“I thought the same thing,” Tony interrupts, “like maybe he was already dead.”
“Heart stops and there’s nothing but gravity to move the blood around,” Jimmy says with a confirming nod.
“The dead don’t bleed,” Tony says matter-of-factly. “But that’s not what I’m looking for.”
Jimmy picks up the photo and stares at it, letting the image pull him back to the stainless steel table at the medical examiner’s office. “The cut is clean,” he says after a moment. “Dr. Jimenez suspects some type of industrial equipment.”
“Bingo,” Tony says.
I look at him. “How do you mean?”
“That’s not cartel style—not unless they changed their MO just for this guy. Their enforcers have a morbid fascination with the machete; if this was their work you’d see multiple strikes, cuts in the shoes where they missed, and just a bloody, ragged mess.”
Jimmy ponders this. “That’s a pretty good argument.”
“That’s not all,” Tony continues. “The biggest miss in this equation is the judge himself; he’s not exactly the type the cartel would target. Judge Ehrlich came over from the dark side.”
Jimmy raises an eyebrow. “He was a defense attorney?”
“For more than twenty years.”
There’s an interesting dynamic between law enforcement and defense attorneys; you might call it a 3-D relationship: distrust, disgust, and disapproval. In fairness, some of it is earned—on both sides. There are plenty of respectable defense attorneys, but there are some who border on the atrocious; the type who’ll do just about anything—ethical or not—to find that little loophole that will get their client off.
It’s easy to hate defense attorneys.
One need only breathe.
Whenever I feel the 3-Ds start to creep up on me, I remind myself that Founding Father and former U.S. President John Adams defended the British soldiers who opened fire on a mob in the streets of Boston in 1770, a little episode that the British referred to as the Incident on King Street and the colonists called the Boston Massacre. Five in the crowd were killed, six were wounded.
Of the eight soldiers charged with murder, six were ultimately acquitted and two were convicted of the lesser charge of manslaughter, thanks to Adams’s deft handling of the case. Despite the trouble it caused him, Adams considered it one of the best public services he ever performed. He defended the soldiers not because it was the popular thing to do—it wasn’t—but because he knew that for a fair judicial system to function, the accused must have proper representation.
Short of that, we’re back to kangaroo courts and lynch mobs.
“Ehrlich started out in the public defender’s office and moved into private practice after six years,” Tony says. “He spent another fourteen or fifteen years doing that before picking up his judge’s robes, made a lot of enemies along the way too.”
“Thieves and druggies?” I ask.
Tony shakes his head. “Cops.”
The detective leans on the table with both hands and glances at the donut box. “Ehrlich never really made the transition from defense attorney to judge,” he continues. “The guilty always fare better in his court, and defense attorneys love appearing before him. The odds of getting a dismissal or acquittal go way up. I’m sure it’s not intentional, he’s just been doing it for so long that it’s hardwired into him. He also has a way of getting under your skin, particularly if you’re a cop—that part’s hardwired as well.”
“Yeah, we’ve seen him in action,” Jimmy says.
Tony chuckles at the reminder, but then grows serious again. “Of the three cartel cases I pulled,” he says, “one was dismissed, one got an acquittal because of Ehrlich’s maneuvering, and the third ended up with a ridiculously light sentence. Not exactly the stuff that sends cartel hit men looking for you.”
Tony pulls the donut box over and glances inside briefly before pulling out a French cruller and taking a big bite. Jimmy eyes the box and I swear his left hand twitches, but he controls himself.
“So we need to find the rare case where he actually brought the hammer down hard on someone,” I suggest.
Jimmy doesn’t seem convinced. “There’s something we’re missing.” Turning to Tony, he asks, “Is there anything else that would make him a target, any skeletons in the closet?”
“Nothing,” Tony says with a shrug. “The fact that he’s arrogant has been out of the closet for a long time.”
Jimmy persists. “How about money problems, or a gambling addiction—something that would put him in bed with the wrong kind of people?”
“His wife is loaded,” Tony says through a mouthful of donut. “She’s old Texas oil money, the type with lots of political connections. She probably imagines her husband as governor someday.”
Jimmy ponders this; he ponders the donuts; he ponders how a guy like Ehrlich could get a presidential nomination to a circuit court. “Do you have this in a Word file?” he asks, nodding toward the list of names.
“Yeah, you want me to send it to you?”
“No.” Jimmy scratches out an email address on the corner of a page from his notebook and then tears it free. He hands the ragged piece of paper to Tony. “Send it to Diane Parker, our analyst. We’ll see if she can come up with something.”
Tony’s already typing before Jimmy finishes speaking, and a second later the file is attached to the email and on its way. “Done,” he says brightly. “What’s next?”
I chuckle at his enthusiasm.
“What?” he says, with a wormy grin. “I love this stuff. This is why I became a detective in the first place, to figure things out, to come up with different angles and ideas. I tell you, I was meant to do this.”
Jimmy’s got a big grin on his face as he watches the raw emotion flow from Tony. You have to admire the guy’s energy and dedication. Some cops burn out after being on the job for too long. Some stop pursuing the leads as aggressively as they did in earlier days, and even stop caring about closing cases. A small few start to coast through each day doing as little as possible—it’s referred to as being retired on duty.
But that’s not Tony.
“Okay, then,” Jimmy says. “What’s our next move?”
“How about an RFI?” I suggest, referring to the always useful request for information, a tool that agencies use when trying to identify similar crimes or suspects in surrounding jurisdictions. “Maybe someone will remember recovering a body without feet,” I add.
“Yeah, that’d be a little hard to forget,” Tony snorts. “How far and wide do you want it to go?”
“Jimmy?” I say, tossing the decision his way.
His head swivels in my direction and he’s looking at me … but he’s not. Jimmy has a way of looking at you and looking through you at the same time. It’s kind of unnerving. “Let’s say … five hundred—no, make it a thousand miles,” he finally says. “That’s probably overkill, but better we get too many hits than not enough.”
“Do you want to include a photo of the feet?” I ask.
He shrugs. “It’s a little gruesome, but we might as well. Curiosity will suck more people in, maybe get them to read the whole thing rather than just skimming through.” He looks up at Tony, who’s just finishing off his donut. “Any objection from El Paso?”
The detective shakes his head, chews a few more times, swallows, and says, “None. Like you said, it’ll get their attention.”
“You want to write it?”
“Sure, I got this.”
Jimmy’s looking at me as he irons out the RFI details with Tony, but my attention is on the floor. It’s not that I’m oblivious to his penetrating gaze, I just choose to ignore it. Taking off my glasses, I let my eyes absorb the layers of neon shine that spring to life, painting not just the floor, but the whole room in a rainbow of color. That’s when it comes to me: our next move.
It’s brilliant—if I do say so myself.
“Steps?” Jimmy says in a soft but perple
xed tone. Slipping my glasses back on, I give him a big smile. He’s going to love this, only problem is I can’t exactly spell out the details with Tony hovering over us.
“Where’s your bathroom?” I ask loudly.
“Down the hall, take a left, and it’ll be right in front of you,” the detective says, thumbing absently toward the door. He’s already starting the rough draft for the RFI.
“Jimmy, you need to go?” I nod my head and tip it in the general direction of the bathroom, but Jimmy doesn’t get it. “No, go ahead,” he says.
I sit in my chair a moment, but he doesn’t look at me. He’s reading through the crime report and studying the photos. “You sure you don’t need to go?” I persist, again tipping my head, but with more energy this time.
“What are you, five years old? No, I don’t need to go.”
I kick him under the table.
Did I mean to kick him that hard? No.
Did I mean to nail him right in the shin? No.
These things happen.
To Jimmy’s credit he doesn’t cry out—or scream—he just bites down hard on his lower lip and his face goes three different shades of pale. Thinking it wise to put a little distance between us, I hover near the door to the conference room and wait. When he finally looks at me I don’t make eye contact, I just tip my head toward the bathroom down the hall and start making my way in that direction.
I finish checking for feet under the stall doors just as Jimmy limps in. “Dude, sorry,” I say with a half laugh. “I didn’t mean to kick you that hard, honest.” I have a genuine look of contrition on my face and a sheepish smile.
There’s no smile on Jimmy’s face.
“It feels like you friggin’ broke my tibia,” he snaps.
Friggin’? He’s even madder than I thought.
“Sorry,” I repeat. “I couldn’t tell you in front of Tony and you weren’t picking up on my nonverbal cues.”
“Your nonverbal cues?”
“Yeah, the head-tilt thing; the Jimmy-come-hither thing. You weren’t paying attention, so I gave you a little tap under the table.”
“A little tap; is that what you call it?”
“Sorry … I already said that, didn’t I? You should really get that looked at, though. Your bones seem a little oversensitive; there might be a problem. Same thing happens to teeth when they lose enamel; they get really sensitive. Better safe than sorry, I always say.…” I realize I’m rambling and decide to just shut up and wait.
Jimmy stares at me a long moment—glares at me, in fact—and then beats out the words like a slow drum: “What … is … so … important?”
Despite his difficult and unpleasant attitude—which, I admit, I may have contributed to—I lay out my genius plan with brief clarity. He understands instantly and I see some of the smolder go out of his eyes.
“That’s not bad,” he admits grudgingly. He doesn’t quite smile, so I give him a big grin … which apparently is a mistake, because his face melts back into a scowl and he turns around and limps out the door.
I stay behind; seems I have to use the bathroom after all.
CHAPTER FIVE
El Paso County Jail—September 3, 1:14 P.M.
The El Paso County Downtown Detention Facility is located on East Overland Avenue less than a mile from the U.S.–Mexico border. It’s a tall, bland building with nine of its eleven floors dedicated to housing as many as a thousand inmates at any given time; three floors are for women, six for men.
Along with the more impressive thirteen-story El Paso County Courthouse across the street, it’s one of a dozen or so high-rises that dominate the downtown cityscape. Like rare teeth in an otherwise toothless mouth, they jut from the earth and stand sentinel over the city.
I’m always nervous when we have to visit a jail or prison.
It’s not the inmates or even the possibility of a riot that concerns me, it’s that they’re so confining. But I guess that’s the point. It might be different if I were a county or city detective and had to visit often; I suppose I’d get used to it. But as things stand, I’ve been to just nine jails and three prisons in my five years with the Special Tracking Unit.
I remember each one vividly.
This visit will be different.
I’m here to hunt shine. Ice-blue shine polluted with tiny specks of black, the calling card of the Ice Box Killer. If he was tried by Judge Ehrlich, he would have had to pass through this facility. It’s unavoidable. If we can determine what cell he was in, we can probably figure out who he is and make a quick slam-dunk of this case.
Heather got home from her latest assignment this morning, and here I am in Texas. It’s been a week since I last saw her; seven days too long. I should be intensely focused on the case, but all I can think about is getting on Betsy and flying home. The sooner we find IBK, the better.
As we enter the lobby, Tony turns and says, “I’ll check in at the window. It may take a few minutes to get an escort, so grab a chair.” Without waiting for an answer, he saunters over to the large reinforced window and explains the situation to the corrections deputy on the other side.
I did try talking him into staying at the station to finish the request for information. The last thing I need is an overeager, over-observant detective latched on to me while I’m following shine. Tony’s the type that might actually put two and two together.
Lucky for Tony—unlucky for me—Jimmy didn’t have the heart to leave him behind. They seem to have a lot in common, and from the way they get on you’d think they were long-parted friends reunited at last. Meanwhile, I spent the ride to the detention center trying to figure out the second part of my plan, provided the first part works out the way it’s supposed to.
“Do you have a pen?” I say to Jimmy as we claim seats across from each other in the stark lobby. Fishing a blue rollerball pen from his shirt pocket, he hands it to me point-first. He seems taken aback when I place it neatly in my shirt pocket, pick up a month-old edition of Newsweek, and start thumbing through the pages.
“Steps, can I have my pen back?”
“Yes,” I reply, briefly scanning an article that discusses how the government owns the DNA it collects.
“Now,” Jimmy presses.
“I’ll give it back,” I say, looking up and giving him an assuring nod. “I’m going to need it for the next hour or so, if that’s all right?”
Clearly it isn’t.
“Don’t lose it,” he says shortly. “I’ve had that pen for a month; it’s probably the best I’ve ever owned.”
“Safe as the gold in Fort Knox,” I say, patting my breast pocket.
I’m only halfway through the DNA article when Tony comes strolling over. He’s got a six-foot-three, two-hundred-and-fifty-pound trailer named Corey following behind him. “This is Corrections Deputy Corey Fischlin,” he says, stepping to the side so we can do the obligatory round of handshakes.
“Just call me Corey,” the big guy says. “Tony gave me the names you’re interested in and I printed out a record of their housing assignments.” He holds up several printed documents as evidence.
So far, so good.
Corey leads us to a dingy gray row of cube-shaped lockers, where Jimmy and Tony secure their firearms. After double-checking each box to make sure the lock is secure, the corrections deputy leads us to an elevator and activates it with a brass key.
Our first stop is the third floor.
Stepping from the elevator, we enter a secure control area where the corrections deputies can monitor the inmates from a wall of windows, and from an array of monitors providing live feed from the many cameras mounted throughout the jail. Corey waves us forward and leads us through two secure doors that act as a kind of inmate air lock: only after the first door is completely closed and secure can you open the second door, which leads into the common room.
This particular area serves about thirty inmates and is separate from other common rooms on the floor. The stark, utilitarian design stand
s out prominently, defining the space. Each of the five tables in the center of the room is made from powder-coated steel with eight seat bottoms welded into the table structure so that the entire ensemble is essentially a one-piece unit.
There’s nothing to unbolt or take apart, there’s no seat to rip off and throw, there’s not even a cushion to beat your fellow inmates with. The entire thing is bolted to the floor with impossible finality.
As soon as we step into the common room, my eyes begin scanning the floor for ice-blue shine, but there’s no hint of it. We follow Corey to the first cell on our list and I go through the motions of examining the confined space, paying particular attention to the plentiful graffiti on the wall.
There’s nothing, of course, but illusions must be maintained.
We told Tony that we wanted to check the cells for any references to Judge Ehrlich; a real long shot, we told him. It’s a believable deception. Inmates tend to write and scratch things into their cell walls all the time, whether it’s their gang affiliation, vulgar pictures, derogatory comments about a cellmate, or acrimony for some prosecutor, officer, or judge—though this last category is not as common.
After checking three more cells, we move to the fourth floor and repeat. Then we’re on the fifth floor, and the sixth. It’s not until we reach the seventh floor that I spot something: it’s not really what I was looking for, but it’ll do.
While our killer’s ice-blue shine has been conspicuously absent from the jail, the first cellblock on this floor offers up something almost as important. I notice it as soon as the door opens. It’s on the bare concrete at my feet, on every seat at all five tables, and on the cell doors: mocha-brown shine speckled with wisps of lime-green.
The pair of feet now thawing in Dr. Jimenez’s cooler once walked this cellblock, and based on the shine it was sometime in the last six months.
He was here for a good stretch.
It doesn’t take much to figure out which cell he was in either. Once I filter out the other shine, there’s a wide, well-laid path right to block 7C2, cell 011, bunk 4. I grab Jimmy by the elbow and slow his pace so that Corey and Tony are a few paces in front of us. “Cell zero-one-one,” I whisper, tipping my head to the open steel doorway. “Give me some cover.”
Whispers of the Dead Page 6