, but I knew whatever had occurred on Hacienda Boulevard that night or early morning was not good.
“I wonder what happened,” I told Lori. She seemed as lost as I was.
Lori and I made our way around Hacienda Heights and five minutes later arrived at the intersection of Hacienda and Colima. Once again, we didn’t need to decide which road to take. Colima Road was also closed off to traffic.
I got Lori to work that day. We took Hacienda Boulevard south to Whittier and pretty much forgot about what we had just seen.
Later that week, Lori called me.
“I heard on the news about what happened last Saturday. Remember when you took me to work?”
She filled in what she knew. A woman had been dragged by a car east through Colima Road and then north on Hacienda Boulevard.
The woman was young, about Lori’s age. The thought of such a gruesome murder in my hometown freaked me out, but I forgot about it.