by Ian Ballard
“What is this place exactly?” I ask.
“It's a hacienda just outside of town. Looks like Ropes may have been using it as a crash pad, before and after the murders. I don't know all the details yet, but Montalvo—who’s there with Luna now—said it looks really promising.”
“How did they come across it? What was the lead?”
“That's the interesting part. Montalvo and Luna were assigned to follow up on Adrian Caiman, one of the three possibles from our first suspect roster.”
“The only one who wasn't eliminated,” I point out.
“Exactly,” says Silva. “You'll recall Caiman dropped out of sight after his conviction was tossed out.”
“Yeah, but I thought the trail was pretty dead on him?”
“It was, until Montalvo went back and took a close look at the records. During his trial for the six murders, Caiman's lawyer called five character witnesses. Montalvo and Luna spent the last few days trying to track them down—”
“In case he'd contacted them after his release?” I ask.
“Right,” said Silva. “Three of the five said they hadn't heard a word from him. The last two—a couple, last name Esposito—no one could get a hold of. However, they own a home here in Juárez, so Montalvo and Luna paid a visit. No one answered the door, but there were signs of forced entry in a basement window. When our boys barged in, they found themselves in the middle of the crime scene.”
“How did the Espositos know Caiman?”
“They worked with him at the traveling circus back when the murders took place. They were part owners and managers of the business, and it was the woman, Andrea, who hired Caiman in the first place. She maintained his innocence at the trial and actually suggested that another worker was responsible for the crimes. On cross, the prosecutor tried to impugn her testimony by suggesting she and Caiman were romantically involved—something she repeatedly denied.”
“And where are the Espositos now?”
“We don't know. They have a second home on the beach near Puerto Vallarta, but so far, no one's been able to locate them.”
Before long, Silva and I are somewhere in the outskirts of Juárez. There are a lot of large hacienda-style dwellings that are spaced fairly far apart. Silva eventually turns into a long dirt driveway leading to a sprawling brown stucco structure. Up ahead I see the familiar yellow crime scene tape and the convoy of police vehicles. Silva parks and we walk up toward the front door, which stands open. Lights are on inside and the place is crawling with police and detectives. No sooner have we set foot inside than we're greeted by Montalvo and Luna.
“Haven't seen you in a while, Radley,” says Luna. “Thought maybe you got spooked and took off.”
I smile. “Just had to swing by my place in El Paso.”
“Visit the wife and kids?” asks Luna.
“Not married,” I say. “Just something pressing on another case.”
“So we're just four merry bachelors,” says Luna, gesturing at Montalvo, Silva, and myself—though apparently forgetting that Silva is happily married. I guess I'd just assumed the three detectives were close personal friends, but maybe that's not the case. Silva, who's scrutinizing a bloody smudge on the wall next to us, doesn't appear to have heard the remark.
“Did you guys already see this?” Silva asks.
Montalvo frowns. “Yeah. It's a print, but it's too smeared to pull comparison points.”
“But don't you worry,” says Luna. “We're not short on evidence.”
“What do we have linking this place to Ropes?” I ask.
“We'll give you a tour,” Luna says grimly. “It's more fun to show than tell.”
“Do we know how long he was using the place?” Silva asks.
“About two or two-and-a-half weeks,” says Luna. “We pulled the water meter, and there's been usage from about twenty-four days ago, continuing till two days after the killings. The Espositos were away that whole time, so we figure that was probably all from him.”
“Do you think he's cleared out for good?” I ask. “Or is there a chance he might drop by?”
“Not really sure.” Montalvo shrugs. “I'd say fifty-fifty.”
“We're setting up a checkpoint perimeter around the place,” says Luna. “Going to stop anyone who looks like he’s headed this way.”
“Let's keep our fingers crossed,” Silva says.
“If you'll follow me, boys,” says Luna, who, along with Montalvo, leads us back out the front door and along a sidewalk over to the garage. Montalvo bends down and lifts up the garage door, which moves noisily along its tracks. The overhead lights are on and a medium-sized moving truck occupies most of the space. The truck's parked at a diagonal slant, apparently so the whole vehicle would fit inside the garage. There's a strong odor of feces and urine in the air.
Luna walks over to the rear of the truck and waits for us to all gather round. “Inside we've found trace evidence—hair, fingerprints, optical fluid—matching each of the seven victims.”
“This was basically their group holding cell,” says Montalvo.
“Optical fluid?” asks Silva. “Was that from the girl?”
“Not just her,” Luna says. “From all of them.”
“It looks like they were all blinded while inside the truck,” Montalvo explains, “probably with a knife or a razor blade. Some of the samples had been there up to two weeks, so it was done before the night they were killed.”
“Possibly around the time they were abducted,” Luna adds.
Montalvo frowns. “Though we're not sure if that was done to make it harder to escape—”
“Or just because the guy's a fucking sadist,” says Luna grimly.
A police lamp illuminates the interior. I step up on the rear bumper to get a better look. Inside, multiple segments of yellow Cattleman's rope lie on the ground. More of the rope is threaded through metal hooks affixed to the sides and ceiling—hooks whose intended use was to stabilize furniture. Much of the floor space is covered with a putrid sludge. Based on the color and smell, a dried amalgam of blood and urine.
Luna gestures around, “We figure he put the first one he abducted in here first—either Marcos V or the girl—and just kept packing them in, until he decided it was time to have his little party out on the dune.”
“Looks like he gave them water, and he may have given them some food,” says Montalvo. “But he obviously didn't let them out to use the restroom.”
The smell is starting to get to me and it’s all I can do to keep from gagging.
“You okay there, Radley?” asks Luna. “You're looking a little pale.”
“I'm fine,” I say, trying to suppress a grimace.
“What do you have on the truck?” Silva asks.
“Stolen off the lot of a moving company a little over a month ago,” Luna replies.
“Did the neighbors see or hear anything?” I ask.
“Negative,” says Montalvo. “As you can see, even the closest house is out of earshot—so no surprise there.”
“One neighbor did report seeing an unfamiliar vehicle in the driveway several times over the last few weeks,” Luna adds.
“Let me guess—a red Ford truck?” says Silva.
Luna nods. “You got it.”
“That's about it for the highlights of this room.” Luna says. Then, turning to Montalvo and raising an eyebrow, “Should we show them the upstairs now?”
Montalvo shrugs. “They've got to see it at some point.”
“Just a warning.” Luna's expression is dour. “If either of you is looking to get any sleep tonight, this is where you should get off the ride.”
Silva and I exchange an uneasy glance.
I clear my throat. “We didn't take this job because we wanted to be well rested. Lead the way.”
The two detectives lead us back into the house where other detectives and forensic technicians are taking samples and dusting for prints. We walk through the living room and up the staircase to what appe
ars to be the master bedroom. The floor is covered with a blue plastic tarp, to prevent the contamination of any overlooked evidence. Over to the right, where I'd expect to find the master bathroom, there's a great deal of commotion—chatter and flashing cameras—though I can't yet see what's attracting all the attention.
“What's in there?” I ask.
“I'll give you a hint,” says Montalvo, pointing a finger at something on the other side of the bedroom. To the left of the bed a long, wooden ax leans against the wall, blade-end down.
A sick, sinking feeling forms in my stomach, as I begin to guess what the main attraction is. The spectacle which everyone’s crowding around is apparently in the bottom of the bathtub. Even Silva looks a bit pale and nonplussed, as Luna ushers us across that final stretch of tarp.
With each passing millisecond, I grow more agitated. It's the same panicky feeling I had that first day on the dune, and then again, just before finding Lisa. The subtle twitching of premonition—as if knowing what's to come. It's a kind of fear. But not of a threat from outside, but of a truth within. Like the tremors before an earthquake, these misgivings come from far below.
I'm rubbing the hell out of a scar on my hand. Clawing at it, as if that could erase it from my body. I never realized how terrified I am of knowing who I was and how desperately I've been trying to hide from it. Ignoring the fractures and faults forming in my brain. Pretending not to hear the inner rumbling that started the day the ledger showed up at my door.
The room becomes silent. At least to my ears. The voices of the other detectives are far away. I start to see glimpses in the gaps between people's legs. Patches of skin and clumps of dark hair. Soon we're before it, but honestly I already knew. I'd been expecting it for a long time. When something crucial goes missing, sometime down the road, it's bound to turn up.
I look down at them. All lined up neatly in a row at the bottom of a big Jacuzzi bathtub. The six missing heads of the men from Neruda Dune.
Their eyes are gone and yet they manage to stare just fine without them. Glaring at me, daring me not to look away. But I hold their gaze as if my life depended on it. And I study the sad sequence of their murdered features. Taking in their bleak noses and lips. Their dejected jawlines and chins.
Within five seconds, one truth is crystal clear. I knew these men—each one of them—long ago in that vanished time, that’s not quite vanished anymore.
40
El Paso, 1992
Gary pressed his eye to the Timberland's night vision scope. Through a crack in the blinds, he followed the squad car as it pulled slowly up the drive.
The car stopped and a cop got out. He just stood there for a moment looking everything over. Gary rested the crosshairs on the cop's nose. Right smack in the proboscis—that's how he liked to deliver a rifle shot. It would take out the eyes and the nasal passage, and leave a gaping hole in the middle of the face. It was maybe a smidge less lethal than the standard forehead shot (one out of five might require a second bullet), but it was so much more satisfying. Seeing the person’s face up and vanish in an instant—that was something real. The obliteration of a mind. The end of a little world.
He didn’t like to brag, but with his Timberland at distances up to three hundred yards, he was a regular Charles Whitman.
For the moment, however, he held his fire. What he was seeing didn't quite add up. If the cops had believed whatever story the escaped Mexican or Mexicans had told them, they would have sent every car on duty, and a SWAT team, and had the National Guard close at their heels. But here we just had one dumpy cop who looked bored to be here. He hadn't even undone the button on his holster strap.
The cop turned and tapped at the back window and nodded to someone inside. Gary couldn't see through the tinted glass, but it had to be whoever had just gotten away. Which was also odd. You didn't put people in the back seat of a cop car unless they were under arrest. And you sure wouldn't bring them along with you, knowing you were headed into a possibly dangerous situation. Clearly, Gary was missing a piece of the puzzle.
At any rate, nothing indicated the cop had any clue about what was really going on there on the ranch. How that could be, Gary wasn't sure, but he figured it might behoove him to pass on the headshot till he at least had a better idea what was going on. If it seemed like the cop was apt to get wind of things, Gary could still get the drop on him by keeping a pistol handy.
The cop, who was plump and baby-faced with blond hair and a crew cut, ambled up toward the house. Gary drew back from the kitchen window and hid the rifle and the ammo in the pantry.
A loud, overbearing cop-knock resounded on the front door.
Gary surveyed the area around the entryway for any incriminating objects. Noticing the bloody oven mitts and apron, he grabbed them and tossed them into the pantry as well.
A second barrage of knocks.
Gary rushed back to his bedroom, undressed, and threw on a bathrobe. Then he grabbed his .45 from the closet, checked that it was loaded, and stashed it beneath the bathroom sink—in case things escalated. Finally, after taking a moment to don a groggy countenance, he opened the door.
“Officer Peter Bradley, El Paso police,” said the cop, looking him up and down. “Are you Gary Allan Glattmann?”
“Yes, Officer.”
The cop looked around him into the house. “Were you aware of any disturbance on your property earlier tonight?”
Gary studied his face, trying to glean clues as to what he knew, and figure out which direction to go with this. “No, Officer. What’s this all about?”
The cop referred to some notes on a small square of paper. “Do you own a red 1989 Ford truck, license plate number 802-TMG?”
“Yes. That’s my truck,” Gary said, in an incredulous tone.
“When did you last see your vehicle?”
“It was out front of my house when I went to bed. I hope to hell it still is,” Gary craned his neck out the doorway. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “Officer . . . what's going on here?”
The cop paused, sizing Gary up. Just looking for any detail he could doubt. “Are you acquainted with an individual by the name of Arturo Moreno?”
Gary scratched his head as if thinking it over. “Yep, sure am. He’s one of the Mexican fellas that works for me here on the ranch. He’s been here a couple of months I’d say. Is there some kind of trouble?”
“I stopped Mr. Moreno on Evans Avenue doing about thirty over the limit and driving your Ford. Am I to understand that you were not aware Mr. Moreno was in possession of your vehicle?”
Gary almost laughed when he realized the cop's mistake. He must not have understood a word the Mexican said and thought the car was stolen when the Mexican's ID didn't match the registration. Finally, a lucky break. Now all he had to do was make up a good story about this theft to tie everything together. Then the cop would haul the Mexican in and Gary could hit the road as originally planned.
But wait—on second thought, he had a better idea. One where he might not have to run at all. . . .
“Yeah, yeah,” said Gary. “Now I remember. You’ll have to excuse me, officer. I just got out of bed and it took me a minute to recall what happened last night. Arturo asked me if he could borrow the truck to go into town to some cantina he likes. I think it’s called Los Lobos. It’s over there on Montrose Street next to that Dollar Store—”
“I’m familiar with the place.” Bradley looked supremely disappointed. “So he was driving the vehicle with your permission?”
“He certainly was, officer. I apologize for the confusion.”
The cop scratched his head. “The other thing is that Mr. Moreno was acting real . . . unusual when I contacted him. He applied his brakes so violently I almost collided with his rear bumper on the shoulder of the road. Then he jumped out of his vehicle, raving like a goddamn lunatic, if you’ll excuse my French."
Now it was Gary's turn to scratch his head. “I don't know what to make of that. He’s always been
real well behaved around here. The thing is, is that these folks don’t know the law. He probably thought you were gonna lock him up for life or give him the chair or some such. That’s the reputation Texas has with these people.”
“I was thinking it might be drugs.” The cop looked at Gary as if he was asking a question.
Gary pretended to think it over. “I don’t think so, officer. I know Arturo real well. He’s a family man, and I just don’t see that.”
“Well, you might be surprised,” the cop said. “And you might want to be more careful about who you lend your car out to. Just between you and me, these people aren't the world's best drivers.”
“Thanks for the tip, officer.” Gary said. “I won't make this mistake again.”
“I'm just glad no one was hurt.” The cop gave an uneasy smile. “Well, if everything’s in order, I’ll run Mr. Moreno down to the station. The way he was driving, I’ll wager his BAL’s three or four times the limit.”
No, that wouldn’t work. If Arturo went back to the station, the truth would still get out as soon as he crossed paths with anyone who spoke Spanish. What needed to happen was for the charges to get dropped altogether. That way the Mexican would get released into Gary’s custody and his silence could be insured.
“Honestly, officer, this whole damn thing surprises me. While some of these guys drink like a fish, I've never seen Arturo touch the stuff. He's one of the most reliable workers I've ever had.”
“Sometimes getting busted smarts enough that they clean up their act. Hopefully, this will be a one-time thing for Mr. Moreno.”
“Yeah, I reckon he won't do it again.” Gary gave a theatrical sigh. “Officer, before you go, do you mind if I get your thoughts on something?”
“What’s on your mind?” The cop raised an uncertain eyebrow.
What was called for now was some world-class bullshitting. Gary didn't like to brag, but in that field he was about as good as they came. It would take some smooth talking to get the spic off the hook, but it was doable. The thing was that the fib didn’t have to make perfect sense in every particular. It was like a magic act. If the performance was distracting enough, you could get people to buy into almost anything. Just smile real big, paint pretty pictures in their heads, and gloss over the details. And if you could convince yourself of your own line of baloney, all the better. Black-white, up-down, right-wrong. What did it matter? In the end, these were all just words.