The Territory: A Novel

by Tricia Fields

  Josie stared at the mug shot from two years ago and recognized the man she had shot, although he was now about twenty pounds heavier, with a goatee. She was positive it was the same man. He was a member of La Bestia who had defected from the Medrano cartel. She felt her heart rate increasing and the acid burn ignite in the pit of her stomach. She remembered the case but wanted to confirm the details.

  She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and dialed Lou at the police department, who gave Josie the phone number for an old friend of hers. Anthony Dixon was a detention and deportation officer with Immigration and Customs Enforcement. She had worked two deportation cases with ICE over the past several years, and Dixon was the case agent both times. Josie reached Dixon on his cell phone as he was driving down the interstate from El Paso to Houston for a federal trial. She gave him the prisoner’s name and a brief summary of the murder at the trauma unit.

  “I got your man, Josie. No doubt about it.” Dixon spoke with a slow Western drawl, making every word sound important.

  “Is he family?” she asked.

  “You bet he is. He’s referred to as ‘Cousin’ by his comrades in La Bestia. You got a nasty one. You better set up some guards outside. That bad boy belongs in maximum.”

  Josie laughed. “He’s in the Artemis lockup. We don’t do maximum security.”

  “Better figure something out. He’s a cousin to the Bishop, who is second in command in the Medrano clan. Gutiérrez left Medrano after he caught the Bishop having sex with his wife. He killed her, then left the organization.”

  “So, not only has he turned his back on the most famous family in Mexico, but he has also brutally murdered the leader.”

  “He will be killed. It’s a matter of time and opportunity.”

  Dixon went on to explain that Gutiérrez had a relatively short criminal history of gun and drug charges in Mexico. However, intelligence from ICE had recently linked him to La Bestia’s weapons division. No surprise there. He was a suspected recruiter for U.S. cartel surrogates in El Paso and Laredo. Dixon said he would call his secretary and tell her to e-mail Josie several pictures of Gutiérrez with high-ranking gang members in both the Texas Machismo and the Tejana Guard.

  Josie thanked Dixon for the information and promised to share the full case file with him at the close of the investigation. Next, she found Maria and asked to borrow a computer to pull up her e-mail account on the jail’s secure server. Maria set her up on a computer that was currently not in use in the booking room. Josie logged on to her account, and as promised, Dixon’s office had e-mailed her two pictures of Cousin Gutiérrez. Josie pulled a picture out of the steno pad she carried with her. It was the picture of Red Goff and the three Mexicans that she and Otto had seized from Red’s basement. She held it up to the computer screen. It was a definite match for Gutiérrez. He stood in the background, just to the left of Red, dressed in a camouflage flak suit, an automatic rifle slung over his shoulder, staring intently at something beyond the photographer. Josie could tell the photograph was a few years old by the lack of gray in Red’s hair. Gutiérrez had just left the family clan six months ago, so the picture had to have been taken with members of Medrano. The news was an important step forward in the investigation, but it meant trouble for the town.

  The jail contained two identical pods, each with their own day space: a fifteen-foot-square room with metal tables and chairs and a TV mounted near the ceiling. Each pod housed five single-bed cells that could be turned into bunk beds, thus doubling the size of the jail when necessary. Santiago told Josie one pod was full; the other pod had two cells in use, one of them occupied by Miguel Ángel Gutiérrez. The prisoners were currently all back in their cells after breakfast.

  Santiago checked Josie’s weapon and put it in a locker, then escorted her back to lock up. Dooley, the six-foot-tall, three-hundred-pound day shift guard met Josie at the door with a smile.

  “I want to shake your hand, Chief.” Dooley smiled widely and held a hand out as Josie entered the day space. Josie smiled back, confused, and shook his hand. “You are an official legend. Took down two cartel members in one whack. Single-handed.” He shook his head, still smiling widely.

  “It wasn’t quite like that, Dooley.”

  He winked and patted her gently on the back with his massive hand. “No need to be shy about it. I just want you to know the jailers got our money on you.” He started walking toward the cell containing Guitiérrez, jingling his ring of keys at his side. He said over his shoulder, “You keep holding the line.”

  Josie assured him she would and asked about the prisoner. Dooley told Josie he had not heard a word out of Gutiérrez and that he had refused all food.

  Dooley released the nurse, who was sitting in a chair outside the cell, reading a paperback book. The woman sighed heavily and thanked Josie for the break. “I was worried for my safety at first, but I’ll die from boredom before anything else.”

  Dooley unlocked the door and rattled off a set of rules to Gutiérrez, who kept his eyes closed. It gave Josie a minute to size him up. His face was drawn, his eyes puffy and lifeless. She knew from information that Dixon had provided that he was forty-eight years old, but she would have guessed seventy. His arm was bandaged with white gauze where she had shot him, but he wasn’t connected to any medical apparatus. He was still dressed in a blue hospital gown, lying on his back in bed. To the right of the bed was a toilet, a metal chair, and an empty metal shelf attached to the wall. The walls were concrete, as was the floor.

  Dooley locked the door behind her, and she turned and noted that he remained close, within her line of sight. The sheriff ran a tight ship. Other than petty grievances and minor fights, there had never been a serious altercation against a prisoner or a guard since he took the reins when the jail opened five years ago. Martínez allowed very minimal contact with outside visitors, and absolutely no physical contact. Prisoners were searched daily, and metal detectors were in place throughout the facility. For a small jail, it was run very efficiently. Josie wondered what kind of firepower would be necessary to reach the prisoners.

  “Mr. Gutiérrez, I’m Chief Josie Gray with the Artemis Police Department.” He opened his eyes and turned his head to stare at her. “I’m your arresting officer. I have a few questions to ask you.”

  He said nothing, seemingly uncomprehending.

  “Do you speak English?” she asked. Nothing.

  She kept going nevertheless. After several minutes of Mirandizing in English, telling him who she was and telling him briefly about his situation in the U.S., Josie confronted him with his identity, his mug shots, his deportation record, and his testimony at trial. He finally broke his silence, apparently convinced it would no longer serve his purpose.

  “When will I be deported?” he asked, his English good.

  “You killed a man on U.S. soil. You may be deported, but only after you serve your time here for first-degree murder.”

  His face grew angry, his eyes suddenly bright, and the man she faced at gunpoint two days ago showed through. “This should not have been a problem for your soil! You were the ones who took a Mexican problem and made it your own. You cannot lay that on my shoulders. I was simply following my orders.”

  “From who?”

  He turned his head from her and looked at the gray concrete wall to the right of his bed.

  “Are you associated with La Bestia Cartel?”

  He said nothing.

  “Is the man referred to as ‘the Bishop’ your cousin?” she asked.

  He stared at the block wall.

  “Because in this jail cell, with the entire Medrano cartel ready to blow you to pieces, you are quite a target.”

  No response.

  “Okay,” Josie said, nodding. “Here’s your situation: This is your second offense. You get to rot in an American jail. I will monitor your progress as you serve your life sentence. I don’t like you, or what you stand for, and you will serve maximum time.”

  He continued
to stare at the wall, saying nothing.

  “I don’t know how prisons in Mexico work, but here in the U.S., we despise pedophiles. They don’t get treated well. In the world of prisoners, men who screw around with little kids are the bottom feeders. A guy could blow up a church full of nuns, and he’d still have the moral high ground compared to a guy like you. You can request the hole, but I hear solitaries are full up at federal penitentiary. All the filthy kiddie lovers already have those beds taken, so you’ll be in with the biker boys, the skinheads. And a Mexican pedophile? The Aryans dream about guys like you.”

  Even with Gutiérrez partially covered under the hospital sheets, Josie could see his body was rigid, his jugular vein swollen and pulsing on his neck.

  “Maybe you decide to share information, talk about La Bestia. Tell me why they want to move through Artemis so badly. What their connection here is. You might get out of jail before your family forgets you’re alive.”

  SIX

  Josie drove back to Artemis and parked one street north of the square in front of a small brick building with a sign that read OFFICE OF ABACUS. Dillon Reese, a forty-two-year-old accountant, had opened the business several years ago. A messy, very public divorce from a TV news anchor in California had caused him to seek out solitude in the smallest town he could find that would still support an accountant. He found his solitude, and Artemis gained a sorely needed financial advisor who was a sucker for pro bono jobs, including an occasional consult with the local police.

  Josie had dated Dillon for six months before he got tired of waiting for her to decide if things would ever move forward. They were great friends, great lovers, but Dillon said the part that mattered most to him, the marrow, he had called it, was nonexistent. He told her he was done waiting and asked another woman to a Marfa art gallery opening. Josie had not spoken to him since. It hadn’t ended nicely for either of them, and Josie sensed he felt as bad about the end as she did. At least she hoped he did. Now she intended to provide them both with an opportunity to at least speak again on the street, although in view of the contractions in her throat, she obviously hoped for something more. She missed him intensely.

  Josie walked into the office and found Dillon’s secretary on the phone. Where Josie was wiry, MS. CHRISTINA HANDLEY, as the nameplate read, was willowy and graceful. She wore a white short-sleeved shirt that brought out the deep Mediterranean glow of her skin. She had dark eyes, black hair cut in an expensive shoulder-length pageboy, and pouty lips. Her head was cocked as she talked into a headset and typed on the computer in front of her. She paused, glanced Josie’s way and winked, then gave her an I’ll be with you smile.

  Christina pointed a red fingernail to a waiting area with maple furniture that matched the glossy maple floors. The office was painted in earthy shades of brown and red and yellow, each wall a different color, with black-and-white Japanese etchings grouped around the room. Josie’s attention moved from the art back to the receptionist.

  The woman sat back in her chair and tucked her silky hair behind an ear with a small diamond earring that glinted across the room. The secretary was a new addition to the office.

  Josie’s uniform pants scratched at her thighs, and the bulletproof vest smashed her chest. She adjusted her gun belt. Never one for makeup, if she’d had lipstick in the jeep, she would have walked back outside and applied it.

  The woman looked toward her suddenly, the call on her headset apparently complete, and smiled brightly. “Good morning! How can I help you?”

  “I’m Chief Josie Gray. Is Mr. Reese available for a few minutes?”

  The woman pressed a button on her computer and talked into the microphone near her lips. “Chief Gray is here to see you.” She smiled, pressed another button, and turned to Josie. “Do you know where his office is?”

  There was only one office and a storage room beyond the secretary’s desk. Josie refrained from sarcasm and just smiled. “Yes, I’ve been here.”

  “Go right on back, then.”

  Dillon was standing up behind his desk when she walked in. He was a little over six feet tall, slightly stooped, and wore khaki pants with a white shirt and yellow tie. He had sad eyes that turned down at the corners, but the blue was bright and intense, as if backlit. He kept his salt-and-pepper hair cut short, and Josie considered him one of the most handsome men she knew. She had never met another person so at ease with himself in the world.

  He smiled warmly at her, displaying none of the awkwardness she felt. She tried to appear at ease. Looking professional, in charge, or angry were all looks she had mastered, but she could never fake relaxed.

  Dillon walked around his desk and shook her hand, placed the other hand on her shoulder. “It’s good to see you.” He pulled back a comfortable chair in front of his desk and sat beside her rather than moving back behind his desk. “What brings you by? Social, I hope, not business.”

  “A little of both,” she said.

  “Business out of the way first, then. What do you have?”

  Josie opened an accordion file she’d brought with her. It was stuffed full of paperwork, bank statements, receipts, handwritten ledgers, and outstanding bills that they had found at the house.

  “I’m working on Red Goff’s death.”

  Dillon nodded, his brow furrowed. “I heard about his murder.”

  “I wondered if you could take a cursory look at his files to get some sense of his debt versus income. I think most of the important information is in there. But it’s just a jumbled mess. Would you have time to take a look?”

  “Is this where we mix the personal with the business?” he asked, offering a crooked smile and a raised eyebrow.

  “How about you bring the information to my house tomorrow, say seven o’clock? I’ll provide the lasagna.”

  “And a bottle of merlot?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He smiled broadly, and she restrained a ridiculous urge to stand up from her chair and kiss him.

  “I’d like that,” he said. “I’ve missed you.”

  * * *

  At 3:30 P.M., Josie, Otto, and Marta met around the department’s conference table with case files and notes to debrief on the Medrano and Goff murders. At least once each week, schedules were adjusted so they could meet and discuss current investigations and share information. This week, unfortunately, was not typical.

  Josie opened the manila folder at the top of her stack. “Let’s start with the murder at the Trauma Center. The man I killed has been identified through DACS as Thomas Brema, a member of the Medrano cartel.”

  Marta groaned. “Has the organization released a statement yet?”

  Josie nodded. “What you’d expect. They released a statement in the newspaper in Piedra, saying they will get revenge. ‘The Americans have blood on their hands.’ That kind of garbage.”

  Marta covered her mouth, obviously troubled by the news.

  Josie frowned. “Here’s some irony: The Medranos claim we worked with La Bestia to kill Hector Medrano. We allowed La Bestia to enter our Trauma Center and shoot up our hospital in order to kill Medrano. They claim we have partnered with the devil.”

  “Josie, I hope you are taking this seriously. Your life is in serious jeopardy over this. Pride alone would make them go after you,” Marta said.

  “You might be wise to stay elsewhere for a week or two. Stay at Manny’s and see what shakes out,” Otto said.

  Josie nodded, aware of the danger but determined to move forward. She continued, “Here’s the story on the shooting: Hector Medrano, referred to as ‘the Pope’ in Mexico, has been confirmed as the patient who was killed at the Trauma Center. His nephew, Miguel Gutiérrez, was one of the three shooters. Gutiérrez had gotten into a feud with his cousin, the Bishop, who is Hector Medrano’s son. After the feud, Gutiérrez left the family drug business about a year ago and joined La Bestia.”

  “You want to draw us a diagram?” Otto said.

  “What caused the feud?” asked Marta.
>
  “Gutiérrez caught his cousin, the Bishop, in the swimming pool with his wife, naked and entangled.”

  “Entangled?” Otto said.

  “He came home early from a weekend business trip to Spain and caught them in the act. Gutiérrez shot and killed his wife in the pool but left Medrano to swim to safety. The pool boy fished her body out of the water the next morning,” Josie said. “This all came from a conversation with Agent Dixon.”

  “Why didn’t he kill his cousin?” Otto asked.

  “Killing his wife allowed him to save face. Killing his cousin, who is second in command of the Medrano cartel, would have been suicide before he allied himself with La Bestia.”

  “Gutiérrez couldn’t kill Medrano, so he defected and joined the rival gang, La Bestia?” Otto asked.

  Josie nodded.

  Otto said, “I’m surprised somebody from Medrano didn’t pop the cousin after he left the family. You don’t do that over there.”

  “That’s exactly what I thought,” Josie told him. “But they have this code of conduct. I guess the Bishop messing around with his cousin’s wife was in violation of the code, so they went easy on Gutiérrez.”

  “Until now,” Otto said. “But if Gutiérrez was willing to come over and kill Hector Medrano in our jail, then why didn’t he just kill the Bishop after he was screwing around with his wife?”

  Marta wagged a finger at Otto. “It’s all hierarchy. His cousin having sex with his wife? That was bad, but pardonable. He left the organization because his pride required it. Now, he’s in La Bestia, he’s showing his allegiance to the organization by killing the leader of his former cartel. This move was designed to move him high up in the La Bestia organization.”