The Impaler

by Gregory Funaro

  What was the name of the group?

  He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. Then it came to him.

  Sublime. That was it. Picture of some skinhead-looking dude with the group’s name tattooed across his back.

  Nineties music. Tattoos.

  Markham didn’t understand nineties music—felt disconnected from it—and didn’t understand the ninties tattoo craze, either. Every stockbroker with his tribal band, every sorority girl with her “tramp stamp” sticking to the seat of her BMW.

  Tramp stamp. That had been Michelle’s bon mot.

  Markham smiled.

  He can see her now, on the beach, rising naked from the surf like Botticelli’s Venus—her skin pristine and glistening in the sun, her hips swaying as she walks toward him.

  “Where’s your clamshell, Venus?” he asks. He is naked, too, lying on the sand. Michelle kneels over him and kisses his lips. She tastes salty.

  “I think it’s an oyster shell,” she says, and reaches behind him and clicks on an old-school-style boom box—Blue Öys-ter Cult’s “Don’t Fear the Reaper.”

  “That’s right,” he says, then kisses her again. “Seventies and eighties all the way, baby. That’s where we belong. Another world. Another time.”

  “I miss you,” she whispers.

  “I miss you, too.”

  A wave of sadness passed through him, and he opened his eyes.

  He sat there well into the night, adrift on an ocean of tattooed flesh and feeling more lost than ever.

  Chapter 22

  Wednesday, April 12

  It was still raining, and Markham spent the morning at the Resident Agency updating Sentinel and studying the Rodriguez and Guerrera file. The FBI had already questioned Mr. and Mrs. Rodriguez about a possible connection between their son and Randall Donovan, but not about Billy Canning. Markham had insisted on handling the Rodriguezes himself. He felt he should be the one to inform them their son had been murdered by a serial killer, but more important, felt he should be the one to ask them about their son’s sexuality.

  Of course, there had been nothing in the case file to indicate that the young man might have been a homosexual. However, Markham needed to exclude that possibility for himself before he could move forward with the victim profile. He also felt he had a good bead on the Hispanic culture from his stint in Tampa—and unless the Rodriguezes were an unusually enlightened family of Catholics, he had a feel- ing they wouldn’t take kindly to an implication their son might have been gay.

  It was a slim possibility, Markham thought; but nonetheless, that line of questioning needed to be handled delicately. He decided Mrs. Rodriguez would be the best bet—would be the most receptive to him—but still he needed to catch her alone, while her husband was at work. The case file said she had a part-time job in the mornings, which meant she would be home this afternoon when the kids got back from school.

  Besides, Markham wanted to determine for himself if Mrs. Rodriguez might be hiding something—not just from him, but also from her husband.

  Markham drove first to the Rodriguezes’ old apartment in Fox Run—got a sense of the layout and gazed up through the rain at the large streetlights that peppered the parking lots. They looked out of place, an afterthought in the rundown, gang-infested neighborhood, but told Markham the property would’ve been well lit at night. Moreover, the apartment complex had too many balconies. It was raining on the night Rodriguez disappeared, but there still would’ve been a lot of people around to see the killer waiting. And there was only one entrance in and out of the place—too risky for Vlad to take him here.

  Then there was the bus stop and the walk home. Not the safest area, but still well lit and well traveled. At the very least, someone would have heard the gunshots.

  But the bus stop on the other end? That mysterious place from where Jose Rodriguez was really travelling on Wednesday and Saturday nights? Well, that was the big question, wasn’t it?

  The police figured out early on that Rodriguez’s waitering job was bogus, but had since been unable to pin down exactly where he’d been coming from on the night he was shot. On the other hand, there was a strong possibility that one of the restaurant owners was lying; his employees could be lying, too, for fear of getting involved and being deported. That’s what bothered Sam Markham the most: that he couldn’t rule out the possibility that perhaps Jose Rodriguez might have been telling the truth all along.

  But Alex Guerrera had gone somewhere on Saturday night, too. He hadn’t been seen by his roommates since the night before and had asked to use the car they shared but then canceled at the last minute. Odd, they thought, but that’s all they could tell the police. No knowledge of a connection to MS-13 or any of the other Latino gangs that had sprung up in the area. There was nothing there, Markham felt instinctively, but he would talk to the cousin and track down the roommates if he got desperate.

  It had stopped raining by the time he reached the Rodriguez family’s new home thirty minutes later. The apartment complex was located in North Raleigh; typical three-floor multi-unit built in the early seventies, complete with a sign at the entrance that advertised LU URY RENTALS in faded letters and a missing x. The property had some nice tree coverage, was definitely no Fox Run—working-class, some Section 8—but Markham could tell from the cars that it was on its way down.

  He drove to a building at the rear of the complex, parked in a space beside an old Malibu and emerged to find two Hispanic boys staring down at him from a second-floor balcony. The older one (Markham pegged him to be about fifteen) was leaning over the railing smoking; the younger (short, twelve or thirteen) had been fiddling with an iPod and stood up as he approached.

  The complex was strangely quiet, Markham thought; only the sound of the wind in the pine trees. He looked up at the building number; watched the boys out of the corner of his eye, and pretended he was unsure he had the right place. Judging from the layout, he guessed that the balcony with the boys was most likely the balcony for the Rodriguez family’s new apartment; the taller boy, most likely Diego.

  “You looking for something, jefe?” asked the taller boy. Markham smiled and gazed up at the streetlights. “If you’re looking for your boyfriend, you ain’t gonna find him up there. Unless he’s a bird.”

  The younger boy laughed and Markham turned back to them—produced his cred case from underneath his Wind-breaker and flipped open his ID. He held it up by his face and smiled as wide as he could.

  “Looks like you get to be my boyfriend today,” he said. “FBI. Came a long way to ask you out, Diego Rodriguez.”

  The taller boy swallowed hard, took a final drag off his cigarette, and flicked it from the balcony. He disappeared inside. The younger boy followed, calling out to someone in Spanish.

  Markham mounted the stairs and quickly reached the apartment door—was about to knock when he heard the security chain rattle inside and the dead bolt unlock. The door opened slightly, and a Hispanic woman squeezed her face through the crack.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” she said in a thick accent. “My brother and my husband is working. Only me and the children right now.”

  “I’m Special Agent Sam Markham,” he said, holding up his cred case. “FBI Behavioral Analysis Unit. Are you Mrs. Rodriguez?”

  “No. She my brother’s wife. They all working now they live here.”

  “I see,” Markham said. “I’d like to ask Diego a few questions.”

  “He in trouble again?”

  “No, ma’am. It’s about Jose.”

  The woman hesitated, pulled back from the doorway, and whispered in Spanish to someone inside. “I’m not going to make trouble for you,” Markham said. “Just send Diego out, and I promise I won’t come in. I’ll wait over here.”

  He crossed to the stairs, leaned against the railing, and slipped his hands in his pockets. The Hispanic woman watched him for a moment, then closed the door. Markham waited, and soon became uncomfortable as he felt the presence of people looking
at him through the peepholes of the surrounding apartments.

  Finally, Diego Rodriguez emerged from the apartment. He was dressed in an oversized black T-shirt and a black baseball cap—tags still on and cocked to the side. He eyed Markham up and down and shuffled over, postured himself against the opposite wall and hooked his thumbs in his pockets.

  Markham glanced quickly at the boy’s fingernails; saw that they were cut neat and clean against his baggy knockoff jeans. Scared mama’s boy, he thought, and knew at once that Diego Rodriguez would turn out all right.

  “What time’ll your parents be home?” Markham asked.

  “They both working,” Diego mumbled. “Six, six-thirty. Maybe seven.”

  “You know why I want to talk to you?”

  Diego shrugged his shoulders.

  “I don’t know how much TV you watch,” Markham said, “but your brother’s murder has been turned over to the FBI now. You know what that means?” Diego said nothing. “Means now we have more people trying to figure out who killed him. Means now I have to ask you some questions like the police did so I get my facts straight.”

  “I didn’t talk to Jose that much, and I don’t know nothing more now than what I already told Five-O. Only interested in us again cuz of that lawyer that got smoked. They asked my father some questions about Colombians and gangs and drugs and shit. Shit is wack is what I’m saying. Me and Jose, we wasn’t down with that. I told y’all that from the beginning, but no one wants to listen cuz some fool says the pandilleros done it. I don’t know nothing ’bout that shit ’cept Jose was straight-up.”

  “You have some of the same friends?” Markham asked, reaching inside his pocket. “Does this guy look familiar to you?”

  Markham handed him a picture of Billy Canning. The boy scanned it quickly.

  “No,” said Diego, handing back the paper. “Like I said, me and Jose wasn’t close.” There was a hint of regret in the kid’s voice—almost shame, Markham thought—and he folded Canning’s picture back into his pocket.

  “You know where Jose might have gone on the night he disappeared?” he asked.

  “If you think he went and seen that lawyer for something, you’s even more wack than the police. Cuz that’s the only reason we seeing y’all again. Cuz of that lawyer. They smoked that motherfucker the way they did Jose. That’s the only reason why y’all so worried about Jose again after almost two months of us seeing no one.”

  “There’s been a development,” Markham said. “And I assure you I’m going to do my best to find your brother’s—

  Markham noticed something catch Diego’s eye. He followed it and saw a little girl at the opposite stairwell. She cradled a cat in her arms.

  “Go inside, Marla,” Diego said. The girl didn’t move. “You hear what I said? Or do you want me to give you another beating before Papa gets home?”

  “Auntie said I could look for Paco, tú pendejo.”

  Markham smiled in spite of himself. He knew from working in Tampa that pendejo meant dumb-ass.

  Diego didn’t move—only looked back at Markham cynically and said: “May I go now, sir?”

  “Yes. But tell your aunt that I’ll send your sister in after I talk to her, okay?”

  Diego nodded and sulked into the apartment without looking back. Markham approached the little girl.

  “That’s a pretty cat,” he said. “What’s his name?”

  “Paco.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Papa says he’s about a year old, but nobody’s sure, really. He was a stray and was living here before we moved in. But he likes me best. You a policeman?”

  “No, I’m with the FBI. You know what the FBI is?”

  “I think so. It’s like a policeman only you work for the President.”

  “That’s right,” Markham said, smiling.

  “Is that black car over there yours or the President’s?”

  “I wish it was mine, but the President just lets me borrow it.”

  “Did Diego ask you to sit in it?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Cuz Diego keeps telling Hector he’s going to buy a Ford Explorer someday after he gets his license. The Ford Explorer looks kind of like your car. Diego says he’s going to get a black one like yours and give Hector a ride in it before anybody else. Hector is my cousin. He’s older than me.”

  “That wasn’t very nice, you know, what you said to Diego.”

  “I’m sorry, sir, but Diego let Paco out on purpose when it was raining just to be mean to me. The policemen, the ones who came after Jose died, they spoke Spanish and, well, you didn’t look like you knew how to speak Spanish.”

  “I don’t. Just a few words. Your English is much better than my Spanish.”

  “Papa doesn’t like us to speak Spanish too much. Only when he doesn’t understand us. He wants us to learn English so we can all go to college someday. Diego says he’s not going to college. Says he’s going to be rapper or a DJ, but even his English is better than Papa’s. You won’t tell Papa what I said to Diego, will you?”

  “No. It’s a secret between us. Your name is Marla?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m Sam Markham. Your first name and my last name sound a little alike, don’t you think? Marla and Markham?”

  “Yes, they do.”

  “Do you know why I’m here?”

  “You brought back our computer?”

  “Your computer?”

  “Oh,” said the girl, deflating. “I guess you didn’t. I thought we were finally going to get our computer back. The policemen took it away when Jose died. Papa called about it a couple of weeks ago and they said they needed to keep it for evidence. Diego said they probably sold it and kept the money, but he doesn’t really care cuz Hector has a computer. I don’t get to use it very much cuz they’re always hogging it. Do you know if the police still have it, Mr. Markham?”

  “Call me Sam. And I will check on it. Did Jose use your old computer a lot?”

  “Not that much,” Marla said, scratching behind Paco’s ears. “We spent a lot of time together when he wasn’t working. He was my best friend.”

  “Did you know any of his friends?” Markham held up the picture of Billy Canning. “Does this man look familiar to you?”

  “Who is he?”

  “His name is Billy Canning. Do you recognize him? A friend of Jose’s maybe?”

  “No,” Marla said, studying the picture. “But Jose had a lot of friends. You didn’t come to the funeral, but there were a lot of people there. But I don’t know this man, no.”

  “Did you ever see him with that other man, Alex Guer-rera? Jose ever mention him to you? Someone just named Alex, maybe?”

  “No.”

  “Did he ever chat with anyone on the computer that you know of? Ever tell you about anybody he met online? Someone named William or Billy?”

  “Jose and Diego were always fighting over the computer, but Diego used it more. I don’t think Jose went into chat rooms and stuff. He worked a lot, and Diego was always downloading music. Jose had a MySpace page like a lot of the older kids do, but Papa made Diego take it down after Jose died and the police printed it out.”

  “Yes, I saw that.”

  “Some men came by last week. Men dressed like you. They asked Papa and Diego a bunch of questions, and I overheard Papa telling Mama that some lawyer got killed and they think it might be related to Jose. I didn’t hear anything else, but I’m sure they were talking about the pan-dilleros. Diego says he doesn’t think it was the pandilleros who killed Jose. He said that from the beginning. But Diego is stupid because even Jose said he thought it was—”

  Marla stopped.

  “What, Marla? Did Jose say something to you before he died?”

  The girl looked uncomfortably at her feet—bit her lip and held Paco tighter to her bosom. The cat squirmed, stuck out its paw and looked up at Markham helplessly.

  “What is it, Marla?” he asked. “Do you want to tell me something but y
ou’re afraid? Afraid of the pandilleros?”

  “No,” said Marla. “It’s just that, well, I promised Jose I wouldn’t tell.”

  “Yes, I understand. But Jose is gone now and wouldn’t mind if you—”

  “No, I promised him after he died.”

  Markham looked at her curiously.

  “In my dreams,” she whispered, looking past him toward her apartment door. “I haven’t told anyone except Father Banigas last week at confession, but Jose, after he died … well … sometimes he speaks to me in my dreams.”

  “I see,” said Markham, smiling. “I know what you mean.”

  “You do?”

  “Yes. I once lost someone I loved very much, too. And sometimes she speaks to me in my dreams just like Jose speaks to you.”

  “Who is she?”

  “My wife. She died about eleven years ago. Her name was Michelle—began with an M just like your name.”

  “Were you sad when she died?”

  “Very much so. I still am sometimes.”

  “Me, too. But not as much now that I know Jose is in Heaven. Is your wife in Heaven?”

  “Yes, she is.”

  “Maybe she and Jose can become friends up there. Maybe she and Jose can do stuff together and talk about things now that he’s in Heaven with her. I’m glad that you told me about your wife talking to you cuz I was worried that once Jose got into Heaven he wouldn’t want to talk to me anymore. Or maybe God wouldn’t let him, even.”

  “Marla, does Jose say anything else to you in your dreams?”

  “Please,” Marla said, frightened. “Don’t make me break my promise.”

  “Listen to me,” Markham said, sitting down on the stairs, “I had wanted to speak to your parents first, but what if I told you that Diego is right? What if I told you that Jose wasn’t murdered by the pandilleros, but by someone else?” Mark- ham held up the picture of Billy Canning. “The same someone who murdered the lawyer and now this man.”

  “You mean the man in the picture is dead, too?”