The Battle of Jericho

by Walter Marks

  Maria jumped in. “Sir, we’re only discussing two victims whose feet were missing. Mrs. Platt is a separate case.”

  “Sid,” Jericho said, regaining his patience, “let me go on. Sanford Richman is a logical suspect in his wife’s murder, but not in the first killing. Like Platt, he couldn’t lift a car engine. He’d need an accomplice, a boat, and a gun, plus a motive to kill a teenage Latina. Not likely.”

  “So lemme get this straight,” Krauss said. “Besides the murder of Mrs. Platt, you say we’ve got two separate non-serial killings.”

  “Correct,” Jericho said.

  “And you’ve eliminated the kid as a suspect in the killing of Teresa Ramírez.”

  “Right.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Krauss said. “Sometimes the most unlikely suspect can turn out to be the killer.”

  “Chief, you’ve been reading too many murder mysteries.”

  “I’m just being thorough. As you should be.”

  “You’re right,” Jericho said. “I should question Aaron Platt again. Problem is — he happens to be dead.”

  Jericho looked straight-faced at Krauss. Maria wanted to laugh, but held it in. Mrs. Krauss saw her husband had that pissed-off expression she was all too familiar with.

  “Sid,” Mrs. Krauss said, “do you mind if I ask a question?”

  “This is police business, dear. I don’t think…”

  “Detective,” she said, “you said the first foot was bitten off by a fish and the second foot was cut off by a person, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, if the murders are not related, why did the second killer cut off his victim’s foot?”

  “That’s a very good question,” Jericho answered. “And I have a theory — it could be a copycat murder.”

  “Copycat?”

  “Yes,” Jericho said. “Once the news came out about the foot we found, whoever killed the second victim — Ann Richman — might have wanted to make it look like it was the work of a serial murderer. The second killer could’ve cut off Ann Richman’s foot, soaked it in seawater, and planted it on the beach. That way suspicion wouldn’t fall on him, but rather on the supposed serial killer.”

  Krauss took a while to grasp this complicated scenario. Then he spoke hesitantly. “So…so…maybe Richman could’ve done that?”

  “Yes — he could have,” Jericho said. “But at this point we certainly can’t prove it. We don’t have any solid evidence, no provable motive, no verifiable cause of death, and no body — just a foot. We really have no case.”

  “So what do I say to the press?”

  “Just say evidence suggests these are two unconnected murders. Present your conclusion as fact-based and give no details.”

  “So I have to give ’em my usual — ‘it’s an ongoing investigation.’”

  “Yes. Only flesh it out with some bullshit. You know how to do that, right, Chief?”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “One other thing,” Jericho said. “It’s also possible that someone else entirely is responsible for Ann Richman’s murder, but we don’t have enough to go on yet.”

  “Who’s the person?”

  “We don’t have a name.”

  “So what do you have?”

  “Just a nationality.”

  “Which is?”

  “I’d rather not say. It’ll just confuse you.”

  “Tell me the nationality,” Krauss demanded. “That’s an order!”

  “Malaysian.”

  “Huh?”

  “I told you it would confuse you,” Jericho said. “Let’s go, Salazar.”

  As they left, Mrs. Krauss rushed to her red-faced husband to give him his blood pressure pills.

  CHAPTER 40

  Jericho went to the evidence room to inspect the auto engine that weighed down Teresa’s body. With him was Sgt. Billy Sinkowich, who ran the department’s motor pool and was the resident car guru.

  Billy knelt down and scrutinized the engine. “The salt corroded the shit out of it,” he said.

  He took out a screwdriver and scraped at the front of the radiator.

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “There’s an engine number stamped here — J7T…the J7T series means it’s a Winnebago RV, vintage 1980s.”

  “Let me write that down,” Jericho said, taking out a pad and pen. “Serial number…?”

  “J7T — 2-3-8-2-3-9-2-7-4.”

  “Got it,” Jericho said. “Is that like the one on the frame next to a car door?”

  “No. That’s the VIN, vehicle identification number.”

  “So if I find a Winnebago with a missing engine, how can I match it to this?”

  “The company doesn’t keep records going back into the eighties,” Billy explained. “But they do glue a sheet with all specs on the inside of the RV’s medicine cabinet. Unless someone’s removed it, that’ll give you the engine serial number.”

  “Good to know.”

  “One other thing,” Billy said. “This engine wasn’t removed in a shop. They’d carefully unhook hoses and wires, disconnect the manifold, unbolt the transmission, and like that. This was just ripped out of a vehicle, using maybe a bolt cutter, screwdriver, and a hammer. The whole job took maybe fifteen minutes.”

  “So it was stolen.”

  “Probably. And it must’ve taken a few guys to do it, ’cause it’s a heavy motherfucker.”

  “Okay, thanks, Billy.”

  Around six PM, Maria got a call from Jericho — he’d received positive DNA ID on Teresa Ramírez.

  Now she had to face the grim task of telling Soledad Ramírez her daughter was dead.

  She called Soledad on the woman’s cell phone. She was at her Clinton Street house and Maria said she needed to talk with her. She allayed the mother’s fear for the moment, saying she needed “more information.” She arranged to meet Soledad at her house in about half an hour. She would be in plain clothes, so as not to alarm the residents.

  As Maria drove to Springs, she thought about Jericho and how he’d comforted her after her nightmare. For a few moments he’d made her feel calm, almost peaceful. It was rare for her to feel that way. Ever since her sister, Carla, had vanished in Bulgaria, the rage was always there, just beneath the surface; rage against men who regarded women not as people but as merchandise, to be bought and sold for maximum profit with minimum risk. A woman is a great commodity, she thought. An eight-ball of cocaine can be sold on the street, the dealer makes a profit, and that’s the end of it. But a woman, ah, a woman can keep producing income for years, till finally age, addiction, or disease robs her of her worth. Then she can be dumped out like garbage.

  And a woman can be transported anywhere — town to town, city to city, country to country — and still return a profit.

  Trafficking. What a mild word for such a vile act.

  On some level, Maria knew her rage was what made her tough. But at the moment she didn’t feel so tough. How do I tell a mother her daughter is dead? How can I find the words without breaking down?

  As Maria pulled up in front of Soledad’s house, she phoned her again. The woman was at the open front door as Maria climbed the porch steps.

  “Hola, Soledad. ¿Come estas?”

  “Como siempre,” she answered. “Preocupado.”

  Yes, Maria thought. I’m worried too.

  CHAPTER 41

  Soledad brought Maria into the house. There was a foyer lined with soda and snack vending machines.

  Maria grimaced. Terrific. Dispensing obesity and heart disease at $1.25 a pop.

  Behind the foyer Maria could see a communal kitchen, where women bustled back and forth. The scent of Central American cooking filled the air: chili, cilantro, garlic, onion, cumin, and the traditional cooking oil — lard.

  On Maria’s right was a room with a flat-screen TV. A few children and older family members were watching Spanish language programming.

  On the left was a large dining room, set up with br
idge tables and folding chairs. It appeared most of the residents were already there, waiting for dinner.

  Everything about the house was shabby and depressing; the harsh fluorescent lighting, the people in threadbare clothing, the cacophonic chatter and the din of crying babies, echoing off the dingy, graffiti-covered walls.

  Soledad led Maria upstairs into the sleeping quarters. The interior walls had been torn down to create a large dormitory. Its ceiling was crisscrossed with thick wire cables, from which hung opaque plastic shower curtains. The curtains divided the dorm into small individual living spaces, providing the only privacy.

  Some of the spaces were bigger and had several mattresses on the floor. “For families,” Soledad explained. “For singles — one mattress.”

  They passed a small living space. An overweight, white-haired woman sat in a rickety rocking chair, knitting.

  “Hola, Carmela,” Soledad said, waving at her. The woman waved back.

  “Carmela good friend,” Soledad said to Maria. “She come from Guatemala long time ago. Speak good English — sometimes she teach me.”

  The next space was Soledad’s. It contained a small dresser, a clothes rack, a battered easy chair, and a leather hassock with the stuffing sticking out. The mattress and pillow on the floor had a polyester quilt neatly spread over it. Soledad sat down on the hassock and offered Maria the chair.

  After a few moments of silence, Maria swallowed hard and spoke. “Soledad, I have something to tell you.”

  “My daughter? You have news of my Teresa?”

  “Yes.”

  “What…you found her?” Soledad could read the bad news in Maria’s face. “She…she’s gone?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  The woman’s face went slack. “Teresa…gone…” She made the sign of the cross. “Ay, mi niña que descansa en paz.”

  She looked at Maria for a long moment. “Digame,” Soledad whispered. “Tell me.”

  “We…we found her remains in the ocean, in a plastic bag.”

  “Remains?”

  Maria nodded.

  “¿Qué es esto, ‘remains’?”

  “It’s…what’s left when someone dies,” Maria said. “She was…shot.”

  “Shot?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “¡Ay, mi Dios!…You sure, you sure it is my Teresa?”

  Maria took out the evidence bag containing the victim’s Lady of Guadalupe pendant necklace. “You recognize this?”

  Soledad let out a scream of gut-wrenching agony. Then she began to shout. “¡Ay, mi dios! Sí, sí…es de mi hija.”

  “Querida, estoy tan triste,” Maria said, trying to console her.

  The woman from next door rushed in. “Soledad…¿que pasa?”

  “Teresa — ella está muerta,” Soledad said, sniffling. “Está muerta!”

  Carmela knelt beside her friend and hugged her. Then she pointed at Maria. “¿Ella le dijo?”

  “Sí,” Maria said.

  “¿Policia?”

  “…Sí,” Maria answered. “Pero…”

  “She’s okay,” Soledad whispered to Carmela. “She’s Chicana — you can trust her.”

  Maria nodded, pressing her hand to her heart. “I’m a cop, but I’m here to help.”

  “Okay…” Carmela said, her voice full of suspicion.

  “Can I…can I see her — my Teresa?” Soledad asked.

  “She was in the ocean for a long time,” Maria replied. “It’s better you don’t.”

  The tears came slowly at first, then a paroxysm of sobs. Soledad’s eyes flooded and she rocked slowly back and forth.

  After a while she managed to speak. “I think I always knew. Afraid to believe.”

  “Believe what?”

  Soledad hesitated, pursing her lips and clenching her hands. Then she spoke in a trembling voice.

  “My Teresa — so young, so beautiful,” she said. “I believe boyfriend make her do whatever he wants. Force her to…have sex. Sex with men…for money. But I know my Teresa, ella no es puta, she good Catholic girl. Maybe some time she try to say no, try to get away, maybe she get disease. ¿Quién sabe?”

  Soledad sighed deeply. “She know she commit bad sin. My sweet Teresa, she…she pay with her life.”

  “So you think her pimp killed her?”

  “Pimp? What is pimp?”

  “Alcahuete.”

  “Yes. I think pimp killed her.”

  “And you didn’t report this to the police, because you were here illegally?”

  Soledad covered her eyes with her hands and breathed heavily into them.

  “No, no,” she finally said. “I not care about that. I would do anything to find my daughter.”

  “Then what stopped you?”

  “Phone call.”

  “Phone call?”

  Soledad hesitated for a moment. “Yes,” she said. “I get phone call from alcahuete, I think. He say — ‘We have your daughter. Say nothing to police or we kill her.’ So…what could I do?”

  “Wait a minute,” Maria said. “He said — ‘We have your daughter…We will kill her’?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re sure?” Maria said.

  “Yes.”

  “He didn’t say I have your daughter…I will kill her?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “If he said we — nosotros, not I — yo, then he must be part of a group…maybe a gang.”

  “You think…una pandilla…gángsteres.”

  “It is very possible,” Maria said. “It could be a sex trafficking ring.”

  “Oh, my God!” Soledad said. “Maybe that’s what happened with my friend at church. She told me…”

  Carmela clamped her hand over Soledad’s mouth. “No diga nada! Tu tienes que tener cuidado!”

  “I don’t have to be careful,” Soledad shouted. “My Teresa is gone…I don’t care what happens to me.”

  “What did your friend at church say?” Maria asked.

  “Couple years ago,” Soledad said, “she tell me her daughter disappear.”

  “Did her daughter have a boyfriend like Teresa?”

  “No,” Soledad said. “Mother say she think daughter was…how you say?…Secuestrada.”

  “Kidnapped.”

  “Yes, kidnapped,” Soledad said. “Daughter always walk home from school, only one day — never come home.”

  “And the mother — she never contacted the police?”

  “No,” Soledad said. “I told her to report missing person, but she just shake her head no. Now I think I understand. Gang called her on phone, same as me.”

  “One second,” Maria said. She took out a notepad and pen. “Let me get the names. The mother’s name?”

  “No, Soledad. No!” Carmela shouted. “If this is a gang operation, you’re asking for trouble, big trouble — talking to a cop.”

  Carmela turned to Maria. “I won’t be part of this,” she said. “I heard nothing. I know nothing. I wasn’t even here!”

  Carmela got up, turned, and rushed out.

  “You sure you want to go on?” Maria asked Soledad.

  “Yes.” Soledad nodded sadly. “Maybe if I tell what I know, you, police — you can catch these gángsteres.”

  “We’ll do our best.”

  “Please…you have to. Because now I wonder — how many more in our community?” she said. “How many girls like Teresa, they trick, they kidnap, they force to be…putas.”

  “What’s the name of your friend from church?”

  “Ana Santiago.”

  “And her daughter?”

  “Rosario.”

  “Rosario,” Maria said. “Rosario…Santiago?”

  “Yes.”

  Maria looked stunned. “My God,” she said. “I used to babysit her, not so long ago. She’d be, what…sixteen, seventeen years old now?”

  Soledad nodded. “She very close to her mama. If she never again talk to Mama, either she do sex work…or she dead.”

&
nbsp; “I’ll have to interview Rosario’s mom and dad,” Maria said. “They still live in the same place?”

  Soledad shook her head sadly. “Mother died a few months ago. People say she have heart attack, but I believe broken heart. I went to funeral, but Papa, he not go to funeral. Went back to Mexico. Was too much…too much pain.”

  Too much pain. Maria thought of her sister, Carla. The pattern was forming in her mind. Carla taken in Bulgaria…Teresa…Rosario — all likely forced into prostitution. Her anger boiled up. “Bastards!” she shouted.

  “Que mi Dios me perdone. Deseo matarlos,” Soledad said.

  “I’d like to kill them too.” Maria knelt down beside Soledad and for a while they embraced in silence.

  “Let me ask you something,” Maria said. “Did you know Teresa’s boyfriend’s name?”

  “She call him ‘O.’”

  “‘O’? What kind of name is that?”

  “Short for something,” Soledad said. “Wait…funny name. Old…Leg, I think she say Old Leg.”

  “Old Leg?”

  “Sí. I think Russian name.”

  “Old leg…” Maria said. “Could it be Oleg?”

  “Maybe, yes, I think so…Oleg,” Soledad said. Her eyes became watery again. “When I can get my Teresa’s body for funeral?”

  “It’ll take a week or so. But closed coffin funeral only. You understand me.”

  Soledad nodded. “I have no money for funeral. I guess I ask church…they take up collection.”

  Maria sighed. “Maybe you better take tomorrow off,” she suggested. “Rest.”

  “No. I work. Better I work. Is all I have now.”

  Maria put her arms around Soledad and embraced her tightly.

  “Soledad,” Maria said. “I’m so sorry this happened.”

  “It’s God’s will.”

  Nice work, God, Maria thought.

  CHAPTER 42

  At his office early next morning, Jericho opened an e-mail from Perry Dixon, his pal who worked at the FBI.

  Jericho —

  Got your phone message. Checked gov’t records and Immigration for Malaysians in your area. Just one name came up in Suffolk County: Datuk Sidek. Only address: World Gym, Hampton Bays. Long Island, NY. Green card immigrant. There may be other citizens of Malaysian extraction, but difficult to identify them — could find no more Malaysian surnames. Hope this helps.