CHAPTER FOURTEEN
True to his word, Reyes delivered copies of the police reports I’d asked for on Friday afternoon. He had carried them into my office in a cardboard box. The pile wasn’t as thick as an old-fashioned phone book, but it would have made a good chunk of one. They were a year’s worth of reports on young women age eighteen to twenty-five who had gone missing, committed suicide, or were victims of homicides. The group devoted to missing persons was the largest with suicides next. Even the smallest group, murder victims, comprised a lot of reports. I carried the box home to my apartment and spent the weekend going through the files.
I was able to eliminate most of the names on the reports since LAPD investigators had already learned of their circumstances and, in the missing per
