Garden of Evil

by Edna Buchanan

  “Mutilation, damage to the face and genitals, is often inflicted to depersonalize the victims. The way these bodies are left exposed apparently is to make a statement—either to society at large or to the authorities. It’s interesting,” she mused. “Male victims of homosexual killers are often found with their pants down.

  “It’s dangerous to theorize. Generalizations are always risky, you know. This country makes up five percent of the world population, yet we account for nearly seventy-five percent of the world’s known serial killers. Twenty years ago, an estimated thirty or so roamed the United States. Today the FBI estimates there are about five hundred. What’s going on out there, in the suburbs, the malls, and on the highways? What are we breeding here? She is totally new turf. I’ve been wondering if she is an aberration or a harbinger of things to come.” She smiled dreamily and reached for the last donut as chills rippled down my spine.

  “If you should meet her first, Britt, would you give her my card?”

  She was joking, of course. Or was she? She plucked a few business cards off her desk and dropped them in my jacket pocket on the way out.

  “One other thing, Britt.” She frowned as she followed me to the door. “Are we certain our killer is a woman? Has the possibility been ruled out that she could be a female impersonator?”

  “I don’t know. No hint of that from the police.”

  She shrugged. “I doubt it too, but it would be comforting if she were. Just a thought. Spell my name right. Thanks for coming by. And Britt—” she smiled—“bring a dozen next time.”

  She was busily disposing of the evidence as I closed the door, sweeping crumbs off her desk and crumpling the distinctive box and paper napkins.

  Six

  I STUDIED THE MAP AGAIN BEFORE LEAVING THE newsroom that night. Come out, come out, wherever you are. I projected the message as my eyes drifted idly up the narrow peninsula. When would she be caught—or would she? What if she repents, I wondered, finds Jesus and becomes a model citizen, leaving her crimes unsolved mysteries like D. B. Cooper or the disappearance of Jimmy Hoffa?

  Or what if she is here now, strolling the Miami Beach boardwalk, flirting with tourists, wriggling painted toenails in the sand or shopping the big sale at Saks in Bal Harbour? She might be rubbing elbows with the Moran women at this very moment.

  I called Miami homicide. Detective Ojeda picked up. “The Kiss-Me Killer,” I said. “Have you heard any bulletins on where she last used her stolen credit cards?”

  “Why? You hear something?”

  “Thought you had. I heard that’s how they’re tracking her, working with credit card security, keep coming up just a step behind her.”

  “They’re putting a BOLO out now,” he said. “You must be psychic—or psycho. I can never figure out which one.”

  “Very funny. Where’d she use them last?”

  “The Seaquarium, right over here on Key Biscayne; stocked up on souvenirs like a regular tourist. Bought a plastic alligator, a giant orange beach ball, a dolphin mug, and pink flamingos.”

  “Are you ser—? Damn it, Ojeda!” I nearly believed him for a moment.

  He chortled. “Had you going, didn’t I?”

  “Where? Where’d she use it?”

  He dropped his voice. “Fort Lauderdale. Yesterday.”

  “Lauderdale!” My heart skipped a beat. Twenty minutes away.

  “Yep, pumped ’er own gas at a Chevron.”

  “Is she still driving the Trans Am, the last victim’s car?”

  “Correctamundo. Then whipped out his card at a Big Daddy’s. Bought four bottles of tequila—Jose Quervo Gold—and a six-pack of Coors.”

  “What’s your plan if she shows up here?”

  “The plan is, her ass goes to jail. We don’t mess around, like those rubes and rednecks upstate. She shows up here, she’s ours, and the minimum that’s gonna happen to her is jail.”

  “She’s got chutzpah. How’d she get this far driving a cherry-red Trans Am the whole world is looking for?” I said.

  “She’s lucky, and she hasn’t run into me,” Ojeda said. “I hope she makes a big mistake and shows up here.”

  I alerted the slot and our police desk, where an intern named Jerry monitors more than forty law-enforcement radio frequencies in a small soundproof alcove outside the newsroom, and then called our Fort Lauderdale bureau. They said the adjacent county had had three homicides in the last thirty-six hours: a domestic fight to the death, a dice-game stabbing, and a terminal fit of road rage. Nothing remotely connected to the Kiss-Me Killer. I pushed a blue pin into the map at Fort Lauderdale to designate the sighting. I’d replace it with red if a body surfaced. Then I called the Miami/Dade County Medical Examiner’s office to inquire if any male victims had arrived with bullet wounds to the genitals and/or face.

  “You talking about that woman leaving bare-assed bodies all up and down the state?” the night-shift attendant asked. “She coming here? Tell me she ain’t.”

  “Just checking,” I said. “You never know.”

  I searched traffic for a red Trans Am on the way home. Restless and tense, I changed into jeans and a T-shirt and walked Bitsy, wearing my portable police scanner clipped to my belt so I didn’t miss anything. The sky was overcast, the heated air thick and suffocating. I stood the scanner on my kitchen counter while I fixed dinner.

  Police radio traffic was relatively routine, yet there was a tension, an electricity in the air. I heard cops check out several Trans Ams, none the right car. I wanted to make a sandwich, but the bread was stale and the mayo expired. Could it really be that old? A jar of what appeared to be long-frozen soup had sprouted an icy beard. I held the jar up to the light to better scrutinize its contents. What were those green things? Maybe it wasn’t soup. Could it have been a sauce? Something brought by my Aunt Odalys? A butcher-wrapped package beckoned. I could eat McDonald’s steak. Serve him right if I did.

  I stared bleakly into the frozen wasteland and then closed my eyes and simply inhaled the frigid air. A media noche was what I craved. Warm and fragrant cheese, ham, and pork on crisp bread. A cup of chicken soup on the side, Cuban style, with carrots and lots of noodles. Then silken flan, sweet, smooth, and syrupy.

  Cono, I thought, why didn’t I stop at that little Cuban restaurant near the Boulevard? The more I thought about the enticing aromas from its kitchen and the flaky pastelitos on a covered tray atop the counter, the more ravenous I became. Was it worth venturing back out into the heat and driving across the causeway? Yes. My mouth watered.

  No stars in sight, the moon in hiding, a thick wet blanket of muggy air pressed down on South Florida as though Mother Nature, like a homicidal baby-sitter, was trying to smother us all. Heat lightning leaped madly across the horizon, pirouetting like a ballerina on speed, as distant thunder rocked and rumbled ominously. If it did rain, the weather story would lead the morning paper.

  La Estrella glowed, a beacon for hungry, lonely, and displaced people seeking a taste of home. Cubans dine late, and the tables were busy. Two Miami patrolmen sat at the counter, their uniforms a comforting sight. Robbers rarely hit places with police on the premises.

  “Uh-oh,” they chorused on seeing me, “we know nothing”—my second most frequent greeting from cops. They sipped their Cuban coffee and rehashed the Marlins’ fall from the top while I studied the menu and other people’s plates. Everything smelled so good. One of the cops raised his walkie and amid the crackle and hiss of static, I heard him instructed to change frequencies, to “car-to-car” transmission, which cannot be monitored by outsiders.

  “Need you here right away.” The tinny voice sounded oddly familiar; the address, the Jolly Roger Motel on the Boulevard, not five blocks away. “We got us a dead big shot, a VIP homicide. Get over here on the double.”

  The cops exchanged glances, avoiding my eyes, hoping I hadn’t heard.

  “Hey, wait a minute!” I said, but they ignored me and left in a hurry, without finishing their coffee.


  The motherly waitress stood before me, order pad in hand. “Never mind,” I said, already on my feet. “I’ll be back.”

  I made a U-turn, followed their flashers, and pulled into the motel parking lot right behind them. Another patrol car and an unmarked were already there, along with some other cars, one of them a red Trans Am. Breathless, I followed the cops up an outside open staircase to the second floor.

  Halfway up, a deafening crack of thunder rattled the building, the wind gusted wildly, and a fat wet drop spattered my cheek. Rain, or condensation from a room air conditioner?

  Ojeda answered the door, tie flapping in the sudden burst of wind. “How the hell did you get here?” he demanded. “You bring her with you?” He scowled at the two cops.

  “I was driving by and saw their car pull in,” I said quickly. “What happened?”

  His face looked odd. I saw a rumpled bed in the dim light behind him.

  “’Member what we talked about a few hours ago, chica?” He studied me for a moment, then took a small step back. “This is big,” he said. “Really big. The world is about to descend on this room. You were never here, Britt. We’ll all swear to that.”

  “It’s her, right? Did she kill another one?”

  “See for yourself.”

  I stepped gingerly across the threshold, knees shaking.

  “That’s it.” He stopped me with a cautionary gesture. “No farther.”

  A single step into a space that small was enough. The room reeked of sickening cigar smoke—and something else that churned my stomach.

  “Guess who? Your friend and mine.” Ojeda gestured, as though politely introducing me to the remains on the floor beside the bed.

  “Dios mio!” I breathed. No introduction necessary. The corpse had a familiar face. Sonny Saladrigas looked astonished, mouth open in surprise. Naked from the waist down, his penis resembled a bloody flower, its stem broken. The gaping wound dead center in his forehead added to the bewilderment of his expression.

  His wife smiled warmly, as did their three small daughters. Their wallet-size color photos had been spread out over his skin. The picture of his smallest child, wearing pink and clutching a teddy bear, was stained, propped against what was left of his penis.

  “Did she get away?” I whispered.

  “That she did,” the detective said. “Sick bitch.”

  “What is that smell?” My eyes watered and I swallowed hard.

  “Looks like somebody shoved Sonny’s cigar up his ass,” Ojeda said. “A lotta people been wanting to do that for years.”

  “How do you know a copycat didn’t kill him?” I asked, certain it was really her.

  “We don’t. But it’s her,” he said, slowly turning to the grisly tableau behind him. “Ballistics will say for sure.”

  “And what is that?” I squinted in the poor light. Sonny’s dress shirt, unbuttoned and open, exposed his thick, dark, curly chest hair in which something small and blue nestled.

  “Not that I have any personal knowledge or intimate acquaintance with such things, but I think that’s gonna turn out to be a Viagra tab. We’re gonna be holding back on that for now, so don’t mention it till we give the okay. And that”—he gestured toward the dresser top—“appears to be crack cocaine. Not unusual for Sonny, from what I hear, except that this little party got rough at the end. This is a major cha-cha.” He nodded grimly. “The chief, the brass, the mayor, the city manager, and all their advisers are on the way. No way we can keep the lid on long. Once the press runs with it, it’s showtime, a three-ring circus. Now you’re outa here, Britt.”

  A hulking shadow loomed in the doorway: Ojeda’s partner, Charlie Simmons. “What the hell are you doing here?” he demanded, my number-one most frequent greeting from cops.

  “Who?” Ojeda said. “She ain’t here, never was.”

  Simmons grinned at the others. “Guess this shit-cans the chief’s memo on no more overtime. Ka-ching! Ka-ching!” he crowed. “Unlimited OT! Who’da thought Saladrigas would turn into a cash cow?”

  “What’d you get?” Ojeda asked impatiently.

  “Good news,” Simmons said. “They had tape in the security camera. The bad news is the quality. You can hardy see ’er. But maybe the lab can enhance it. That’s not for publication.” He turned to me. I was still staring at the corpse.

  “You still here? Out! Now!” Ojeda’s walkie squawked persistently. “Be cool,” he muttered. “And don’t say I never did you any favors.”

  Grateful to breathe fresh air again, I didn’t even notice the pounding rain as I ran down the stairs to my car. The oppressive high-pressure system that had hovered motionless over the state for weeks, its westerly winds inhibiting the sea breezes that deliver thunderstorms, had shifted and begun to drift away. The heavens had opened.

  The dry spell that had kept me off the front page for weeks was over; the weather would not be the biggest story in the morning paper. Summer rains had finally arrived, but so had something else.

  Seven

  I CALLED THE CITY DESK FROM A LAND LINE, A nearby pay phone. Minutes later, by the time I parked in the shadows beneath the building, the paper’s lawyer and a half dozen editors were en route. The state’s most wanted killer and Miami’s highest profile politico had collided head on, right on our deadline for the final. The newsroom, usually winding down at this hour, became a frenzied beehive of activity.

  “Britt said the killer would come here,” Bobby Tubbs babbled. “She knew. But who’da thought she’d cross paths with Sonny Saladrigas?”

  The story was breaking too late for TV at eleven. With any luck, the competition still knew nothing. South Florida and the world would wake up to the shocking news on our front page. First I had to convince my bosses. Despite my assurances that I had seen the body, they wanted official confirmation.

  Fred Douglas, my city editor, called the mayor at home. He was out, gone to “the terrible tragedy,” his wife said, warily declining to elaborate. At the same time, the police chief made the mistake of answering his cell phone. My heart pounded.

  “Is it true that Commissioner Saladrigas has been murdered,” I asked, “apparently by the Kiss-Me Killer?”

  “Where did you get that information?” he blustered. “How’d you find out so fast?”

  That was enough. They ripped up the front page to display news-photo high points of the dead commissioner’s political career and used head shots, off the wires, of the other victims.

  Editors hovered around my terminal, peering over my shoulder as the words appeared on the screen, exclaiming and muttering, reacting to what they read as my fingers flew across the keyboard. We had only minutes to wrap it for the final.

  In a running debate as I worked, they decided that we would appear insensitive and mean-spirited if we focused on Sonny’s dubious political practices in the initial report of his brutal murder, since the two did not appear to be directly related.

  His frequent official trips to our sister city south of the border were mentionable, but not the allegations that his dedication to the program was linked to the city’s abundant supply of teenage prostitutes. Sonny’s seedy side surely played a role in his own demise, but there would be time and space in which to explore that later. For now, the more sordid details were judiciously edited. My references to the “controversial commissioner,” his “partially clothed” corpse, and his “gunshot to the genitals” stayed in; details about the cigar did not. Family photos arranged on the body were acceptable; precisely where, was not.

  “Remember,” the publisher said piously, “this is the story his children will read someday.” He had arrived in the newsroom clad in black tie, straight from some charity fund raiser at the Fontainebleau hotel.

  I turned in the copy and fished a cotton blazer out of my ladies’ room locker to dress up my jeans and T-shirt as best I could. Not tired, not hungry, I was flying—on the adrenaline high achieved when you are first with the biggest story in the state. I hoped Lottie would be ass
igned, but she didn’t answer phone or pager, which was totally unlike her. Another photographer, Villanueva, was assigned instead.

  I returned to the crime scene as the blessed downpour soaked parched ground, drenched moisture-starved foliage, and flooded the streets. Miami was back to normal: hot, wet, and weird. I called Charlie Webster on the way.

  “She’s he-e-e-re,” I crooned.

  “Who is this?” he grumped sleepily. “Britt? Tha’chu? What the heck time is it? She catch another one?”

  “The biggest so far,” I said. “A Miami city commissioner, the former vice mayor. She’s still out there. No time to talk, but check our story. I already filed it. Later, Charlie.”

  The entire parking lot and the Boulevard in front were roped off now, traffic diverted. City and county cars and crime-scene vans were clustered everywhere, their flashers bouncing off buildings and rain-slick streets.

  The mayor and the city manager scuffled with cops guarding the scene, trying to push their way into the room to see Sonny’s corpse, then turned on each other with flailing fists. Another Miami moment. Villanueva captured their antics. Ojeda, Simmons, and two prosecutors from the State Attorney’s office flatly refused them entry.

  Along with Sonny’s executive assistant, they demanded access from the chief. To the man’s credit, he backed his detectives, explaining that the murder case could be lost if the defense impugned the crime scene’s integrity due to alleged contamination by unauthorized civilians.

  A Spanish-speaking TV crew rolled up, clearly tipped by the mayor or the manager. Word was out. By dawn, reporters outnumbered cops.

  The rain faded as a rosy blush softened the horizon and swarms of invading news choppers hammered the air overhead.

  I never hinted that our story was already landing on wet lawns. Instead, I mingled with my peers who were clamoring for information and official confirmation of the victim’s identity.