by Brian Shea
Nick ascended the metal staircase located in the center of the motel. He found the room he was looking for. It was hard to miss with three uniformed officers standing on the landing outside the open door. These were the water-cooler conversations of men and women that didn’t have a traditional office. Their low-voiced discussion stopped as Nick approached.
A short officer with a bald head and ruddy cheeks turned to face Nick, obviously preparing to give the “sorry, sir, but you’re going to have to go around” speech. One he’d probably given countless times since his arrival to the scene. Nick preempted this by lifting his untucked Tommy Bahama shirt to expose his badge, clipped on the right side of his hip. Nick smiled as he did this, lessening the brashness of the move.
“Detective Jones?” Nick asked, knowing that his friend was somewhere inside room 204.
“Right in here. Um, sir, you’re going to have to sign the log,” the bald officer said, with some hesitation.
“Sure thing.” Nick was well aware of the department’s protocols about signing in and out of a crime scene on major cases. His signature was in many logbooks already and he knew, sadly, that it’d be in many more to come.
“Hey, Nick, come in and check this out,” Jones called out to him.
“What’s up?” Nick asked as he handed the signed log to the bald officer, crossing into the room.
It was like stepping into another world. Poorly lit even in the daylight, Jones had his flashlight on. A paltry layout, furnished with a small round table, a dresser and a rickety end-table that separated the two twin beds. Nick hated the fact that he knew why the handlers would choose a room with two beds. Double the profit. They could run two girls at the same time. One of many pieces of information he wished he’d never had reason to know.
“What do ya make of this here?”
Nick noticed Jones always allowed more of his West Texas accent to slip in when he worked a scene. It was like his mind was so focused on the task that he couldn’t devote the extra mental resource to masking his twang.
Nick bent and examined the area spotlighted by Jones’s flashlight on the cheaply made dresser. He saw the etched markings on the side closest to the bathroom wall. The spacing between the dresser and wall was small. Maybe a foot and a half gap, at best.
Los Sirvientes Del Diablo. Underneath was a crude drawing of what appeared to be a snake.
“My Spanish is pretty weak, so without me breaking out my phone and Googling it, then I’ve got no idea what it says. Well, except for devil. I got that part,” Nick said, waiting for Jones to translate.
“Loosely translated, it means The Devil’s Servants. Ever seen or heard it before?” Jones stood, audibly cracking his back as he righted himself.
“No. It could mean nothing. One of the girls must have wedged herself in the corner. Maybe she was just venting. Trying to separate from whatever evil was taking place at the time,” Nick said.
Everything in a crime scene like this had to be evaluated for potential leads, but Nick also knew many were dead ends. The mark of a good investigator was to eliminate those dead ends quickly so they didn’t deter from the true path. Nick wasn’t just good; he excelled at this ability to differentiate. But for some reason whether it was the words or the drawing, he couldn’t discard it outright yet.
“We have to photograph each girl’s hands. In particular, their fingernails.”
“Okay, but why?” Jones asked.
“I’m guessing none of the handlers would let these girls anywhere near a sharp object, so this was probably done by fingernail,” Nick said, softly.
Jones nodded. “I see where you’re going with this.”
“A girl willing to write may be willing to talk.” Nick let this settle with Jones and then continued, “You may’ve found the first potential lead.”
“That’d be nice, but I don’t think we’ve even come close to scratching the surface on this thing,” Jones said.
Nick understood the city detective’s statement. Too many years and too many cases prevented Nick from getting excited about any one clue.
“The manager said the room was rented for the week and paid for in cash. She also said the do not disturb sign has been up since they arrived, and no maid service was used or requested,” Jones said and paused, waiting for Nick to come to the same conclusions that he already had.
“No trash? Well, that speaks volumes about this crew and the way these handlers operate. This isn’t amateur hour. They’ve probably been cleaning up along the way. We may be hard-pressed to find anything of potential value.” Nick let out an exasperated sigh.
“We won’t know ‘til we look, but you’re probably right.” Jones’s drawl was thick now.
“True. Very true. I wouldn’t be surprised if the handler or one of their lookouts is watching the room right now. Or at least when the patrol guys arrived earlier. Whoever was running this room is definitely aware of our presence.”
“Shall we divide and conquer?” Jones asked.
“Absolutely. I’d like to head to the jail and take a crack at the John who was with the eleven-year-old. Lots of ways to break a guy like that in the box. He’s got a lot to lose. I’m calling dibs, unless you want him?”
“I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m going to stick around here for a bit and see if I can find something else to work with. Let me know as soon as you’re done roasting that pervert.” Jones slapped a hand on Nick’s right shoulder.
The shockwave from the impact sent a tingle into his arm. The pain of his repaired arm had dissipated since the explosion that had nearly torn it off, but the muscle spasms returned sporadically. The physical discomfort provided a constant reminder of that terrible day, but the memory was also bittersweet, a reminder of the woman who had saved him. A fleeting image of Izzy drifted into his mind as he departed the room into the dazzling midmorning sun.
6
Her small frame dragged. She stayed close to the road, using it as a guide, but worked to avoid being spotted by any of the cars and trucks that passed. The road did not seem to be well traveled, which might not be as advantageous as she’d originally thought. The walk was becoming nearly impossible without food or water. At one point, as daylight broke behind her, she thought she saw a hamburger stacked atop a rock in the distance. She ran to it, starvation driving her forward, only to find it was a rattler catching the warmth of the morning’s light. It would not have been a fitting end for someone who’d endured so much.
She reluctantly accepted the fact that her only chance for survival was to be picked up by a passerby. Her legs would carry her no further. Mouse stumbled up the drainage ditch and back onto the asphalt of the roadway.
Mouse tripped over a rock, sending her to the ground. The impact kicked up dust. The dryness in her throat fought against the dirt’s introduction into her open mouth. Coughing, she crawled forward slowly. Her palms seared by the hot surface. She waited. She did not fear death. She had been surrounded by it since before she could remember. Sometimes it came swiftly. Other times it was slow. But it always came. She was aware that nobody could escape its eventuality. In that simple understanding about the fragility of life, she found peace.
It was not death that she feared. It was the failure of the promise she’d made. Her father had given her the tools to endure under the harshest of circumstances and prevail against all odds. But her mother had given her the will to survive. Mouse was a balance of her father’s strength and her mother’s wisdom. Her mother took ill shortly after her father’s disappearance. Terrified that Mouse would be left in the streets of Juarez to fend for herself, she entrusted her life’s savings to a man who promised to get her daughter to the United States.
Mouse sat on the side of the road and thought of her mother’s dying wish and the words of their last conversation. “Mouse, my littlest angel, it’s time. Time for both of us to go. The road you must travel is much longer than mine, but I will be waiting for you at its end. Promise me that you will make a l
ife for yourself in America. Promise me that you will find your way.”
The thought of her mother’s words reverberated within Mouse’s mind. She welled up with the emotion of her failure as she prepared to die all alone on a highway in a country she never had a chance to know. No tears fell because her dehydrated body had long ago lost the ability to produce water. She lay down, finding a patch of dirt that was still cool enough to touch. She let in death, as the ground began to rumble.
Weightless. Floating. Just as she’d always thought it would feel like. Death is easy. The sound of a guitar began to fill her ears. Confused by the sound, she thought, Why are the gates of Heaven playing American country music? A flicker of white light blinded her. As her vision cleared, she saw a tiny hula girl wiggling in her grass skirt. Heaven is a confusing place. And then the light dissipated. The sights and sounds faded into obscurity.
“How long’s she been out?” The woman’s voice was shrill.
“Darned if I know. Found her layin’ on the side of the road. Thought it was a dead fox when I first came up. I mean, Jeez Louise, never seen nothin’ like it.” The man’s voice pitched high and low in an animated fashion as he spoke.
“When’d they say they’d be here, Bertram?” the woman asked, pointedly.
“Dunno. I called 911 and told them I was gonna bring her here. So, I’m guessin’ ‘bout half hour?” the man replied.
“I’m gonna fix’er up a whole mess a grub. Can I getcha some too?” she asked, sweetening up her tone.
“Coffee’s fine for me, hun. Much appreciated.” She smiled as she walked away, taking a moment to appreciate the ample figure of the departing waitress.
Bertram Hadsworth had been coming to Ma’s Diner since he was a boy. And he’d been flirting with Jackie Masternick since before he could remember. The years did nothing to increase his confidence and, at forty-two, he’d never upped the nerve to ask her out on a date. Someday, he told himself but today would not be that day. Today, he needed to get this young girl help.
The diner began to fill with the regulars. None took much notice of Bertram until they saw the girl slumped in the booth seat across from him. But these were good country folk and they only gave a quick glance before going about their business. People in Bertram’s town didn’t mind the affairs of others. It wasn’t their way.
The bell above the entrance to Ma’s Diner rang out the newest arrival. Bertram had been close to right about the Sherriff’s timeline. Thirty-seven minutes after Bertram had placed the call, Deputy Bill Parsons entered. He stood quietly on the worn-out welcome mat, stopping at the door’s threshold. He surveyed the patrons. Bertram nodded discreetly at the lawman, who registered the gesture and responded by walking toward him. The girl stirred but didn’t wake.
“She’s sure a tiny little thing. Doesn’t look too good neither. How long would you say she’s been out?” Parsons asked.
Bertram took a moment to look at the clock on the wall, performing the calculation. “Since I dun found her ‘bout an hour ago. Don’t know how long before that.”
Parsons gingerly bent down as the starched creases of his light brown shirt gave way to his new position. He placed two fingers across her wrist and waited for the answer. The formed plastic of his shiny pistol belt squeaked loudly as he stood abruptly.
Parsons took another hard look at the girl and grabbed at his lapel mic. Clicking down on the plastic button, he relayed to headquarters, “217 at the Diner. I’m gonna need those medics to expedite.” His voice was steady, but there was an air of urgency to his request.
“D’ya think she’ll be okay?” Bertram asked of the deputy. Concern stretched across his wide sunburnt forehead as he looked intently at the unconscious child on the seat in front of him.
“I hope. Time will tell. Once I get her situated with the medics, I’m going to need to get the details from you.”
Deputy Parsons glanced around the small diner and could see that the other customers were trying hard to mind their own business, but his presence made that difficult. Forks and spoons clinked as they feigned interest in their meals.
7
“How long are we talking?” Harrison asked into the cellphone.
“If I knew, I’d tell you, but at least a couple hours. Maybe more. No way to know for sure, until one of the other girls decides to enlighten us with some conversation,” Jones relayed, standing with one foot in the room and the other on the landing. It was like he was standing between two completely alternate worlds.
“I make no promises. But if you’re going to have any luck in picking up that scent, then it’ll be with Jasper.” Harrison’s confidence in his partner’s ability was evident in his words and tone.
“I’ve heard. That’s why I requested you by name,” Jones said, allowing time for the compliment to be received. “We’ve got a good group of K9 teams here in the city, but from what I hear you two are local legends.”
“I can be on location in less than thirty. I just got to clean Jasper up from his last adventure. He’s still got a little bit of meth-head stuck in his teeth.” Harrison and Jones both laughed at this. Harrison quickly returned to the business at hand and added, “If you could minimize the people in the room until I get there, that would help. And don’t let anyone else touch the item. The less contact, the better the scent.”
“Consider it done. See ya soon.” Jones hung up the call and stared off into the distance, looking at the city he called home and thinking about how much his current assignment had changed his perspective of it.
Jasper was greedily lapping up the water from his large metal bowl. His second bottle of water since the conclusion of his early morning’s jaunt through the hilly terrain. Harrison was accustomed to days like this, where the request for his services seemed to stack. He also had quiet days. But this apparently was not going to be one of those. Jasper’s fur around his mouth was soaked with the Evian water. For some reason unbeknownst to Harrison, it was the only water Jasper would drink. He often laughed at the quirkiness of his K9 partner. Harrison allowed his four-legged friend to finish before wiping the last bits of blood from his jawline.
“C’mon, boy! Let’s go. Time to do God’s work,” Harrison said, and Jasper’s ears perked.
God’s work. Their code. There was a truth behind those words. Harrison bore witness to the awful things people do to one another. He’d come to the conclusion that God must be pretty busy to let these things slide by unpunished. He felt the calling at an early age and figured maybe he could help out in lessening the Lord’s burden.
Travis County was an expansive jurisdiction that included the state’s capital of Austin. Jasper’s early morning track of the tweaker, who’d fled after a botched home invasion, took place in the outskirts of the City of Round Rock, not too far from Austin. He told the detective thirty minutes but would probably be there before the estimated timeframe. Still, he had to make one stop before he headed to the scene.
Harrison pulled into the parking lot of Round Rock Donuts. It was tradition. Whenever a call took him to the city, he made sure he paid the iconic bakery a visit. Rusty Harrison did not break from his regimented dietary restrictions except on special occasions. And this was one of those. He was back out in less than two minutes. A chocolate-covered doughnut for him and a glazed for his partner. The two savored the flakey treat as they sped south on I-35 toward Austin.
“I’ll be right back, buddy,” Harrison said, as he closed the door to his cruiser.
Jasper stared at him with his large dark eyes. The golden hair that filled in around his eyes gave a softness to his intimidating stature. The car was left running with the air on full blast. The fan built into the right-side rear passenger window blew out the interior heat and created a continuous flow of air for Jasper.
“Up here,” a portly man in a sweat-soaked button-up shirt called down from the second-floor landing.
“Rusty Harrison.” His hand extended to the detective after making quick work of the stairs
.
“Kemper Jones. I’m glad you were available. You were atop a shortlist of preferred trackers,” Jones said, extending his hand with the compliment.
“Where’s the shoes?” Harrison asked.
“Inside on the floor near the head of the far side bed. I haven’t moved them and barely touched them. We thought there were only seven girls, but this extra pair of shoes has me concerned.” The implication of the statement was clear.
“Understood. I’m going to bring my partner up and we’ll get started. Do me a favor and grab your fittest patrolman to call the track. We move fast,” Harrison said, recalling the failed support from Officer Fontaine during their earlier adventure.
Jones looked around for a minute and then called to a tall, thin Black officer talking with a neighboring guest. “Calhoun, you’re going to run the track with Harrison.”
The officer smiled and thanked Jones with his eyes. Running a track obviously trumped the door-to-door canvass for the young, fit officer.
Harrison clicked the button on his fob and the latch to the rear door of his cruiser made an audible popping sound. Jasper nudged it open and trotted up to Harrison, tapping his wet nose against his partner’s hand. Rusty untethered the leash that crossed his shoulder like a bandolier. He clipped it to the collar and the two proceeded into Room 204. Harrison guided Jasper to the shoes. He couldn’t help noticing how small the sneakers were. A sick feeling filled his stomach at this reality. Jasper sniffed hard and then popped his head up. His right ear flickered. The track had begun.
Jasper moved onto the landing and out to the stairs that he had just ascended minutes before. The Malinois’ head swiveled while he moved, looking for the scent that had been cast from the owner of those little shoes.
Jasper held the track. He moved quickly as they broke from the frontage road that paralleled I-35, heading west on East 12th Street. Calhoun had no trouble keeping up. He was stride for stride with the duo, calling in radio updates as they progressed. They passed through the grassy park that surrounded the State Capitol building. Jasper stopped only long enough to avoid a passing vehicle, but the streets were quiet on a Sunday morning.