The Execution

by Dick Wolf

  She waved her blue-gloved hand at the two nearest PF officers. “Roll them over,” she said.

  “Pardon, Comandante?”

  “On their stomachs, cabrones!” She made her tone as cold and impatient as she could muster. “Roll these corpses over on their stomachs. Don’t make me say it again.”

  She was perhaps overcompensating for letting down her guard a bit with MacClesh. She was imprisoned in her role, not unlike a telenovela character actor doomed to repeat the same leer, the same squint, the same grimace in performance after performance. But there was no going back. Not now. Too many bridges had been burned.

  This character Garza had forged out of necessity had become who she was now.

  The men were halfway down the row of bodies when she saw what she’d been looking for. It was the body of the man MacClesh had fingered as a Sinaloa lieutenant from Monterrey.

  Carved into his upper back was a small design, beginning just below his heavily tattooed neck.

  The design so brutally carved into the fleshy canvas of this dead man was a hummingbird. To Garza’s experienced eye, this little collection of lines was a signature, carved by a confident hand.

  Garza would never have admitted it to anyone in Unit 9, but she had studied art once and had even considered becoming a painter before taking up law at her father’s insistence—and before the kidnapping of her mother and sister. The man who carved this little design had what artists call a “good fist”—confidence, joie de vivre, purity of line. Something that could not be taught, something you were born with, a certain ruthless clarity of mind.

  Garza felt a stab of envy. She had come to the realization that while she had an eye and a light touch for portraits, she simply had no talent to be a true artist. And so going into law seemed like a reasonable change of course.

  But this son of a bitch . . . the animal who did this . . . he was an artist. A natural.

  Why would God throw away such talent on a thug? It made no sense to her.

  And for that, she hated this man even more.

  She had been on the trail of this animal for a long time. And she was getting closer. She reached down and laid her hand on the decapitated man’s back. She could feel his presence. She felt certain it would be a long time before she got this close again. For the moment, at least, she had a living witness.

  “I’m done with this one,” Garza said to the men who were still supporting the headless, handless corpse.

  There must have been something cold in her eyes, something frightening or even monstrous. Because out of the corner of her eye, Garza saw one of the officers exchange a glance with the other officer, then make the sign of the cross.

  She shouted across the square to her driver, Sergeant Chavez, who stood silently by her big black Suburban.

  “Start the car, Chavez,” she shouted.

  Ninety seconds later, they were barreling down Avenue Vicente Guerrero, heading toward the hospital.

  CHAPTER 7

  When she arrived at the hospital, Cecilia Garza found a number of local police milling around in the lobby. There were more of them up in the wing where the injured witness was situated.

  She had sent two PF officers with the witness, for protection, and was glad she did when, as she was approaching the nursing station, she spotted the chief of the Nuevo Laredo police, Juan Ramos. He was a neatly dressed man who could have passed for an American businessman: light skinned, clean-shaven, with sandy razor-cut hair. Unlike most Mexican police commanders, who favored starched uniforms with lots of gold braid, Chief Ramos wore a dark suit, a white shirt, and a necktie. The only sign he was a cop was the bulge under his coat where he kept his pistol. She had seen it earlier in his holster, a .45-caliber 1911 auto, all black, no pearl handle, nothing showy about it. A businesslike weapon.

  “Comandante,” he said, “I am afraid we got off on the wrong foot.”

  She glared at him. For a moment she considered ignoring him altogether. “We might have gotten along better if I hadn’t gotten there in time to find you contemplating executing a wounded prisoner.”

  Ramos frowned thoughtfully. “I hear what you are saying,” he said. “I understand what you think you saw. But I can assure you, we have strict protocols when securing and arresting narcotraficantes. I could show you our training manual. It is very specific.”

  Garza studied his face. Ramos looked most sincere. She suspected that by this point he might well have convinced himself that what he was saying was true. The worst kind of liars, she had found, were the ones who could convince themselves of their own falsehoods.

  “I do not have time to argue the point,” she said.

  He sighed, playing the Mr. Sincerity thing to the hilt. “Look, you and I both know what a difficult situation we are in here. Everyone in this town feels it, myself especially. I’m sure you breeze in from Mexico City with your team of incorruptibles and you look at me and think, ‘Well, there’s another scumbag in the Zetas’ front pocket.’ Am I right?”

  She stared stonily at him and didn’t reply.

  “But I do my best. We all do. I take no money from them, ever, and do my best to offer security to the people of Nuevo Laredo. Sometimes I get up in the morning and hate myself for not being able to do more. But my best is all I have to offer here.” He lowered his voice and leaned toward her. “I want to help you. God knows these monsters are a plague on this city. Nothing would relieve me more than to be rid of them.”

  “Come right to the point, Chief. I have very little time.”

  “The witness is still alive. I know you’re here to interview him. Just let me sit in with you. Perhaps I can add something to his information. Or, if you like, I won’t speak.” He took off his coat, folded it neatly on the counter of the admissions desk, then took off his gun and handed it butt first toward Sergeant Chavez, who stood next to Garza. Then the chief held up his hands. “Harmless as a baby, see?”

  “And, of course, you would like to know what information this dying man might share.”

  “The crime did occur in my jurisdiction, Comandante.”

  Garza frowned. Still, Chief Ramos was a source of potential communication with the Zetas. If she did learn something, it might be fruitful to let them know she was onto them.

  He continued, “There are things I know. Connections I can make. Just let me help you.”

  Garza shrugged, as though the point didn’t matter to her. “All right, Chief. But you will remain silent. Not one word. If you speak, I’ll arrest you on federal charges of witness intimidation. Understood?”

  The chief made like he was locking his lips, then tossing away the key.

  “Lead on, O Comandante,” he said.

  THE WITNESS LAY ON THE BED, pale and looking weak. His upper chest and shoulder were now covered with a thick gauze bandage. Tubes connected him to the monitors. He had received two blood transfusions, but it would not be enough. Nor was surgery an option. He had lain out in the plaza too long.

  The young farmhand looked up at Garza. His faraway eyes sparked to something, perhaps her appearance. Her beauty was a useful tool. And this young man had been on his way to America: perhaps he was a born dreamer.

  “What is your name?” she said.

  “Manuel,” he whispered. “Manuel Pastor.”

  “Where are you from, Manuel?”

  “El Salvador.” His breathing was slow and labored and he winced each time he drew in air.

  “They have given you medicine for the pain?” she said.

  The young man—barely more than a boy—nodded. She studied his eyes. He appeared coherent enough for questioning.

  “Do you know why these people did this to you?” she said.

  The boy shook his head. “I paid a coyote to take me to the United States. We were in a truck. The truck stopped. Then some men burst in, dragged us out. I was hit on the head. Next thing I know, I’m lying on a pile of dead bodies in the back of this open truck. I tried to get out, but . . .” He raised his
left hand, showing where the zip ties had left their mark on his wrist.

  “Who ran the coyotes? Were they Sinaloa?”

  The boy shrugged. “I don’t know nothing about that. I just paid a man.”

  “So you don’t work for the Zetas or the Sinaloas?”

  The boy looked at her without any apparent comprehension. If the boy was faking, he was doing a hell of a job of it.

  A nurse tried to enter, but Garza asked for another minute. Once they gave this man morphine, his intelligence would be lost, perhaps forever.

  She leaned closer to the young man. “More medication is on the way, but I have just a few more important questions. Can you respond?”

  He blinked his assent, rather than nodding.

  “Thank you, Manuel. So you were in the back of this truck. Then you arrived at the plaza. What happened next?”

  “There were two others . . . also alive. They were both with me all the way from El Salvador. I don’t know their names or nothing . . .” His eyes clouded. “Then they dragged everybody off the truck. There was a fat man. I did not know what the sound was at first. I thought it was a machine. But no. This man was chopping heads off.”

  “With what? A machete?”

  He frowned. “I don’t know. I never seen nothing like it. It was like . . . one of those things you dig holes with. For fence posts. Except there was just this one big heavy blade on the bottom.” He pantomimed lifting something in the air with his left arm, but didn’t get it very high before wincing in pain.

  “Any other information you can give me? I want to catch these men. Who was in charge? Did you see the man in charge, Manuel? Was it this fat man?”

  The young man’s eyes were full of tears now. He shook his head.

  “You saw the man in charge,” said Garza, pushing.

  “Dark eyes.”

  “Was he tall? Short?”

  “Baseball. A hat.”

  “A baseball cap? But he was Mexican. Yes?”

  “There was another. A boy.”

  “A boy?”

  Manuel pointed to his wound.

  “A boy did this? A teenager?”

  “The one in charge . . . he made him do it.”

  Garza nodded. Manuel was fading fast. “Is that why he failed? With the tool?”

  Manuel blinked several times, loosening the tears in his eyes. It meant yes.

  Garza had seen enough. She turned back to Chief Ramos. “Get the nurse.”

  Garza looked back at Manuel, leaning even closer. She wanted Manuel to feel her presence here at the end. “Anything else you can tell me? Anything else you want to say?”

  “They . . . they call him something. The man in the cap. Chupa . . .”

  Garza could have finished the word for him, but she wanted to hear it herself. She leaned even closer, the name coming on Manuel’s foul breath.

  “Chuparosa.”

  Garza heard stirring behind her. Despite her order, Chief Ramos had not left the room yet.

  Garza said, “You’re certain?”

  “Chuparosa . . .” said Manuel, closing his eyes, his head sinking further back into the pillow.

  Chief Ramos said, “I will get the nurse.” He left the room quickly, and Garza could hear him shouting, “Nurse! Nurse!”

  Alone for a moment, Garza laid her hand atop Manuel’s hot forehead. She stroked his hair until the nurse entered.

  “Thank you,” Garza whispered into Manuel’s ear. She stood, watching the nurse’s ministrations for a few moments, said a little prayer for the young man from El Salvador, then opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

  Chief Ramos was nowhere to be seen. Apparently the health crisis was too much for him to bear.

  GARZA WALKED THE HALL OF THE HOSPITAL, thinking about Manuel’s ride in that truck.

  All those men. Beheaded and set in the town plaza. It was an obscenity, and yet one the Mexican people were tragically growing used to. And like all obscenities, the more times it was used, the more it lost some of its power to shock and offend. How would they top this? What was the next disgraceful step?

  And how could she head it off?

  Down a stairwell, she strode out the rear entrance of the hospital. She did not go to her vehicle, continuing on to a blue panel truck parked at the back of the lot, its side emblazoned with a logo that read CERVEZA DOS EQUIS.

  The rear door opened as she reached it. She stepped inside, and it closed.

  Two technicians sat on opposite sides of the truck, facing matching computer screens. The cargo space was crammed full of modern communications gear, much of it provided to the PF by United States Immigrations and Customs Enforcement.

  “You get it?” she said.

  By way of reply, the technician pressed the play button on the screen. A voice came out of a pair of speakers. She immediately recognized it as that of the police chief of Nuevo Laredo, Juan Ramos.

  “The witness knew nothing.” Ramos’s voice was flattened by the poor cell phone reception. “Your man failed to finish the job in the plaza. That is dangerous.”

  “That is being addressed.” To Garza’s ears, the voice was soft, calm, almost pleasant. “But of course he knew nothing. Did you think anything would have been discussed in his presence? He was in the back of a truck.”

  Ramos said, “No, I thought you would want assurance . . . and that is what I am calling to offer you.”

  “And where are you calling from?”

  “I am still at the hospital—”

  There was a beep. Interruption of signal.

  Ramos said, “Hello? Hello?”

  The line was dead. The technician turned off the playback.

  “The call went to a cell phone, Comandante,” the tech said. “Probably a burner. But we traced it to the cell tower. Telmex tower T-421.” He pulled up a map, zoomed in on a tiny village. “Nacimiento de los Negros. That is where the other phone’s signal was captured.”

  As she had for Manuel, Garza said a brief prayer for Chief Ramos. He would need it.

  In the three long years she had been tracking this killer, this was the first time she had heard his voice.

  The Hummingbird. The assassin they called Chuparosa.

  She checked her watch. She had so little time before her flight, and yet she was finally so close.

  She pulled out her phone and called Chavez. “We’re rolling. Right now.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Late August

  Manhattan

  Midblock on Broome Street off the Bowery, Fisk turned in to the door under a black canopy with white cursive lettering that read PENCE.

  This had been one of their places. His and Gersten’s. He liked the mix of upscale club and old-school downtown gin joint, with brass rails and banquettes with cracked leather upholstery. She had liked the fact that there was not one television screen on its walls; Gersten believed that sports bars should be sports bars, but that a real bar should be free of distractions. It was also a cop place, for those in the know, as well as a neighborhood spot, with a good flow of regulars that kept things steady and fresh.

  As he walked in now, a sign reading UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT! was tacked to the unmanned hostess’s podium. Instead of the regulars and low-rent boozers, the place was filled with lawyers in suits and hipsters in thickly framed eyeglasses. The daily specials were chalked on a blackboard in pastel lettering: veggie sliders, broccoli rabe pot stickers, chicken and gorgonzola panini bites. The barmaid, when he made it to the sticky brass rail, wore a tank top tied up under her breasts, showing off the tattoo of the sun around her taut, bejeweled navel.

  “What’s funny?” she asked him, in greeting.

  Fisk was smiling but he wasn’t laughing. He was thinking about how much Gersten would have hated this, how she would have grabbed his hand and led him out of there.

  But through the filter of reminiscence, he could see enough of the old in the new. The scarred oak bar, the spidery crack in the corner of the mirror.

&nbs
p; “Jack, neat,” he ordered.

  The barmaid slid a cocktail napkin down on the bar in front of him, leaning over a bit so he could get a good shot of cleavage with his drink. “We have a beer back special, five dollars.”

  “Just a water,” Fisk said. “But make the Jack a double.”

  “Bad day?” she said breezily, wiping the bar clean around his napkin. “Or good day?”

  “Long day,” he said.

  She went off to pour his drink, and he looked around for an empty table. The barmaid might as well have worn a sign reading, “Will Flirt for Tips.” Fisk had zero interest right now. He spotted an empty high-top and retreated to it as soon as his drink came, sitting facing the door.

  The first sip of Old No. 7 hit his throat with a warm hello. The end of the day had officially been reached. And what a day it had been.

  The terror trial of Magnus Jenssen had ended as it must: with a guilty verdict. Jenssen had all but admitted his guilt from the beginning, but pled not guilty just to gum up the courts and roll the dice and maybe luck into some sort of acquittal on procedural grounds. It didn’t happen. Neither did the trial afford Jenssen much of an opportunity to air his anti-American screed.

  Fisk had avoided the trial altogether. The government’s case was so exceptionally strong that Fisk’s testimony was not needed. Gersten’s murder was included in the charges, yet Jenssen was spared the death penalty due to a pretrial agreement with prosecutors in which his cooperation—he divulged his methods and detailed the participation of his accomplices—was taken into consideration.

  Today was the sentencing. Fisk had been invited to make a victim’s statement and declined. Gersten’s mother went full Staten Island Grieving Cop’s Mother on him: it had been a rough several months for Mrs. Gersten, and as much as Krina might have wanted him to get close to her, the woman’s finger-wagging left him cold. She had slumped, nearly lifeless herself, as the bailiffs finally removed her from the courtroom.

  He had sat in the back of the courtroom looking at the back of Magnus Jenssen’s blond head. Jenssen never once turned to look behind him, so Fisk had not seen his blue eyes. Fisk had expected him to turn. Not wanted it, or needed it, but expected it. And now that it hadn’t happened, he felt a tug of disappointment. He had managed to give Jenssen very little emotional consideration, reserving all his thought for Gersten.