by Spencer Kope
“What if there’s no plane available?”
Jimmy shrugs. “I guess we’ll have a four-hour drive ahead of us. Fort Stockton’s airport is too small for Betsy. The good news,” he continues, “is that the body is likely Travis Duncan.”
“How do you figure?”
“His are the only feet we haven’t matched up.”
“What if it’s a new victim?”
Jimmy’s skeptical. “In both cases, IBK left the feet first; why break pattern?”
“Because this one’s smarter than others we’ve hunted.”
Jimmy persists in his belief that the body will be that of Travis Duncan, and I play devil’s advocate and we discuss the ramifications of the new body dump. We’re not the only ones on the plane in disagreement. Marty’s voice pours from the cockpit as he extolls the virtues of the River Belmont to Les, who isn’t having any of it.
“I wish I could get so excited about a hotel,” I mutter.
“It’s Marty,” Jimmy says with a grin. “Remember when we gave him that box of old maps and travel guides for Christmas last year? It was supposed to be a joke, but he was ecstatic and spent a week studying them. Said he was looking for any aquariums he hadn’t heard of.”
“Yeah, for his aquarium quest,” I say.
Jimmy and I shake our heads and say, “The aquarium quest,” in unison.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The gloom suits him.
It’s the middle ground between light and dark; the haze between worlds, where shadows are plentiful and deep. He embraces this middle ground, perhaps because he knows that darkness exists where there is no light, just as evil exists where there is no good. Light a candle, darkness withdraws. It’s the same with good and evil.
“I’m a shadow,” he whispers to the gloom, knowing that he is no longer what he was, and not yet what he’ll become.
The words bring an ironic smile to his lips, but he has no time to dwell on it. Setting the wooden high-backed chair on the concrete floor, he lowers himself onto the seat and leans into the back. The wood is cool against his skin, seeping through his thin T-shirt. It’s a pleasing sensation.
He doesn’t feel much these days. Pleasure, pain, empathy, pity—they’re all just words, so the fact that the coolness of an old chair could give him pause is surprising, even to him.
Lifting his eyes, he stares straight ahead, making sure the angle is correct, the view complete. It isn’t, so he rises and moves the chair two feet to the right, and then turns it ten degrees to the left. Reclaiming the seat, he once again raises his eyes and stares directly in front of him.
It’s better.
“You’ll sit here,” he says to the empty room.
He’s never had an audience before, so the placement of the chair is of the utmost importance. He could move it a few more feet to the right, where its occupant would be privy to every mechanical movement, horrified facial expression, and convulsion, but the chair would then be too far from the focal point, and that’s just not acceptable.
Presentation is everything.
Turning his eyes from the mechanism to the bench, he scans the length of it, noting that every strap is visible: feet, hands, and head. Moreover, the entire device is meticulously clean, all trace of past performances washed away. The leather appears new, the metal buckles shine, the steel frame is pristine—though much is hidden by the gloom.
The only indication that the machine has ever been used lies at the end closest to the chair. There, upon the ground, is a three-foot pool of congealed blood, intentionally left as an offering, a tribute, or a harbinger. The smell of it circulates the room, but the sight of it captures the eyes as one draws near, and that’s exactly what the shadow wants: a focal point.
He looks at his watch and counts the days forward. Satisfied that all is in place, he leans back in the chair and takes in his creation, admiring its fearsome beauty and terrible power.
He smiles … but there’s no joy in him.
He smiles because death is coming.
“I’m ready,” he whispers.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
West of Fort Stockton, Texas—September 10, 12:32 P.M.
The roads of America are haunted.
Wilted flowers and small white crosses mark the places of the dead, tributes to those tragically taken too soon and for no reason. Most died without malice, the unintended victims of motor vehicle accidents that took them suddenly and without warning. At worst, they were victims of the drunk or the stoned, drivers too absorbed in themselves to worry about the lives of others until it was too late.
Stupidity isn’t malice.
When it comes to roads, we tend to forget that the automobile was not the first reaper, just the most efficient. Death and roads have walked hand in hand long before even the Appian Way or the Silk Road came to be. As long as humans have put one foot in front of the other, death has walked beside them. Starvation, dehydration, banditry, warring tribes, riding mishaps, and chariot accidents all added to the deadly tally long before the inventions of gas and internal combustion fueled the reaping to higher levels.
The first fatal motor vehicle accident in America was on September 13, 1899. Since then, more than three and a half million others have followed.
America’s roads, freeways, underpasses, and turnouts are also favorite dumping spots for killers, and not just the more experienced, the serial killers. Novices and onetime amateurs are welcome in this club. Some of the victims are killed at the scene, but most are murdered elsewhere and dumped a distance from the original crime, complicating the investigation.
If ghosts exist, or ever have, surely they haunt the roads of America.
* * *
At almost five thousand square miles, Pecos County, Texas, is roughly four times the size of the entire state of Rhode Island, and more than twice as big as Delaware. Scattered throughout this thinly populated territory are less than sixteen thousand county residents. That’s about one person for every two hundred acres.
Half the county residents live in Fort Stockton itself.
With such a small population, and therefore a small tax base, the county can neither afford nor justify a full-time medical examiner. In those rare instances when a homicide occurs, the Lubbock County medical examiner takes jurisdiction of the body and conducts the autopsy on behalf of Pecos County.
That’s Dr. Juan Mendoza-Cruz.
He’s slim and short, but greets us with a handshake twice his size as we step from the unmarked Pecos County SUV.
With a wave of his hand, Juan leads us off the road and north into the low brush and grass bordering the east-west throughway. “Normally, I don’t get out in the field a lot,” Juan says over his shoulder. “Too much work stacked up at the office. Besides, I like to think we have some of the best certified medicolegal death investigators in Texas, and I trust their work. They’re like my eyes and ears out here. Still, I had to see this one for myself.”
As we draw near a loose cluster of deputies, Texas Rangers, and forensic techs, I get my first view of the Ice Box Killer’s telltale shine. I give Jimmy a subtle nod, which he returns.
“You gotta be kidding me,” Tony breathes through clenched teeth as his eyes fall upon the discarded corpse. He instinctively steps back a pace. “Que Dios lo perdone,” he says, crossing himself.
It’s worse than Larry Wilson … and it’s not Travis Duncan.
When Jimmy glances my way, I hold up three fingers and he understands: we now have three victims. IBK just became a serial killer, and the case just became more complicated.
Jimmy pauses a moment, letting Tony collect himself, and then, without a spoken word between them, they move in for a closer look. It takes a lot to shock a seasoned homicide investigator.
“What the hell…?” Tony says, shaking his head.
“That’s one way of putting it,” Dr. Mendoza-Cruz replies.
The body lies on its side, slightly contorted, as if someone had tossed it there like so much
garbage. It’s naked except for a pair of boxer shorts and the cut and frayed upper portion of a single sock that clings to the stump of the right leg like a sweatband.
The rest of the sock is with the foot—wherever that is.
“Large patches of skin have been cut from the arms, legs, chest, neck, and back,” Dr. Mendoza-Cruz says, “leaving these troughs in the flesh that are anywhere from an eighth-inch to a quarter-inch deep.” He waves away the flies gathered around one such wound, revealing a raw piece of flesh filled with a congealed brown slurry. “Gives new meaning to the words tattoo removal, doesn’t it?” the doctor adds.
Crouching next to Tony, he points out the hands. “The fingertips are also missing, plus the face was peeled like an orange and every tooth was yanked from the guy’s head, so we can’t use AFIS, and dental records are a no-go.”
“We saw the same thing with our victim in Baton Rouge,” Jimmy says, “though it wasn’t this extreme. This is … well … brutal. Thank God he was already dead.”
“I’m not too sure about that,” Juan says. “I’ll know more once I get back to the lab, but I think the tattoos were removed first, and then the feet, and I think he may have been alive for both of them. There’s something else.…” He rises and walks to a bin resting several feet away on the other side of the body. Retrieving a plastic evidence bag from inside, he hands it to Tony. “Does that mean anything to you?”
Detective Alvarado peers through the clear plastic, and turns the bag over to check the back. “Where’d you get this?” he asks as he hands it to Jimmy.
“It was pinned to his chest.”
“Was he wearing a shirt when you found him?”
“No, it was pinned to the skin,” Juan replies. “Does it mean anything?”
Jimmy sighs and says, “Yeah, it means we’re running out of time.”
“For what?”
“That’s the problem: we don’t know.” Jimmy hands the evidence bag to me and I see the single sheet of paper inside. It has IBK’s shine all over and reads in large letters: JUSTICE MUST BE SERVED, followed by the words TIC TOC scrawled across the bottom.
“He left a note in Baton Rouge too,” Jimmy continues. “All it said was soon, whatever that means. He’s clearly building up to something more significant … or counting down.”
“If it’s more significant than this, I’m not sure I want to see it,” Tony says. Crouching once more beside the body, he closes his eyes and shakes his head. His lips move silently, but I can’t tell if he’s cursing or saying a prayer. When he opens his eyes again, he just stares at the remains … and then his posture suddenly shifts. He cocks his head to the side and leans in close, squinting at the corpse, but not in horror. He’s curious.
Jimmy notices it too. “What’s wrong, Tony?”
The detective looks up at us with a crooked grin on his face. “I think your Ice Box Killer screwed up.”
Jimmy lowers himself to a crouch and moves closer, until he’s little more than a foot from the debased corpse. My curiosity is less compelling, and I have no intention of following his lead. I’ve seen plenty of bodies over the last five years, both fresh and foul, and in different states of decomposition—but this one freaks me out.
I don’t know why.
It looks like a discarded prop from some B-rated horror movie, but more than that, it strikes me as the physical manifestation of humanity’s ability to inflict pain and suffering on others, a relic within our DNA dating to our deepest ancestors.
Throughout the history of civilized society, there has always been a line you do not cross. This body lies on the other side of that line.
“What do you see?” Jimmy asks.
Tony offers only a clue. “Take a look at the back of his head.”
When Jimmy finds nothing, Tony scooches in and draws something in the air next to the scalp. Procedure dictates that the body belongs to the medical examiner; we can’t touch the corpse in any way, even if it’s just to push some hairs aside to get a better look.
I’m okay with that.
“See it now?” Tony says.
Jimmy’s neck is stretched all the way out, his eyes are squinting hard, and he’s biting his lower lip. Then, in an instant, every muscle in his face and neck slackens and his features soften. “Really?”
Tony just grins.
Turning to Dr. Mendoza-Cruz, Jimmy says, “What are the chances you can give this guy a haircut, at least on the back of his head?”
Juan shrugs. “How much do you need taken off?”
“Down to stubble … if you don’t mind?”
“There should be some clippers in the van,” the doctor replies. “Give me a couple minutes; I’ll see what I can find.”
As he picks his way to the road, my eyes walk over the back of the victim’s head inch by inch, but still I have no idea what Tony and Jimmy are looking at.
A minute later, Juan trudges back toward us. Seeing all eyes turn his way, the good-natured pathologist hoists a pair of standard hair clippers triumphantly in the air and gives us a grin.
I like him.
He’s like Doogie Howser—only older and Hispanic.
Careful not to contaminate the scene, Dr. Mendoza-Cruz kneels next to the body and slowly begins trimming the hair from the back of the victim’s skull, catching the clippings as they fall and depositing them in a paper evidence bag. As he works, bold lines start to reveal themselves, a half inch thick in most places. Soon a five-inch-tall X tattoo is exposed, with a matching 3 right next to it.
“X3,” I say. “He’s a banger.”
“Yeah, Sureño,” Jimmy confirms.
Juan has a puzzled look on his face. “How can you tell from one tattoo?”
“Thirteen,” Tony says, pointing at the tattoo. When the doctor stares at him blankly, it’s almost too much for the detective. “Seriously? Your name is Juan, you live in Texas, and you’re not familiar with Hispanic gangs?”
“Sue me,” the doctor shoots back. His face is slightly contorted and his words are itchy with indignation. “We don’t get a lot of gang activity around these parts. Besides, my grandparents emigrated from Mexico fifty years ago—what would I know of Hispanic gang culture? I grew up in Virginia and didn’t learn Spanish until college. My taste in music leans toward Toby Keith, Tim McGraw, and Lady Antebellum.” He shrugs. “I watch Duck Dynasty.”
Holding up a shielding hand as if to ward off a blow, Tony chuckles and says, “Fair enough, ese.” Standing, he brushes his clothes straight. “Guess we grew up in different varrios, homey. Here, let me walk you through this.” He waves his open palm over the tattoo. “A Sureño—which means Southerner—uses the number thirteen as an identifier, a way of recognizing fellow Sureños. Mostly you see it as tattoos or graffiti.”
“Why thirteen?”
“Simple,” Tony says. “Gangs are big on swapping letters for numbers. The Sureños are affiliated with the Mexican Mafia—or El Eme, which means M—and so they use the number thirteen as a kind of tribute to the Mexican Mafia, a sign of respect, because M is the thirteenth letter of the alphabet.”
“It’s the same with their rivals,” Jimmy adds. “The Norteños, or Northerners, are associated with Nuestra Familia, so they use the number fourteen—”
“Because N is the fourteenth letter of the alphabet,” the doctor interjects.
“Exactly right: it’s a tip of the hat to Nuestra Familia. Just remember that if you see a tattoo that has a number or a Roman numeral, odds are that it’s gang-related. Not in all cases, but in most. Same goes for graffiti.”
“Not just Hispanic gangs either,” Tony says. “They’re the worst offenders, but when it comes to substituting letters for numbers, most gangs do it: Bloods, Crips, Gangster Disciples, Vice Lords, P Stones—even white supremacists like the Aryan Brotherhood.”
“So when I write this up I can say this guy was likely a member of the Sureño gang?” Dr. Mendoza-Cruz says, searching for clarification.
“Not exactly,
” Tony says. “What you’ve got to understand is that there’s not one Sureño gang, it’s more of a collective term for all the gangs affiliated with the Mexican Mafia. In fact, in Los Angeles County there are over five hundred Sureño gangs, or clickas. These include the big ones like 18th Street, Florencia 13, and MS-13, plus a whole bunch of smaller ones.”
“So how do we know which specific gang this guy belongs to?”
Tony shrugs. “That might be a little difficult, since his tattoos are missing in action. In any case, he’s probably not an active member—not for a long time.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He wouldn’t have grown out his hair and covered up that tat. You only do that if you’ve left that life behind—or you’re trying to hide your gang affiliation, which is a possibility, I suppose.” He stares at the body a moment, and then his forehead creases and he eyes the doctor. “I don’t suppose you can shave the rest of that hair off?”
“Why not?” Juan says. He kneels next to the body and works the trimmers in slow, controlled movements, careful not to contaminate the crime scene. As soon as he starts on the left side of the head, the black shadow of hidden letters begins to emerge. He trims closer and the word takes shape.
“Smiley,” Juan reads aloud. “What’s that, his nickname?”
“Close,” Tony replies. “It’s his gang moniker.”
“We might be able to do something with that,” Jimmy says, his phone already in his hand. “I’ll have Diane get started on it.”
“Tell her to start with those that have a link to Albuquerque,” I say as he dials. Nodding, he steps away to a quiet spot beyond the murmur of voices that surrounds the crime scene.
He’s gone barely three minutes, and when he returns he has company. A lanky fellow in a black cowboy hat, weathered jeans, and a tan western shirt walks beside him. His leathery skin speaks to the years he’s spent in the Texas sun, and his thick Sam Elliott mustache goes perfectly with the badge on the left side of his belt and the gun on the right, which is a six-shooter. Considering that most law enforcement agencies switched over to semiautomatics years ago, the gun is an anomaly. The holster is even tied down.