Katrina Prado - The Whore of Babylon, A Memoir

“Sister Margaret said that you wouldn’t mind sometime, maybe taking me down to City College to register.”

This of course is news to me. But I can’t ignore the yearning in this girl’s young eyes.

“I’d love to,” I say. “When does registration start?”

“Not until after the winter break.” She looks down. “After the holidays.”

I reach out with one hand and rearrange strands of her bangs that the evening breeze has blown out of place.

“You call me whenever you’re ready,” I say with a smile.

November 3, 2002

After a long day at the office, I wheel the car into a tight spot at the Food For Less parking lot on Railroad Avenue, reviewing my mental list: something for dinner, creamer, bread, and eggs. I push back the guilty thought that I should probably pick up a vegetable or two. I steer the cart through the aisles on autopilot, wishing only for home and the oblivion of a bath.

Suddenly, the trill of my cell phone drowns the Muzak version of ‘Muskrat Love’ reverberating through the supermarket. It’s been two days since I posted the flyers. On average, the cell rings two to three times an hour and each time it is a crank call. I sigh, as I flatten the answer button.

“Hello?”

I hear a click. Another hang up. Immediately the phone rings again and I switch the phone to vibrate. Let them leave a message.

Heading home, the tired engine of the old Corsica chunks along. Between the spasmodic growls smoke has begun to bellow from the exhaust pipe. I have asked Rob twice to take a look at it, but as yet he hasn’t made time. All of his energy is directed towards his recovery, his program. It’s as if I have ceased to exist in his life.

Nearly home now, the normally quiet street, nearly always devoid of cars is crawling with activity. Directly across the street from the house is a large white news van, its towering antennae, a spire in the sky. On my front lawn, a bank of strangers, some with large, black cameras hoisted over their shoulders. It is only as I draw nearer that I realize all of these people are reporters. Fear skydives down my chest followed quickly by a dark cloud of foreboding.

I pull into the driveway and as I turn off the engine, the phalanx surrounds me. I open the car door and immediately half a dozen microphones are shoved into my face.

“Mrs. Skinner, is there any truth to the rumor that the dead body of a young girl found off of Beach Street, near Pier 39 is that of your daughter, Robyn?”

“What?” The air feels as if it’s been sucked from my lungs.

“Mrs. Skinner, is it true that your daughter was a teenage prostitute?”

“Ma’am, would you like to make a statement on whether or not your daughter brought her johns home to do business?”

“Mrs. Skinner, we have unconfirmed reports that you and your husband have an open marriage; any comment on that?”

The jostle each other like hungry lions surrounding a zebra carcass.

“Mike, get a close-up headshot,” somebody murmurs off to my left.

I am assailed as if by bullets.

Instinctively, I hold up my purse to my face, forgetting for the moment, about the groceries sitting in the backseat of the car. I hurriedly make my way into the house, slamming the door against their assault. All I can think about is Robyn.

Leaning against the front door I close my eyes, trying to regain my breath, trying to think clearly, but tears are already running down my face. I feel light headed and realize that though it is cool in the house, I am covered with sweat. Nausea rolls through my body and I clamp my hand to my stomach. I barely make it to the kitchen sink in time, retching so hard I feel as if I might have an aneurysm.

I yank the kitchen towel from its hook and wipe traces of vomit from my mouth. I glance at the answering machine. The number five flashes dimly in the dusky light of evening. Unsteady, I stumble to the machine, depressing the ‘play’ button. Desire and dread are tightly knotted, the only thing holding me together.

The first two messages are local reporters requesting information and/or interviews. The third is a hang-up. The fourth is a message from Rob saying that he’ll be home late; he was asked to make something called a twelfth step call. The fifth and final message is the arrow that pierces my heart.

“Mr. and Mrs. Skinner, this is homicide detective Roscoe with the San Francisco police department. Please give us a call as soon as you get this message.”

He leaves his cell number.

Nothing can prepare a person for this. Not resolve, not character, not brute physical strength, not even rage has any power over the visceral terror that has enveloped my body. Irrationally, I feel that as long as I don’t return Detective Roscoe’s phone call there is a chance that Robyn is still alive. The absurd thought that I will be able to keep Robyn from death if only I can keep from talking to the police invades my brain.

I pick up the phone and dial. After just two rings I hear the familiar ‘hello’.

I swallow hard and respond.

“Hello, Mama?”

“Margot?” she sounds breathless, as if she might faint.

I pour my heart out. My mom listens.

“I’m sorry I lied, Mama. I’m sorry. It’s just been-”

“Sweetie. Don’t worry about it. Do you want me to fly there? I will. I will in a heartbeat. You know I will.”

“No. It’s okay. I’ll call you as soon as I have any news.”

“I shore do love you sugar pot. And I’ll say a prayer for you. And Robyn.”

“Thank you Mama. I love you too.”

Dawn breaks cold and bleak across the sky in Pittsburg. Although my body physically droops with fatigue, my mind is riddled with a grim and crushing apprehension. My pillow is still damp with tears. I sit up in bed and bring my palms to my eyes, rubbing away the exhaustion. Next to me, Rob quietly snores.

Last night, after the phone call with my mother, I screwed up the courage to phone Detective Roscoe. He told me that SFPD had found the body of a girl believed to be between the ages of fourteen to eighteen dumped near Pier 39. She had been bludgeoned to death. Her face had been beaten so badly it was unrecognizable. He requested the name and telephone number of our dentist, saying it would be much faster than DNA. He apologized for the trouble and said he ‘hoped like hell it wasn’t Robyn’. I rifled through my address book until I found the last dentist that Robyn had been to, a Dr. Rarebit in Aztec and gave the detective the phone number. Detective Roscoe said that assuming the dentist could fax over the dental records the following day that they would know within twenty-four hours and to stay close to the phone. I said that I would and also gave him my cell phone number.

I thanked him for his time and concern and then hung up the phone and sobbed like a baby for an hour and a half. Rob must have come home after I fell asleep from exhaustion because I never even heard him come to bed. We need to talk, but I can’t will myself to rouse him. I’ll wait until he wakes on his own.

I fight down an unusual feeling of dizziness, wiping away the clammy sheen that seems to have developed on my forehead and rise, heading to the kitchen. My brain is numb. I peel a coffee filter from the stack and measure out the grounds, willing myself not to think. After pouring water in the coffee maker, I drag a chair over to the counter and stare blankly at the pot as the water hisses and coughs through the machine.

I suddenly realize the sunrise has been replaced by a beryl-blue sky. I physically shake my head, willing myself to action. I shuffle into the living room and surreptitiously peek out the front window. I expect to see tents pitched next to smoldering campfires. But no reporters are hovering on the lawn, although the big white news van across the street is still there and has been joined by another one from a different station. Great.