I pulled out my digital camera and began snapping pictures of the makeshift memorial and afterward put on gloves and began sifting through the items. I had almost finished going through the items on one side of the tower when I picked up a large, handmade card on which an artistic hand had colored in the words “Gone but not forgotten.” As I opened the card, I expected to see more platitudes on the inside but instead found the scripted words “You made my life HELL, and now you’ve gone to hell. There is a God.”
After returning the card to where I had found it, I took pictures from all angles. Someone had made sure their offering didn’t look out of place, but they hadn’t forgiven Klein even in death. I didn’t expect to find another needle in the haystack, but a few minutes later I turned over a blown-up picture that showed Paul running and saw that someone had written in block letters “What goes around, comes around.” The block letters suggested to me that either the writer was male or someone trying to disguise her writing, whereas the handwriting on the card looked distinctly feminine. Amid all the adoration of Klein were two dissenting writers.
I hadn’t brought any evidence bags, so I slipped the card and picture inside my coat. My timing was good; less than a minute later a squad car pulled up to the curb. Yes, Virginia, there really is a Beverly Hills Police Department, even though the entire city is less than six square miles in area and has a population of only thirty-five thousand people.
An unmarked car pulled in behind the squad car and a suit emerged. The detective scowled at me for longer than necessary and then said, “Can I help you?”
What he really meant was “What the hell are you doing here?”
“Nope,” I said, making an entry in my notepad.
The suit continued to stare at me, and I continued to ignore him. Because the homicide had occurred in LAPD’s jurisdiction, we had the case, but that didn’t mean BHPD had to be happy about it. In fact, it was likely the suit eyeballing me was doing his own parallel investigation into Klein’s homicide.
“I hope I don’t have to tell you that nothing is to be removed from this area.”
“You don’t have to tell me,” I said, hoping the items under my coat weren’t visible.
I pretended to be inordinately interested in one particular section of the memorial and clicked away with my camera. Later, when I vacated the area, the detective would probably drive himself crazy figuring out what I had been so focused on. As I took my leave of the tower and started back toward the campus, I nodded to the two Beverly Hills cops.
The assembly was over and classes had convened by the time I returned to BHHS. I went to the administrative offices again, and after a five-minute wait was once again able to see Assistant Principal Durand.
“Dinah Hazimi,” I said.
Durand didn’t act surprised but did correct my pronunciation of Dinah’s last name, which was Hakimi. Then she said, “Dinah is a minor.”
“Then call her parents and ask them if they’ve heard about the murder of one of your students. Tell them the police are here conducting an investigation, and that you’re asking parents if it’s all right if their child talks to the authorities.”
Durand thought about that and then reluctantly nodded. She asked me to leave her office while she made the call. I sat in the waiting area, which offered a vantage point into her office, and watched her talking on the phone. I couldn’t hear what she was saying and wasn’t able to read her expression. The call was brief, lasting no more than two minutes, and then she motioned for me to return to her office.
“Mrs. Hakimi said you could talk to her daughter. Before that happens, though, I am going to talk to Dinah, and I will tell her that she doesn’t need to sit down with you if she doesn’t want to.”
Whatever the assistant principal told Dinah didn’t scare her off. Durand accompanied her to a small conference room where I was waiting. After making introductions, Durand left the room and I motioned for Dinah to take a seat across the table from me. She was shy, avoiding direct eye contact. The girl was five foot and a little change, and no more than a hundred pounds. Dinah was fine boned, with high cheekbones, glistening hair, pretty dark eyes with long lashes, and almond skin. If not for her pronounced front teeth, she would have been considered very attractive.
At the start of our talk her hand self-consciously covered her mouth, but before long she seemed more at ease in my company and her hand dropped to the table. I think it was my scars that put her at ease. Misery loves company. Or it might have been that I started with softball questions.
“How well did you know Paul Klein?” I asked.
“Not very well,” she said.
“What year in school are you?”
“I am a junior.”
“Did you have any classes with Paul?”
She shook her head.
“I understand you had a problem with Paul and his friends last year.”
Dinah stiffened a little and then said, “Not really.”
“Someone saw him teasing you. It must have been pretty bad. Kids don’t usually report things.”
She shrugged, pretending indifference, but she had to blink away tears from coming to her eyes.
“What was he saying to you?”
“I don’t remember.”
“I think you do. And I think that wasn’t the only instance where he was bullying you, which explains why you left this at the oil well memorial.”
I placed the handmade card on the table. Dinah’s hand covered her mouth, but she would have been better served to cover her eyes. The fright and dismay at her being discovered were clearly on display.
“Tell me about the hell he put you through, Dinah.”
In a small voice she said, “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“You seem like a smart girl. Why did you let yourself be a victim?”
Her eyes sparked. “What was I supposed to do? He was popular. And if I had complained to the school, his pack of friends would have vouched for him.”
“How long has the bullying gone on?”
“Since my family moved to Beverly Hills in the ninth grade. Up until that time, I had never even heard the name Bugs Bunny.”
My hand reached out to her card and gently traced the lettering where she’d written “You made my life HELL.”
“It started during my first week at school,” she said. “I was trying my best to fit in. I was sitting in the cafeteria by myself, and that’s when this boy sat down right across from me. He was holding a carrot in his hand, and standing behind him were five or six other boys. ‘Eh, what’s up, Doc?’ he said to me. I didn’t understand what he was saying, so I said, ‘Excuse me?’ And then he said, even louder this time, ‘Eh, what’s up, Doc?’ And that got not only his group laughing, but what seemed like the whole cafeteria.”
“Welcome to Beverly.”
“He knew where I was the most self-conscious.”
“How bad did it get?”
“Bad. It was ongoing torture. I remember one day he and all his friends wore these Billy Bob teeth. And whenever he saw me, he’d open his mouth and show off his terrible teeth, and he’d shout so everyone could hear, ‘I want to marry you, Bugs, but you’re not my first cousin.’”
“I am sorry.”
“The more others laughed, the more it hurt. Last Halloween he came to school dressed as Elmer Fudd. He had this brown hat and baggy suit, and he kept coming up to me asking me if I’d seen any wascally wabbits.”
“How often did he bully you?”
“It varied. Sometimes a week or two would go by and he and his group wouldn’t bother me, and I would hope and pray that he was finally done with me, but it never lasted. He always came back.”