PT. 2 Everything is Smooth and Perfect
On the murders of Emily King (Menghan Zhuang) and Connie Marsh (PART TWO)
2
The phone rang at Erin Machado’s desk in the L.A. County Medical Examiner’s office—9 p.m., Tuesday, February 4. On the other end of the line was Officer Walter Mollinedo, calling from the LASD Homicide Bureau. Before Mollinedo opened his mouth, Machado knew what he was going to say. She logged the details as they came:
Legal Name of Decedent: Menghan Zhuang. Age: 23 years old. Location of Injury: 21314 Nandina Lane, Apartment 203, Newhall, California 91321. Date of Death: 2/4/2025. Pronounced by: LA County Fire Department, Engine #73 at 19:03:00.
*
Dawn had yet to break over the San Gabriel Mountains as the County’s deputy Medical Examiner, Dr. Martina Kennedy, merged onto Interstate 5. She’d been assigned last night’s call in: a college student found unresponsive at home by her roommate. Apparent homicide. No persons in custody. The Homicide Bureau had requested a full forensic examination.
Forty-five minutes later, Dr. Kennedy arrived in Newhall, her County ME-Coroner vehicle easing into a designated zone outside of a generic stucco complex—pleasant enough, in a forgettable way. Barely 3o miles north of Downtown L.A., Santa Clarita had a different texture from the city. The clouds stretched farther. Pink pepper trees formed dense stands beside the freeway, framing dark, clear mountains. Kennedy stepped out of her car and into the damp air—eucalyptus and pine, sharpened by an overnight downpour. Detective Tera Frudakis was waiting for her behind a barricade of yellow crime-scene tape strung between trees, a gloved hand raised in greeting. Kennedy ducked beneath it and they headed towards a LASD pop-up tent inside the perimeter. As Kennedy suited up, Frudakis laid out what they knew so far:
On Monday, February 3rd, Menghan Zhuang—who went by “Emily King” in the States, invited a male acquaintance into her apartment. They spent the evening in Emily’s bedroom, her roommate, Sam*, later told detectives. The next morning, when Sam left at around 7AM, he heard Emily “giggling” behind her door. Later that day, when Sam texted Emily, he didn’t hear back, which was unusual. He called, but she didn’t answer. That afternoon, Sam received a Ring doorbell notification, a grainy clip that appeared to show Emily’s guest leaping from her second-story bedroom window to the stairwell below. Alarmed, Sam returned to their apartment to check on her. Maybe she was still sleeping? He knocked on her bedroom door. No response. From inside, he heard the sound of running water. That’s how he found her, naked in the tub. LAFD responded to Sam’s frantic 911 call a little before seven-o-clock.
Kennedy inhaled through her mask. “Visible wounds?”
“Head and neck. Blood around the right ear.”
Kennedy snapped on a pair of nitriles and Frudakis led them up a southern exterior stairwell, its white stucco surface mottled grey with damp. The front door of Apartment 203 was open. Inside, Kennedy inventoried the scene with a steady eye, surveying the rental-grade carpet, the cheap flush-mount ceiling fixtures, the unforgiving white walls. To the west, left of the entryway, was a spacious living area, beyond which was the master bedroom. Emily’s bedroom, the smaller of the two, was on the opposite side of the 950-square-foot condo.
Every person who enters a crime scenes poses a threat to its accuracy, and twelve hours had already passed since first responders arrived. LAFD, sheriff’s deputies, crime scene technicians—their movements would bend whatever story the space had to tell. Kennedy was vigilant in her focus. As she entered the victim’s bedroom, she paused to examine small bloodstains on the carpet and furniture, marked by numbered placards. The window on the back wall was still open. She peered down, picturing the man who had jumped from it the day before. Adjacent to the window was a small desk adorned with a kitschy, vintage Cheyenne table lamp shaped like a palm tree. Kennedy turned and followed Frudakis to the bathroom, noting blood spatter on the white sink vanity.
Emily lay in the tub, her long black hair fanned out against its gleaming surface. She was facing the tiled wall so that her back was to the door. Her knees were pulled slightly toward her chest in an almost-fetal position. Though she was undressed, her body was partially concealed by a peculiar assortment of items, including bedding, clothing, towels, a broken plant pot and the matching twin to the Cheyanne palm lamp on her desk. The Fire Department had turned off the shower, but as technicians removed the items one by one, it was apparent they were saturated not only with water but with blood. As Kennedy moved closer, she noticed a wound on Emily’s forehead that exposed a pale fragment of skull. A cellphone charging cable was looped around her right wrist. Kennedy crouched beside Emily’s body as junior criminologist Yun-Jung Choi methodically collected swabs for a sexual assault evidence kit. Choi swabbed Emily’s face, her hair, her ankles, wrists; the cord around her wrist. Her pubic hair. Beneath her fingernails — which were painted purple and flecked with glitter. Five hours later, a forensic technician transported Emily’s body to the Los Angeles Forensic Science lab, where Kennedy would conduct the autopsy.
The scene was disturbing. It was disturbing on account of the age of the victim, and that she was an international student at a costly private art school in a suburban district. It was disturbing that she appeared to know her assailant. It was disturbing for Santa Clarita in general, which prided itself on its lower crime rate compared to urban Los Angeles. It was disturbing to me, a former CalArts student from overseas, because I was working on a documentary project about another CalArts student, a painter named Connie Marsh, who had been murdered close to campus decades prior.
That women (girls), are murdered by men (boys), is not a revelation. Acknowledging this fact is not the same as accepting it.
Last week Emily’s friend played me a video on her phone. It’s a recording of Emily at her desk in the CalArts dorm room they shared together a year ago. “If today is the last day of your life,” Emily asks in her singsong voice, looking right into the camera, “what’re you gonna do?!”