by A. J. Thomas
Not at four in the morning, though. Christopher put the note back into the envelope and got into the shower. He got dressed and went down stairs, hoping that being vegan didn’t mean swearing off coffee. He needed coffee.
The first pot didn’t last until Doug wandered down to the kitchen. Christopher didn’t move when Doug wrapped his arms around his neck and kissed his ear. He held onto the mug of coffee and stared down at the sheet of notebook paper, reading the words for the thousandth time. Doug leaned over his shoulder and glanced at the suicide note. “Oh,” he said simply.
Christopher took another long sip of coffee.
Doug slipped his arms down to Christopher’s shoulders and leaned against him. “I think I liked the twitching better. Seeing you actually sit still is kind of spooky.”
“Sit down,” said Christopher.
“What’s up?” Doug asked, doing as Christopher asked.
Christopher took a deep breath and got right to the point. “You have a sexual predator operating in Elkin.”
Doug sat back, his eyes wide. He didn’t say anything, though.
“When Peter and I were kids, we were both abused by a man who was extremely influential in our neighborhood. A minister. Peter called him a Man of God when he was trying to explain that his reputation was so far beyond reproach that no one would ever believe a couple of kids accusing him of being a monster.”
“You think that’s what his note meant? That he was aware of a sexual predator operating in Elkin?”
Christopher took another sip of coffee. It gave him a moment to think. “He had an accomplice operating in Elkin. He was saying that he had an accomplice, one who was influential enough that no one would believe he was associated with the things Peter did.”
“An accomplice?”
“Yes.”
“Targeting children in Elkin?”
“Boys between eight and sixteen, typically. But who knows what the other man’s taste run toward? Also, I’m pretty sure it was more than just pursuing them sexually. The FBI brought in dog teams to search through the ashes of Peter’s house. I should have recognized the smell, but you and the cat smell threw me off. They’re recovering human remains. Or traces of them, anyway.”
Doug stared at him for a long time. Christopher couldn’t read his expression, and he didn’t really want to. He didn’t want to see the disgust and denial he was sure would be there, or worse yet, the pity sure to follow.
“What does the last part of the note mean?” Doug asked.
“I was hoping you could tell me. You said you cut him down. Was there anything strange at the scene? Or even anything strange about the view?”
Doug shook his head. “Nothing. We looked for signs of a struggle, but didn’t find anything. Hikers had been up there before us, though. I suppose this means we’ve got to call that FBI bastard who pinched your ass, doesn’t it?”
“You saw that?”
Doug nodded slowly.
“He slipped me his number,” Christopher said with a lopsided smirk. “He said he wanted to hook up when he transferred back to California.”
“There any coffee left?” Doug asked. He turned away from Christopher and hurried to the counter. “I have a feeling this is going to be a long day.”
“I’m sorry,” Christopher whispered.
“It’s okay.” Doug squeezed his left shoulder as he walked by. “I can make another pot.”
“I meant that I’m sorry about all this shit with Peter.”
“I know.”
Yellow and blue wildflowers were blooming under the forest canopy, and Doug could smell the wild strawberries just beginning to blossom. This was normally his favorite time of year to be up in the mountains. He felt guilty for enjoying the sights and sounds of the forest while they walked. The three men trudging up the trail behind him were serious and quiet. Doug had contacted two members of the county search-and-rescue team and had them come down to close off the trailhead. Then he’d called the two FBI agents, who had agreed to show up without requiring any real explanation. He was grateful for that, but also suspicious. They showed up with cameras, evidence bags, gloves, and expressions so grim they looked like they were about to try to sort out a mass grave. If the looks on their faces hadn’t matched Christopher’s expression so well, Doug would have thought it funny. When Christopher had explained his brother’s suicide note, their expressions had only hardened.
“Do you have any idea what we’re looking for?” Agent Shaffer asked, breaking the silence for the first time since they began hiking.
“No,” Christopher admitted. “Anything that’s out of place.”
“You don’t have any idea what he wanted you to see?” asked Agent Belkamp.
Doug glanced back at both of the FBI agents curiously. They had taken a copy of the suicide note when they made copies of the will, but they hadn’t asked about it.
“I have no idea. The local authorities didn’t find anything, so anything he left isn’t going to be obvious.”
“But you think that you can find it?”
“I don’t know. I think Peter believed I would be able to. I know what you’re getting at, though. If I see anything weird, I’m stepping back. I’ve never been up here before, and the last thing in the world I want to do is fuck up your investigation.”
“The fact that you’re the one who called us already makes anything we find suspect,” Agent Belkamp said calmly.
“I’m aware of that. Would you prefer to go back down and forget about it? It might be nothing. It might be Peter being a psychotic bastard. It might be me being paranoid and reading too much into the note. And too much into the smell. And too much into that kid’s expression. And too much into basic human behavioral patterns.”
“Thank you, I get it.” Agent Belkamp rolled his eyes.
Christopher followed behind Doug, but Doug kept glancing back to check on him. He was unbearably still, compared to the way he normally acted. The first part of the hike was a steep climb, so Doug kept checking on the men behind him. When he saw that Agent Shaffer had fallen behind about fifteen feet and was having trouble catching his breath, he slowed their pace down. When they reached the top of the first bluff, Doug stopped to give Agent Shaffer time to catch up.
“Wow,” said Agent Belkamp. “Quite the view up here.”
“It really is,” Christopher agreed.
“It’s one of the more popular spots in Elkin. Most of the time, local kids sneak up here at night to drink or smoke pot,” Doug explained. “But every weekend there are picnics up here too. Weddings, sometimes.”
“So anything up here could have been contaminated by the entire county,” Shaffer huffed.
“You’re assuming there will be anything,” said Agent Belkamp. “It looks like every wannabe gangster in the area has been up here. With hikers and search-and-rescue guys, too, I’m beginning to have my doubts.”
“We don’t have gangs up here,” Doug insisted. “That’s kind of the point of a small town.”
“Oh, ha!” Agent Belkamp glared at him. “They might carve their tags into trees instead of spray painting them, but they’re still gang tags, Detective!”
“What are you talking about?”
“Old Town 14.” Agent Belkamp pointed to a tree stump beside the trail. It was covered with carvings, including a very prominent “Old Town 14” carved over some of the older sets of initials. “It’s a Hispanic street gang, originally out of the Old Town neighborhood in San Diego.”
“No, it’s not Old Town 14. The gang is called Old Town National City,” Christopher said grimly. “They started out as union enforcers in the National City neighborhood, a long time ago, before the city cleaned it up and it became known as Old Town. They’re one of the oldest gangs in San Diego. Maybe the oldest. They keep OTNC as their tag, no numbers.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” asked Agent Shaffer. He sat down on one of the large rocks outlining the trail boundary to try to catch his breath. “W
hy does the number matter?”
Christopher stared at the symbol. He glanced between Doug and Agent Shaffer. “Newer gangs usually take their name from a combination of their neighborhood or street and a symbol or a number to show which prison gangs they’re allied with, so other gangs will take them seriously. The Old Town National City guys don’t point out that they’re allied with the Mexican Mafia because they’re older than the Mexican Mafia. They’re sure as hell not a Norteño gang. They’re enemies of the Norteño gangs. If they were to tack a number onto their tag, it’d be a thirteen. Whoever was responsible for that fourteen would be skinned alive in California.”
“What?” Agent Shaffer looked at his partner and then at Doug. Doug shrugged and shook his head fast.
Agent Belkamp rubbed his eyebrows and looked at Doug and Christopher with every sign of embarrassment. “You’ve been in the sticks too long, Shaffer. The Hispanic gangs in California are divided up into two enemy factions, depending on which prison gang they hang out with once they get busted. Southern California is all Mexican Mafia territory, and Northern California is all under control of the Nuestra Familia. Southerners and Northerners—Surenos and Norteños. The Southern California gangs fight and kill each other all the time, but they are all Surenos. They go by the number thirteen because M is the thirteenth letter of the alphabet. M for Mexican Mafia. Nuestra Familia gangs go by fourteen, because N comes next. This is a combination of two tags from enemy gangs.”
“But you said they’re both Hispanic.” Agent Shaffer looked just as confused as Doug felt.
“That doesn’t mean they like each other,” Belkamp explained. “In prison, where each local gang only has a few members, they band together under the control of regional prison gangs. The southern Hispanic gangs are all Mexican Mafia. The northern Hispanic gangs are all Nuestra Familia. They don’t mix. The fact that every one of them had family who immigrated from Mexico generations ago doesn’t mean shit. The Mexican Mafia is an American prison gang. They don’t exist in Mexico and never did—they’re strictly Southern California.”
“The factions fight outside of prison too,” Christopher added. “All the local gangs fight each other in San Diego, but they drop their differences and team up if anyone with a Norteño tattoo dares to walk down the street. All of them, including the members of the Old Town National City gang, are absolute enemies of every Norteño gang. This,” he said, pointing to the carving, “would be suicide. It would be the ultimate sign of disrespect. If a Norteño came anywhere near Old Town National City territory and had the balls to do this, they would make themselves a target for every single member or every gang within two hundred miles. And they wouldn’t dare, because the rest of the Norteño gangs would be just as insulted to see a fourteen next to an Old Town National City tag as the Old Town National City guys.”
“So you’ve got wannabe gangsters. Stupid wannabe gangsters, I admit, but still….”
Christopher wandered up the trail about ten feet and leaned close to inspect some black scribbles on the limestone wall. “Linda Vista Locos with a Huelga bird is the same deal,” he said as he pointed to the black marker. Doug followed him and stared at the black lines that almost formed the shape of a bird. “Linda Vista Locos are another San Diego Sureno gang. The Huelga bird is a Nuestra Familia symbol—they’re enemies.” Up the trail another fifteen feet, he stopped again. “Ever heard of the18th Street Logans? Logans are the Logan Red Stripes, but I’ve never heard of any other gangs using the name 18th Street,” he called back.
Agent Belkamp looked confused for a moment, then said, “Hell no! The Logan Red Stripes are only in San Diego. The18th Street Gang is in LA and hates them. The Logans don’t let the 18th Street Gang move south of Escondido, and the 18th Street Gang stops the Logans from setting up business anywhere else.”
“So they’re enemies,” said Christopher quietly.
“I thought you were a homicide detective!” Agent Shaffer shouted.
“I was assigned to a gang task force my last four years as a patrol officer. Then I spent a year with the same task force as a detective. Plus I grew up on the same streets these gangs fight over.” Christopher pointed to another mismatched gang symbol. “Belkamp, you ever heard of Varrio Mesa Locos in LA?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think they ever expanded,” said Christopher. “And again, there’s another fourteen. These aren’t generic Sureno tags that got fucked up. They’re gangs that started and stayed in specific neighborhoods in San Diego. Old Town National City only controls the Old Town neighborhood. The Logan Red Stripes have never branched out. They operate in a part of southern San Diego County called Chula Vista. Linda Vista Locos do business in Linda Vista and Mira Mesa, in the northern half of San Diego county. Vario Mesa Locos are—”
“In some place called Vario Mesa?” Doug asked, raising his eyebrows.
“Nah. They’re in Lemon Grove. It’s a bit south of Mira Mesa Boulevard, but they wanted something to tell people they were different from the Linda Vista Locos. Vista, by itself, is a common name for streets, so some kids up here could have picked up the name without knowing.”
“There is no neighborhood around here with vista in the name,” Doug supplied. “No street either.”
“The only part of each of these tags that isn’t from a San Diego neighborhood is the prison gang affiliation, and they’re all matched up with enemy prison gangs. They’re all wrong.”
“But only someone familiar with San Diego would realize it,” said Doug. “Someone familiar with San Diego’s local gangs.”
Christopher wandered up the trail, inspecting the rocks and trees on either side. Every now and then he would point out another tag, mutter the word “enemies,” and move on. Doug and the FBI agents followed him, and Agent Shaffer began to take photographs of the gang symbols. Agent Belkamp caught up with Christopher and started helping him spot more symbols.
Doug found himself trailing behind, watching as both men stopped to comment on new symbols every fifteen to twenty feet. He watched from a distance as Agent Belkamp circled around Christopher, not hesitating to touch his shoulder or back to point out another symbol. He wanted to find something he could contribute, something that could take away that fucker’s excuse to grope Christopher, but he didn’t know anything about California gangs. Cuban gangs, with their own traditions and issues, had run all of Miami, but that wouldn’t help. He even thought about pointing out the gnarled tree where Christopher’s brother had secured the rope that hanged him, but that wasn’t why they were up here. Doug noticed that a dirty length of rope still hung knotted around the bent tree trunk.
Christopher and the FBI agents stopped about fifty feet away from the tree, stood back, and stared up at the limestone wall on the right side of the trail.
“What’s up there?” Agent Shaffer asked. Doug followed him to the spot where the other two men waited.
“The only gang tags that aren’t fucked up,” said Christopher. “And they’re both East Side Piru tags. That figures.”
“How so?”
Christopher pressed his lips tight together for a moment. “All the kids in our neighborhood were East Side Piru. Peter was East Side Piru, before… before everything.”
“Were you?” Agent Belkamp asked.
Christopher shrugged. “Everybody was.”
“But you’re white….”
“Yeah, that helped. I got away with a lot more shit than the rest of the kids in my neighborhood.”
“Why is that one way up there?” Agent Shaffer asked.
Doug had to stand back to see what they were looking at. There was a black symbol about two feet above his head along the wall, and then another one about fifteen feet above that.
“How the hell did it get up there?”
Christopher reached for a handhold on the rock and tried to pull himself up. The gravel under his fingers slid, and Christopher slipped back down to the path. “I have no idea.”
“Ah.” Doug set
his hand on Christopher’s shoulder. “Obscure street gangs might be your thing, but climbing’s mine.” Doug slipped his daypack off and pulled out his harness and gear.
“But it just crumbles,” Christopher complained.
“You grabbed gravel and dirt, Christopher.”
“You brought a climbing harness?” Agent Belkamp looked dubious.
Doug smirked. “My harness was still in my daypack from when I came up here to cut Peter Hayes down,” he said. “My daypack’s always in my truck. I climb a lot. I brought it up with us because I figured if Peter had left something, it would have been over the edge where he hanged himself.” He nodded toward the gnarled tree. He pulled the harness on over his shorts and changed his shoes. Then he pulled out a short coil of rope and three nuts. The nuts were small, light safety devices most climbers used when they weren’t secured to a belay. They were really just large bolts attached to carabiners by a short length of webbing. They could be wedged into any crack or crevice in the rock face, and a rope could either be tied to them or slipped through a carabiner to be held by a climbing partner. He clipped them onto his belt and tied the rope to his harness.
“Think you can hold me up?” he asked Christopher.
“How is me being down here going to do you any good?”
Doug handed him the slack end of the rope. “Just take up the slack, keep your feet apart, and don’t drop me if I fall.”
Christopher turned pale instantly and a deep frown settled over his features. He shook his head almost frantically and carefully set the rope in Agent Belkamp’s hands.
“But the stiff didn’t have climbing gear. How the hell did he get up there to draw that without falling?” asked Agent Shaffer.
“I don’t think he was all that worried about his own safety,” said Doug carefully. “And, theoretically, you only need equipment for climbing if you fall.”