by Sarah Lovett
At the moment, Matt held a page in each fist; he stared at lines representing abundance and mass/charge. They might as well have been Greek. He said, "Both printouts look the same to me."
"You're a genius!" Hansi wiped his hands with a flourish and took possession of the pages. "They are the same. Or they may as well be. And they match this." He waved a third printout: "This is the residue you found in Bowan's cell. Take a wild guess—what do you think it was cut with?"
Matt propped his butt against a counter that was noticeably clear of obstacles. He said, "Quinine? Baking soda? Ajax? Shit? I don't know. If it would give them a buzz, the guys at the joint would shoot up kitty litter."
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"It wasn't cut."
Matt's spine straightened like a rod, and his mouth fell open. "What are you telling me? The shit Bowan overdosed was pure heroin?"
Gausser shook his head and tapped a finger against one section of the printout. He said, "It's not heroin. At least not your growing-in-the-poppy-fields heroin. It's C-ring etheno Diels Alder adducts of thebaine."
"Say what?"
"Etorphine; it's not a true synthetic analgesic. Clandestine lab operators played around with it back in the early eighties after Shulgin's article on the future of synthetic drug abuse was published."
"So you're telling me Bowan overdosed on a synthetic drug that's like heroin?"
Gausser jutted his lower lip and wagged his head, considering his answer. "Etorphine has an analgesic potency about a thousand times that of heroin."
"Jesus." Matt whistled. "Jesus." The usual cut for heroin at the joint was anywhere from 5 to 40 percent—maybe even 70 percent, if it was a primo load. He pictured Bowan in his cell, injecting himself with 911 or White Horse or Red Rum or whatever they currently called the most potent forms of heroin.
Turn "Red Rum" around and you got "murder." Just like Bowan. Only the inmate had injected something that would give him a thousand times the normal rush.
Matt asked, "What about the high—is it the same as the real stuff?"
"I can't tell you that. It depends on the synthesis process. Some of the synthetics have neurotoxic properties. Some of them have been proven to cause full-out Parkinsonian symptoms. That was a problem with MPTP . . . . Never mind."
Matt ran his hand over the top of his head. "So that might explain why Bowan worked himself over before he died."
"It might." Gausser had been watching the investigator, and he figured he knew what Matt was thinking. But the serologist wasn't finished with his presentation. He'd done some detective work that made him proud. He said, "Aren't you going to ask me about the other printouts?"
"Hell, Hansi, what about the other printouts?"
"They're identical to the first printout."
"You already told me that."
"But I didn't tell you where they're from." He waved a page. "This is a sample from a bust two weeks ago in Farmington. And this one"—he gestured toward the final printout—"it's the sample from your corpse—your Juan Doe—out on Two eighty-five."
Matt stared at Hansi Gausser as if he hadn't heard a word. His face didn't change expression; only his eyebrows moved. After three long beats, he said, "Run that by me again. The stuff we found in the dead guy's pockets and the shit that killed Bowan and a bag from Farmington—they're from the same batch?"
"I didn't say that. I can't say that. They're etorphine, on paper they match up like triplets. And that means you've got an extremely potent drug flooding the Land of Enchantment."
"And a bunch of junkies in for a nasty surprise." Matt closed his eyes.
Hansi nodded. "I'd say emergency rooms around the state are going to have their hands full."
"We already lost Bowan." Matt was beginning to feel extremely uncomfortable. Fragments of conversation ran through his mind—yesterday's call to Dale Pitkin in El Paso, and the implication that the dead man might be Paco Fortuna, cousin of drug kingpin Amado Fortuna. Dale was right: the Tuna was a very big fish, and Matt was one small cop.
Pitkin had called back this morning to pass on more disturbing news. His friend the Juárez cop, Victor Vargas, had gone missing. Pitkin was trying to track Vargas down via the snitch network.
Dale had gone quiet on the phone for a moment before adding, "This is not a good sign, amigo."
Matt agreed with Pitkin. Now he glommed on to Gausser with both eyes and said, "I witnessed the Juan Doe autopsy this morning." For the moment, he wasn't voicing the possibility that Juan Doe might be Paco Fortuna. He glanced at a workspace at the other end of the room just as a woman in a white lab coat pulled a bloody swatch of cloth from a paper bag.
Gausser grunted. "How's my buddy the fair M.I.? Did you learn anything worth the hundred miles to Albuquerque and back?"
"I learned Juan Doe looked like shit." Matt crushed a Life Saver between his molars. Lee Begay, the chief medical investigator, was an old friend. More times than Matt could count, she'd helped him out when he needed information.
"Funny how desiccation, decomposition, and decay rob a man of his youthful glow."
Matt shook his head. "Begay says it looked like he fought hard against the perp, but he wasn't healthy. She's betting on cancer."
Gausser gave a snort. "I wouldn't get too excited when the M.I. gives you her best bets. That's like getting astrological predictions." Gausser and Begay knew each other, but their relationship had been born with a streak of good-natured rivalry that grew over the years.
Matt smiled to himself, but his voice remained flat. "Then I won't bother to give you her best bet on the C.O.D."
"All right, I'll bite."
"Try a long, sharp instrument inserted into the base of his brain." Matt pulled a pack of Life Savers from his shirt pocket and offered the candy to Gausser.
Gausser shook his head. "Those things will rot your teeth. If the vic was stabbed here"—he slapped Matt gently on the back of his head—"we're talking bleeding in the brain—a major headache."
"The orange ones are full of vitamin C." Matt held up a Life Saver between two fingers and then popped it between his lips. He held the same fingers to his neck. "His left carotid was severed before death—severed very neatly—and then the knife to the brain stem and—as a parting gesture—he was turned on his side and left to drain out."
Gausser said, "He bled out heavily into the dirt around the site."
"Heavily?" Matt pulled his gaze back to Gausser and said, "The body was almost completely drained of blood."
"I'LL NEED TO see the transcripts of the trial, the crime-scene reports, newspaper clippings, private-investigation results." Sylvia leaned forward in the chair and ticked off each item with a finger. "Basically I want access to every file on the investigation and the prosecution of the Elena Cruz murder."
"Is that all?" Jim Teague's eyebrows arched toward his scalp, and he expelled air in a derisive snort. His shoulders appeared even bigger when draped with the trademark fringed and beaded jacket, his bulk stressing his oak swivel chair to the breaking point. The lawyer's size and bearing made him an impressive sight behind his wide desk. His office was spacious and designed for practicality at the cost of elegance. Files were piled on either side of Teague's elbows. Stacks of books rose like stalagmites from the floor.
The lawyer leaned back in his chair. "Why should I show you even one file?"
Noelle Harding began to speak, but Teague raised a hand. "Noelle, please, you pay me well."
Sylvia waited a moment, then said, "Anything I learn about Serena's background will help with her treatment. If she is your client's daughter, then I've got something to work with, a place to begin . . . and Serena has a history." Sylvia was seated across the desk from Teague; Noelle Harding was at her back.
"Cash has agreed to a paternity test," Noelle said. "He wants the blood drawn at a private testing facility."
Teague's eyes were bright with ire. "Even if we prove paternity, Cash's daughter was an infant at the time o
f the murders."
"She was seven weeks old." Noelle Harding's voice was soft.
Sylvia kept her gaze on Teague. "A seven-week-old child is a preverbal witness. She experienced the loss of her mother, a loss that occurred through a violent act, and now, ten years later, she's probably witnessed a second murder."
Teague frowned. "You're not trying to dole out some psycho mumbo-jumbo that says this child would remember her mother's murder."
Sylvia shook her head impatiently. "If Serena was present at the time of the murder—even at seven weeks old—I'm telling you she was deeply affected by whatever occurred."
She didn't shrink under Teague's stare. Language was the most powerful human weapon of transmission, information, socialization. Studies of the origin of language had shown infants were extremely sophisticated in their ability to distinguish the phonemes of the planet's four thousand or so remaining tongues. It was possible for some five-month-old infants to distinguish between Hindi, Navajo, and Eskimo tongues. Why was it difficult for intelligent adults to accept the fact that any infant would recognize and be affected by the intimate proximity of violence?
Sylvia pressed the palms of her hands on the edge of the lawyer's desk, and her voice deepened. "Serena is physically capable of speech—silence is an extreme sacrifice. I want to know what's driven her to make that sacrifice. I want to know where she's been for the past ten years."
"My files won't provide those answers."
"I need a place to start." Sylvia shifted her body deep into the chair. "Ultimately," she said, "what helps Serena might also help Cash Wheeler."
Teague wiped a hand across his brow. "Even if it turns out this child is related to Cash, it's unlikely that fact will have any bearing on his murder conviction."
"The only thing that will free my brother is a detailed confession from the real killer." Noelle stepped to the edge of the lawyer's desk, picked up a fountain pen, and began to flick it between her fingers. The action seemed to irritate Teague, but he said nothing.
The silence stretched. Sylvia felt the stillness like electricity against her skin.
Finally Teague sighed. "There's a possibility the paternity issue could work in our favor. That depends on the A.G.'s office, if they'll play ball."
"A blood test will show within a ninety percent probability if the child was fathered by my brother," Noelle said.
She paced a few steps; even in the small space, her presence demanded attention. "The legal process is slow, and best left to lawyers. We're dealing with state agencies, federal agencies, even international interests. Until the paternity issue is settled, I'm going to assume this child is my blood relation. And I will offer her every resource I can. That includes allowing Dr. Strange access to case files."
Teague and Noelle locked eyes. They might as well have locked horns.
The lawyer cleared his throat, wiped a big hand across his big face. He spoke to a spot on the wall beyond Sylvia's head. He said, "You and I will settle the confidentiality issues before you have access to anything in my files. I'll have my paralegal draft a binding agreement."
Sylvia assumed she had been the object of his address. She nodded.
Harding dropped the pen into its holder. When it hit the desk and rolled to the carpeted floor, she ignored Teague's unhappy reaction and shifted her attention to Sylvia. "As far as I'm concerned, Serena's life begins today. I don't believe in focusing on the past—I've always moved forward in my life. The children under my care start fresh, and they thrive." She shrugged. "I don't expect any psychologist to agree with my viewpoint."
"Good," Sylvia said succinctly.
Noelle's mouth compressed into a small smile. "By the way, Cash has agreed to meet with you." She noted Sylvia's obvious surprise. "I don't guarantee he'll be helpful, but you'll have your shot."
Sylvia nodded slowly. She kept her eyes on Noelle's face, but her thoughts turned inward to an image that was clear in her mind—the first time she had seen Serena. If Cash Wheeler was the child's father, what would it do for her to discover him a few days before he was scheduled to die? Wouldn't it be better if she were adopted by a new family? If she could start "fresh," as Noelle insisted? But Sylvia couldn't shake her belief that Serena's salvation lay in uncovering the truth about her past, whatever that truth might be.
"Cash is expecting you tomorrow morning at nine o'clock. I know you're never late." Noelle perched briefly on the chair next to Sylvia, flashed a smile, and glanced at her wristwatch. "Before you meet with my brother, you'll have questions for Jim about the case, so I'll leave you two alone." She stood and walked toward the door. Her stride was light and agile. She set one hand on the doorknob and said, "I want you to come up to the house tomorrow night; I'm having a get-together. A fund-raiser, but we'll find some time to talk. I want to hear how it goes with my brother."
Noelle raised her eyebrows, and her face held a hint of the coquette. "You're welcome to bring your friend—Matt England?" And then she was out the door, leaving a void in her wake.
Sylvia raised her eyebrows. A get-together? She'd just been invited to the Rescue Fund Gala—at the Frank Lloyd Wright house. She turned back to Jim Teague.
He was bent over a faded orange file folder, effectively masking any response to Harding's demand that he cooperate with Sylvia. He said, "For the most recent appeal my best paralegal produced an abstract of the entire case to date. You're welcome to look at it."
Behind the file and Teague's mass, a four-paned window offered a view of the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railway spur. At the moment, a shiny silver locomotive occupied the track. Sylvia recognized it as the American Orient Express, the local that carried tourists the twenty-odd miles to Lamy for dinner and drinks.
The same train that had collided with a Honda just a few nights ago.
She said, "I'd prefer a brief summary from you."
Teague lowered the file; his face looked slightly pink. He cleared his throat and said, "I don't think you appreciate how brutal the crimes were. Especially Elena's murder. From the forensic evidence, the stab wounds were inflicted in a manner that caused suffering." He coughed. "The pathologist reconstructed a rough chronology. She did not die quickly."
"She was tortured?"
"In the pathologist's opinion."
"What did the prosecution use for motive?"
"Cash was under extreme stress. Unmarried father of an unwanted child. A marital crisis."
"Was that true? Was the baby unwanted?"
"Cash Wheeler was nineteen years old," Teague said. "I think he experienced deep conflict over the child's birth, but I have never doubted his love of Elena Cruz."
"Now you're a shrink?"
Teague laughed, caught off guard. "I always put my client's needs first." He began again with a deep sigh. "Cash Wheeler and Elena Cruz met at St. Sebastian's School in El Paso. They grew up together, fell in love, and eventually, they became lovers. In the fall of 1984, when Cash was barely nineteen and Elena was sixteen, she got pregnant. She gave birth to a baby girl in a Catholic charity hospital; the nuns tried to convince her to give the child up for adoption. She insisted she wanted to marry Cash."
"Noelle says that Elena called the baby Angelina."
The lawyer nodded, fingering the fringe on his jacket sleeve. His voice settled into its honeyed stride. "Cash left Texas after the baby was born and ended up in Loving, New Mexico, looking for work. Loving's a town of roughly eight thousand; in 'eighty-five, the population was approximately half that number. Cash took a room at the Sunshine Motel. It's been torn down since, but at that time it was located about three miles outside of town. When they redid the interstate back in 'eighty, it was a motel for road workers. But times change, and on that particular Thursday, Cash was the only customer."
Sylvia realized she had shifted in the chair, tilting forward, and her back was uncomfortably stiff. She could hear the faint noise of the railroad and motor traffic coming from outside.
Teague didn't seem to no
tice, continuing with the story of the murders: "The motel owner's wife was at the desk that afternoon when Elena Cruz arrived, dusty and exhausted from buses and hitchhiking. She'd run away from the nuns, and she'd been traveling all day with a colicky baby."
"Was Cash at the motel when Elena arrived?"
"No. He'd started the day looking for work but ended up in a bar. Drank enough to get loaded, then the bartender threw him out." Teague took a breath. "Meanwhile, the owner's wife let Elena into the room, closed up the office, and drove into town to run errands. She left her husband napping in his room behind the office.
"Three hours later, she found his body in the parking lot. He'd been hacked to death." His voice wavered. "Elena had been stabbed thirteen times."
Sylvia was startled by the shrill blast of a whistle; outside, the train . . . Her concentration swayed for a moment, then settled again on the lawyer.
"The prosecution had a field day. Cash Wheeler was found in the motel room with Elena's body. He was covered in both victims' blood." Pause. "His prints were on the knife." Teague took another audible breath, and the silence stretched. "The baby's body was never found."
Sylvia said nothing, but the images were vivid in her mind. "Did Cash confess?" she asked.
"His story was this. He claimed he didn't know Elena was coming that day. After he was tossed out of the bar he wandered around by the river, fooled around, smoked some marijuana. He was depressed about not getting work. When he arrived at the motel, drunk and stoned, someone attacked him. He doesn't remember who—or anything else, until he heard the motel owner's wife screaming."
"What about the baby?"
"The Pecos River runs deep and fast about a quarter mile east of where that motel stood. It's actually a good fishing river. Two witnesses, fishermen, saw a man standing on the middle of a wooden bridge that spans the river. They said the man dropped a small bundle into the water. Later, searchers found a blanket but no body. They never found a body."
"So they couldn't accuse him of murdering the child."