A pic came through the grapevine. Now, this happened from time to time naturally. Cracky threads would be seen by certain people who were sitting on huge piles of crackyshit, but had no real knowledge of how valuable their little jpg's were. Like an internet antiques roadshow this long lost content would be dredged out, appraised by the experts, and then fed to our esoteric obsession.

It wasn't the oxford house, that's for sure. The aesthetic was all off. It was a group of people, not like a family... more a class photo for a very small school. I don't recall how many were there, but these young teenagers and pre-teens were all lined up smiling for the shot. There, hiding out near the back, was that unmistakable head of red hair.

My co-stalker was happy to provide details. It was, if you'd believe it, a photo quite serendipitously rightclick->saved from some youth-boarding group's web community. The group was stationed in LA. L fucking A.

I got the word out to my fellows and fellettes. None of us being LA natives, or even west-coasters, we were all going to fly down and check it out together. All of us dropped what we were doing. Actually come to think of it, none of us were doing anything that would make too much noise when dropped in the first place. We just booked flights and went there.

First impressions of LA? Well, there weren't any. I wasn't even conscious of the fact it was LA. I wasn't conscious of the fact it was real life for that matter. When I met with my stalkers, we barely spoke. We were like ghosts, silently floating forth trying to find somebody worth haunting. We drifted down to the addy of the youth-home. It was in a pretty ratty neighbourhood. The whole lot of us piled out of the car together. A bunch of Mexicans (or Kosovars knowing my luck) were eyeing our rental car. We went into the big box apartment building together. Considering it was 2 in the afternoon on a work/school day, I was surprised to see so many people just hanging out in their doorframes and running around the halls. Up a flight of stairs, and again we hooked local eyes as we made our way to the end of the hallway. We got to what I was told was the right door.

Somebody knocked. Honestly, the identities of my partners in -this- crime aren't really relevant. I know who knocked. It could have been any of us. There wasn't an answer. There wasn't a sound. For a place with twelve youngins crammed into one apartment sized area, you'd expect a little noise?

I checked back down the way we came. Nobody in the corridor now. The eyes had wiggled free and shut themselves safely away. I mentioned this, though not in as eloquent terms. Knocker stalker knocked with his shoulder this time. The frame gave way, and the door flung into the room and embedded the doorknob into the gypsum. We all walked in.

The interior was burnt with char. Most of the furniture was similarly crisped. There was no sign of any people in the main room. For some reason what stands out in my mind is a gigantic stain of ketchup and mustard on the floor in the open kitchen. Two large bottles must have been upended onto the floor after the fire had tongued the linoleum black. The bottles, however, were gone.

Without a word, or a gasp, we fanned out and began to search. I was shit scared, personally. I don't think any of us little internet boy-scouts making our first trip into real life wasn't terrified. However here, in real life, I suppose I had the advantage over my internet-centric peers. I went to a side room filled with empty metal frames of beds and began to inspect the walls. Beside one particular frame, located in the corner, I saw the walls had charred bits of pictures and artwork hanging. I figured, correctly I suppose, this would be Hers. A little bed-table with a single drawer sat next to Her mangled, twisting iron coil framework. Luckily the contents weren't damaged when the room was kissed by flame. I dug some photographs and a small notebook out, then I closed the drawer and left the room.

My cohorts were still checking cupboards, counters, cabinets, and the like. I casually walked out of the door. None of them noticed. This was actually the first dishonest thing I'd done through the whole debacle. Unless you count all those times I lied to my fiancee, and said I loved her.

That got the heart pumping though! Nobody watched from the other rooms in the apartment as I left. I figure they didn't want to know who we were or what we were doing. Not only for their own sake, but likely out of some pity for our status as unwittingly novice participants in whatever it was that was happening around those parts.

I got into a taxi. Told him to take me somewhere. Where? Around the block. No, to a hotel. Not the closest, but next closest.

I didn't even dare to peruse my find there in the taxi. Gods no. I wanted some privacy to look it over and see what there was.

There wasn't much. The photos were of the apartment and Her fellow occupants. Meant nothing to me lost from the context of Her memory. The only one of Her, with that gracefully fragile neck and killing eyes, was miss L out on the street with some blonde haired boy who was sporting a bowl cut. The notebook, which I went through, was unfortunately not a complete diary. I guess She's more into the online journals, instead of the type to keep up a pen-and-paper record. The book had doodles, notes like, "don't forget to pick up ketchup", and phone numbers. As I flipped a small wallet sized photo of the above mentioned bowl-cut kid fell out. I read the page. "8:00pm, (some dumb cafe), every day."

It was within walking distance. Since my time the army, walking distance was anywhere I could walk a return trip to and back from in a full day. It was in fact nearer Her apartment than my hotel, and it brought me uncomfortably close to the main roads where my spurned stalker crew would be driving down during their egress.

Laptop in hand, I left. When I arrived at the junky-cafe I checked my watch. About half an hour early. I realized that with my tanned skin and black hair I wouldn't stand out badly amongst the mostly, uh, "colourful" inhabitants of that neighbourhood. I guess I passed as a well to do Mexican. The white kid, with the bowl cut? Now he must be the oddity.

He came pedalling down the road on a bike around 8. Despite what I thought, none of the people milling about on the street paid him any mind. He entered the cafe and began to look around. He glanced at me, and waited until it was a solid gaze. I turned the laptop screen towards him. Sup 4chan?

"Where is she?" I started
"Are you the police?"
This was before I was going to be a cop, so I didn't think that was ironic at the time.
"No."
"Are you going to call the police?"
The notion of getting them involved hadn't even occurred.
"No."

He came to my computer, and typed something into the url bar.

"It's been a few weeks, at least." And then the kid left.

That's pretty curt, by my standards. I don't know why I didn't sit him down somewhere quiet and give him a full interview. But then again, I didn't really know anything back then.