by C. J. Box
Kirkbride shook his head.
Cassie felt herself go cold. She hadn’t considered how near to impossible it might be for the forensics experts to identify a specific victim—even with tangible evidence. Not without a body. Again she was reminded how difficult it was to catch serial killers who were long-haul truckers. Not only was the driver likely ten states away when a woman was reported missing, but he had thousands of highway miles to dispose of a body.
“At this point, I can only hope,” Cassie said. “I bought them some time and I can only hope they come up with something.”
Kirkbride nodded in agreement. “Me too,” he said.
After their cheeseburgers arrived, Cassie inadvertently glanced over toward the table of five men. They were still staring at her. One of them waggled his eyebrows at her as he took a long pull from his beer mug. She quickly looked back to Kirkbride.
“What about prostitution?” she asked.
“Oh, it’s here,” Kirkbride said with a laugh.
“Is it organized?”
“Not really. The days of whorehouses are over. There’s a few low-life pimps who show up with a carload of girls, but most of it’s done over the Internet. Check out a Web site called ‘North Dakota Backpage.’ You’ll see how it’s done. It’s quite a marketplace.
“But to be honest, we really don’t want to make it a high priority. Look around you. Unless these guys are crossing the line seeking underage girls or getting involved with human traffickers, we’ll kind of look the other way. We’ve got tens of thousands of single men out there and I’d rather they blow off steam that way than busting a beer bottle across someone’s face. We’ve got bigger fish to fry, is what I’m saying.”
She understood that.
“What about homicides?” she asked.
“Up until the boom, we averaged one every three years. Usually domestics. Lena had it up to here with Ole and brained him with a cast-iron skillet in the farmhouse. But there are seven so far this year and two are unsolved. Maybe even three. That’s one of the reasons I’m happy you’re here,” he said with a slow grin. “You’ll find the files on your desk in the morning. I hate unsolveds. It jacks my stats. The worst thing is two of ’em look like professional contract hits.”
Cassie stopped chewing. She’d never worked a contract murder investigation.
“That’s right,” Kirkbride said. “As crazy as that is to believe out here.”
“Tell me more,” she said.
“Those guys over there at that table are ogling you.”
She blushed and wished there was a way to take it back. She sighed, and said, “I know. Tell me more about the two and maybe three contract hits.”
Kirkbride said, “Two months ago, we found two bodies dumped in a field ten miles from town. Males, tatted up, tortured, killed, and dumped. I’ve never seen anything quite like it but I won’t get into the details until you finish your dinner. Each of ’em were still in their colors.”
“Colors?”
“Have you ever heard of an outlaw motorcycle gang called the Sons of Freedom? They’re originally out of Colorado but they’ve got chapters all over the country. They do it all—strong-arm robbery, murder, meth, heroin. They’re one of the original One Percenter gangs.”
Cassie knew a little about One Percenters—Hell’s Angels, Warlocks, Sons of Freedom. They wore patches on their vests proclaiming it.
“We’ve heard the Sons started a chapter here a while back.”
“Wouldn’t they be obvious?” she asked.
“I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking they all ride around on Harley choppers wearing their colors, so why haven’t we picked them up and questioned them? The thing is, some of those guys still do that, but a lot of them don’t anymore. They have to operate under the radar to get a foothold in a community. The colors come out once they’re established and they’ve intimidated everyone to the point that no one will try to take them on.”
She asked, “Any idea who was responsible?”
“Only a guess. But I hate to even think it.”
“Think what?”
Kirkbride sat back and said, “Finish your burger and I’ll show you something. I want to see if you come to the same conclusion I did.”
* * *
BAKKEN COUNTY didn’t have a morgue, Kirkbride said as they drove downtown. There were two funeral homes—Gundersen’s and Schneider’s—and they used to alternate years as to which one would serve as the official county morgue. That had been changed with the increase in homicides. Now both funeral homes stored bodies until they could be autopsied locally if necessary, or sent to Bismarck for examination by state crime lab technicians.
They stopped in front of Gundersen’s Memorial Chapel. There were no lights on inside.
“I have a key,” Kirkbride said. “You’re not real squeamish, are you?”
“No,” she lied.
As she waited for the sheriff to open the side door, she noticed how much colder it had become. She hugged herself and vowed to get a warmer coat. She’d heard about winter in North Dakota, how bitter it was. Now she knew it to be true.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t much warmer in the steel and tile backroom used by Gundersen’s for embalming the deceased. Harsh white fluorescent lights reflecting off the steel and tile in the room made it seem even colder.
A body, covered by a plasticized sheet, was on a gurney outside of two steel half-doors. She assumed there were other bodies inside the drawers.
“The paying customers get to use the pull-out shelves,” Kirkbride said. “Our county bodies have to wait out in the open like riffraff. Which they usually are.”
She nodded. His attempt to lighten the moment hadn’t worked.
“Ready?” he asked, grasping the top corner of the sheet. She nodded quickly. Her hands were in her coat pockets, fingernails digging into her palms.
“I’ll only peel it back halfway,” the sheriff said. “The bottom half, well, it’s nearly detached. No reason to see that. Right now we’re classifying him as a victim of a one-car rollover.”
She tried not to shiver from the cold.
The body unveiled on the gurney was male, olive-colored, well-muscled, and heavily tattooed, even on its face and neck. Both arms had full-sleeve tattoos. The face tattoos were so elaborate and dark they made it look like he was wearing a mask. He had a shaved head, gold earrings, and a heavy brow. Light-colored knife blade scars showed on his face, forearms, and torso.
A discernible tattoo on the breast was of a clenched hand with clawlike fingernails. The pointer and little finger were outstretched, the two middle fingers were held down by the thumb. She was puzzled by it.
Kirkbride noticed. He said, “Think what it looks like upside down.”
She said, “An ‘M.’”
He nodded and then said, “And if anyone still doubts what we’ve got here”—he grasped the body by the arm and tugged it over—“we’ve got this.”
The victim’s back was also a mass of swirling tattoos. Most were amatueristic: angels with fangs, naked big-breasted women, daggers, a stylized AK-47. But the bad tattoos framed the words “MS-13” inked in a Germanic-looking font. The letters covered most of his back from shoulder to shoulder.
“Mara Salvatrucha 13 or MS-13,” Kirkbride said. “Also known as the most violent gang in America. I looked them up. Salvadoran origin out of Los Angeles but they’ve spread out across the country. They’re known for drug distribution, murder, rape, child prostitution, robbery, home invasions, kidnapping, human trafficking, carjackings … they do it all, as long as it’s violent.”
Cassie took a deep breath. “So you find two outlaw motorcycle gang members tortured and killed and two months later you’ve got an MS-13 member laid out in your morgue.”
Kirkbride nodded.
She said, “If we assume that this was more than a one-car rollover, it sounds like you’ve got some kind of vigilante out there keeping bad people out.”
Kirk
bride shook his head. “I gave that some thought, but I don’t believe it. Not after I saw what happened to those two bodies we found out in the field. Someone used blowtorches on them, Cassie. They used drills on their kneecaps and bolt cutters on their fingers and toes. It was drawn out and terrible and it was the work of more than one man.”
She said, “Then it could be the beginnings of a gang war.”
“Right here in Bakken County,” Kirkbride said.
Then he said, “I want you to dig into this. We’ve got to make sure this isn’t what it looks like. And if it is, we’ve got to get in front of it.”
Cassie nodded.
“There’s something else, and this needs to be kept strictly between you and me,” Kirkbride said. “You need to do this investigation completely on your own. You can’t recruit any deputies to help, or even talk to them about it. You only report to me, understand?”
She was confused and she knew she showed it. “Why? Why wouldn’t we want to put all of our resources into finding out?”
Kirkbride nodded. He said, “Just trust me on this for now. I know it’s asking a lot since you barely know me and you haven’t even worked your first day on the job. But I ask you to trust me.”
“I was in a situation before I came here where the sheriff asked me to be his spy within the department,” she said. “He used the information I gave him to railroad my partner. I swore I would never get into a situation like that again, and I won’t. You have to assure me that isn’t what you’re asking me to do or I’ll get in my car tonight and drive back to Montana.”
Kirkbride was silent. Their eyes were locked and she was angrier than she wanted to be. She knew there would be nothing in Helena for her, but she couldn’t back down.
“I’m not going to use what you tell me to railroad anyone,” Kirkbride said firmly. “That’s as much as I can say right now. So I guess it’s your choice to trust me or not. There’s a reason why I reached outside the department to hire my new chief investigator. I did my research before I offered you the job. I read about how you gunned down a corrupt state trooper who had a dozen years on you and how the guy had been operating under the nose of local law enforcement for years. I read about how you stayed on the Lizard King case even though it was out of your jurisdiction and beyond your authority. What I see in you is a bulldog. I need a bulldog.”
Cassie blinked hard and understood. “You think someone in your department—”
“Stop,” Kirkbride barked, raising his hand palm up to cut her off. “Leave it where it is. I’m not going to say any more. It’s your choice to stay under my conditions or leave under yours.”
She took a deep breath and expelled it. So much, so quickly. She had yet to internalize the situation in Grimstad, much less the possibilities of a nascent gang war or internal corruption within the sheriff’s department. But she was flattered by what he said and God knew she needed the promotion and the challenge. She wasn’t sure she was up to it, though. Kirkbride didn’t know the whole story when it came to the gun battle with the trooper—how she’d ambushed the man in a stairwell and made it look like he fired first.
She said, “I’ll stay.”
* * *
ON THE WAY back to the law enforcement center and her apartment, Kirkbride said, “Get a good night’s sleep and I’ll see you at seven forty-five tomorrow for the morning briefing. You’ll get to meet my team.”
She nodded. But she wasn’t sure she’d be able to sleep at all.
PART TWO
DAY FOUR
CHAPTER TEN
IT WAS late at night when Kyle woke up. His stomach churned and his head felt foggy. He was afraid he might throw up, and he hovered for a moment over the trash can in his room trying to keep it in. He couldn’t remember eating dinner, but he thought he could recall his door opening earlier followed by an argument between his mom and T-Lock. But Kyle wasn’t sure he hadn’t dreamed it.
He didn’t like the way his mouth tasted, either. It was dry and he needed a drink of water.
Kyle opened his bedroom door cautiously. The lights were still on in the living room, and there were more empty beer bottles on the end table. But Winkie was gone, and so was the square of glass.
He could hear talking—a soft, high-pitched conversation—coming from inside his mother’s bedroom. Luckily, the door was closed. He didn’t want anyone seeing him. Kyle tiptoed past it toward the kitchen.
On the table was a full McDonald’s bag with the top folded over. Kyle opened it and looked inside. She’d brought burgers and fries home but they were all cold so apparently they hadn’t eaten anything either. He tried a French fry but it was cold and stiff and it nearly made him gag.
Kyle drank two full glasses of water from the tap. He thought he could make it back to his bedroom before anyone saw him, but his mom’s door opened just as he passed it.
She didn’t see him at first because she was looking back over her shoulder. She was wearing a thin black nightie Kyle had never seen before. Her legs were white and bare. He didn’t like it that he could see her curves through her clothing because she was backlit. She was looking back at T-Lock, who was sitting up in bed in his boxer shorts lit by the dim light of the table lamp. He was smoking a cigarette right in the open. The square of glass was next to him on top of the covers, and several little squares—baggies from the bundle—were on the glass. So was a candle, a syringe, and a little black ball.
Just then, his mom turned and nearly bowled him over. She could barely walk and her eyes were glassy.
She bent down and hugged him and buried her face into his neck, and said, “Oh, my little man. My little sweet man.”
She said it in a slurred little girl voice Kyle had never heard before.
Kyle kept his eyes closed tight. He didn’t want to see anymore.
From the bedroom, T-Lock said, “Shut the damned door, Rachel.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
AT TWO FORTY-FIVE in the morning, Fidel “La Matanza” Escobar and Diego “Silencio” Argueta drove their silver Toyota Tundra pickup into the parking lot of the Missouri Breaks Lodge east of Grimstad. The truck was beaded with water from the industrial wash at the truck plaza outside of town and it streamed in rivulets from the back tailgate. As they passed by the large lighted window of the man camp office, Escobar saw a pudgy Caucasian inside sitting at a desk. The Caucasian wore a denim shirt with a name badge on the breast and a patch on his shoulder.
The Caucasian, who had a thatch of straw-colored hair and a ruddy complexion, looked up and squinted as the Tundra passed by.
“Labriego,” Escobar said, meaning “farmworker.”
Argueta laughed.
Escobar swung the pickup over and parked between two muddy four-by-four company vehicles. He kept the pickup running as he got out and pulled on his heavy distressed brown leather jacket. Twin jets of condensation came out of his nostrils as he exhaled into the cold night air, and he wrapped a newly purchased fleece scarf over the top of his shaved head and around his face below his nose. He tucked the ends of the scarf into his collar. Oh, how he hated the cold.
Escobar wasn’t quite five foot six but he had broad shoulders and a thick chest. He had an egg-shaped shaved head, a flat wide nose, a soul patch under his bottom lip, and huge protruding ears. His ears got cold easily, he thought, because they weren’t close enough to his scalp so they froze on the inside and the outside at the same time. He had flat black eyes.
He did a walk around the Tundra under the harsh light of the LED floods that lit up the parking lot like a used-car lot. Water pattered on the pavement from the undercarriage and truck bed. Within the hour, he knew, it would be turned into ice. That was fine, he thought. As long as the ice was clean.
He glanced over at the window of the office to see the labriego leaning back in his desk chair to check him out. No doubt, the labriego didn’t recognize the pickup as belonging to any of his current residents. Either that, or the man was easily distracted. Maybe seeing a pick
up that was actually clean was an unusual sight, Escobar thought.
Escobar looked around the fenced perimeter of the lot. There were security cameras mounted on each distant corner post. The cameras could see the activity in the lot in abstract, but weren’t close enough or high enough to see into individual vehicles. From the angle he was parked, he knew the labriego couldn’t see well either, so he opened the tailgate.
His tools were splayed across the metal ribbed floor of the pickup. Bolt cutters, drill bits, tin snips, ball-peen hammer, pliers, bar clamp, stainless-steel commercial bone saw. And the two eighteen-inch-high carbon stainless-steel Condor El Salvador machetes, which were unique because of the slot in the blade and the knuckle guard grip. The tools were beaded with rinse water from being blasted with the same high-pressure hand-wands they’d used to clean out the bed of the pickup as well as the inside bed walls. The tools glistened in the bright overhead lights, although the beads of water were already starting to freeze into translucent buttons.
He walked around the pickup to the passenger side as Argueta powered down his window.
Argueta said, “Ayee—it’s a cold motherfucker, La Matanza.” La Matanza meant “the Massacre.” The Massacre was an infamous event in Salvadoran history, when tens of thousands of peasants were slaughtered by the ruling elite in 1932. Escobar’s great-grandmother had been hacked to death by machete. He’d never known her.
Escobar said, “You’ve been in there with the heater blasting. I’ve been the one out here, Silencio.”
“You said to stay inside, man.”
Argueta was even shorter than Escobar and much leaner. Everything about him was sharp angles—nose, cheekbones, chin. He reminded Escobar of a bird—bird frame, bird bones, bird eyes, bird swiftness. Argueta did everything fast and jerky. He wouldn’t have been La Matanza’s first choice but for the fact that Argueta didn’t have face and neck tattoos. Now that he’d seen him swing a machete, though, Escobar knew he’d made the right choice.
Escobar said, “I’ll go inside and talk to the labriego. You gather up all my tools and put them in my toolbox. Make sure they’re dry. If there is any ice on the metal—chip it off. Put the Condors under the seat so nobody can see them from outside.”