White Tombs

by Christopher Valen

  “You are a very perceptive man, Detective Santana. I am sure this skill helps you in your job.”

  “Sometimes it helps,” he said.

  “Do you think I killed the coyote after he raped me?”

  “Why don’t you tell me about it?”

  She reached for a Kleenex in a box on the coffee table and wiped away the tears that ran down her cheeks. Then she fixed her eyes on his before she spoke again.

  “When I came back to the room after I had been with the coyote, my mother saw my blood. I thought I could do anything to see my father again, to make sure we all arrived safely. I did not realize at the time what I had lost. But my mother did. I saw darkness in her that night I had never seen before.”

  She drew in a shaky breath and let it out before she continued. “The next morning when Ramón took us to the airport and el cara cortada was not with us, I suspected something had happened to him.”

  Santana waited for her to continue.

  “Are you going to contact the Phoenix police?”

  Santana thought about his own mother’s death. He wondered what he would do if someone came out of the shadows and wanted to look into his past, wondered about right and wrong and truth and lies and justice.

  He said, “What happened after you left the safe house?”

  Her eyes lingered on his, as though trying to read his thoughts. Finally, she said, “We were in California that afternoon with my father. For a long time I could only write of my experiences in my journal. A teacher in my high school read what I had written. She had my journal published as a book. I won an award. Some important people in California got me my citizenship and a scholarship to the University of Southern California.”

  “That’s where you met Rubén?”

  “He was a journalism student. He was already writing stories about the braceros and the pesticides that were killing them. My mother and father were both sick by then. My mother never spoke of the incident in Phoenix until the day she died. Her last words to me were ‘Lo siento’. But I never blamed her for what happened. She was only trying to better our lives. This is why I help the illegals whenever I can.”

  “Help them how?”

  “Through the Church of the Guardian Angels. We get them clothes, food, housing.”

  “Father Hidalgo helped as well?”

  “Of course.”

  “What about jobs? You ever get illegals jobs or papers?”

  “Jobs if I can, yes. Papers, no. Many of the fast food places hire them without papers.”

  “Did Córdova help the illegals, too, before he died?”

  “Sometimes, yes.”

  “Did he ever get them papers?”

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes, I am sure.”

  “How about Rafael Mendoza?”

  “Mr. Mendoza helped many of the immigrants get jobs and citizenship. He helped Father Hidalgo, too.”

  “Córdova had an appointment with Mendoza at the time that Mendoza died.”

  She stared at him for a time, apparently trying to get her mind around the idea. “If I had not given Rubén the gun,” she said with regret. “He would never have been a murder suspect. He would not be dead.”

  Santana could not argue with her logic, so he changed the subject.

  “What happened to your younger sister, Margarita?”

  “She is studying to be a doctor in California. We talk often.”

  Santana could hear the pride in her voice.

  Angelina Torres went quiet for a time, seemingly lost in the fog of a distant memory. Then she said, “We have never spoken about el cara cortada.”

  Santana noted how she lowered her head and let her shoulders slump. He knew from victim reports that the psychological damage of rape was often worse than the physical injury. Victims usually felt shame, especially in a machismo culture where Hispanic women often paid a high price for losing their virginity before marriage.

  “You need to understand,” she said, looking at him again. “The coyote, Jesse, used my body, but he never touched my soul.”

  Aren’t they one and the same?”

  “You did not always believe that.” She said it softly and without any recrimination.

  “You seem awfully certain.”

  She hesitated a moment before answering, as if embarrassed by what she was about to say. “I’m afraid there is much anger in you, Detective Santana. Though some might mistake the anger for emptiness.”

  “But you don’t?”

  “No. What they see is not really who you are. Or who you once were. You have a soul”, she said with a firm nod. “A very good soul.”

  “Not everyone would agree with you.”

  “They would be the same people who saw only anger or emptiness in you. Perhaps it is only what you see in yourself.”

  Dark clouds shadowed the moon, and the night sky was as black and empty as a tomb when Santana pulled the Crown Vic into his garage and made his way along the narrow, shoveled path to his front door. He punched in the code that deactivated the security system, went inside and hung up his coat. He’d had trouble shaking the feeling of melancholy that had enveloped him as he drove home. Maybe it was the cold winter darkness that always seemed to chip away at the fortress he had constructed around himself, or maybe it was something else.

  In the kitchen he set his holster on the counter and poured himself a shot from a bottle of aguardiente. The smooth, licorice scented liqueur was like a thin lifeline to home, and it drew him to the mantel over the fireplace where he kept his father’s favorite meerschaum pipe, one of the few mementos that he had managed to take with him when he fled Colombia.

  Holding the pipe carefully in his hands, he lifted the bowl to his nose and inhaled the aroma of the cherry blend tobacco embedded in the wood. The sweet scent triggered his olfactory senses and in a heartbeat he was lying in his bed in his boyhood home in Manizales. It was late at night and his father was in the living room listening to a Julio Jaramillo record and lighting a pipe from his collection, the smoke and romantic guitar music wafting gently throughout the house. The pipe his father was smoking could have been a Hardcastle with the dark wood and silver band, or a Sherlock Holmes with the curved mouthpiece; perhaps it was a briar or more likely the meerschaum.

  Santana remembered how his father would put a clean white cloth into a wide-mouthed glass jar. Place the meerschaum on the cloth. Blow smoke into the jar and seal the lid. Each day his father would patiently change the cloth and rotate the bowl of the pipe until it had changed from its distinctive white into a golden-brown color like an evenly roasted marshmallow. A process that usually took thirty years was complete in weeks. The memory lingered for a moment longer; then, like a wisp of smoke, it was gone.

  Santana placed the pipe gently back on the mantle and walked over to the end table next to the leather couch and looked at the answering machine and the blinking light. He pushed the play button and waited while Tony Novak’s voice informed him that he had great seats for the Chandler fight and that Santana “had damn well better be ready to go.”

  Santana thought it was strange that Novak had not mentioned anything about the photo he was supposed to be examining at the lab. It was only 9:00 p.m., so he looked up Novak’s home phone number in his address book in the end table drawer and dialed the number. The phone rang five times before one of Novak’s three teenage daughters answered.

  “Is Tony home?”

  “Yeah.”

  There was a pause. Santana could hear her working on a wad of gum.

  “Could I speak to him please? Tell him its John Santana.”

  “Hi, John,” the teenager said with a giggle. “It’s Kim.” She was Novak’s middle daughter.

  “Hi, Kim.”

  “How come you haven’t been over for a while? I’ve missed you.”

  Fourteen and flirting with him like she was thirty. All three of the girls had a crush on him according to Novak. Kim’s was the most ob
vious.

  “I’ve been a little busy.”

  “Have you been, like, working on a case?”

  It was Santana’s turn to be silent.

  “Okay. Like I need to know. Hold on.”

  She clicked off and Santana could tell that she was on the other line. After an interminable pause she said, “Dad’s coming. See you soon?”

  Before Santana could respond, he could hear Tony wrestling the phone away from her. “Oh, Dad,” Santana heard her say.

  Tony cupped his hand over the phone, but Santana heard his muffled voice. “Don’t you have homework to do?”

  The hand came off the receiver and Novak said, “You still there, John?”

  “Barely.”

  “Listen, living with three teenage daughters is tougher than going fifteen with Ali.”

  “You have my sympathies.”

  “I heard about the accident with the snowplow. You’re lucky to be alive.”

  If you only knew, Santana thought. “I’m okay, Tony.”

  “You set for the Chandler fight and dinner at Mancini’s?”

  “Looking forward to it. Say, Tony, I was wondering if you’d come up with anything on that photo I dropped off?”

  “Well, there was nothing I could find to help you identify the guy on his knees. I did a TMDT test on Córdova. There was no GSR on his hands, but that’s unreliable, John. He could’ve washed his hands or put ‘em in his pocket.”

  The trace metal detection test was commonly used to test if a suspect had recently held a metal object, such as a gun. Under ultraviolet light it was sometimes possible to see the location of the trigger on the index finger and the location of the metal frame that touched the palm. But Santana knew people came in contact with metal objects every day, so there would always be some trace metal present on a subject’s hands. The amount of perspiration on the hands could also alter the results of the test. And Córdova could have washed any gun shot residue off his hands.

  “I also detected backspatter on the gun, John, but not on Córdova’s clothes.”

  Santana found this information troubling. If Córdova had held the gun close to Pérez’s head when he fired, there should have been evidence of blood spray on Córdova’s sleeve.

  “I left a message with your partner at the station,” Novak said. “Told him I found Torres’ fingerprint on the murder weapon and that the ballistics tests matched.”

  Santana had a sharp feeling deep in his chest, as though a scalpel had been plunged into it.

  “How come Anderson didn’t tell you, John?”

  Santana didn’t want to believe what he was hearing, but suddenly things made a lot more sense.

  Chapter 14

  * * *

  DAY 5

  RUSH HOUR TRAFFIC MOVING WEST toward downtown St. Paul slowed to a crawl as Santana neared the 3M complexes. A haze of exhaust fumes swirled around the cars and trucks sitting at a standstill and drifted off the concrete and into the air like phantoms rising from tombstones.

  Trying to quiet his mind last night so that he could get some sleep had been impossible. The moment he drifted off, he would think of Rick Anderson again, and his mind would take off in a different direction, searching for some legitimate reason why his partner had not told him about Tony Novak’s phone call. But no matter how many excuses Santana came up with for his partner’s behavior, the end result was the same. Anderson had withheld key information. Or worse yet, he was feeding that information to James Kehoe. Santana was going to find out what the hell was going on with Anderson if he had to beat it out of him.

  He parked the Crown Vic along the curb on 10th Street and walked past the department smokers standing on the sidewalk in the cold, getting one last nicotine fix before they went inside. The frigid air felt like shards of glass entering his lungs. He used his key card to open the security door and walked down the narrow corridor to the elevator near the report writing room and the watch commander’s office. The watch commander only worked afternoons and weekends, so the office was dark. Santana took the elevator up to the third floor. It was 7:56, and he was hoping that Anderson, a notoriously early riser, would be there.

  He walked down the corridor until he came to Anderson’s workstation. The computer was on, a wool topcoat hung over the back of his chair. A pair of leather gloves lay on the seat. On the wall above Anderson’s station was a whiteboard listing which homicide investigators were working during the weekend. Santana’s name was absent from the list, but as long as the Pérez-Mendoza case was still open, he would be working.

  Santana reversed his direction, left his overcoat and gloves in his own cubicle, and went back out into the hallway where he nearly ran into Tom Gamboni from the Sex Crimes unit. Tom Gamboni was Rita’s ex-husband, and he was the last guy Santana wanted to see this morning.

  Gamboni wore street clothes: blue jeans, faded denim shirt and a pair of cowboy boots. He was heavy-set with dark, curly hair and a complexion that matched. A gold shield hung from the black nylon cord around a paunchy neck that spilled over his shirt collar.

  “Well, well, John Santana.”

  His tone was no doubt the same one he used on a pedophile busted with a video of child porn.

  Santana said, “Have you seen Rick Anderson around?”

  Gamboni gave him a hard stare and took a sip from the mug of coffee he was carrying.

  Santana waited.

  The saying written in small letters on the side of the mug read:

  LOOKING AT SOMEONE’S HIND END

  DOESN’T REQUIRE ALL THAT MUCH VISION

  “I guess you haven’t seen Anderson,” Santana said at last, and started down the hall again.

  “I saw him,” Gamboni said.

  Santana stopped, turned, and waited some more. “You going to tell me where or are we playing twenty questions?”

  Gamboni jerked a thumb in the direction of 10th Street. “Anderson was headed over to the range this morning. Guess he’s gotta stay in practice in case he has to save your ass again.”

  The sardonic smile that slashed across his face showed off his coffee-stained teeth.

  Santana shook his head. He had no intention of wasting his anger on Gamboni, especially since he and Rita were no longer dating.

  “Get over it,” he said, and headed toward the elevator.

  “Get over what?” Gamboni called after him. “There’s nothin’ to get over. You hear me, Santana?”

  Santana ignored him.

  The target range was located in a building on the south side of 10th Street. Santana took the elevator down to the second floor and walked past the evidence room and the police museum where there were glass cases filled with memorabilia from as far back as the thirties. The wall opposite the glass cases was lined with plaques commemorating actions of valor and merit and plaques honoring officers who had been killed in the line of duty over the years. Santana had once counted the twenty-nine names of officers who had been killed.

  He went across a skyway with glass windows that linked the two buildings, past the gym, to the target range where he opened a door that led into a dimly lit corridor. The range was to his left through a second door, though this one was soundproofed. Up ahead, the corridor led to a storage area where weapons were housed and to a cleaning room where the Glocks were field stripped once a year in February and March as required by the department.

  Santana grabbed a set of ear covers and went in the soundproofed door to the firing range. There were six side-by-side stalls from which officers shot at targets that were sent down-range using electric pulleys activated by a push-button code on a metal box in the stall. The floor was littered with .40 caliber shell casings. A sign on the wall read:

  SPEED IS FINE

  BUT ACCURACY IS FINAL

  The range was usually well lighted, but now the lights had been lowered so that only the targets were brightly lit. Night shooting.

  The picture on one side of the target that hung in the stalls was of an old man with glas
ses holding an umbrella. On the other side of the target was a picture of the same old man only this time he was holding a gun. Either side could come up when an officer was being tested monthly on the range. Santana had a good idea of which side you wanted to shoot, night or day.

  Rick Anderson stood to Santana’s left. He was facing down range, holding a Glock against his right leg. Standing perfectly still. Staring at a fixed target ahead of him. He would stare at the target for a time and then look down at the Glock in his hand, trying to answer the question every cop who killed someone in the line of duty had to answer. Would he pull the trigger again if he had to? If there were lingering doubts, any hesitation, word got around the department and suddenly the cop had trouble finding a partner. That usually meant a desk job — or no job at all.

  Santana watched Anderson look twice more at the target and at the gun he held in his right hand. Then he walked over and yanked the Glock out of Anderson’s hand.

  Anderson jumped as if hit with a jolt of electricity. He took off his ear covers and hung them around his neck. Santana did the same.

  “Hey, John!”

  Santana said, “Having a little trouble pulling the trigger?”

  Anderson shook his head. “Hell, no.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive. If I have to, I will.”

  “Maybe you won’t get the chance.”

  Anderson’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean? You think I can’t watch your back if things get tight?”

  “You haven’t been watching my back for a while now, Rick. You’ve been going behind it.”

  “What’re you talking about, partner?”

  “Don’t give me that partner bullshit,” Santana said, anger burning like a wound in his stomach. “You sold me out.”

  Anderson glanced down at the Glock in Santana’s hand. Then he looked up quickly, as if he was afraid Santana might have noticed.

  “No, John,” he said, forcing a smile. “That’s not true.”

  Santana took a step forward. “Not true, huh? Then how did Kehoe know that Torres’ fingerprint was on the gun? And how come you never told me Tony Novak called with information on the photo found in Mendoza’s loft, and that there wasn’t any GSR on Córdova’s hands or backspatter on his shirt. Or were you too busy telling Kehoe about it at O’Leary’s last night.”