Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_05

by Death on the River Walk

  “Manuel.” Rick’s tone was muted, but stricken.

  Manuel poked the mop into the foamy liquid, released his hold. The mop began to tilt. He reached out, grabbed the handle, carefully balanced the mop. This time it remained in place. He stared at it for a moment, then turned and looked at his nephew. Manuel’s long face was creased with worry. He pointed at the body, waved his hand toward the open doorway, then he turned away, reaching for the mop.

  “Wait, Manuel, wait.” Rick took two long strides. He reached out and gently held his uncle’s arm. “Come over here and sit down on the bench.” He turned the older man toward us.

  Manuel stiffened, leaned back on his heels. I’ve seen recalcitrant children do the same thing, pit their bodies in opposition when they cannot combat an adult’s verbal command. He leaned far back, almost overbalancing, and tried to squirm free. All the while, his hands groped for the mop.

  Iris’s eyes glazed with horror. She backed away, sank down on a bench. She wrapped her arms tight across her front.

  I skirted the body and the tendrils of blood. “Manuel, come sit with me.” I pointed at the companion bench. “Rick needs to make a telephone call. He’ll take care of the man. And you know, it isn’t the right time to clean. We’ll wait and clean in the morning.”

  Manuel’s arm trembled under my touch. He stared at me with bewildered, frightened eyes. Then the tension in his arm fled, and he was limp and docile. I slipped my arm around his back and felt those muscles softening. “Everything’s going to be all right. I know you are upset. Come and sit down. I’ll stay close to you.”

  As I settled him on the bench, I gestured behind my back to Rick, out of Manuel’s sight.

  Rick nodded. He started to go inside Tesoros.

  “La Mariposa,” I said quickly. I kept my voice low and conversational.

  Manuel sat on the bench, his natural pose unaffected and childlike, straight back, feet planted apart, hands loose in his lap. His eyes huge and worried, he stared at the dead man. Suddenly he lifted his hands, pressed them to his head, made a mournful cry in his throat.

  Iris drew her breath in sharply.

  I sat down beside him. “I’m sorry, too. His head hurt. But he is not in pain now, Manuel.”

  Manuel placed his hands together. I looked down and saw the shadow on the flagstones, hands cupped in prayer.

  “Yes,” I said softly.

  There was an instant of peace, then once again his hands flew to his head, he made that little cry, and he struggled to his feet. His chest rose and fell as his breathing quickened. Suddenly his hands moved rapidly and shadows flickered on the flagstones by our feet, swift and evanescent as cloud forms.

  I was tired. My eyes burned from fatigue. It was long past midnight in that deep watch of the night when the body functions on adrenaline and will. I blinked and tried to understand and realized that he was making the same sequence of motions, over and over. I might be dreaming, but I thought I knew what he was telling me, what he had seen—a body, a wound, rivulets of blood, and a round object. This last he cupped in one hand and plunged, lifted, plunged. His fluid hands made the shape of the body again and long straggling shadows that were streaks of blood. The mop was easy to discern, then slow, steady sweeps with the mop.

  “You found the body on the River Walk? And there was blood in the store and you wanted to clean it up?”

  Manuel clapped his hands, then pointed at the mop and bucket and tried to step around me.

  “Not now,” I said firmly. “We have to wait until it is time to work. Now isn’t the time, Manuel. It’s the middle of the night. That’s not when you clean.”

  His face creased in perplexity. He pointed at the body.

  “I know. You want to make everything clean. But we are going to have some help and when it is daytime again, you will be able to clean.” I took his hand. “Manuel, please come and sit by Iris. She would like for you to keep her company.”

  The pupils of her eyes were huge. She sat as still as a bird watching a snake approach.

  I bent down, whispered, “Please, Iris. He won’t hurt you.”

  She swallowed, edged over on the bench, patted the space beside her. “Here, Manuel, you can sit here.” Her voice was as thin as a soprano on an old phonograph record.

  It was as if Manuel hadn’t seen Iris earlier, and perhaps he hadn’t. His world had been encompassed by the body and by his terrible urgency to rid Tesoros of despoilment. Now he stood shyly in front of the bench, his face illumined by a great smile, a smile that began in his eyes and softened and smoothed his face of all distress, leaving only gentle adoration. He reached out, touched her dark head softly.

  Iris sat stiff and still, staring up. Slowly, she began to smile.

  He pointed questioningly at the space beside her.

  “Yes.” Her voice was soft. “Yes, sit here, Manuel.”

  He sat down very precisely. His eyes never left her face. His hands began to move. As Iris watched those flickering shadows, I slipped quietly through the front door of Tesoros, watching where I stepped, avoiding the still glistening darker path where Manuel had mopped.

  Sirens squalled. When the police arrived, this area would be closed to all of us. Us. Funny. Was I aligning myself with the Garza clan? Not exactly, though I was charmed by Maria Elena, and I liked—or wanted to like—her grandson Rick. But I wasn’t kidding myself that the death of the blond man wouldn’t cause trouble for Iris. Whatever she’d found in the wardrobe, it had to be connected to this murder. And I wanted a look inside Tesoros before Rick had a chance to grab Iris’s backpack should it be there. That was why I’d told Rick to make the call to the police from La Mariposa.

  The central light was on. That was the golden pool that spread through the open door. The small recessed spots above the limestone display islands were dark, so the rest of the store was dim and shadowy.

  I followed alongside the path revealed by Manuel’s mop. It was beginning to dry at the farther reach, but there was still enough moisture to tell the story I was sure the police would understand. The body had been moved along this path, leaving a trail of bloodstains. That’s what Manuel had mopped up.

  The sirens were louder, nearer.

  The trail ended in the middle of the store near an island with a charming display of pottery banks—a lion, a bull, a big-cheeked balding man, a donkey, a rounded head with bright red cheeks. Arranged in a semicircle, each was equidistant from its neighbor. One was missing.

  I used my pocket flashlight, snaked the beam high and low. I didn’t find the missing bank. Or Iris’s backpack.

  The sirens choked in mid-wail.

  I hurried, moving back and forth across the store, swinging the beam of my flashlight. No pottery bank, no backpack. Nothing else appeared out of order or disturbed in any way. The only oddity was the rapidly drying area of freshly mopped floor, a three-foot swath leading from the paperweight-display island to the front door.

  I reached the front entrance and stepped outside. In trying to stay clear of the mopped area, I almost stumbled into the pail and mop. I leaned down, wrinkled my nose against the sour smell of ammonia, and pointed the flashlight beam into the faintly discolored water, no longer foamy with suds. The water’s brownish tinge didn’t obscure the round pink snout of a pottery pig bank.

  Swift, heavy footsteps sounded on the steps leading down from La Mariposa. I moved quickly to stand by the bench. Iris looked with wide and frightened eyes at the policemen following Rick and his Uncle Frank into the brightness spilling out from Tesoros. I supposed Rick had wakened his uncle to tell him of the murder.

  Iris reached out, grabbed my hand. Rick stopped a few feet from the body, pointed at it, then at the open door. Frank Garza peered around the shoulder of a short policeman with sandy hair and thick glasses. Rick was pale and strained. He spoke in short, jerky sentences to a burly policeman with ink-black hair, an expressionless face, and one capable hand resting on the butt of his pistol. Frank patted his hair, disarr
anged from sleep, stuffed his misbuttoned shirt into his trousers.

  When Rick stopped, the policeman turned and looked toward the bench. Iris’s fingers tightened on mine, but I knew the policeman wasn’t looking at us. He was looking at Manuel, sitting quietly with his usual excellent posture, back straight, feet apart, hands loose in his lap.

  Manuel slowly realized that everyone was looking at him. He blinked, looked at us eagerly, slowly lifted his hands, and began to clap.

  eight

  THE burly, dark-haired policeman hunched forward, his eyes wide as he stared at Manuel. His right hand curved tightly over the leather-strapped butt of his holstered gun.

  Manuel’s palms hit softly together, but as silence surrounded him, dropped over all of us like a sooty pall of ash, Manuel’s hands moved more and more slowly and finally dropped to his knees, upturned and open, defenseless.

  Frank moved quickly across the pavement. He slid his arm around Manuel. “Officer”—Frank’s voice shook—“my brother is handicapped. He doesn’t understand. Please, he’s perfectly harmless.”

  The policeman looked from Manuel to the body. “Yeah. Sure.” Finally, he looked at Frank. “I’m Officer Flores. Homicide’s on the way. You people can sit on those benches. No talking. Officer Wagner will stay with you.”

  Frank avoided glancing at the body and the pooling blood. “Would it be possible for us to wait in the lobby of our hotel, officer? After all, we have two ladies here. It’s upstairs.” He pointed toward the stone steps leading up to La Mariposa.

  Officer Flores glanced at Iris and me. He stepped away, conferred with his partner, then said woodenly, “Officer Wagner will escort you.”

  Frank led the way, obviously relieved to leave the River Walk and that still body behind.

  Iris kept close to me and I realized she was self-conscious at the scantiness of her shorty pajamas. I gave her a reassuring hug. “I’ll get a jacket—”

  “Please, ma’am.” Wagner’s voice was polite but insistent. “No talking until Detective Borroel comes.”

  In the background, Officer Flores spoke into a hand radio, his voice too low for us to hear.

  Rick came up beside us. Wagner waited for us to precede him. We’d gone a half dozen steps when Wagner said, “Wait, please.” He gestured for Manuel to come. “You, too, sir.”

  Manuel hunched on the bench, stared at the ground.

  Rick turned back. “Officer, he doesn’t understand. Please let me—”

  “Doesn’t he speak English?” Wagner didn’t wait for an answer, said quickly, “Por favor, señor, venga.”

  Frank Garza said hurriedly, “He doesn’t speak at all, officer. I’ll try to persuade him.” Frank stepped close to the bench. He spoke gently. “Manuel, it’s time to go inside. We’re going upstairs to La Mariposa. We have to wait there for a while.”

  Manuel drew his legs up on the bench, pressed his face against his knees.

  “It’s all right, Joey. Gus is almost here.” Officer Flores held up the radio. “Take the rest of them up there. I’ll keep an eye on this guy.” Once again his hand rested on the butt of his gun.

  “Officer Flores.” It’s no effort to sound imperious at my age. “Manuel is handicapped. He is a son of Maria Elena Garza, who owns this store.” I pointed at Tesoros. “I’m sure she can communicate with him. We should inform his mother, have her join us. And I think it would be better if he remained with us. He might become confused if we leave him behind.” I didn’t look at Officer Flores’s hand resting on his gun. “Moreover, the detective who is coming will be better able to learn what Manuel knows if his mother is here.”

  Frank Garza shot me a look of gratitude. “That’s a good idea, Officer. I can go upstairs—”

  “Sorry, sir.” Flores was brisk. “I can’t permit you to speak with anyone until Detective Borroel has interviewed you. As for your brother, he’ll have to go along with you right now or stay here. No one can communicate with anyone until Detective Borroel has seen all of you.”

  “Officer, let me try.” I definitely didn’t want to leave Manuel there by himself.

  Flores looked from me to Frank, shrugged. “All right.”

  I walked slowly to the bench and put my hand on Manuel’s shoulder. It was as taut as a piano wire. “Manuel, you remember how we talked about the shiny windows? You keep them so clean. They’re beautiful. But the tiles in the fireplace of La Mariposa are smudged. Will you come with me? We can find a cloth and you can polish the tiles, make them beautiful, too.”

  Slowly Manuel’s head lifted. He looked at me with huge questioning eyes. Then his body uncurled. He swung his feet to the ground and stood. He looked at the windows, then at the pail and mop. He began to walk toward the pail, his hand outstretched.

  Officer Wagner took a quick step, but I caught Manuel’s hand, held it loosely in mine. “We don’t need water. Frank will find us a nice clean cloth, and you can make the tiles shine like the windows.”

  Manuel balled one hand and made a steady, circular motion. The shadow on the ground reminded me eerily of a buffer.

  “That’s right.” I slipped my arm through his. “You can polish and polish. Let’s go upstairs together.”

  The others followed us. Manuel’s arm relaxed, his skin was smooth and warm against mine. As we started up the wide stairs to La Mariposa, I felt I’d won Manuel a reprieve, but I knew that there would soon be ugly questions. And Manuel could not answer.

  Surely the detective in charge of the investigation would permit us to rouse Maria Elena. I would insist. I knew Frank would help me.

  Once inside the lobby, Frank found a soft puffy cloth in a drawer behind the desk. He gave it to Manuel and pointed toward the fireplace.

  Obediently, Manuel moved across the tiled floor, his sneakered feet making no sound. He started at the top left of the fireplace and carefully began to smooth the tiles with his cloth.

  I sank wearily into a wicker chair, bunched a cushion behind my tired back. Iris and Rick sat close together on a sofa, his arm protectively around her shoulders. Frank hurried to the french windows that overlooked the river. He opened one, stepped out onto the balcony with its view of the River Walk and Tesoros.

  Officer Wagner took a step or two after Frank, then gave a small shrug. It didn’t matter if Frank watched the homicide unit at work.

  I closed my eyes. I didn’t need to stand beside Frank to know what was happening: photographs—video-cams these days—measurements, sketches, arrival of the medical examiner, removal of the body, taking the mop and pail into evidence, fingerprinting. I know the basics of crime scene procedures. The major changes since I was a young reporter are in technology. I covered the crime beat once for a small Kansas daily. I tried to learn how to think like a detective. Now I emptied my mind of foreknowledge and looked at the facts as they would appear to the police:

  The murder apparently occurred inside Tesoros.

  The weapon is probably the pottery bank in the pail of water.

  The cause of death—I recalled the battered back of the dead man’s head—was blunt force.

  The location of the injuries indicated the victim was caught unaware or was attempting to escape an assailant. There could be no claim of self-defense.

  After death, the body was dragged from the middle of the store, through the front door of Tesoros, to the point where it was discovered.

  The site of the crime and the path along which the body was dragged had been mopped clean with a solution of ammonia and water.

  A pail containing water and ammonia and a mop were found outside the door of Tesoros. A pottery bank, similar to those displayed inside the store, was found in the pail.

  Witnesses who discovered the body (Rick Reyes, Iris Chavez, Henrietta Collins) observed Manuel Garza with the mop and pail, saw him mopping.

  That was all apparent at first glance. In their investigation the police would learn:

  Manuel Garza lived above the store.

  Manuel was incapable
of speech, communicating through shadows on a wall or floor created by hand gestures in front of a light source.

  The police would have these questions:

  Who was the victim?

  Why was he inside Tesoros?

  Did Manuel know the dead man?

  Did Manuel move the body?

  Why did Manuel mop away traces of that removal?

  Following hard on these questions would come this conclusion: Manuel committed the murder and was trying to get rid of the body and erase all traces of the crime.

  It all made perfect sense—if you’d never had any contact with Manuel. Certainly I could not pretend I knew him, but his gentleness appeared to be so genuine and so pervasive that it seemed absurd to suspect him of violence.

  But as the police well know, many murders occur with no prior history of violence. Moreover, the police deal with facts, and the facts were damming. The police could suggest various scenarios: Manuel surprised an intruder in the store, struggled with him and chased him, perhaps in self-defense in his own mind, battering the man from behind long past any necessity for submission but perhaps not possessing the judgment to recognize when the threat was over. That was the most innocent explanation. There could be other, uglier suggestions. If the police linked Manuel and the victim, they could posit a personal grudge, a late-night meeting, a quarrel, murder.

  I opened my eyes.

  Officer Wagner stood in an easy stance with his hands behind his back, feet apart, but his blue eyes moved constantly, keeping his charges in view.