by Rick Reed
“No,” Joe said. “The truck stopped many times and the driver would knock on the wall and warn us to stay quiet.”
“Are you sure it was this man?” Jack held up the photo of the driver.
“I don’t know, Detective Murphy. It was a man’s voice. American. But the picture you showed me is the man that took Shadow.”
“How long was the truck stopped before I found you?”
“A long time. Many people were sleeping.”
Already dead, never to wake again in this world.
“I was scared that we would never be let out. Grandfather told me this wasn’t true. He was keeping me warm and covering me with coats.”
This explained the missing coats from some of the bodies.
“You heard the fight near the doors, Joe. Tell me again about the fight. Why were they arguing?”
“I could not hear their words,” Joe said, but Jack could tell this wasn’t true.
“What did you hear, Joe?”
Joe took a deep breath and let it out. “The truck wasn’t moving, and I could hear a woman and man were angry with someone. I heard screaming. It got quiet. Grandfather told me to sleep. Someone brought extra coats to me. I went to sleep and now I am here.”
“Okay,” Jack said. The boy was suffering from hypothermia, so he probably hallucinated some of what he was telling.
“Where is your family, Joe? Do you have someone in the United States?”
The boy said quietly, “I have no one. You will send me back to Honduras. Grandfather told me this is true.”
“I can contact your family there, Joe.”
“No family now. There was just Grandfather.”
Jack was sad for the boy. He would undoubtedly be deported, and Jack had a rudimentary idea of what that entailed. He’d taken an in-service class at the police department regarding the new immigration rules, but had only half listened. Evansville wasn’t exactly a town to attract immigrants. If he couldn’t deport the mayor and city council, what good was the class.
Jack couldn’t think of anything else to ask Joe. “Do what the doctors and nurses say. I’ll be back soon. I promise. No one will take you anywhere unless they notify me first. Okay?”
Jack could feel the boy’s eyes on him as he left the room. He walked outside in the ER drive to make some calls. He failed to notice the woman watching from a doorway down the hall. When Jack was gone, Claudine Setera and her cameraman entered Joe’s room.
“Hello,” she said.
Chapter 7
Liddell’s Crown Vic pulled into the emergency room drive when Jack came outside. The Crown Vic rose several inches when Liddell lifted his ample frame out.
“Good timing, Bigfoot. I just finished talking to Joe. You get anything?” Jack asked.
“Joe?”
“I can’t remember his entire name, so it’s Joe for now,” Jack said, and his cell phone vibrated. It was Franklin.
“Yes, Captain.”
“Liddell’s on his way to you,” Captain Franklin said.
“He’s here.”
Franklin said, “Tell me about the boy, and I’ll fill you in on what we found.”
“I’m going on speakerphone, Captain.” Jack punched an icon on the phone. “He’s a nine-year-old from Honduras. He will probably be able to be moved in a week or so,” Jack lied. He didn’t want to keep Captain Franklin in the dark, because he was one of the good guys, but what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
Jack said, “He was traveling with his grandfather. He has burns and bruises all over his lower legs and the bottoms of his feet. He heard an argument after the truck stopped here. A woman and some men were near the doors of the trailer where we saw the homicides, but he says he didn’t see the fight. He says he didn’t know anyone in the trailer, but he also said his grandfather said not to talk about any of this.
“His grandfather sheltered him, and he went to sleep. Grandpa probably saved his life.” Jack said this, but it didn’t jibe with what his gut told him at the scene. If Joe was being sheltered by Grandpa, and even covered with extra coats, it didn’t explain the other bodies piled on top of the boy and the grandfather. Someone else must have dragged the bodies over and piled them up.
“Spell the boy and grandfather’s name for me,” Captain Franklin said.
Jack reached into his pocket and pulled out the napkin on which he’d jotted the boy’s name. He gave it to Captain Franklin.
“The victim from the Coffee Shop is at the morgue,” Captain Franklin advised. “Dr. John has been called in. Lilly Caskins brought an intern with her and is still performing triage at the truck scene. Some will go to the morgue freezers; the bulk will go to Swonder Ice Rink. The chief got the mayor to agree to close the ice rink until we can sort this out. I called the State Police, and they’ve agreed to put a rush on any lab stuff we collect. The sheriff volunteered some deputies to stand guard at Swonder Ice Rink.”
Jack groaned inwardly. He’d hoped to keep the investigation in-house, but this plan was going to shit quickly. The more agencies that were involved, the more supervisors involved, the more supervisors, the more political interference. Soon there would be meeting after meeting, and handwringing, the gnashing of teeth, and nothing would get done.
“Captain, we can handle this by ourselves,” Jack said.
“No can do, Jack,” Captain Franklin said. “Joanie Ryan found some identification cards on the bodies. Green cards and passports. She thinks the green cards are forged.”
“Makes sense, Captain. If they were legitimate green cards they would have passed through a border checkpoint legally. And they wouldn’t be traveling locked in the back of a truck for God knows how long.”
“I’ve notified someone in Immigration. Maybe ICE will be able to help you put names to the bodies,” Captain Franklin said. ICE is the acronym for Immigration and Customs Enforcement, which replaced the former INS, or Immigration and Naturalization Service. INS was eaten up by Homeland Security, as were other agencies that it was believed would work more efficiently under the same roof. The mission was the same except now ICE had more bite to their bark.
“We’d better be prepared to be in the crosshairs of every news agency in the country,” Jack said.
“In any case, the survivor is Honduran. He’s in the country illegally, and police SOP and the law says we contact the State Department and notify the Honduran Consulate.”
“I’m not ready to do that, Captain,” Jack said. “I showed him a photo of the victim by the Coffee Shop, and he identified the man as the driver of the truck. I need him to identify his grandfather’s body. Plus the ER doctor won’t release him for several days. He’s nine years old, Captain. He’s convinced that if he’s sent back to Honduras he’ll be killed, and we both know that he’ll be sent back. I want to do the right thing here,” Jack said, “and I think the right thing is to protect the boy for the time being. At least until he’s well.”
Franklin said, “Jack, we can’t sit on this. You know we have to...”
“Captain, the boy had healed burns all over the soles of his feet and some recent burns and bruising on his legs. Someone tortured the kid. Honduras doesn’t sound like a healthy environment. Maybe he could request temporary sanctuary?”
“That’s not your job, Jack. We just follow the law. You’ll have enough on your plate with this investigation.”
“I haven’t finished interviewing him, Captain. He was feeling ill, and the doctor made me leave. I’ll interview him again when he’s feeling better.”
“Okay, Jack. Maybe we can keep him as a witness, but this isn’t my field of expertise, or yours. Anything else?”
Jack said, “We still have to talk to the owner of the stolen car. The VW was reported stolen this morning from a trailer six blocks south of the abandoned tractor-trailer. Joe described the dog we found in the VW d
own to a crook in its tail and the tip of one ear missing. Joe said the driver or someone else claimed they were going to put the dog in the front cab.”
“You can connect the dog to the truck? That’s good,” Captain Franklin said.
“Walker will check the body for dog hair and check the cab of the truck for a match. We may be able to use the dog and the boy’s identification to prove our dead guy was the driver.”
“The chief will be glad you’re making progress.”
“There’s a possibility the VW wasn’t really stolen. Maybe the owner knew the guy and let him take the car. We’ll talk to the owner and show the victim’s picture around the trailer park. Maybe someone’s seen him before.”
“Any idea where they were headed? Please don’t tell me the destination was Evansville,” Franklin said.
“Joe’s grandfather told him they would start a business in a city on the Great Lakes. Grandfather was a business owner in Honduras but had to leave it behind. I haven’t found out why they fled, but it may have something to do with the fight in the back of the trailer. He said something like Fort Gracious.”
Captain Franklin said, “I think he meant Fort Gratiot. It’s in Michigan on the lakes. I’ve got a cousin that lives near there. You say the grandfather was going to open a business?”
“Yeah.”
“Usually these migrant workers pay the mules to bring them here and have to work off the debt. It’s slave labor basically.”
“He was being optimistic,” Jack suggested.
Captain Franklin said, “There’s something you have to do right now, Jack. Call FBI Assistant Deputy Director Toomey.”
Shit! A month back, Jack had come to the attention of Assistant Deputy Director Toomey when FBI Special Agent Frank Tunney had proposed Jack as a recruit for a newly formed federal joint task force called Unsolved Serial and Organized Crimes. USOC. The Feds love their acronyms. Jack had a different name for the unit—USUCK. The task force was comprised of FBI, Homeland Security, ICE, DEA, ATF, and some other agencies of the kind that existed in dark closets or under beds in the dead of night.
Toomey was recruiting active and retired police detectives and forensic experts from all over the United States. He had presidential authority to conscript any other federal experts he needed. The task force’s mandate was twofold. Investigate serial violent crimes—which included organized and international actors—and apprehend or stop said actors. Jack had asked Toomey what the definition of “stop” was and received a blank stare for an answer. Maybe Toomey wasn’t so bad after all. Or maybe that was a warning.
“Is USOC taking these cases from us, Captain?” Jack asked.
“They’re not taking the cases, they’re taking you and Liddell and the cases, authority of Chief Pope. You and Liddell are to report to Assistant Deputy Director Toomey this morning for reassignment. He’s in charge now. Of course, the Evansville Police Department will be supporting the effort, but as of right now you work for the FBI.”
Liddell whispered to Jack, “Should you decide to accept this mission, Detective Murphy, you and your team will be working for the Feds, dealing with cutthroat politicians, media pimps, and earning nothing more than a paid suspension from duty. As usual, if you screw the pooch, the FBI will disavow any knowledge of you. This tape will self-destruct in...”
“Can it, Bigfoot,” Jack said. “Captain, we weren’t supposed to be sworn in as federal officers until Friday. I don’t want to do anything illegal.”
Translation: I don’t want to work with the Feds.
When Captain Franklin stopped laughing, he said, “I’m going to hang up now, Jack. Call Director Toomey.”
“Got it. Call Director Toomey,” Jack said, but the connection was gone.
Liddell slapped Jack on the back. “I can’t wait to get one of those fancy FBI badges, pod’na.” Liddell whipped his badge case from his coat pocket and held it out comically. “Blanchard. FBI.”
“Yeah,” Jack said. “Can’t wait.” He didn’t like working with the Feds, much less working for them. He didn’t care for the snail pace and the mountains of paperwork and permission slips required to chase down some turd and flush him. When he had to work side by side with a federal investigation, he’d always been able to cut through the red tape and get the job done because he didn’t answer to them. Now he would be expected to play nice, wear a suit, shine his shoes, get a GQ haircut, and stop drinking Scotch during lunch. Not.
When he’d first learned that he was being hijacked by the FBI, he’d argued that the chief of police didn’t have the authority to make working on the task force a condition of Jack’s continued employment. Jack and the chief had finally compromised. Jack would do exactly what he’d been told. Negotiations with upper brass sucked.
Liddell said, “The Feds are taking lead. That means we’ll be doing all the grunt work and they will take all the credit. I’m okay with that, but I don’t understand us not being sworn in yet. I mean, what if you do something un-FBI-like?”
“Me? What about you, Bigfoot?”
“You’re the one that always sticks his foot in our mouths.”
“This is just Toomey’s way of establishing his alpha dog position,” Jack said.
“There’s a bright side, pod’na. At least he didn’t hike a leg and pee on our desks.”
“It’s not official yet,” Jack said, and they got into Liddell’s Crown Vic. “It was one hell of a trip across Honduras for a nine-year-old, catching rides and walking. It must have taken weeks. All to end up in a cargo of dead bodies.”
“We know we have the driver of the truck? Now we just have to find out who he is,” Liddell said.
“And why he was killed and by who,” Jack added.
“Piece of cake, pod’na.”
“Let’s go to the morgue. Walker texted me while the captain was neutering us. Dr. John is ready for the autopsy.”
Liddell pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward the county morgue. “I bet you we’ll get sworn in as federal agents today.”
“You think?” Jack said.
“Well, yeah. Toomey wants you to call him this morning. On a weekend. I mean this case is going places besides little old E-ville.”
Jack said, “Your point?”
“Well, as Feds we’ll have more cooperation with other agencies, broader arrest powers, more jurisdiction.”
“Leap tall buildings in a single bound and stop bullets with our teeth. Bigfoot, when did we let jurisdiction stop us?”
“I was talking legal, pod’na. Are you going to call Toomey?”
“We’ve got some other things to do before we get tied up,” Jack said. “On the other hand, we’re out of our element here. Maybe Toomey can give us an idea who to contact to start identifying all the victims.”
“Should we head for the Federal Building? I’ll get out my Secret Squirrel Decoder Ring, pod’na.”
“Keep it in your pocket, Bigfoot. Morgue first. Federal vasectomy second. We need an accurate count of victims, cause of death, all that boring flatfoot cop kind of stuff. I’ll call Toomey when we get some answers so we know what questions he’s going to ask.”
Liddell turned right onto Walnut Street. Another right onto John Street. In the side mirror, Jack saw a white SUV with the Channel Six logo following at a distance.
“Stop a minute,” Jack said, and Liddell pulled to the curb.
Jack got out and flagged down the SUV. It stopped. He approached the driver, twirling a finger, telling the driver to roll down the window. The driver’s window powered down. A young man with John Lennon–type glasses and a sparse goatee smiled at Jack.
“Detective Murphy,” the young man said. “I’m Bart. Bart Hiller.”
“You’re Claudine Setera’s cameraman,” Jack said. “Bart, Detective Blanchard and myself are going to the morgue. You won’t be allowed to
come inside, but if you park right down there at the corner, you can get some good photos of us entering the morgue.”
“I don’t think I can see the morgue very good from there,” Bart said.
Jack said, “Just pull up on the grass in front of the body shop. They won’t mind. It’s a weekend, and I know the owner if anyone gives you shit.”
“That’d be great, Detective Murphy. Thanks.”
“Not a problem, Bart,” Jack said.
“Will you give me an interview?” the man asked.
Jack grinned. “Not on your life. But I might need a favor later.”
Bart asked, “Why would I do you a favor?”
“Because it’s all about connections. Right, Bart?”
“Got it, Detective Murphy.”
Jack thought Bart was going to salute. Jack said, “Hey, we’ll be thirty to thirty-five minutes, but I promise we’ll look grim for the camera, going in and coming out. Maybe I’ll even point at you and motion for you to go away.”
The young man was gripping his steering wheel so tight his knuckles turned white.
“You can tell your bosses that I screamed at you if you want. Now go. We’ve got police work to do.”
The window powered up, and the Channel Six SUV drove away. Jack returned to the car.
“I heard that, pod’na. Are we really going to do that?”
Jack said, “Screw him. We’ll sneak in and out the back way.”
“A life lesson.”
“Right. Park behind the morgue.”
Liddell said, “A shrink might say this is your way of striking out at someone because you feel powerless.”
“Screw the shrink too,” Jack said.
Liddell parked where the car wouldn’t be seen from the street. If Bart parked where Jack indicated, he wouldn’t even see the Crown Vic drive away. They walked around to the front door of the coroner’s building, and Jack angrily stared across the street at the SUV before ringing the buzzer. No answer. He pointed at the cameraman’s car and saw the guy fumbling with his camera. He pushed the buzzer again. Still no answer. Now he didn’t have to pretend to be angry. He pounded on the front door with the side of a fist and rang the buzzer again.