Sky's Shadow

by Ted Galdi

  “True that.”

  Tommy checks his phone screen and sees the time is 11:45 AM, when Danielle’s ex-fiance mentioned authorities would be making a statement on her murder investigation. “You mind turning the TV to channel nine and putting on the sound?” he asks.

  The bartender does both. On the screen above the liquor bottles is a live press conference. A Black man in his fifties walks to a podium. On it is the seal of the FBI, now apparently running the search for Danielle’s killer. A reporter in the crowd asks, “Agent Gabor, any leads yet?”

  “We don’t have any names quite yet. But I have confidence we’ll apprehend whoever took the lives of these five innocent San Diegans. Next question.”

  After a couple minutes, Tommy says, “This guy is so full of shit.”

  “What he say?” the bartender asks, drying a glass.

  “Nothing but vagueries and platitudes. Trying to hide the fact the FBI has no grip on this case. Pathetic.”

  “I’m sure they’ll figure it out. They’re the FBI. They figure shit out. That’s what they do.”

  “No. They do what politicians and their corporate donors want. And I doubt this case is high on the priority list. After the initial media attention dies down, so will FBI resources. You’ll see.”

  “Hey man. Don’t knock the FBI.” The bartender points at the 9/11 photo on the wall. “They took down a lot of would-be terrorists after that.”

  “Of course they did. Because it was a priority.” Tommy nods at the screen. “But the murder of five non-tax-paying men and women who lived in tents isn’t.”

  “Oh yeah, yeah. I read about this online. Those people buying drugs in the woods. I grew up here. And never seen it this bad. The city needs to do something about all them.”

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Bums. There’s too many of them. They’re filthy. Leave used needles lying around.”

  Tommy stands. “What’re you saying? They don’t deserve justice for being slaughtered just because they took drugs?”

  “Easy, dude. No. I was just making a general statement about the homeless problem in the city.”

  “I bet you’ve made a mistake in your life. Just like them. Does the city need to do something about you too?”

  The bartender holds up his hands as if in surrender. “Look, I—”

  “What’re you suggesting the city even do? Get them off the street and put them where? The ocean? Is that your plan? Did you even think any of this through or do you just like the sound of your voice when it’s coming out of your ass?”

  “I’m sorry, let’s—”

  “Shut up. Cancel the burger.” Tommy pulls a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet and tosses it on the bar. “And I’m paying for that shot. What do I look like to you, some charity case? I look like someone who can’t afford my own shot? You don’t know me.”

  Tommy marches out of the restaurant. He walks to his rental car, a Chevy Cruze, climbs in the driver’s seat. On the passenger’s are a toothbrush, toothpaste, and half-full bottle of water. After paying for a cross-country plane ticket, his checking account was so low he slept in here last night instead of a hotel. He takes a deep breath. Cools down.

  Soon he has to drive back to the airport to catch his flight to New York. But he decides not to make that trip. If he wants any justice for his sister the vagrant, society won’t deliver it for him. He must get it himself.

  Four

  Tommy, hoping a dose of caffeine will burn away the fog of whiskey lingering in his head, steps out of a coffee shop with a large cup. If he is going to do what the FBI has failed to so far, find Danielle’s killer, he’ll need not just a plan, but one better than theirs.

  He slips on his sunglasses and walks toward the water. Calls Josh.

  “How was the service?” Josh asks.

  “Police case files.”

  “Huh?”

  “Can you get them?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You know, like hack one for me. On the internet.”

  “Why do people who don’t work in tech assume we’re all magicians? My cousin once asked me to hack him the winner of the upcoming World Series so he knew who to bet on.”

  “So you can’t do it?”

  “Break into a government database and nab a police case file? It’s possible if their firewall is vulnerable. But it’s almost definitely not. Plus, it’s highly illegal. Why—”

  “Danielle.”

  “For—”

  “Her last words.”

  “Why do you want her last words?”

  “She’s my sister. I don’t know. It’d be cathartic to hear the final thing she said.”

  “I’ve never heard you say the word cathartic once in your life until now.”

  “So?”

  A pause. “What’re you up to?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Why would her last words be in a police file?”

  “A detective called me a few nights ago to tell me the news and ask if I had any helpful information. After I told him no, I asked him if Danielle…you know…suffered. He said probably. Said she didn’t die right away like the other four, but on the way to the hospital.”

  “All right. But how—”

  “I’m sure a cop questioned her in the ambulance about what she saw that night. Probably how they know this whole thing involved a drug deal.”

  “Yeah. I guess. But I can’t help. I heard the FBI is involved now. If I get busted even attempting this, I’ll get dick-slapped with all sorts of federal charges.”

  “All right. I’ll figure something else out. See ya.”

  Tommy hangs up. An aircraft carrier comes into view. A massive docked warship with fighter jets atop. On a sign, he sees the boat is the USS Midway, the site a military museum. He stops on the pier, staring up at the ship. And has a long sip of coffee.

  A murder over a narcotics deal isn’t a federal crime. Some development in the case must explain the FBI’s involvement. The authorities may not have leads on the shooter, but they have something, some nugget of information compelling enough for federal intervention. If Tommy can get that case file and find out what’s already known, he may have enough raw material to mold a plan.

  He lifts his arm for another sip of coffee. His eyes fixate on his sleeve. In his funeral outfit, a black suit, tie, and shoes with a white shirt, he looks like an FBI agent.

  He smirks. He can use this.

  Five

  Tommy walks toward a six-story building, “SAN DIEGO POLICE DEPARTMENT” imprinted above the entrance. He steps into the lobby, officers buzzing about with varied insignia on their sleeves, and locates a divisional directory on the wall. His eyes stop on “Homicide Unit.”

  He takes an elevator up a few floors and arrives at a reception desk. Two employees behind it, a man in his mid-forties and a woman in her late twenties. Tommy decides to focus on the female, employ some flirtation. He saunters over to her and smiles.

  “Can I help you?” she asks.

  He eyeballs the personal items around her workstation. A framed photo of a cat. A small cactus. A pink trinket box with an Oscar Wilde quote on the lid, “Be yourself. Everyone else is already taken.”

  “The truth is rarely pure and never simple,” Tommy says.

  “Excuse me?”

  He nods at her trinket box. “Oscar Wilde. Another of his quotes.”

  Her eyes widen. “Oh. Yes, yeah. Of course. Duh. You caught me off guard. Most people that come in here don’t want to talk about Wilde. And you are?”

  “Thomas. I’m with the FBI. Just got assigned to Agent Gabor’s team. The five-person homicide in the woods.” He shakes her hand.

  “Kristen.”

  “Pleasure, Kristen. I’m here to see Detective Browing. Agent Gabor wanted me to get up to speed on the SDPD’s end of the investigation.”

  “He’s in back. I’ll call him, tell him you’re—”

  “No need. I have his number.” He
walks out of her earshot, finds in his previous-call log the number Browing contacted him from a few nights ago, and dials it.

  “Browing,” the detective answers.

  “Hi. This is Thomas Dapino, Danielle’s brother.”

  “Thomas, yes. How you holding up?”

  “It’s tough. But getting through it. I’m out in San Diego for the funeral. Figured we should talk in person before I went back to New York. The other night I was so stunned by the news I wasn’t thinking straight. My mind didn’t recall things it should’ve, things that could be helpful to your investigation.”

  “That would be great. Our address is—”

  “I’m one step ahead of you. Already here, at reception. Why don’t you just peek your head out, then I can follow you back to your office and we can talk in private there? Black suit, brown hair, six one.”

  “Give me a sec.”

  Tommy hangs up, strolls back to the receptionist.

  “So…how long you been with the bureau?” she asks.

  “Just a few months. A big adjustment going from Quantico to actual fieldwork. I love it though. Couldn’t see myself doing anything else. Still getting used to San Diego. Maybe you can show me around sometime?”

  “For sure.”

  “Thomas?” a deep male voice says over his shoulder. In the doorway is a heavyset, late-forties man in suspenders.

  “Detective Browing?”

  The man nods.

  “Great to finally meet you,” Tommy says to him, then waves at the receptionist.

  Browing makes small talk as he leads Tommy into the Homicide unit, its walls lined with tall filing cabinets, each drawer marked via an intricate alphanumeric codification system. Browing turns into his office, sits at his desk, on it a mug with the title “DAD OF THE YEAR.” He collects a notepad and pen and asks, “So what can you tell me?”

  Tommy sits across from him. “A guy with a long beard could be involved,” he lies.

  “Your sister mentioned a man like this? In what context?”

  “It wasn’t the last time I spoke to her. It was a few months ago, when she still had her apartment. We were talking about something else. A show. And she said every now and then when she was on her couch watching TV, she’d see this guy with a long beard peeking at her through the window.”

  “Anything else she mention about him?”

  “A bandana. He wore a bandana.”

  Browing’s pen scribbles down the page. “Did she call the police?”

  “He didn’t verbally threaten her or anything. So no, not that I know of. But she was definitely freaked out. Said he had crazed eyes.”

  “You think this man had something to do with her murder?”

  “I don’t have any proof. But he sure sounds mentally unstable. It’s possible.”

  “Interesting.”

  “Anyway, that’s all I have. Hopefully it’s enough to help.”

  “I’ll look into felon profiles in our database, see what sort of matches come up on that physical description. Thank you, Mister Dapino.”

  Tommy stands. “Don’t mention it.” He shakes Browing’s hand and journeys back to the lobby.

  “That was quick,” the receptionist says.

  “Just a meet and greet. He referred me to the SDPD case file for all the details.” He pretends to check the time on his phone. “I was hoping to squeeze in some lunch before I went back to the office. I know we have copies there, but I really want to dig in now, do some reading while I eat. If it’s not too much trouble, would you mind printing me out one?”

  “Not at all.”

  She types on her computer for about a minute, then walks through an entryway. She returns with a stack of papers secured with a clamp and hands them to Tommy, still warm from the printer. On the top sheet is a Post-it note with her phone number.

  “Thanks so much, Kristen,” he says. “I’ll…text you.”

  “Def. Bye.”

  He tucks the case file under his arm and leaves.

  Six

  Tommy sits at a table in a city library a few blocks from the police station reading the case file, the sun glistening through the domed-glass ceiling onto him and the dozens of others in the three-leveled interior.

  Around his hand is a necklace the funeral director gave him this morning, the one Danielle was wearing the night she died. Its charm is two different-sized circles. Tommy guesses the smaller one is supposed to represent Danielle and the larger one the society she was outside of, that no longer accepted her.

  According to the document, he was right about her. Even with a bullet in her head, she found the strength to make a brief statement to the officer who rode in the ambulance with her. He’s proud about this. Though Danielle had a hippie streak, she was no flake. She was tough when she had to be.

  Her statement lacks names, addresses, or license plates for any potential suspects, but does have a description of the man who shot her, apparently a member of a gang based in Tijuana, his most distinct feature a tattoo of a boa constrictor around his neck.

  Tommy clenches his jaw thinking about what he said to Danielle before pulling the trigger. Then logs onto the public computer in front of him and conducts a Google search for “gangs in Tijuana.” Almost all the recent-news results mention “Los Hombres del Vacio” in their titles. He clicks on the first article, from the Los Angeles Herald, headlined, “Atop of a Hill of Bodies.”

  He learns a large cartel left Tijuana last year, prompting an organized-crime power vacuum. Bands of outlaws battled for control last summer. One called Los Hombres del Vacio emerged the winner. Since then it’s accumulated numbers, today dominating all illicit business in Tijuana. Tommy now understands why the FBI is leading Danielle’s investigation. An international criminal enterprise is involved, lifting the case into federal jurisdiction.

  A beam of overhead sun strikes the computer screen, obscuring the text. Squinting, he fights through the glare as he reads about last summer’s turf war. Los Hombres del Vacio became known for a tactic they call “the stump.”

  When they capture an enemy like a rival or rat, they carve away at the body and seal the wounds to keep the person alive for a week. First they cut off the feet, then the hands, the genitals, the legs, and the arms, the victim chopped down to just a torso and head, conscious in this state for as many as two days before bleeding to death.

  Tommy’s heartbeat picks up. If Danielle’s killer is a member of a Tijuana gang, it’s almost certainly this one. And if he heads there to find him, he’ll be up against “the stump.” Tommy runs a hand through his hair. A voice in his head says not to go. But a second voice, a little louder, insists he must.

  It reminds him he’s been up against danger of this caliber before when he was a fireman. Like these gangsters, a raging fire lacks a conscience. It destroys while disregarding human life. If Tommy could survive a burning building, he may be able to survive gangland Tijuana.

  He logs off the computer, collects the case file, and leaves the library. He gets in his car and drives south. In about thirty miles he reaches the San Ysidro Port of Entry, zooming under a sign with big red letters announcing “MEXICO.”

  Seven

  Special Agent Clyde Gabor stands at the head of the room in the FBI San Diego field office dedicated to the massacre in the woods four nights ago. The case lead, he addressed the press this morning. Across from him is a junior agent just assigned to the investigation, twenty-six-year-old Jordana Quick.

  He nods at a map on the wall behind him, eight red tacks stuck to it, and says, “These are the locations in eight recent missing-persons reports in San Diego County with homeless subjects.”

  “Police didn’t make a connection between these incidents until now?” she asks.

  “Addicts made the reports. About their missing addict friends. If you’re the filing officer for any of these disappearance claims, you’re probably assuming a drifter just…drifted away. Hopped to another tent, another town, whatever. Cops had no reas
on to guess murder was involved until they saw what happened to those five people in the woods. Seems like these first eight cases were hardly investigated, let alone linked.”

  “What would prompt someone to go around San Diego killing homeless people?”

  He takes a deep breath. “Not robbery. The victims are penniless. I don’t think the motive is psychological either. You know, quenching a thirst for blood. Nothing ritualistic about the carnage the other night. No, seems we’re looking at something more complex.”

  “Like what?”

  He points at one of the eight red tacks in the map. “Mission Hills. When the team interviewed people in the encampment where this incident’s subjects resided, a man said on the day of the disappearance he saw a White male in a box truck hand a Latino male in an Escalade cash. Danielle Dapino mentioned two White guys, two Latino guys, and those two vehicles in her statement. A transfer of cash tells me some sort of a business relationship is at play here. The White guys must be in charge, paying the Latinos to do work for them.”

  “Where do the homeless drug abusers fit in?”

  “That I don’t know.”

  “Did we put together a sketch of the Caucasian in the truck?”

  “Unfortunately the witness was too far away to make out anything beside race and gender.” Clyde points at another red tack. “But we have an age range here. A female in the Chula Vista encampment said a few months back two men in a white box truck tried luring her inside with the promise of drugs. She was about to get in, then thought she noticed big knives inside, got nervous, and declined. Said the White men were between forty and fifty, but was drunk during the encounter, and couldn’t recall any facial specifics.”

  “So we have nothing but generic physical descriptions?”

  “On the Caucasians. But on one of the Mexicans we have a detail that’s actionable. A boa-constrictor tattoo Danielle Dapino saw on his neck.”

  “Two Mexican gangsters in their twenties. Two middle-aged White men. What’s bringing them together on this?”

  “No clue.”