Mr. Richard King was a difficult man in life and death. A former lawyer and judge from the court of Riverside, turned lonely bastard by the time age started winning over his authority. His wife had died decades before, and his children—boy and girl—had moved out the moment they finished college. His eightieth birthday was spent surrounded by churchgoers from his community. He hadn’t witnessed mass in five years.

After days of asking around, I got his phone number from Mathew Bennett, the owner of Heavens Bar on Duarte Road. It took a month to arrange this interview.

On Saturday, July 18th of 2015, I arrived at his house on Poppy Road, pulling up to a large, rusting gate. Neither the gate nor the little pedestrian door had real locks on them; I believe this was done to facilitate the entrance of delivery drivers, caretakers, business partners, and the few visitors Mr. King received every week. It would have made for easy robberies, too—though it seemed like all the thieves in Riverside avoided the King residence. 

The house was big and old, built generations ago. Its walls had been recently painted yellow and the forget-me-nots decorating its surroundings were still a work in progress. All windows and extra doors were closed. The only evidence of life were the few lights inside, the clothes drying on the terrace, and the lonely pair of boots waiting by the main door.

[Image 1: the King residence.]

Mr. King was standing near the car when I stepped out. His white linen pants had traces of wet grass on them, and his normally pale face was reddish and sweaty. I had interrupted his yard work, as he would later tell me. I smiled at him, shook his hand, and followed as he led us into the house. The heat inside could rival the Sun shining on the yard.

“Coffee?” he offered, and I couldn’t say no.

As the coffee brewed, Mr. King showed me his moka pot collection and explained the use of each and every one of them: one for the mornings, one for the afternoons, one for him and his night caretaker, one for up to four guests, and one for up to seven. The hot coffee spilled on the stove before he remembered to turn it off and served two cups. 

Once we finished, Mr. King—unprompted—gave me a tour of the old house, going out of his way to show me all the trinkets and explain the history behind every room. He insisted I record and share it all. The main bedroom used to belong to his father, and his father's father, but he had turned it into a guest room since he didn't like how cold it got at night. He slept in the last bedroom down the hallway, where the sound of thunder wouldn't wake him. Another bedroom used to belong to his late wife; he had left it intact, only adding a sort of shrine in a corner, which I didn’t get to see up close as he quickly moved on to the next part of the house. The dining room had way too many unused chairs, and the living room showcased a record collection. By the time he showed me the bathrooms and their beautiful tilework, I had started fanning myself with my notebook. 

Before we continue, allow me to add a small piece of personal context to explain the degree of patience I will showcase in this interview.

My grandmother started showing signs of dementia when I was sixteen years old, and I was, to my knowledge, the first to notice and adapt to her deteriorating behavior. She became irritable, stubborn, and forgetful within a year, unable to adapt to new routines and developing quite picky preferences. I learned them all: her favorite plate and cutlery, where she always left her walking cane, the anecdotes she constantly shared, and the meals she hated. I was the only grandchild to sit through the entirety of dinner with her. 

Now, I do not wish to diagnose the late interviewee, so take this as a biased opinion: Richard King had lost himself years before we met. 

Perhaps I could figure him out as well, I thought.

“What did you want to talk about?” he asked as he let himself slump down in his armchair. I sat on the couch nearby.

“The Hernández case, Mr. King,” I answered.

I had asked him about it on the phone before our meeting. I'll admit part of me hoped he'd grant me the interview over the phone, talk my ear off for two hours, then call it a day. Unfortunately, his house had very poor reception, and I agreed to meet him for the sake of my own sanity. 

“Ah,” he said, “the Mike kid.”

No Riverside resident is a stranger to the name of Mike Hernández. My peers and I grew up hearing tales about the Mike kid, who killed five girls back in ’76 and was sentenced to life in prison. He was the only son of Mrs. Lalita down in Howard Street, their skin as dark as night, his talent that of a future pitcher in the major leagues. He was supposed to become Riverside’s sweetheart. Instead, he was jailed for killing the girls, whose bodies still hadn’t been found to this day. 

Mr. King had been the prosecutor.

“The Mike kid,” he hummed. “The bastard was always a nice boy. Bit naive. Great arm he had. Lalita, his mom, she used to play volleyball when we were younger. She was a beautiful one, you know? Very black but beautiful. She had a great arm, too. Raised the boy well. He was nicer than some other boys that lived down his road.”

Mr. King then went off on a tangent about the current residents of Howard Street. He believed a group of them had somehow occupied the land next to his and snuck into his lot every night, stealing fruit from his trees. I didn’t see any fruit trees when I arrived.

I finally found a chance to interrupt. “And the Hernández case?” 

“Right, Mike Hernández.” He nodded. "Six counts of second-degree murder, concealment of death and disturbance of human remains, found not guilty of three counts of abuse of a dead body. Necrophilia, basically.”

“Five,” I corrected.

“What?”

“Wasn’t it five women?”

“Yes, five,” he agreed. “Five counts. Sorry, the numbers get fuzzy. The state gave me the case in January of ’77—do you know Chief Anderson? No, you probably don’t. He retired in 2001. How old are you again?”

“Thirty-three.”

“Ah, Jesus’ age. Well, Anderson became chief of police in ’74, a real nice man, very proper and just serious. Well, January of ’77 I was down at Heavens Bar—back when it was run by the senior Bennett, you know, before he died from all his drinking—and Chief Anderson enters, comes up to me and says, ‘Ricky, you’ll get a call tomorrow, and it’s a real good one.’ Everyone knew about the girls. Anna [Suárez] and Laura [Peña] had been missing for two, three months, and Mercedes [Mendoza]—the whore?—hadn’t been seen in a while. She had no family, but they knew her at the station. All beautiful, gorgeous girls, young and glowing and naive. Laura even lived on our street. People started talking about a possible killer.”

[Image 2, from left to right: Anna Suárez, 20, seamstress. Laura Peña, 19, college student. Mercedes Mendoza, 16, prostitute.]

 “So Anderson says, ‘We’re building a case on the brunettes.’ You know they were all brunette. And I’m not talking about the kind of brunette that looks almost black, no. I mean a brownish blonde that looks golden under the sun. My wife was a brunette like that too. Anderson says, ‘We’re building a case on the brunettes,’ and I’m curious, because it means they must have some suspects. But he tells me Bonnelly—another district attorney, loved working cases pro bono—he was going to take the case but gave up when he saw there were no bodies, no witnesses, no nothing.”

“So they offered it to you?”

“They did. And I said yes. I told Anderson, ‘You know I like a good challenge,’ because I do, ‘and those girls deserve justice.’ He just laughed. He had a weird sense of humor back then, Chief Anderson, but he’s been tamer lately. He retired in 2001.”

He proceeded to complain about the new chief of police for seven minutes. The heat in the room was so distracting I barely realized he had been talking for so long. 

“So,” I said again, “Mike Hernández.”

“Right, so, I get the call the next day and they’re offering me the opportunity to help build a case on the brunettes. I say yes, of course. Then I drive up to the station and start checking out the small amount of evidence they have. They had, what, four suspects already? The Mike kid was one of them, but I was like, ‘No way Lalita’s kid did anything. He’s a good one.’”

“What about Eve [Luciano] and María [Johnson]?”

[Image 3: Eve Luciano, 25, waitress (left). María Johnson, 29, secretary (right).]

“Oh, beautiful, beautiful Eve. Her green eyes were gorgeous. We were two weeks into the investigation when we got news that Eve was missing too—I had my suspicions, because she was always serving in Heavens Bar and I hadn’t seen her in a good while. Then María’s car was found abandoned near 42nd Street, and we knew we had a sixth [fifth] brunette on our hands. It wasn’t her car, no; it was her dad’s, Rubio. We were close drinking buddies, Rubio and I. He died in ’98 of cancer. Colon cancer, I think.”

It didn’t surprise me that Mr. King knew all the victims to some degree.

“How did you know they were all connected?”

“Common sense. I mean, the first three were very obvious. Everyone in town knew. Then for the last two, I was the one to propose they were also connected. They were a bit older than the other three, but not by much, and it was obvious the same man had done something to them.”

“Man?”

“No lady would hurt those girls.”

“Right.”

“Brunettes, light eyes, light-skinned or straight up white. Hispanics. Petite, easy to grab. Naive, innocent. So it had to be some fetishist, you know? Maybe a man seeking revenge or with some weird corruption fantasy. You don’t know the strange kinds of people I’ve seen in my job. Still, no body, no witnesses, no nothing. Just an abandoned car on an abandoned road and many grieving families.”

We heard a thud come from one of the bedrooms. He almost looked like he had been expecting it, gesturing at me to ignore the sound and keep fanning my face with my notebook. 

“You know old houses.” He chuckled. “My grandparents finished building this back in 1907. So that’s … three whole generations that’ve lived here, four when I die and either of my kids moves in, if God wills it.” He knocked twice on the wooden wall next to him. “A lot of people have lived here, a lot of them have died. They get bolder when we have guests.”

I figured I’d knock on wood as well. I glanced at the hallway behind him, perhaps hoping to catch a glimpse of one of the other residents in the King home, but saw nothing.

“Abel—the boy that stays with me all nights; he used to be a nurse and now takes care of folks like me—he said some exorcist priest has been in town for a few weeks and will stay until August. He’s holding weekly mass for, you know, the dead. So I gave Abel a hundred dollars and a list with the names of the ones in the house, for mass tomorrow.”

“I’m guessing they’re not violent?”

“No, not at all. Probably just stuck. I’m sure my wife is still in her room.”

“Did she die there?”

“Hung herself from the ceiling.”

“My condolences.”

“It’s alright.” He stared into my eyes. “I was the one to find her. She was just thirty-five. Our kids were still in school and I had to send my sister to pick them up, take care of them until it was all sorted.”

“This was in the sixties?”

“No, 76. She was thirty-five and I forty-one. We had just celebrated our seventeenth anniversary."

“A few months before you got the case, correct?”

“A few months before the brunettes went missing, yes. Started drinking for a while but went sober for the case.”

“Rough year. I’m sorry.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Rough few years, but it’s all in the past now. It brings me some relief knowing she’s still in her room, I can still visit her, speak to her, apologize.”

“Apologize?”

He scoffed. “Men always have something to apologize for to their wives.”

[Image 4: Sarah King, née Domínguez, with Mr. King in their home, circa 1973. Photograph provided by King.]

Before I could ask about the Hernández case for the nth time that afternoon, Mr. King stood up from his chair and offered some cornbread he had in the fridge. Not wanting to risk further insistence or offense, I made it easier for both of us and accepted. Mr. King took us back to his kitchen and grabbed store-bought cornbread from the fridge, still sealed, and handed it to me. He asked me to check the expiration date—it was, in fact, one month expired.

“It’ll be fine,” he said.

He served two slices and started eating his without a moment’s hesitation. I took a bite of mine, its flavor questionable at best but somehow not the worst I’d ever eaten, so I played along. There was no way of telling the amount of expired foods Mr. King kept in his fridge. Nobody had bothered to check, and I doubt he was ever concerned about getting himself or others sick.

“Mike Hernández?” I asked.

“Right, Mike Hernández.” He sat on one of the stools. “Promising young boy. Great arm. Dark, real dark, but inherited some of his mom’s beauty. He became one of the main suspects because Mercedes—the whore—lived on Howard Street, a few houses down from his. Howard Street wasn’t as pretty as it is now, I can assure you. It was full of whores and savages. Mike was supposed to make it out of there, but I guess he just took a big liking for brunettes.”

“And you found a damning piece of evidence later in the investigation, correct?”

“Yes, the rope. Chief Anderson and his boys stopped by the baseball field one day. It was a Friday, I think. My son played center field for Mike’s team, so I was there that afternoon, by the bench. They started chatting with Mike and asked to check his bag, I helped them, and guess what we found?”

“The rope?”

“The rope. About four feet worth of rope, not enough to lynch or hang a girl, but enough to strangle her. He swore it wasn’t his, that he didn’t know how it got in his bag, said, ‘I didn’t do anything!’ But they always say that. So they arrested him. I had my case.”

“Based on circumstantial evidence?”

“No bodies, no time, no place. We had to take anything we found. And, in my opinion, we had a pretty solid case, alright? Mike knew at least one of the girls, had the rope, had the strength, and probably had a type.”

Mr. King looked me up and down.

“You wouldn’t be his type.”

For reference, this is what I looked like in the summer of 2015: my skin was slightly tanned from my few weeks of vacation in the Caribbean, and I had bleached my hair from its natural black color to a lighter, chestnut blonde. 

He scrunched his nose. “The hair’s close enough, but he liked girls to have longer hair. Easier to pull, you know? And your eyes are brown, your skin too dark, your body too tall. I bet you’d put up a good fight if anyone tried to grab you, wouldn’t you?”

I did not reply.

“Plus, you’re too old. He liked them younger. You’re almost my Sarah’s age. What was your name again?”

“Sam.”

“Sam.” He hummed. “Well, Sam, we went on trial. Quite an easy case after that; we hadn’t had a murderer in a long while. Lalita couldn’t afford a lawyer for Mike, so he got assigned a public defendant, and it was easy. I just showed the rope, the car, a map with estimated locations. Did a whole monologue explaining why and how he did it. I would look at the kid sitting in the front row and he looked like he knew he was caught. They found him guilty of all counts.”

“Except for the three counts of abuse of a dead body. Why abuse of a dead body?” I asked.

“For necrophilia.”

“But how did you know to accuse him of necrophilia? There were no bodies to examine.”

“I remember I had him on the stand,” he said, “asking if he did this thing or the other, and we got to the disposal of the bodies. When I asked about him assaulting the bodies, he got real uncomfortable, like a kid being scolded. I asked about each one of the girls and he acted weird about the younger ones. The judge let me add the three counts of necrophilia, but they were later dismissed. Still, six [five] counts of second-degree murder were serious enough in 77. People wanted him to be sent to the chair, but there were too many protestors in the news. Plus, he was just seventeen when he was sent to prison, still a kid. They just gave him life without parole.”

Mr. King began washing the used dishes as he continued speaking.

“Still haven’t found no bodies. Mike’s been in there for thirty-nine years and I haven’t heard any complaints about him, so maybe he’s good again. Wanna hear my theory, Sam?”

“Your theory?”

“On how it went. Why he did it.” He didn’t wait for me to answer. “I think little Mike got rejected once or twice by a beautiful young girl. Brunette, Spanish, probably. I think the despair made him blind and he just did what he could. He picked on the easy targets: Mercedes, who was an easy whore; Laura, who walked back home every night; Anna, who worked alone; María, who was too trusting; Eve, who always hitched rides. He’d chat them up, and they’d trust him, so he’d drive them somewhere deserted. Knock them out with some blunt object and strangle them with the rope, make sure they’re dead, and take their belongings  because that’s what killers like to do. Then, for the first three, he’d touch them and fuck them while they were still warm and soft. I guess Eve and María were too old for him, and he didn’t want to touch them.”

I imagined myself in the place of each of the girls, and a small part of myself was glad they died before the worst part began. I didn’t know if he imagined himself in Mike’s place.

“Then he’d drive them to a second location and dump the bodies. Maybe buried them, or something. Buried them deep.”

“Was there no evidence in his car?”

“No, he didn’t have a car.” He shook his head. “His mom did. It was squeaky clean when we checked it, but he might’ve just washed it.”

“And the belongings?”

“Whose?”

“The girls’.”

“I’m sure he’d take their belongings but not sell them. Killers like keeping memorabilia,” he repeated.

“Yes, but,” I said, “did you ever find them?”

“No. He probably dumped them when he knew we were after him.”

“But he kept the rope right in his bag?”

He shrugged. “People make bad decisions under pressure, Sam.”

I accepted a glass of water he offered me solely so I could wash away the remaining taste of the expired cornbread. Mr. King wasn’t as annoyed by it. He simply put the rest of the cornbread back in the fridge, cleaned the kitchen once again, and began walking away.

“I’m going to the bathroom real quick,” he excused himself. “You know an old man’s prostate doesn’t work the same.”

After many years as a journalist, I’d since learned not to wander off the second I’m left alone at an interviewee’s place. I always stay exactly where I’m left, without any exceptions. However, the late Sarah King wanted me to break my rule that afternoon.

I heard another thud from her bedroom, this time softer, barely noticeable. The expired cornbread was still settling in my stomach, and I figured some walking might help. I made my way toward her former bedroom—second door to the right, always open—and stepped inside, taking in the dusty furniture once again. The particles in the air made it feel even stuffier than the rest of the house, so I opened one of the windows just enough for a light flow of air. I saw the forget-me-nots planted just outside the window. They had recently bloomed.

I looked up at the ceiling, noting a small hook meant for a chandelier. It was too high up for anyone to reach and hang themselves from, but clever women are known for creating miracles by themselves, whether for creating life or ending it.

The source of the thud turned out to be one of the picture frames on the shrine. I quickly fixed it, helping a small Sarah King to stand. Her hair was indeed a brownish blonde and her green eyes shone under the camera flash. She looked young. Way too young. Another picture on the shrine showed her with curlier hair, darker eyes, fuller lips. Another, skinnier, with glasses. The five bottom pictures of Sarah King reminded me of my mother’s teenage years, not of a woman who had lived her prime in the ’60s, lost too soon by her own hand. The sixth picture, hanging from the wall, was black and white—a different Sarah King, amber eyes and brown hair noticeable even through the achromatic scale, on the day of her wedding.

[Image 5: the shrine.]

I’ll admit it took me too long to see the gold wedding band sitting on the shrine. But once I saw it, my eyes started travelling over the other items showcased: the pen, the sewing kit, the hoop earrings, the lipstick, the car keys. The six unlit candles.

Sarah King pushed another portrait off the shrine.

Its glass cracked right by my feet. I kneeled down, carefully starting to pick up the smaller shards and setting skinny Sarah back on the shrine, putting her to rest. It was while I was kneeling down that I noticed the suitcase tucked away under her old bed. I may be a professional, but I am not disrespectful: If a dead woman asks me to search her dusty bedroom, I am not one to ignore her.

The suitcase was lightly packed. Women’s clothes were neatly folded inside, of various sizes, prices, styles. They hadn’t decayed yet—they were recently washed. I put the suitcase back in its place.

I turned around, telling Sarah Domínguez [and Anna Suárez, Laura Peña, Mercedes Mendoza, Eve Luciano, and María Johnson] that I’d be back. That I had heard them. Their amber eyes—and Laura’s green ones—shone, I’m pretty sure, and I took it as an acknowledgement. I then left the King home and drove away without ever announcing my departure. Mr. King later called me wondering why I hadn’t shown up at the agreed time, and I gave him the same explanation I always used for my grandmother: I’ll be there tomorrow; leave the door unlocked.

Mr. Richard King was a difficult man, but I had figured him out. I shared my findings with the new chief of police and the case was reopened. Mr. King later hanged himself in Sarah Domínguez’ room.

Mike Hernández was pardoned by the state on October 3rd, 2017. He passed away earlier this year.

[Image 6: Mike Hernández and I, 2019.]

Jay C. Alexander is an artist from the Dominican Republic. Ever since they were a kid, they have explored storytelling in Spanish and English in many different mediums, including short stories, novels, poetry, plays, and scripts. They’ve also messed around with visual arts, music, theatre, and just about any kind of art you can name. Their horror short "Hereditary" can be found in Carnage House. Jay is currently majoring in both film and television and dramatic writing.