“The only reason I was out there,” Gary explained, his lawyer following closely, “was that Roberto said he wanted to see me about raising wages. But I get out there to the trailer, he starts right off telling me the police are interviewing migrant workers, asking questions. Telling me I should get the police off his back.”
“Did he tell you he was getting kickbacks from the migrants?” Lou suprised Barrett with that question.
“You don’t have to answer that, Gary,” Thurman Shaw imposed quietly.
“It’s all right,” Gary replied. And then to Lou, “Yes, he did tell me. Said he got a piece of the action from everybody on my crew. Got bribes from crews all over the county!”
“So you didn’t know anything about it.”
“No, nothing.” Gary was adamant. “I never told him to do anything but get workers and keep ’em happy. I didn’t care how he did it.”
“Maybe you should have,” Barrett offered coolly, to which point the younger Loyd remained mute.
“Go on, Gary.” The sheriff smiled.
“Well, like I say, I was in the middle of finding out about this side-business of bribes and twisting arms and God knows what-all. Quiroga’s tellin’ me I’ve got to protect him, that he did all this for my company and he wants me to get the police off his back. ‘How’m I s’posed to do that?’ I ask. ‘Pay ’em off,’ he says. I was telling him that I couldn’t do that, that this wasn’t Mexico, when about that time Jarold pulls up in his Jolly Green. I think I even remarked ‘Looks like we’ve got company,’ or something like that. Next thing I know I’ve got a gun at my head and the Bull’s telling me that if I even twitch he’s going to blow my brains out.”
Gary turned to Barrett. “I was hoping to hell when he didn’t answer Jarold’s horn that y’all would just go. But then you came out from behind the Tahoe and Quiroga said, ‘Okay, señor, you’re my ticket out of here.’ That’s when—well. You know the rest.”
Gary’s statement did not confirm Quiroga as his niece’s murderer. But other evidence mounted that strongly implicated Juanita’s uncle. Midge Holloway’s report confirmed that El Toro’s DNA matched one of the semen samples found in his niece. Samples of hair from the shack and on the victim matched her uncle’s. Perhaps most important, Midge was able to confirm that the Bull was infected with gonorrhea.
“He undoubtedly would blame the girl for that,” the sheriff declared.
“If he knew,” Barrett qualified.
“He paid for her Woodwork,” Thurman pointed out. “The same series that found her positive for gonorrhea found her HIV postive as well.”
“First the clap. Then AIDS.” The sheriff spat. “I’d say El Toro had plenty of reasons to be pissed off with his relations.”
“He didn’t have AIDS,” Cricket amended. “He wasn’t even HIV positive.”
Thurman allowed that point.
“But even though Quiroga had not contracted the virus, he would fear it. The clap was bad enough, judging from the way he chose to have that problem treated. But to be put at risk for AIDS! The Bull would have seen that as a deadly betrayal.”
“Taken together I’d say you’ve got some pretty strong motive for murder,” Linton summed up confidently.
Barrett remained silent. He knew how complicated motives could be.
Lou Sessions weighed in with some legwork of his own, having produced witnesses in Perry who confirmed that Quiroga on at least three occasions took his niece to the Highway 27 Motel for what were described as orgies. With that information, Midge’s report, and Gary’s statement, Barrett wasn’t surprised to hear Sheriff Sessions announce that he was satisfied to conclude that El Toro was the pimp and killer of Juanita Quiroga, and that Gary Loyd was no longer a suspect in the case.
The sheriff seemed positively brimming with goodwill. He herded the Loyds and the FDLE investigators onto the street outside the jail to a waiting pool of reporters and cameras and lights. Stacy Kline led the pack, his arm a stick with a microphone bobbing on the end. Linton Loyd steadied Stacy’s bony hand to announce that justice had been found, and to publicly bury his hatchet with local law enforcement. Almost as an afterthought, Linton praised Barrett and the “truly outstanding members” of the Florida Department of Law Enforcement, and expressed the relief of the Loyd family that their son was exonerated from any trace of wrongdoing.
Everyone in the county seemed relieved that a sadistic killer was in a pauper’s grave. No one said openly that he was equally relieved to find an outsider responsible for the crime. And it was especially comforting for many county locals to have the killer identified as Mexican. No one, after all, wanted to be burdened with the thought that some little whore had been tortured and slaughtered by a white man, let alone a neighbor.
About the only people not ready to forget the whole mess were the gentleman and lady of the FDLE.
Barrett met Cricket at Ramona’s that night. Midge Holloway was there, had driven up from Gainesville with Dr. Tran to sample Laura Anne’s menu and music. Laura Anne was warmly included in the investigators’ circle. The party was seated close to her baby grand piano. A sophomore from Florida State was performing an arrangement from Miss Saigon. Hush puppies and flounder were mixing well with bourbon and iced tea as a discussion ranged across her table.
“There are too damn many loose ends to even think about stopping this investigation.” Midge Holloway was outraged at the sheriff’s announcement.
“Nothing we can do about it,” Cricket declared. “It’s still his case. We investigate. He concludes. And in fairness, we don’t have a suspect other than El Toro.”
“He had the psyche of a killer.” Dr. Tran loosened up considerably over bourbon. “His sexual relationship with the girl was taboo. His disease—a very powerful motivation for retribution. He tried to purge himself, we know that. Midge found signs of a recent whipping.”
“Something like a scourge of switches,” Midge confirmed. “A real doozy. Over his back and buttocks.”
“Like a flagellation?” Laura Anne proposed.
“Good for you, Ms. Raines.” Dr. Tran nodded and Cricket joined in.
“See? It all fits. He’s Catholic, right? So he’s repenting the fact that he had a dog maul his niece to death. Kind of like confession.”
“If that’s so…” Midge sipped her tea. “… I’d like to meet his confessor.”
Barrett shifted uncomfortably.
“You all right, Bear?” Laura Anne asked.
“I just wish I could be sure we got the right guy.”
Cricket drained his Jack Black.
“Pointless to worry. Roland Reed’s already folding the tent. His position is if we get any more hot leads, follow ’em. Otherwise, we’re just pissing up a rope.”
Bear worried his own drink.
“Dead girl. Dead foreman. Dead file.”
“Nothing wrong with a slam dunk, Bear. El Toro wasn’t holding a gun to Gary’s head because he was worried about a green card.”
“True enough,” Barrett allowed. “But I can’t help worrying there’s one dangerous predator still among us. Someone who is not Mexican, not anonymous. Someone who is smart. Vicious. He could be next door.”
Laura Anne settled beside her husband.
“Well, then, if you can’t keep an open file, do the next best thing—keep an open mind.”
* * *
By the lights of a homicide investigator it had been a stimulating and pleasant evening. Great food, wonderful music and friends. A case to ponder. But Barrett said not a word on the short drive home. Hezikiah’s face hung before him like a wraith. So did his father’s. Laura Anne placed her hand into her husband’s.
“Something bothering you, Bear?”
“Yes,” he said finally. He did not want to lie to his wife.
“Does it relate to the murder?”
“God, I hope not.”
“Bear?”
He squeezed her hand. “Gonna have to cut me some slack on this one, baby.
”
“Okay.” She withdrew her hand. “Sure.”
Barrett was cursing himself for spoiling a perfect evening and pulling into the carport behind his Jim Walter home when two mismatched boys burst through the screen door.
“Ben? Tyndall?”
Laura Anne was out before Bear could kill the headlights.
“Why aren’t you two in bed?”
“It’s Penelope!” Tyndall’s face was streaked with tears.
Thelma came shuffling out the door.
“The dog,” she said simply. “We put her out. She’s gone.”
At first Bear was filled with relief.
“Boys, settle down.” Barrett scooped up the twins in his arms. “Penelope’s just rambling, is all. Soon as she’s hungry, she’ll come back.”
Thelma shook her head.
“I had her on the leash, Bear. On the dog run. It’s been cut.”
* * *
Jerry Slade had a bright blue nylon leash draped like a whip over his lap. The puppy whimpered in a milk crate and Jerry felt a tickle in his scrotum. Revenge was always sweet. With one stroke he would hurt the bitch and her little pickaninnies. Jerry reached for his silver camera, imagining the possibilities. He typed in the address on his computer for his favored site of recreation.
www.bondsandbrutemaster.freeplay.com
That half-breed bitch might have got his equipment banned from school, but she couldn’t keep him off the Web. There were always opportunities. Matinee this evening was a garden-variety torch & see. Cat burning in a cage. A freebie. The mongrel puppy whined again inside the cage beside his desk. Jerry regarded the animal a moment. He’d love to do this in moving pictures, in video, though most of the stuff off the Net was herky-jerky, like the silent cinema.
The mongrel whined once more and Jerry’s foot lashed out as if on its own accord to kick the cage. A yelp. The stupid dog retreated to a corner and peed. Jerry smiled. He had intended to do this one as he had others in the past, with stills from his Mavica. But maybe tonight was his chance to move on to the next level. He could always rent a videocam.
Jerry scrolled to the freebie of the evening, clicking on the print icon for a still of the cat’s agony. Jerry always saved his freebies on floppy; you could get twenty or thirty dollars for a disk, even with only a half-dozen scenarios.
Speaking of scenarios. The cat and kidnapped pup were forgotten as Jerry ran the mouse to his favorite link and jerked open the warped drawer of his desk. There were receipts inside, credit-card receipts. He selected a MasterCard. The idiots at his father’s shop never bothered to think about how easy it was to lift their credit-card numbers from the manually pressed receipts his father produced on their antiquated equipment.
Jerry spread the wealth around. Most people wouldn’t notice ten or fifteen dollars gone here or there. And what wife would believe the man who said, “Honey, I’d never spend money on that!” Jerry chuckled. Still, he had to be careful—there was so much to be had. For a while he was spending forty, fifty bucks at a pop. Sales at school would never keep up with that kind of passion.
This hard financial reality was what first prompted Jerry Slade to consider creating product for sale himself. Buying was not enough. He wanted to supply original material and make money from it.
Jerry knew he could do better, of course. His own site would one day blow away any of the stuff he was seeing here. They were always robbing his ideas—the teenager would occasionally find himself screaming at the computer’s wavering screen.
Like this one! How could it be? Right here on his favorite site there was the tease: “Beauty & The Beast.”
The stolen receipt rustled in his hand. He was already over the month’s limit. Still. This was choice. He reached for the mouse—
“Jerryyyy.”
The bawl floated in from the shed.
“What is it?”
“Goddamn time to feed my dog is what it is!” Rolly yelled to his son.
The newest rottweiler bayed on cue and the puppy cowered. Jerry gnawed the edge of his thumb. The big dog and the little dog? Some potential, for sure. Not bad for a premiere performance. Better than a burn.
He bet Harvey would go thirty bucks for this one.
Jerry saved the S&M teaser, added it to the same file holding the Raineses’ puppy in digital limbo. Then he went back to get the burning cat on hard disk. Then he consolidated four stills from another file into ‘PUPPY-1.’ He included Isabel in the stills, her face smudged, identity concealed.
Talk about a tease. It was the work of a master.
“Jerry!”
“I’m coming,” Jerry yelled at the door.
“The hell are you doin’, boy?”
“Homework.”
* * *
Barrett was sleeping like a log and Laura Anne counted it a blessing. No wearies in a week. She let Barrett sleep in, looking forward herself to a wonderful morning. The band was taking on The Music Man to support the senior play, and Laura Anne had been informed that she would conduct. She got to school early, ran through three periods and her planning period before skipping lunch to check in at the library. The computers there offered Net access; Laura Anne needed to acquire some sheet music for the coming production.
The sole computer available for faculty was in the librarian’s office. From the office you could look over the periodicals and a reference desk to see the row of computers set for student use against the far wall. When Laura Anne entered the libray, she noticed Harvey Sullivan absorbed at the far end of that row. Harvey was not a student to miss lunch for academic pursuits. Games were not allowed on the students’ computers. And only the librarian could get you on the Net. Laura Anne was about to go about her own work when she remembered the furtive exchanges in the hall—Jerry Slade to his circle of sycophants. Harvey was always there. She assumed that Jerry was showing off the photos he took in school. But Laura Anne also remembered that Jerry’s camera could download pictures to floppy disks.
Was that what she had seen going from Jerry’s knapsack to Harvey’s hand?
Laura Anne paused at the library’s interior door. Considered a moment. Then she made her decision. The rack of periodicals provided a blind for her approach. There was Harvey, completely absorbed before the glowing screen. Laura Anne stepped from the cover of the newest rack of People magazine and Time to see what had the teen’s rapt attention.
A glance was enough.
“Harvey.”
He scrambled to kill the screen, to retrieve the disk.
“Take it easy, Harvey, I don’t want to see you in trouble.”
She extended her hand.
“The disk.”
He hesitated a beat.
“The disk, or you can talk to Sheriff Sessions.”
“The sheriff?”
“I’m not going to fool with the principal, Harvey. It’s a waste of time.”
“It’s not my disk,” the freshman protested.
“Oh, really.”
“Watn’t me stole your dog, either.”
“Pardon me?”
“The puppy. On the disk. Jerry said he was yours.”
* * *
Sheriff Sessions met Barrett Raines at Rolly Slade’s shop. The rottweiler snarled at their approach.
“Whatchu want?” Jerry’s father was sharpening a mulching blade for a five-horse Snapper.
Sessions displayed a warrant.
“It’s a search, Rolly.”
“Search my ass!”
“Nope.” Sessions shook his head. “It’s your boy.”
Barrett followed Sessions into the house, Rolly cursing in tow. The boy’s bedroom wasn’t hard to spot, its door littered with admonitions to KEEP OUT and that TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT.
Barrett saw his sons’ puppy right away. It was unharmed but in obvious distress, whimpering in a pile of shit in a milk crate.
“The hell?” Rolly growled. “He tole me it was his dog.”
Barrett nodded to Lou.
>
“There’s his camera. Floppy disks.”
Sessions frowned.
“We’re gonna need to confiscate his computer, Rolly.”
“What?”
“Your boy’s sellin’ porno, Rolly.”
Barrett’s concern turned immediately to the animal. He extricated the puppy gently, wrapped it in a T-shirt on the floor, and took it home, where he observed the animal closely.
The twins came home overjoyed.
Tyndall ran to his recovered puppy. “Penelope!”
He reached down, hands extended to take the cowering puppy.
“Tyndall, careful—”
There was no warning.
The puppy leaped from the floor to bite Barrett’s oldest and innocent son.
* * *
The rest of the day was miserable. Tyndall had to have a tetanus shot. There was some discussion as to whether the dog should be destroyed. Barrett was relieved when the vet offered an alternative.
“Let me keep her a while. See if I can turn her around.”
So Barrett and Laura Anne left the dog with the veterinarian. All the way home they debated how to bring the news to their children.
“We’ll just have to tell them the truth,” Barrett said finally. “At least we didn’t have to kill her.”
Laura Anne was in tears. “I hate what Jerry did to that puppy, Bear, I do, but a dog can be replaced. But he stole our boys’ innocence. He needs to be put away.”
They weren’t home an hour when Sheriff Sessions called.
“Bear, we been over that computer. Jerry Slade’s?”
“Yes.”
“Something here you got to see.”
“First thing in the morning,” Bear offered.
“No.” The voice that came back was uncertain. Shaken. “I need you down here right now.”
* * *
There were hundreds of still images saved on the hard drive of Jerry Slade’s computer and copied to the disks on his desk. Most were simple pornography. A fair number involved children.
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