by Sahara Foley
Reames nodded, so the four uniforms walked out, stepping around the puddle of vomit on the front room floor. The three detectives in the kitchen heard one of the uniforms mumble as he went out, “Christ, Waltham. What a mess!” Waltham's face reddened.
Exhausted Carter asked, “Ray, why did you want me here? This murder can't have any connection to Flynn's disappearance. It almost looks like a ritual or cult killing.”
Crossing the dirty kitchen floor, looking out the equally dirty, curtain-less, backdoor window, the Captain answered. “I don't know, John. This is the same address. I guess, I hoped you would see something we weren't.”
Waltham frowned with disgust, “Shit! There's nothing to see in this pigsty but that mutilated body in there.” Shuddering with revulsion, thinking they might have a pyscho on their hands, he asked, “Why would anyone want to rip off his cock and balls? I've never heard of this before. Shit! There's a hole big enough to stick this coffee cup in.” He stared down at the cup in his hands.
The front door banged open, and two men wearing heavy white coats barged in, pulling/pushing a stretcher cart. “Coroner!” yelled one of the men.
“In here,” Waltham said, waving, then added, “Watch out for the puke on the front room floor.”
But one of the men had already stepped in the vomit, and the gurney wheels were rolling through it. The man mumbled a few curses as he wiped his shoes on the thread-bare, ugly, brown carpet.
Unlike the officers still at the scene, the men from the Coroner's Office didn't seem bothered by the sight of the mutilated body, as they rolled it into a plastic, gray body-bag and zipped it up. Seeing one of them turn with a tag in his hand, Captain Reames instructed, “Put Carlos DOE on the tag, case #63145. That's all we have so far, and we want the results ASAP. Okay?”
Writing on the tag, the first orderly wired it to the bag's zipper. “All we do is pick em' up and drop em' off, Captain. You gotta talk to the ME about autopsies.”
The second orderly asked, “No body parts?”
Reames gave a curt shake of his head, lips compressed.
“Wow!” the man exclaimed, eyes bright with excitement. “Looks like you guys got a nutcase here.”
Maneuvering the gurney out of the kitchen, the first man theorized, “Probably flushed em', Hank. Who'd want em' for souvenirs?”
The one called Hank answered at the front door. “You never know, man, you just never know nowadays. I remember one –.” Then all the detectives could hear was the banging of the gurney as the wheels thumped down the ice-covered steps.
Daylight had crept in. Peering out the backdoor window, Reames could see footprints leading away from the house. “Looks like maybe five or six people ran out this way.” Turning back toward Carter, he told him, “I'm going back to the office, John. I want to talk with Sergeant Alvarez. He knows a lot about Mexican rites and rituals. Who knows, maybe this murder is a ritual killing for some off-the-wall cult.” As he started to leave, he asked, “Should I leave the coffee for you?” When Carter nodded, the Captain handed him the silver flask, winked, and left.
“He really gave us a shit case this time, John,” Waltham complained, as he slumped onto the other chair at the table. “I doubt we'll ever make heads or tails of this mess.”
Not acknowledging his partner's grumbling, Carter sat, sipping his coffee, reading the two reports lying on the kitchen table. The first report, from the crime scene lab, indicated that several hundred fingerprints had been found, many of them from the victim. The remaining fingerprints would never be matched other than through sheer luck. The second report was from Pepper Kaslowski's notebook. In her efficient way, without being asked, Pepper had made a duplicate of her report in her even, delicate handwriting, to leave with the detectives.
Good girl, he thought, Good cop too.
A banging noise alerted the two detectives. Looking into the front room, they saw Rickerman come into view, struggling with a short, Mexican man who clearly didn't want to be in the house. Rickerman pushed the young man into the kitchen, who immediately stared at the bathroom door, eyes wide with fright.
Standing the Mexican up against the fridge, Rickerman asked, “Should I cuff him, sir?”
With raised eyebrows Carter asked, “What's up?”
“Well, as Pepper and I went next door, this guy and another man took off out the backdoor. I caught this one 'cause he fell on the ice. Kaslowski is chasing the other man now. Even as fast as she runs, I doubt she'll catch him. These guys can RUN, Lieutenant!”
As if to prove Rickerman wrong, the backdoor slammed open with a blast of arctic air that immediately leeched whatever warmth had accumulated in the room. Shoving her way through the doorway Pepper came into view, cheeks flushed, hair in disarray, holding the arm of a big man handcuffed and bleeding from his nose. “Got him, Rickerman. This guy sure can run. I tackled him, or he'd have gotten away.”
None of the male officers mentioned the blood dripping from her captive's nose, as she lined him up next to the first guy.
“They speak any English?” Waltham asked.
“I speak,” answered the man Pepper had apprehended.
Hnn, Carter thought, the big man's eyes haven't left the bathroom doorway since Rickerman brought him in.
“Were you here last night?” Carter asked him.
“No, Senor.”
Pointing, Carter asked, “Was he?”
“No, Senor.”
Observant as always, Pepper asked him, “Then why are both of you staring at the bathroom? Want to go in there awhile?”
The answer was quick. “No! Madre! Ask Maria!” The man spoke so fast, to Carter it sounded as though he spoke one word.
Pepper asked, “Who is Maria?”
In a hushed tone, staring at the floor, he said, “Carlos woman. She next house.”
Rickerman was already moving as Pepper went out the backdoor. “Try not to make her run, Rickerman. I'm already worn out.”
Waltham asked the man with the bloody nose, “Who are you?”
“Martinez,” was his only reply.
Carter asked, “Martinez, what happened in this house last night?”
“Ask Maria,” came again.
Carter said to Waltham, “We know they're illegals, Larry. Guess we should call Immigration.”
With a sheepish look, Waltham asked, “Uh, John, can we wait for Rickerman, and have him call Immigration? Our car is still down the block.” He threw his hands in the air with annoyance. “Shit! The old man who lives there got pissed about his fence. He wouldn't let me move our car until an investigator showed up. But I don't think our car is going anywhere without a tow truck anyway. I spoke with O'Bryan from IAD. Because he's the closest, he'll stop and see the old man, sign a release, and have the car towed. He'll also have Unit 303 sent here for us, but on these streets, that could take a while. Sorry.”
Carter patted his partner on the shoulder. “That's okay. I don't think we'll be getting out of here very soon anyway. By the way, where did those other two uniforms go? Are they still on house-to-house?”
“No, I saw their patrol car leave right after the coroner's office showed up. They must have had another call.”
Stamping his boots off, Rickerman came in the back door, followed by a young Mexican girl, with Pepper right behind her, holding her arms.
“Lieutenant, this is Maria Valesquez, at least that's the name she's using.” He looked skeptically at the girl.
Talking in English, the girl said defiantly, “That IS my name. I'm an American citizen, born and raised in Omaha. I live over on Seventeenth Street, a few blocks from here.”
Carter asked her, “How old are you, Maria?”
Before she could answer, Pepper held out a purse. “She's sixteen, sir. I have her license and ID. She's a runaway, listed on the sheet.”
“Shit!” Waltham said with disgust. “A runaway American teenager living with wetbacks.”
“Me and Carlos are going to California to get married.
The girl stuck out her chin defensively.
“Yeah, kid. He got all the way to Nebraska just to go back to California to get married,” Rickerman said with a snort, rolling his eyes. “I don't think so. You were being used.”
“No! Carlos isn't like that! He isn't!” the girl yelled.
You mean he wasn't, don't you, Maria?” Pepper said, sympathy reflected in her blue eyes. “He's dead, remember?”
Out came the tears, hot and heavy. Carter, with a sigh, motioned to a chair, so Pepper steered the crying girl to it, sitting her down.
“What happened here, honey?” Pepper softly asked, one reassuring hand on her shoulder.
In fits and starts, between heart-rendering sobs, Maria told her sad, short story. She and Carlos normally spent the nights sleeping on the floor in the front bedroom, sharing the room with five other men. If she and Carlos wanted to be alone, the other five men would find elsewhere to sleep for the night. Last night, she had asked Carlos if they could be alone, but he refused. He told her he was having pains in his rectal area, which felt like a hot ring of fire. He tossed and turned, not able to sleep, keeping her awake. She finally did fall asleep to be jerked awake by bloodcurdling screams. Carlos was found, dead, on the bathroom floor, in a puddle of his blood. Everyone panicked and ran, making her leave with them. All she saw of Carlos was his legs as they dragged her out the backdoor. She kept asking the men what had happened to Carlos. One of the men who shared the front bedroom with them, told her Carlos had been attacked and killed. But none of the people staying at the house knew by whom. Ending her story, Maria started crying in earnest again.
Sitting across from Maria, Carter thought, well that little story certainly didn't help explain the circumstances of Carlos' death. Who killed him, and why?
Turning back to Martinez, whose nose had stopped bleeding, Carter demanded, “If I don't get some answers pretty soon, I'll turn you over to Immigration. In fact, we'll cordon off this neighborhood, and round up all the illegals. Now, one of you start talking!”
Already feeling as if it were going to be a long day, John Carter was convinced even more. Every answer led to more questions. He felt as if he were running around in circles, like a puppy chasing its tail. In frustration, he ran his fingers through his thick, silver hair.
Everyone flinched as the dispatcher's voice blared from Rickerman and Kaslowski's belt radios. Carter stopped Rickerman as he started toward the front door to check in at their squad car. He asked Rickerman to contact Maria's parents, Juvenile Hall and Immigration.
“Well, if we never get anything else done here, at least we took one runaway off the street,” Waltham said.
Leaning against the backdoor, arms crossed, Pepper stated, “It won't matter, Sergeant. As soon as her dad turns his back, she'll be off and gone again.”
“Not this one,” Carter amended. “Not for a while. She's going to be held in Juvie detention, in protective custody, as a material witness to a murder. Same as these two illegals. Immigration won't get them until we release them.”
Waltham looked puzzled, but quick-thinking Pepper agreed, “I guess you're right, Lieutenant. Hell, the way this case looks, she could be held in Juvie protection until she's eighteen. It's too bad we can't get some real answers. That's a long time to be under Juvie protection, just because some pyscho is running loose.”
Eyes bouncing back and forth between Pepper and Carter, Maria protested, “You can't lock me up. I didn't do nothing. So I ran away from home. Big deal. I've done it before. I spend a few hours getting a lecture, then a caseworker, and I go home. My dad will beat me and get drunk. When he wakes up, I'll be gone again. So what?”
Softly and concisely, trying on his concerned-father-voice and laying his hand on top of hers, Carter said, “Not this time, young lady. You don't seem to realize your boyfriend was murdered. He didn't just die, he was killed. You didn't see his body, but we did. It looks as if he might have been killed by a psychopath. So, until I'm satisfied you aren't involved in his murder, or that the psycho isn't coming after you, you'll stay locked up under protective custody. Because we don't have any suspects or clues in his murder, our investigation could take several years. Hopefully, by the time you turn eighteen, the killer will have forgotten all about you. Maybe. If not, once you hit the streets as an adult, the killer could still be out there, patiently waiting for you.”
Maria's eyes widened in fright. “No! You have to catch him. I can't stay locked up for two years. I can't.” She wiggled in her chair, looking as if she were ready to bolt out the backdoor.
“Okay, Maria, calm down,” Pepper said in a low, level voice, placing a restraining hand on her arm. Now, let's go over your story again. We also need the names of everyone here last night, and where they can be found now” Pepper's soothing voice seemed to work, as the girl quit squirming in her chair.
Maria began her story again. What is the motive for this murder? Carter thought. Certainly not from jealousy over the girl, who had probably slept with every man here at one time or another. And the motive definitely wasn't robbery. Carter heard the front door close, and footsteps coming. Rickerman stood in the kitchen doorway, motioning for Carter to follow him.
In the living room, not far from where Waltham had puked, Rickerman delivered his message. “Sir, Captain Reames informed me Sargent Alvarez is on his way. Captain Reames wouldn't go into details over the air. He also said you have to ride back with Sargent Alvarez, or us, as there aren't any spare cars today. The streets are so bad, we aren't answering accident calls unless bodily injury is involved.” Pointing outdoors, he said, “It's sleeting again. More ice. How can it be sleeting at forty below? But it is. Big, wet drops that freeze when they land. It's going to get bad, Lieutenant. Real bad. About sixty percent of our fleet is already out of commission, and the four pm shift is calling in as they aren't able to make it to the station. It looks like the mess you have here is nothing compared with the mess we have on the streets.”
Carter nodded, hating the fact he'd been right about this day. “Nothing but good news, huh? Got any idea when Alvarez or Juvie hall will get here?”
“Oh. I forgot,” Rickerman answered with a frown. “Juvie isn't coming, neither is Immigration. The city is shut down. We're supposed to either bring them, if we can, or turn them loose. That's what I was told, sir. Honest.” Shrugging he continued, “As for Alvarez, I guess he'll get here all right. The guy's a nutcase. Oh, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that, Lieutenant. I've never worked with the guy, but I've heard stories about him. None of the uniforms want to work with him. They say he has only one oar in the water.”
Carter nodded in understanding. He'd never worked with Alvarez either, but he knew the man on sight, and had also heard the same rumors. “That's okay, Rickerman. You're probably right, Alvarez will get here. He has a four-wheel-drive Blazer, with big chains on each wheel. If anyone can get here, he will. Then, you and Kaslowski are on Standing Alert?”
“Right, sir. We're here to help you unless we get called away.”
All cops knew about Standing Alerts, but most civilians did not. In extreme situations, like the weather today, all police cruisers were ordered to stay put, wherever they happen to be, until they're told to move. The Sanding Alerts achieved several purposes. The dispatchers knew exactly where every patrol car was, and it kept the patrol cars from the potential of accidents, which could put the car, or the officer, out of commission.
This was a safe and logical procedure when used. But depending on where the officer was when the order went into effect, it could make for one long, boring shift, or a very nerve-racking and possibly volatile one. Contrary to what citizens thought, the majority of 911 calls on days like this wouldn't be from car accidents. There will always be someone who just HAD to go to the store, or the occasional drunk that thought they were still sober enough to drive, even on solid ice. The real 911 calls originated in the homes, when people knew they're trapped and couldn't get out. They begin acting strange, hav
ing arguments with family members over nothing, which could lead to fights, knifings or shootings. Officers would much rather be peeling someone off a telephone pole than going into a house for a domestic disturbance call.
Outside, there was a chink-a-chink of heavy chains, then a harsh scarping noise followed by a loud, ka-bump. Carter and Rickerman rushed to the cracked, dirty, front room window, seeing the front of Sergeant Alvarez's green Blazer smashed up against the front of Rickerman and Kaslowski's idling patrol car. Steam came rolling out from under the hood of the cruiser.
“Shit!” Rickerman exclaimed, bolting out the front door.
From the front window, Carter saw Rickerman slip and slide his way across the ice and snow covered sidewalk. There was the sound of scraping and tearing metal as Alvarez backed his Blazer away from the cruiser, pieces of its crumpled front end falling onto the ice-covered street. Steam shot out from under the front of the cruiser. The Blazer had a big reinforced cage bumper, and in the center sat an orange hydraulic unit for a snowplow. As near as Carter could tell, the Blazer wasn't damaged, but that sure looked like part of the cruiser's radiator hanging off the hydraulic unit.
Slipping, Rickerman fell near the front fender, just as Alvarez drove past, trying to get around the totaled cruiser. With a knot in his stomach, Carter feared Rickerman had been run over. With chained tires spinning, the Blazer passed the cruiser. Carter saw Rickerman unhurt, hugging the front tire of his beat-up police car. Steering between two cars and over the curb, Alvarez stopped across the sidewalk. He climbed out with a big, oversized briefcase and walked gingerly toward the house, not glancing over at the cruiser, where an angry Rickerman stood, with one hand on his holstered revolver's butt, cussing.