Webb of Lies: From the Journals of Wicus Webb

By William J. Joiner

WICUS WEBB, an African American investigative journalist, thought he had hit bottom when he landed on Skid Row addicted to opioids. But now, at three months clean, his lowest point comes when his pregnant fiancé has been found in a garbage dumpster, dead from what LAPD calls an unintentional overdose. Webb knows she wouldn't have relapsed becaus

• Language: English
• Publisher: William J. Joiner Jr.
• Release date: Jun 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9781088147443

Book preview

Chapter One

M

ost murders look like murders; others look like something else. I encountered the latter, and it changed my life. But before the murders, there was the mundane.

The day started off relatively normal for the abnormal that was my life. The sun seemed bigger and brighter than usual, even for the first week of August. Waves of heat rose from the asphalt, and I was sweating so much that my t-shirt and the waist of my jeans were soaked.

Walking in what could barely be called athletic shoes, I had been pushing a shopping cart with my worn hands up and down hills west of downtown Los Angeles in the Westlake District. Inside the cart were glass bottles, cans in a trash bag tied to one side of the handle, and plastic containers on the other.

That day recyclables were hard to come by, but they were most days. I climbed over walls and fences, including those with barb and razor wire, jumped into the dumpsters, checked each trash bag for anything sellable, and moved on to the next. Sometimes the dumpsters smelled, and the stench stuck to me, but I got used to it. Besides, a shower usually took care of that; it just didn’t take care of my clothes. I washed those out by hand.

Everybody didn’t climb over obstacles like I did. That’s why my runs were usually more lucrative than those of my peers, but this wasn’t one of those days. My usual spots were sparse. I had worked for about two hours and probably had three or four dollars’ worth of other people’s trash. The sun had defeated me, so I headed back down to Skid Row to unload the little I had.

As I pushed my cart down Fifth Street, I passed San Julian and looked over to my right. San Julian cuts off at Fifth Street, and the Panama Hotel is across from the street’s mouth. I lived there. I had a room as big as my walk-in closet of better days, but I was glad to have it.

Further down San Julian was the Union Rescue Mission, and beyond that was the sidewalk homeless. Some of them had factory-made tents from churches and homeless outreach organizations; some people had makeshift shelters of blue or gray tarps with sticks holding up the middle and bricks or rocks holding down the corners; the rest had cardboard condos. It was like that on most of the streets on Skid Row. The smell of cheap wine, stale beer, and desperation pervaded the air.

I continued to San Pedro to hit my last dumpster, but it was roped off by police tape. I parked my cart at the curb and went over to see what was stopping me from ending my run in my usual manner. When I got to the police tape, the dumpster was open, and I smelled something I’d smelled before—in the morgue. I asked the officer at the tape what was going on.

There’s a body here. Do you know anything about it?

No, not that I know of. I don’t know who it is, so how can I tell if I have anything to do with him or her?

Do you live around here?

Yeah, I pointed. Right down the street. One step up from the sidewalk.

That’s what it was, and I always said it because it reinforced the notion that this wasn’t home. That wasn’t the end for me like it was for so many others.

Hold on a minute, let me get the Sergeant.

The officer whispered something to the sergeant, and then they came back to me. I knew what was coming. Perpetrator returning to the scene of the crime and all that.

Hello, sir. I’m Sergeant Jeffries. Who are you?

Wicus Webb, but folks just call me Webb.

What’s your address and telephone number?

I told him.

Do you know the victim, Sarah Goode?

Sarah Goode? I couldn’t catch my breath for a moment, then I asked, Are you sure it’s Sarah Goode?

Her ID says so, Sergeant Jeffries said.

The ID could be wrong. It could be someone else who found her ID. Yeah, that’s it. She was always losing her ID. Can I see who it is?

He looked at me, probably trying to read my facial expression. Can you describe her?

Sarah’s African American, about as dark as I am, five feet five, with curly, deep red hair, and she’s three months pregnant.

Sorry to tell you, but it’s her. You can make positive identification at the coroner’s office.

I was shocked. Then I was angry and unsure. I still didn’t think it was her. Just somebody that looked like her. My darling was safe and sound in the recovery house.

Sergeant Jeffries asked, What’s your relationship to Ms. Goode?

She’s my fiancé. How’d this woman die?

It appears like she died of an overdose.

Then that can’t be her. Sarah’s been clean for over three months. We both have. She wouldn’t have relapsed, not with the baby coming.

She has a fresh track mark. She got high, overdosed, and the person she was getting high with dumped the body.

He looked at me suspiciously, the way cops always looked at people in the pit. I had an inherent distrust of them. They were always trying to arrest us for something.

Let me see your arms, Sergeant Jeffries said.

I rolled my arm around so he could clearly see there were no fresh track marks.

Is that your cart at the corner? Never mind, don’t answer. I know it’s your cart because the officer saw you put it against the curb.

What’s that got to do with anything? As soon as I said that, I thought, Oh, here it comes, the accusations.

I think someone shot her up, and she overdosed and died before the person that killed her could take his hit. Then, when it was quiet, he transported the body to the dumpster in a cart.

What the fuck! I don’t know what disturbed me most, that he would think I would kill my darling and dump her body or that he offended her and me by claiming we weren’t committed to getting and staying clean. I wasn’t getting high with anybody, and neither was she. It could just be someone that looks like her.

Looks like her and has her driver’s license? You know better than that. It seemed like his whole demeanor changed in an instant. Look, Mr. Webb, if you didn’t do this, then you might know who did. Who would she get high with?

I was disturbed by the question, but I answered anyway. Nobody. Nobody but me. She didn’t relapse. It was just made to look that way. Somebody overdosed her on purpose and against her will.

Is there some reason someone would want to kill your fiancé

No, nothing I can think of. But I know she didn’t relapse. She wouldn’t have ignored our child like that.

Sergeant Jeffries rubbed his chin as he looked closely at my face. I’ve seen a lot of guilty people and the ways they react, but they don’t respond by defending the decedent. He stopped right when he was getting to the good part. Are you in a recovery program or NA?

That wasn’t what I expected. I was hoping for I know you didn’t do this.

I go to an outpatient recovery group that requires the members to go to NA twice a week.

I know you’re feeling depressed and angry, but don’t let that be an excuse to relapse. There’s a meeting on Fifth and Main at noon. Go to it.

Still not sure where I was or what I was doing. I didn’t know if any of this was real. It could just be a bad dream. I still said I would go to the meeting, but I wasn’t sure.

Chapter Two

As I walked away from the crime scene and what was supposed to be Sarah’s body, the idea remained; it all must have been a dream. This was all just a warning that if I didn’t stop taking Sarah and being clean for granted, I could lose them both. I’d learned my lesson. I promised I’d go to more meetings and even work the twelve steps of recovery if that’s what it took to escape this fate. As long as I woke up from that nightmare.

I should have wakened any minute and been thankful for the second chance I was given. I would have done whatever it took to earn it. I’d be kinder to Sarah. Buy her a fancy engagement and wedding ring set. If I…or when I wake up, I’ll be a new man. One full of hope and promise.

All that flashed through my head, but since I was dreaming, I could get high without any damage. Just this one hit. That’s all. Then, when I woke up, I’d go to see Sarah, then get back to work on myself. That was the plan, get high one last time, then get back on track. I would have probably even gone to a meeting afterward just to show how serious I was.

≡

I went to the recycling center and came away with three dollars and twenty-eight cents. I could have gotten a piece of crack. Then, what the hell, I could have gone to an NA meeting after I came down. But first, I had to make it through the treacherous streets to the dope man.

It was dangerous down there in the pit. People would try to rob me of the little money I got from recycling. It happened to me once. These two guys pulled knives on me and took eight dollars. I had some training in hand-to-hand combat, so one guy with a knife wouldn’t be a problem, but I was outnumbered.

Right before I bought the three-dollar piece, it occurred to me that this was another test. Whether I meant what I said about changing. I turned around and went to the meeting the cop told me about.

It was a participation meeting, but I didn’t speak. I had nothing to say since this was all a dream. A reckoning. A chance for me to take stock of myself and avoid this outcome. I left that meeting, went back to my box of a room, and had a nap. When I woke up, I thought that the nightmare was over, that is until I walked outside and saw the crime scene tape was still up.

As I was walking up Fifth Street, close to Main, I looked up and saw the building Sarah used to live in before she went to the recovery house.

That’s when it started; it hit me that I would never see Sarah again. Never see the bright light of her smile and hear the music of her laughter. I would have never seen our child be born. I cried in the middle of the sidewalk. Not just tears, but I let out a howl that came from my broken soul.

People came by—some just looked at me funny, and others asked if they could help. But I was beyond help.

That’s when my old friend addiction rose its ugly head, hitting me with a compulsion to use. My tears stopped because I had a solution for the pain I was feeling. An antidote.

After all, I felt I didn’t have anything to be clean for. Sarah was gone, and I was alone in this world. Using now wouldn’t be a bad thing. I would have just gotten clean some other time, or maybe not at all. Die down there with the other addicts.

Or maybe, I could have stopped after the pain subsided. I still had the three dollars and some bus tokens they had given me at the outpatient program to get to group therapy. I could have sold those and gotten myself a nickel. After I got high, I could have made a run in the West Lake District.

When I was back on Skid Row, I tried to sell the bus tokens, but no one wanted to buy them. I considered buying a three-dollar piece of crack, but I didn’t like it. I only used that shit to keep the sick off, but I had already been through that, and I didn’t want to go through it again. That kept me clean for the moment, but I didn’t know how long that would last. After all, I wouldn’t withdraw if I never stopped. Quit for what?

I decided not to decide, and I went back to my room. Then I started thinking about what Sergeant Jeffries had asked me: Is there some reason someone would want to kill your fiancé? It rang in my head like a church bell. I didn’t know, but I was going to find out.

≡

It had been one week and two days since they found Sarah in that dumpster, and I had no real leads, so I called the police department. They told me that the narcotics division was handling the case. He transferred my call to one of the department’s officers, and I told him it was not accidental but intentional murder.

Look, sir, the detective said, I know you want your loved one to be a saint, but she’s not, she’s human just like the rest of us, and she made a mistake that cost her her life. Rest assured we’re looking into it.

Discouraged by the police response but determined to know what happened to Sarah, I called the Los Angeles County Coroner’s Office.

Hello, Doctor Peterson, this is Webb.

Webb! It’s good to hear from you. Are you back on a paper?

I had to give Doctor Peterson a reason to provide me with the information I wanted, so I said, No, I’m working freelance.

Freelance?

Yes, sir. I know I’ve been out of commission for a while, but I realized I was sick, in the grip of an illness. One that I now have a handle on.

Well, I knew you must be off the stuff if you called. But I’m assuming this isn’t a social call. So what can I help you with?

I was so excited. Finally, a break. I’m looking into the death of a young lady who allegedly accidentally overdosed.

Very well, I’ll check the records. What’s her name?

Sarah Goode.

Goode, that name sounds familiar. Oh, yes, she died from a mixture of uncut heroin and fentanyl. I’ve autopsied what seems like a multitude of overdoses, and Ms. Goode was the first to die from that lethal combination. But she wasn’t the last.

I hesitated a moment. Could he have said what I thought he said? Are you sure it was uncut heroin? I mean, you can’t buy that stuff on the street, especially in the pit.

Doctor Peterson paused, then asked, The pit?

Yes, that’s another name for Skid Row. I imagine they call it that because a person can get stuck down there.

In that case, the pit is a proper name for it. Doctor Peterson got back to the pure heroin. The toxicologist says he’s never seen it. Not from the streets or anywhere else. He says you can’t find that in Los Angeles. Probably the whole country.

I see, and in case the heroin didn’t get the job done, they added the fentanyl to guarantee it would be lethal. You said someone else died from the same thing?

Yes, hold on a minute. I heard something that sounded like Doctor Peterson shuffling papers, then he said, Yes, and that’s where it gets odd. The only other death from this specific drug cocktail occurred in West Hollywood. Weird. But, if memory serves, you like weird cases.

I do, and this one meets the criteria. What’s her name?

It’s a man, George Spiker.

Was Spiker an addict?

Not that I can tell. He doesn’t have any track marks anywhere. He was an accountant.

What could a Skid Row recovering addict and a clean accountant have in common?

As I pondered the question, Doctor Peterson said, What if they met somewhere?

I see, I said. Then they may have done something that got them killed. But one thing is sure. They were targeted. I don’t know why yet, but I will. Hopefully, before the next body drops.

Chapter Three

The following day, I called the narcotics detective again and asked him how the case was coming. He said he had some leads he was following up on. I didn’t believe him, and I thought that was the time to start investigating Sarah’s death myself.

After giving some thought to how to proceed with an investigation, I felt the need to make another arrangement. I called the coroner’s office and asked them to hold Sarah’s body until I could arrange to bury her or have her cremated.

The clerk said it was their policy to keep a body for thirty days. I needed to make arrangements soon, or Sarah’s body would be disposed of by the county.

The clerk said he’d try to hold the body for two weeks over the thirty days, but he couldn’t promise that because his boss might say they need the space for incoming bodies.

There was only one thing for me to do: start acting like a freelance journalist. I should be able to solve Sarah and George’s murders and sell an exclusive account of my investigation.

Then maybe I’d get enough money to give Sarah a decent burial. It was all up to me. I couldn’t depend on her family because her sister had died, and I didn’t know where Sarah’s mother was. She was an addict too, or at least she was the last time Sarah saw her. That would have been when Sarah was about thirteen.

But I had to be clean to do it, so I attended a seven o’clock NA meeting at the Weingart Center on Sixth and San Pedro. The meeting room was at the base of a twelve-story light beige building that used to be the El Rey Hotel. The room had been cleaned, as evidenced by the scent of Pine-Sol, but the smell of mildew still lingered.

The room had green worn-out, dented metal folding chairs. The podium’s varnish had worn thin, and there was a chip in the base. I sat in the back next to the snack and coffee table.

It was a participation meeting. I decided to follow the suggestion from the group facilitator at the outpatient program and participate in my own recovery. I slowly walked from my seat in the back to the podium. 

I’m Webb, and I’m an addict.

The group responded in unison, Hi, Webb.

My story is short––I was with a girl named Calsey, and I had a friend named Ajanae who introduced me to oxycodone. Calsey found out I was getting high and put me out. I moved in with Ajanae. She was an occasional user, but I quickly got hooked. Some folks nodded. "Soon, crushing and snorting oxies wasn’t enough, and some guy I met at the dope dealer’s house told me to try shooting them. At first, I said no.

"But after a while, I wasn’t enjoying the high like I had previously. I was just mainly keeping the sick off. Then I saw the guy again, and he showed me how to prepare the oxies, draw them up, and shoot. He hit me the first time, and I loved it, and I was off to the races. I quickly learned how to hit myself and started using daily.

Ajanae caught me shooting up and put me out. I lost my job and everything else and landed on Skid Row, shooting heroin because I could no longer afford oxies. I tried quitting on my own, and I would make it through the withdrawals, but I went back because I always had a plan on how I was going to use successfully this time. That’s it. Thank you for letting me share. I walked quickly back to my seat as the group applauded.

After the meeting, I was standing at the snack table drinking coffee when this guy, who didn’t look like he belonged on Skid Row, came up to me and hugged me. Everybody in NA hugged everyone else, so I went along with it. After the grip on my body, he introduced himself.

Hi, Webb, I’m Ralph. Do you need a sponsor?

I don’t need somebody to tell me how to live. That’s what it sounded like sponsors did.

No, I’m not going to tell you how to live. I’m not going to pick you up to go to meetings either. I figure if you could make it to the dope man on your own, you can make it to a meeting. What I’m offering you is my help working the Twelve Steps of Recovery.

I don’t know anything about the steps. Just the little I’ve heard in meetings.

"You don’t have to know anything about the twelve steps to start. Here’s what I’ll do. I’ll give you a copy of the Narcotics Anonymous Basic Text. Read it and call me if you decide to work the steps. Fair enough?"

That sounds okay.

Hold on a minute––let me get a copy of the book from my car. I looked out the window and saw his nice new silver Lexus SUV. He returned with the NA book. Here you go. I put my number on the inside cover. Call me if you decide you want to do the work to stay clean. Then he just walked away. Didn’t try to pressure me or anything. Then he turned around and said, Oh, by the way, I used to be on Skid Row too. Then he left.

I read the NA Basic Text the rest of the night. As I read, I thought about those people at the NA meetings. They all looked so peaceful. They were happy, joyous, and free, like the Narcotics Anonymous Basic Text said. Like Sarah was. I called Ralph the next day and started working the steps.

≡

Tuesday morning, I looked for work and, in the afternoon and early evening I worked the case. At night I’d collect bottles and cans and cash them in the morning. I had to buy some business cards, so I would look professional while I worked the case. The starting place was Sarah's recovery facility, but first, I called Ralph.

I told him the whole story about Sarah and explained that I had to do something about it. I also told him about how I lost my job. I was high and missed an interview, so I made it up. The guy I was supposed to interview called the city desk. I didn’t think he would since he was an anonymous source, but he did. When I turned in the story, complete with the interview, I was immediately fired. What I had done was all over town in a matter of days. That was the end of my career.

Ralph paused, then said, There’s nothing wrong with going back to your career but looking for your fiancé’s killer sounds stressful. Can you handle it?

I think I’m up to it now. My plan is to order some cards saying ‘Wicus Webb, Freelance Investigative Journalist’ and put my cell phone number on them.

How do you have a cell phone?

It’s a free government-issued phone. It’s for indigent people or people on public assistance. Anyway, what do you think about the cards?

"It doesn’t matter what I think. What’s important is what you think."

My response required no thought. I think it’ll work.

Then good luck, but just make sure you continue working the steps and going to meetings. And participate anytime you have the opportunity.

I will, thanks, Ralph.

≡

On Thursday, I had enough to get my cards made. There was a printer I knew who used computer graphics. He put an open newspaper logo in the center of the cards and printed them in a couple of hours.

I decided to take them for a test drive, but first, I needed to look professional. So I went to an agency that helps people get jobs and explained my circumstances. They gave me a suit, shirt, tie, and shoes. Stuff they have on hand to give people seeking employment. I went back to the Panama and changed into the suit, then caught the bus to the recovery house Sarah was in. I was there a couple of days before she died, and twice a week before that, so the director knew me.

I didn’t mince words, I told him Sarah was dead and how they said she died, and what I thought. I also told him I was investigating and handed him my card.

Just in case you come up on someone that wants to talk to me.

Sure, and I think you’re right, the director said, I don’t believe she relapsed on her own either.

Thanks. Sarah told me that she went to outside NA meetings, but she didn’t say where. Do you know?

No, but a friend of hers might.

The director sent me to a woman that knew Sarah. The girl didn’t know anything except that Sarah went to a regular outside meeting.

Where’s the meeting?

I don’t know. I just know it was a weekly group in West Hollywood.

A West Hollywood meeting, maybe that was where she met George Spiker, but he wasn’t an addict, or maybe he was. He just didn’t shoot.

Anyway, the next thing for me to do was find that meeting. Narcotics Anonymous members wouldn’t be willing to tell me about Sarah unless she was dead. So I caught two buses to