The Traffickers
Page 30
Dr. Mitchell was in the room marked PORTMORTEM EXAMINATION. The autopsy room was brightly lit, almost harshly, and its temperature a chilly sixty degrees Fahrenheit. The walls and floor were covered with shiny ceramic tiling, gray ones on the floor and white ones on the walls. There were three stainless-steel operating tables, each with a four-inch-diameter stainless-steel drain in the tiled floor directly beneath them. Two of the stainless-steel operating tables were empty and gleaming.
Dr. Mitchell stood at the third table. He was neatly suturing up the flesh over the chest cavity of a brown-skinned female body without a head.
He looked over his shoulder as the three came into the room.
“ ’Evening, gentlemen,” Dr. Mitchell said.
“Thanks for calling, Doc,” Tony Harris said. “Doc, this is Sergeant Jim Byrth of the Texas Rangers. Jim, Dr. Howard Mitchell, our distinguished ME.”
“Good to meet you, Doctor,” Byrth said.
“Same,” Dr. Mitchell replied. “I’d offer my hand, but . . .”
“I appreciate that,” Byrth said.
“Jim’s here in Philly hunting a guy who likes to lop off heads.”
Dr. Mitchell nodded as he kept stitching. “What a coincidence, eh?”
“Good to see you, Doc,” Payne said.
Dr. Mitchell didn’t take his eyes off his stitching. “Likewise, Matt.”
Payne had seen the crude sewing of other doctors on post-autopsy bodies. He knew that Dr. Mitchell’s neat suturing was done as a gesture of respect for the deceased, as well as for their families, who may or may not have to view the body for a positive identification.
Payne glanced at the female victim’s hands and feet.
He said, “Looks like the usual washerwoman effect.”
Now Dr. Mitchell did turn his head toward him. He had a look of mock surprise.
He said, “So you do pay attention to what I say! My day is now complete!”
Payne smiled and shook his head.
Dr. Mitchell and his eight full-time investigators held weekly meetings with police detectives. They updated the policemen on cases, reviewing new information and reminding them which bodies remained unidentified and held at the morgue. One such recent case had been the bullet-riddled body of a black male. The victim had been pulled from the Delaware River at the foot of the Benjamin Franklin Bridge that connected Philly to Camden, New Jersey.
Dr. Mitchell had explained to Payne the “washerwoman effect”—the term in modern society of course being the complete opposite of politically correct. But “washerperson” just didn’t seem to carry the same descriptive impact.
The ME had said that the wrinkles on the body were caused by its having been immersed in water for an extended period of time. They were particularly pronounced on the flesh of the feet and, of course, of the hands. The condition was consistent with that of a woman who spent a lot of time washing with her hands. Thus, its name.
Harris then said, “Anything unusual jump out at you, Doc?”
Mitchell shook his head. “You mean, except for not being able to do a cranial exam? Not that I’m complaining; that saved me a good half hour off the usual two-hour process.”
“Yeah.”
“Define ‘unusual’ in this business, Detective,” he said dryly. He then added, “Nothing beyond the grass particles embedded in the bone of the spinal column.”
“Tell us about that,” Payne said.
“Well, it’s clear that whatever was used to cut through the flesh and bone had previously been used in someone’s yard.”
Kerry Rapier told us in the command center that Javier Iglesia had mentioned he’d seen the grass embedded on the body.
“Like a pair of those long-handled shears?” Payne said.
Mitchell shook his head. “No, these weren’t leaf particles. These were fibers of grass. I could show you in the microscope, but that’s not necessary. It’s pretty clear to the naked eye. Here, look.”
He waved them over to the end of the table where the neck wound remained open. He pointed.
“Jesus!” Payne said when he saw the hacked bone and flesh. “She was whacked at—look at all those chunks taken out. Shears would have made a cleaner cut. I mean, cuts. From two sides.”
“Are those also metal fragments?” Byrth said.
“Good eyes,” Mitchell said. “Blade fragments, I’d say. I believe the severing was caused by either a very sharp blade from, say, a lawn mower or, more likely, a more brittle blade, such as a machete.”
“Well, now, that’s good news!” Payne said, the sarcasm evident in his tone. “There can only be—what?—ten, twenty thousand machetes out there? Or one particular one rusting on the bottom of the Schuylkill.”
Byrth raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, but it’s consistent with what happened to the two in Texas.”
Payne and Harris turned and looked at Byrth.
“They used machetes?” Payne said.
Byrth nodded. “It’s a common tool used by the Latino lawn-mowing crews in Texas. You’ll see them pruning bushes and tree limbs with them. Apparently they use them on tall grass, too. If you think about it, it’s a pretty efficient bush tool. By ‘bush’ I mean jungle. They used it wherever they came from in Central America; why not here?”
The three stood in a shocked silence as they watched the ME go back to suturing the body of the young Hispanic female.
Payne had a mental image of some Latino towering over young girls and flailing with the long-bladed machete, just hacking away at their necks.
What sort of animal does that? he thought.
Certainly a godless one . . .
Harris finally broke their silence.
“What happens next, Doc?” he said. “We got nothing back from the FBI on her fingerprints. No records, nothing.”
“The examiners will make the usual calls, trying to see if she’s a runaway or similar. But unless someone comes forward, I guess she’ll just go on the list with the other two.”
He nodded at a clipboard hanging on a hook by the door.
Dr. Mitchell explained: “We went ahead and wrote up the two Hispanic males from the motel explosion.”
The ME’s office had a Forensic Investigative Unit. Among other tasks, the FIU worked to identify human remains. Then, if successful, it contacted the next of kin.
Most unidentified bodies brought to the ME were identified within a matter of hours. This was accomplished by matching fingerprints to FBI database records. Folks who died violent deaths of a suspicious nature tended to have an arrest record, which of course included a full set of fingerprints. For those who didn’t have a rap sheet the size of a phone book, the identification sometimes was made using dental records or DNA matching, both of which tended to be more difficult than matches by prints. But, like the prints, these matches were indisputable.
There were those victims, however, who just could not be so matched. Decomposition and charring of the body topped the list of reasons why no records could be found on a John or Jane Doe. And so the ME’s office published a list of these non-name victims available for public review.
Payne walked over and collected the clipboard. He read the top sheet: City of Philadelphia
Medical Examiner’s Office
Forensic Investigative Unit
Howard H. Mitchell, MD
Medical Examiner
To date, using current methods, the Forensic Investigative Unit of the Medical Examinerʹs Office has been unable to identify the following persons. It is hoped that this listing of unknown individuals and their description being made public will aid in our identifying them.
Anyone having any information that may help the FIU identify these person or persons is asked to contract the Forensic Services Manager at 215-685-7445.
CASE NUMBER: 09-4087
RACE: Hispanic
GENDER: Male
ESTIMATE AGE: 25-30 years
ESTIMATE HEIGHT AND WEIGHT: 5ʹ4ʺ, 140 pounds
DATE BODY FOU
ND: 09 September
LOCATION OF BODY: Philly Inn, 7004 Frankford Avenue, Philadelphia
DISTINGUISHING MARKS: tattoo of a tear drop at corner of right eye; tear drop incomplete, only bottom inked in
PERSONAL EFFECTS: gold earring stud right lobe.
CLOTHING: LUCKY brand jeans size 34x32, [unknown] brand T-shirt size medium, NIKE athletic shoes size 10
BRIEF DESCRIPTION: Charred remains. The decedent was killed in the explosion of a meth lab. Clothing mostly burned. The decedent can be identified by dental record or DNA.
CASE NUMBER: 09-4087
RACE: Hispanic
GENDER: Male
ESTIMATE AGE: 20-25 years
ESTIMATE HEIGHT AND WEIGHT: 5ʹ0ʺ, 100 pounds
DATE BODY FOUND: 09 September
LOCATION OF BODY: Philly Inn, 7004 Frankford Avenue, Philadelphia
DISTINGUISHING MARKS: None
PERSONAL EFFECTS: Timex wristwatch
CLOTHING: Notorious BIG brand jeans size 34x32, [unknown] brand T-shirt size medium, NIKE athletic shoes size 10
BRIEF DESCRIPTION: Charred remains. The decedent was in an explosion of a meth lab but may have died from a cut to the throat. Clothing almost completely burned. Timex wristwatch melted to wrist. The decedent can be identified by dental record or DNA.
Matt Payne snorted as he read.
He handed the clipboard to Tony Harris.
Payne said, “Get a load of the brand names of their jeans. ‘Notorious BIG’ and, irony of ironies, ‘Lucky.’”
Harris took the sheet and looked. He grunted as he handed the board to Byrth.
“Jim, any idea what’s with the older, bigger guy’s tattoo?” Payne then said.
“Hard to say,” Byrth replied as he scanned the sheet, “because the gangbangers have bastardized it so much. A teardrop originally was basically a symbol of someone crying over a lost one, either incarcerated or murdered—a display of closure. Then it came to be a badge of honor, or warning, especially in prison, indicating that the bearer had murdered someone in or out of prison.”
“What about the one on this guy? A tear with an empty top and a full bottom.”
“Could mean he avenged the murder of a loved one.”
Payne looked at Tony Harris.
“The other guy had the slit throat,” Payne said.
Harris nodded. “Could be something. Maybe suggests he wasn’t shy about taking someone out?”
“Certainly fitting,” Byrth said. He then added, “You don’t want to walk around with one in Australia.”
“Why?” Payne said.
“There, convicts who’re accused as being child molesters basically get branded with a teardrop.”
Payne shook his head. “Hell, I don’t want to walk around with one anywhere.” He sighed as he glanced again at the abused corpse. “No offense, Doc, but I’m getting the hell out of here.”
“None taken, Matt. This particular job even depresses a callous veteran such as myself. Good luck catching the sonofabitch.”
Harris and Byrth said their thanks and goodbyes, and followed.
And as they stepped outside, Payne’s cell phone began ringing.
He looked at the screen. It read: UNION LEAGUE OF PHILA—1 CALL @ 2045.
“Wonder who this is?” he said, and a moment later heard Hollaran’s voice.
[TWO]
2480 Arroyo Avenue, Dallas Wednesday, September 9, 7:56 P.M. Texas Standard Time
Juan Paulo Delgado stepped carefully as he went through the six-foot-tall wall of red-tip photinias that grew thickly beside the convenience store. He had his Beretta semiautomatic nine-millimeter pistol out, and slowly thumbed back its hammer.
He heard and smelled the grimy man before he saw him in the shadows.
The coyote was humming as he took one helluva piss on the bare dirt.
He’s dirty and he stinks!
El Gato pounced.
His right arm outstretched, he brought up his pistol to shoulder level and smoothly closed on his target. Just as the muzzle of the weapon touched the back of the man’s skull—and the man suddenly realized that he was not alone—El Gato squeezed the trigger.
The hollow-point copper-jacketed lead bullet made a neat entrance hole and mushroomed. It traveled through the soft gray matter, then made an exit wound that fractured so much bone it tore off the flesh of the man’s right cheek.
He immediately fell forward, making a soft splash as he landed in his own pool of urine. Blood drained from the head wounds, mixing with the pool.
Shit! Delgado thought, wiping at the blood spatter on his hands.
And I don’t want to have to dig around in that mess!
Then he saw light reflecting off something metallic in the man’s left hand.
The keys!
He grabbed them. Then he ran a finger through the right back pocket of the man’s blue jeans. He pulled out a wallet and stuck it in his left front pants pocket.
He kicked the man, checking for any sign of life.
The man’s body responded with an extraordinarily long final act of flatulence.
El Gato began stepping back to the wall of bushes. As he went though the bushes, he decocked the Beretta and slipped it back in his waistband. The barrel was still warm, almost uncomfortably so against the sensitive skin of his groin.
He looked around. No one seemed to be paying any attention to him or to the side of the convenience store.
Delgado walked up to the driver’s door of the Expedition. He motioned for El Cheque to roll down his window.
“What the hell was that about?” El Cheque said.
Delgado didn’t reply. He was pulling the dead man’s wallet from his pocket. He thumbed through it. He found a state of Texas driver’s license with the man’s picture on it. On the license was the name Salvador Zamora.
He handed it to El Cheque.
“That coyote won’t be needing this anymore. Hang on to it. We might be able to use it for a fake, if it’s not already a fake. Or sell it.”
El Cheque took it.
“Follow me to the house,” Delgado then said. “We can send someone for the Suburban later. Anyone at the house?”
“Sí. Miguel.”
“Get on the phone and call him. Tell him to be ready to open the gate when he sees that van. Describe it to him, okay?”
El Cheque began, “Okay. But what—?”
El Gato was already on the way to the fuel pump island.
El Cheque put the Expedition in reverse. He backed up, then stopped and waited, watching Delgado return the pump handle to the pump then get in the driver’s seat of the van.
“Good evening, everyone!” Juan Paulo Delgado said cheerfully in Spanish as he sat in the driver’s seat of the white Dodge van and closed the door. The front passenger seat was unoccupied.
Hoping to project an air of comfortable confidence, he went on, “I am El Gato! And I’ll be taking you to the final stop.”
He pulled on his seat belt. Then he slipped the key in the ignition and turned it. The engine turned over very slowly, then finally rumbled to life.
He looked into the rearview mirror on the windshield. A sea of surprised and curious faces looked back at him. He counted eighteen heads. There were only two males, both older than maybe fifteen. The age range seemed to go from a couple of toddlers with their young mothers to one of the males who looked to be in his forties. The majority were in their teens and twenties.
And the old guy right behind me looks angry as hell.
They all also looked road-weary. The van reeked of human sweat and greasy fast food.
Juan Paulo Delgado turned on the charm.
“Señor Zamora asked me to remind you that he would catch up at the next stop. He told you I would be helping, yes?” He didn’t wait for a reply. But he could tell they were not convinced. “Where we are going is only ten, maybe fifteen minutes away. Very close. You will see him soon. Meantime, I’ll start helping you get in touch with your families.
”
Delgado smiled broadly into the mirror.
Mentioning family brought smiles to those younger faces.
So there’s no question they’re illegal—and tired from that long trip.
There’s also no question not everyone is convinced I’m their new friend.
But they’re also not trying to run.
Maybe because they are exhausted.
As he reached for the gearshift, he glanced at the instrument cluster. The needle of the fuel gauge showed full. The engine temperature needle was in the red but just starting to move back toward the green. The odometer read 218,990.
Not its first trip.
Hope it makes it to the other side of downtown.
He put the van in gear and drove away from the convenience store fuel pump island.
Juan Paulo Delgado, with Jorge Ernesto Aguilar following two car lengths back in the brown Ford Expedition, followed all the laws of the road as he drove the Dodge Ram passenger van. He did not go faster than the speed limit—as best he could tell, because the needle of the worn-out speedometer tended to bounce occasionally—and he faithfully used the blinker when changing lanes and making turns.
He knew that that was not a guarantee he would not get pulled over by the police. They could stop a vehicle for damn near anything if they wanted. But it was better than being careless and stupid by drawing their attention.
He pulled onto Stemmons Freeway and took it south, skirting the shiny tall buildings of downtown Dallas. He picked up Thornton Freeway eastbound. A mile later, he took the exit that went past Fair Park—or what he called Gringo Park. It had the nice open-air concert shell where the rock bands and country music singers performed, mostly on weekend nights. It also had the football stadium that every New Year’s featured the Cotton Bowl college championship game and every October, during the Texas State Fair, hosted the Texas-Oklahoma college rivalry game.