by Chris Culver
I stood and looked at Officer Rios. “What am I looking at?”
“La Santisima Muerte,” she said. “The Holy Death.”
I looked across the field to where Michelle had been dumped and shuddered. “Is this some kind of devil worship, then?”
She shook her head emphatically. “Not at all. The Bony Lady is a saint.”
“Tell Detective Rashid what you told us,” said Paul.
“I’m not a practitioner,” said Emilia, pulling her brown hair into a ponytail behind her head and securing it with a hair tie she had kept around her wrist. “But my dad has a shrine, so I took a picture and sent it to him.”
“Go on,” I said, nodding.
“First of all,” she said, kneeling and then waving her hand over the entire shrine. “There’s no such thing as a standard Santa Muerte altar, so you can learn a lot about a person by what he includes. The person who set this altar up is interested in justice. That’s what the green on her robe and the green carpet means. The guy who owns this could be in legal trouble. He might even be asking the Bony Lady for her help keeping the police away.”
Considering we had found the body of a young lady in his field, I’d say we had good reason to think the latter.
“What about the other stuff?” I asked. “The scythe, the tequila, the flowers? What do they tell us?”
Emilia shifted and then pointed to the statue in the center of everything. “My dad said the scythe represents the harvest, but since it’s wrapped in a twenty-dollar bill, it means the shrine’s owner is trying to harvest money. He’s got a business of some kind. The globe in her other hand shows that she has power over everything in the world. He’s flattering the Bony Lady so she’s more likely to grant him favors.”
I nodded, even though I didn’t follow everything she had said. “For the sake of those who don’t know anything about this stuff, can we just take a step back? Who is the Bony Lady? Is she a real person? Is this a cult? What are we talking about here?”
Emilia looked to the part of the field that had held Michelle’s body and made the sign of the cross over her chest. “The Bony Lady is a saint, but the Catholic Church doesn’t recognize her. She’s from the streets. That’s why common people pray to her. They believe that if they pray to her and make her offerings, she’ll answer their prayers.”
I knew enough about Catholicism to understand to an extent. What I didn’t get, I could always research.
“Thank you. That helps,” I said, nodding and pausing for a second as I tried to think of an inoffensive way to phrase my next question. “You mentioned your dad is a practitioner, so bear in mind I’m not trying to ask an offensive question. Please don’t take it as such.” I waited for her to nod, telling me to continue. “Do believers sacrifice things to the Bony Lady?”
“Are you asking if human sacrifice plays a role in my father’s faith?”
When put like that, it did sound mildly offensive.
“I wouldn’t ask except for the body we already found,” I said.
Emilia blinked a few times and looked at the field again. “I’ve only heard about one instance in Mexico, but the faith’s leaders denounced it.”
“Did you see Michelle’s body?” I asked. Emilia took a breath and then nodded. “Does anything about the body suggest to you that we’re dealing with a sacrifice?”
“No,” she said, quickly. “For one thing, it’s too far away. If the people who killed the vic sacrificed her to Santa Muerte, they would have left her near the shrine.”
“Good,” I said, breathing a little easier. “A human sacrifice would probably ruin my evening.”
Both Paul and Sergeant Grimes tittered. I ignored them.
“What about these other objects?” I asked, pointing to the flowers and tequila.
“They’re devotional items,” she said. I furrowed my brow, confused. “Offerings. If you don’t keep making offerings to the Bony Lady, she’ll stop giving you blessings.”
I pointed to the black candle in back. “What kind of blessing does she give for the black candle with the skull on it?”
Emilia craned her neck to look inside. “I don’t think Dad saw that one.”
“Do you know what it means?”
She took a step back and blinked her eyes rapidly. “Usually, black is for protection.” She looked at Sergeant Grimes. “Can you turn it around?”
Grimes donned a pair of polypropylene gloves from his pockets, and, touching only the candle’s rim, turned it, revealing an inscription on the back.
MCME.
I looked at Emilia. “Does that inscription mean something to you?”
“Muerte contra mis enemigos.” She paused. “Death to my enemies.”
Paul chuckled. “I love a saint who’s willing to smite my enemies.”
“Please don’t disrespect the Bony Lady,” said Emilia. “For your own sake. She can get angry.”
I raised my eyebrows. “I didn’t think you were a believer.”
“You don’t have to believe in something to respect it.”
I couldn’t argue with that. I looked up at Paul. “This shrine has a concrete foundation. It’s permanent. The property owner hasn’t come by yet?”
He shook his head. “No one’s come by.”
That might have meant he didn’t live nearby. Or it meant that he killed Michelle and had fled the area. “Anything in the other shed?”
Paul shrugged. “Barbecue grill and some camping equipment.”
“How about a rake?”
Paul looked at Sergeant Grimes and then back to me. “Why do you ask about a rake?”
“Because it looks like somebody raked the dirt near the campground. Might have been trying to conceal footprints. If you find one, print it. You should also pull the tax records for this property from the county assessor’s website and track down the owner.”
“I have done this a time or two,” said Paul, humoring me with a smile. “But I appreciate the suggestion. Nancy Wharton is already on the records. I’ll take a look at the rake.”
“The property owner won’t talk to your detective,” said Emilia, quickly. “She’ll be wasting her time.”
Paul started to say something, but I held up a hand, stopping him.
“Why won’t he talk to Detective Wharton?” I asked, cocking my head to the side.
She stood and then gestured to the shrine. “Because this is his secret. My dad keeps his shrine in the living room, right where anybody can see it. Everyone else I know who practices does the same. The person who maintains this shrine is hiding it, though, maybe from a spouse. And if I had to guess, there are at least two people with access to it.”
Grimes crossed his arms and nodded at her, smiling proudly. “Told you she’s the expert and you’d be glad she’s here.”
I ignored him. “What makes you think two people are using this shrine?”
“Just look at the offerings,” she said, pointing to the white flowers. “On the one hand, we’ve got white flowers and white devotional candles. The white symbolizes purity, holiness. When my cousin got married, my father kept a white candle burning for an entire week afterwards. You put those things in there to say thank you. This other stuff, the money, the black votive candle, they evoke a different side of the Lady. It looks like something a drug dealer would have.”
I mulled that over for a moment before nodding. Paul spoke before I could.
“Isn’t it possible for one person to want all those things?” he asked.
“Sure, it’s possible,” she said, nodding toward the statue, her voice even stronger than it had been a moment earlier. “But I’ve seen a lot of shrines and none of them have looked like this. I’m almost sure that this shrine is maintained by at least two people. The broken padlock corroborates it.”
She hadn’t convinced me, but Paul would have to follow up anyway. He looked at me.
“You said we should look for two suspects. That conjecture, or do you actually know something?”
“Call it an educated guess. We agree Michelle died elsewhere and was dumped here?”
Paul nodded and then reached into his jacket for a notepad. “That’s what Hector Rodriguez from the coroner’s office said. Not enough blood to have died here.”
I pointed to the north. “And the people who live through those woods would have heard her scream. So we agree she died elsewhere. That meant somebody carried her here. Michelle wasn’t a big woman, but she probably weighed a good hundred and thirty pounds. That’s a lot of dead weight for one person to handle alone.”
Grimes shrugged. “I could probably carry that.”
“I might be able to carry her for some of that distance,” I said, nodding, “but that kind of weight would get heavy. The campsite has to be three hundred yards from the road, and I didn’t see any tracks for a wheelbarrow or cart.”
“What else you got?” asked Paul, crossing his arms.
“Just a feeling,” I said. “This murder was planned. Our killer is too careful to leave things to chance. He’s not going to be out here any longer than he needs to. We’re looking at partners.” I nodded to the shrine. “How many prints did you find on the shrine?”
Paul sighed and then ran a hand across his face. “None. Someone wiped it and the padlock down. Maybe we’ll get lucky with your rake.”
Unfortunately, if our killers were smart enough to wipe down the padlock, they were smart enough to wipe down the rake, too. Before I could say anything, Paul looked at Emilia Rios.
“Thank you for your help, Officer. I’m sure Sergeant Grimes can give you a ride back to your duty station.”
She nodded, and the two of them left, leaving Paul and me alone by the shrine. He watched her walk away and then turned to me.
“What color underwear do you think she’s wearing?”
“I’m pretty sure that’s one of those questions we’re not supposed to ask. Sexual harassment and all that.”
“That’s modern women for you. Next thing you know, they’ll be asking for library cards and equal protection before the law.” He knelt in front of the shrine. “You really think we’re looking at two people?”
“I’d call it a strong possibility,” I said. “Outdoor scene and a pretty horrific murder. You’re going to have your hands full.”
“You don’t want to help me on this one?”
I looked over the field once more. “Sorry, but you’re on your own. Bowers asked me to come by, but Michelle wasn’t interested in this shrine stuff. Besides that, I had a disciplinary hearing last Friday, and I’m off until I get the verdict.”
Paul straightened and nodded. “I heard about that. I’m sure it’ll turn out fine.”
I felt pretty confident I’d lose my job, but I appreciated the support. I nodded to him and then turned toward the trail that led to the road. Before I could reach it, Paul cleared his throat, stopping me.
“We found your business card in the vic’s purse. How’d you know her?”
A lot of people knew I had a problem with alcohol, but I still tried to keep things quiet. Maybe now was the time to get it out.
“She’s my AA sponsor.”
Paul tilted his head to the side. “For real?” I nodded, and he took a step forward to pat me on the shoulder. “Good for you. If you need anything, let me know.”
“That’s not how I met her,” I said, quickly. “She testified against Santino Ramirez ten years ago. I worked the case with Keith Holliday.”
“The Santino Ramirez on death row?”
“That’s the guy,” I said, nodding. “You need to talk to somebody in the gang squad about Barrio Sureño, his old crew.”
Paul took a notepad from his jacket and wrote the name down. “You free tomorrow morning?”
“I could be.”
Paul slipped his notepad back into his jacket pocket. “Good. If she died for testifying in a murder trial, I’m going to pull the files and see what I can find. I’d like you to come in and go through them with me. Can you make it in at ten?”
“That’ll be fine,” I said. “I’m going to head home.”
He considered me and then took a step back. “All right, then. Tell your wife hello for me.”
I nodded to him and then left, intending to go home for the night, where I could actually grieve for my friend in peace.
I wish it had worked out like that.
Chapter 5
Carla had first met Dante Washington four weeks ago in a Dairy Queen beside Crown Hill Cemetery. It had been warmer then, and she had worn a pair of brown slacks and a cobalt blue three-quarter-length-sleeve shirt. Small diamond studs adorned her ears, while tasteful if minimalist makeup touched up her cheeks and eyes. Normally, Carla preferred skirts, but Jane Rodriguez, the alias she had chosen for the meeting, preferred pants that she could cinch at the waist. Dante had smiled at her eagerly as she walked into the restaurant. He had worn a wool pinstripe suit and black horn-rimmed glasses. It was early in the season to wear wool, but he probably didn’t have anything more suitable. A young lawyer, trying to make his mark on the world and willing to take clients from wherever they came. He probably saw himself akin to a character in a John Grisham novel. Quaint.
She walked to his table, catching just the barest hint of her perfume. Bergamot, like a cup of Earl Grey tea, and lavender. The perfume didn’t say Carla, but it practically screamed Jane Rodriguez. Before reaching the table, she pulled a pack of cigarettes from her purse, a habit Jane had recently restarted during divorce proceedings from her most recent husband. Again, it was simply part of the story.
“I believe this is a nonsmoking establishment,” said Dante, upon her arrival. “The manager will ask you to put that away.”
“Of course. I should have known,” she said, forcing her hands to tremble as she roughly stuffed the hard pack back into her purse. As she did, she watched Dante out of the corner of her eye. He had a strong jawline and brown eyes perfectly situated in a broad face. Judging by the fill of his suit, he had an athlete’s body. The gangly boy who had testified against her husband had turned into a handsome man. Pity that he had to die. “So are you the lawyer?”
At the time of the meeting, Carla hadn’t decided how to kill Dante. She had considered meeting him at his office and shooting him in the head, but that didn’t send the right message. In the past week alone, she had read about two murders in Chicago performed in just that way. That was too clean, too easy, too…pedestrian. They needed something that would garner media attention.
“I am a lawyer,” he said, nodding and grinning, exposing teeth too white to be the result of natural processes. “What can I do for you? You were a little cryptic on the phone.”
She smiled obliquely but didn’t say anything, having spotted a little girl traipsing toward their table, her fat little fingers wrapped around a straw that protruded from fat little lips. She stared at Carla and sucked her drink. Quickly, the girl’s mother came by and ushered the little girl away, whispering apologies to both of them.
Even without consciously willing the thought, Carla found herself imagining how easily she could kill the mom. First, she’d find out what car Mom drove, and then she’d follow her home—she’d never see Carla coming, not with that kid around. Once Carla knew where the family lived, she would wait and stab Mom in the throat with an ice pick that night, maybe while she got something out of the freezer, maybe while she took out the trash. Mom’s life would spill on the concrete or on the kitchen tile, and she’d die before she even knew a stranger had opened one of her arteries, all because her child had walked up to the wrong table at the wrong Dairy Queen at the wrong time.
Of course, Carla didn’t have reason to kill her or even the time to do it in, so Mom was safe. The thought did make her wonder if people realized how precarious their lives really were.
“The girl remind you of someone?” asked Dante, smiling at her awkward silence.
“My niece,” said Carla, lying without hesitation. She tilted her head to t
he side and watched the little girl and her mother walk back to their table. “My niece is a little thinner, maybe, but they’re roughly the same age.”
Normally, Carla tried to avoid lying—if she said she had a niece today, she might have to produce that niece next week—but Dante wouldn’t live long enough for it to become a problem. She hadn’t killed a lawyer before, so she looked forward to it. Being a licensed attorney herself, she knew enough of them, certainly. Most members of the bar saw themselves as powerful or at least beyond violence’s reach. A flick of her wrist, a twitch of a finger over a trigger would show Dante the truth. It should be fun to rearrange his worldview. She focused on him again and smiled meekly.
“You’re probably wondering why I called you.”
He smiled that winning, too-white smile again. “I was, but I’m enjoying the company too much to say anything.”
Carla looked away as if her questions were painful. “I’m new to the area, and I don’t know many people here yet.”
Dante’s smile dropped slightly. “How can I be of service?”
Carla looked at her reflection in the window. “Before I ask my questions, I need to know something. Are you a good lawyer or a bad lawyer?”
She looked at him, and he blinked, sizing her up. “Do you have a dollar in your purse?”
“Probably,” she said, leaning for her purse.
“Can you give it to me?” he asked. Carla pulled out her wallet and did as he asked. He pocketed the bill. “You are now officially my client. Our conversations are protected, so we can speak freely. I can’t be forced to testify against you, and you can’t be forced to testify about what you tell me. So go ahead and tell me what’s on your mind, Ms. Rodriguez, and I’ll tell you what kind of lawyer I am.”
Carla wanted to roll her eyes, but she kept them locked on Dante’s. He had probably seen the dollar trick in a movie. She wondered if he used it to pick up girls in bars.