Echoes of the Dead--A Special Tracking Unit Novel

by Spencer Kope

  “You still think the green shine from the cemetery is the key?” It comes off as a statement, but his words carry a hint of question.

  “I do.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “A footprint on the lid of a buried coffin is a pretty good clue. And while I can’t guarantee it, I’m pretty sure I saw the same shine at the river, near the spot of blood on the rock.”

  “Pretty sure?”

  “I’m as close to certain,” I say patiently, “as a flame is to paper right before combustion.” With the fingers of my right hand, I give my best impression of paper being consumed by fire.

  Jimmy considers this a moment. “What if he’s working with someone?”

  “Someone like Abel Moya?”

  Jimmy shrugs and cocks his head, as if to say, Sure, that’s a good example.

  “To what end?”

  “I don’t know, but our suspect did manage to abduct four grown men; something like that’s a lot easier if you have help.”

  “That’s … possible,” I concede. “I did see a couple of references to Aztlán in those letters.”

  “Yeah, I saw those too,” Jimmy says briskly, contempt defiling every word as if his mouth has a vendetta against his vocabulary.

  Three years ago, Jimmy and I crossed paths with a killer named Pablo Ramirez, who believed himself a champion for Aztlán, the mythical home of the Aztecs. He killed three people in his war to claim the entire Southwest for the Mexican people and then shot himself in the head like a coward when he was cornered. The press had a field day with the murders before moving on to the next blood-soaked orgy.

  At the time, I remember thinking that if anyone had a claim to the Southwest, it would be the Hopi, Comanche, Apache, Navajo, and other tribes who were well established on those lands long before the Aztec Empire existed.

  But it’s a moot point.

  Human history is about expansion, contraction, conquest, and migration. The lands that the Comanche and Apache took from the previous occupants were likewise taken from them, just as Aztlán was taken from the Aztecs—if it ever existed in the first place.

  * * *

  Jimmy hits speed dial on his phone, and I hear the faint static of a human voice picking up on the other end. “Diane,” Jimmy says, “I need the horsepower on a guy named Abel Moya, everything you can find. I’m assuming he lives here in Bakersfield, and he might be associated with Mexican nationalists.”

  Static crackles briefly on the other end.

  “No date of birth, but if you can’t find him, I can ask Bakersfield PD.”

  That sets the static into high arcs, like a Tesla coil mainlining a nuclear reactor.

  “Fine.” Jimmy chuckles. “Get back to me when you have something.”

  “How’s Diane?” I ask in a singsong voice after he disconnects.

  “She sends hugs and kisses.”

  * * *

  We let Special Agent Weir finish his just-the-facts-ma’am interview with Canela Perez, then ask about Abel Moya.

  Ella immediately stiffens. “I told Marco that one was different,” she says as if somehow vindicated by the question. “He said it was nothing, just another guy blowing off steam, but he scared me. I reported him to the Secret Service four or five times over the last six months, but they said they can only interview him and pressure him to stop. Unless he makes a direct threat, they can’t arrest him.” She looks at me, then back at Jimmy. “Is he the one who did this?”

  “Probably not.” Jimmy holds up a soothing hand. “He seems to know the law and how to skirt the edges so that he doesn’t get in trouble. A guy like that doesn’t generally go postal. It’s the ones who come right out and say how they’re going to kill you that worry me. They’ve got no impulse control, so you’re never quite sure if they’ll follow through on the threats.”

  “And the quiet ones,” I add in the lull that follows.

  “Excuse me?” Ella says.

  “The quiet ones,” I repeat. “Those are the ones I worry about because the first time you hear from them they’ve usually already done the deed.”

  Ella visibly trembles as I finish, and I immediately regret the words. “Sorry. I didn’t mean for it to come out—”

  “Don’t apologize,” she says quickly. “I want the truth, nothing less.” Looking back and forth between me and Jimmy, then throwing a sideways glance at Kip and Ross, she says, “Promise you’ll be straight with me, no matter what.”

  It’s an odd world when you can be proud of someone you’ve just met, but that’s exactly what I feel as Ella makes us promise, each in turn. It wasn’t the battlefield of politics that made her this way, I realize, but something else, something familial and deep-rooted. I can’t help wondering if Marco is of the same caliber.

  “Can I see those?” Kip points at the letters still in Jimmy’s hand. He spends a few minutes reading through them as Ella explains that the Secret Service has an extensive file on Abel, including notes related to his lucrative business as a human smuggler.

  “He thinks if the Hispanic population in the US grows large enough, he can achieve Aztlán through the ballot box rather than through bloodshed. That’s how he justifies his smuggling operation—he says it’s for the cause: more votes and all that. Of course, that doesn’t stop him from charging for his services or exploiting his customers.”

  “America needs entrepreneurs,” I reply enthusiastically.

  Ross chuckles, but Ella looks for a moment like she’s going to reach into my mouth and yank out my tonsils. That changes when she notices the upturned corner of my mouth. Making eye contact with curious hesitation, she peers into my soul and softens almost immediately, letting out a long, pent-up sigh. For the first time, I see the hint of a smile on her face as she gives me a touché tip of her head.

  The moment proves to be an icebreaker, and I find that Ella and I suddenly have an unspoken understanding, even a rapport. It wasn’t there a moment ago.

  When Kip finishes scanning through the letters, you can tell by the slight change in his posture and tone that he thinks there might be something to Abel Moya, something worth pursuing. I can’t fault him for his instincts. If not for shine, I might be barking up that same tree. Besides, it’s not like we have any other leads to go on.

  As years of FBI training and experience take over, driving him forward, Kip begins to interview Ella more aggressively, by which I mean he leans toward her at a five-degree slant and enunciates every tenth or twelfth word with an honest-to-God inflection. The more answers he gets, the more he seems to think that Abel Moya is the guy.

  When I give Jimmy a surreptitious glance, he returns a barely noticeable shrug, as if to say, It’s his show, conceding the interview to Kip.

  Jimmy and I have worked together long enough to know each other’s minds, kind of like old married couples who can hold entire conversations and never say more than seven words. In my glance and Jimmy’s shrug, a mutual understanding is reached. We’ll let Kip run with the Abel Moya angle, mostly because it’ll keep him out of our hair, but also because it’ll close out a lead that needs to be run down regardless.

  As for Ross, I’m pretty sure he’s going to ask to tag along with Jimmy and me. My hunch is drawn from how he keeps looking at Kip as if he’s some automaton from Planet X.

  I’m just about to intervene on Ella’s behalf when Jimmy’s phone rings. Just a regular ring, not one of the special ringtones he has for his inner circle. He doesn’t put it on speaker, so I’m relegated to listening to half a conversation and trying to extrapolate the other half.

  “Donovan,” he answers. He listens a moment. “We’re at the congressman’s office.… Sure. Why? What’s wrong?… No, that’s fine.” He glances at his watch. “We’ll leave now. Give us ten minutes.”

  “Where are we going?” I ask as he disconnects.

  “Coroner’s office.”

  “I thought you said we didn’t have to attend the autopsy?”

  “I did, but that wa
s before Dr. Herrera found something.”

  “Like what?”

  Jimmy just shakes his head. “He wouldn’t say.”

  The body of Jason Norris looked relatively unmolested when we dug him up last night … I mean aside from the obvious lack of oxygen and his being dead. Other than that, he looked great. So, unless the good doctor found the creature from Alien tucked inside Jason’s rib cage, I can’t imagine what would have Dr. Herrera so keyed up, or why an office visit is necessary.

  As it turns out, he has a good reason.

  * * *

  I can tell that Jimmy’s digging the Mustang because when he comes screaming out of the parking complex and whips the wheel to the left, he keeps his foot mashed into the gas pedal and puts the car into a controlled slide. The rear wheels spin furiously, buffing the asphalt and exhaling a long, pungent breath of black smoke. Some might call it reckless driving, but I like to think of it as urgent law enforcement business.

  Besides, the car’s a beast.

  I’m starting to think about upgrading from my Mini Cooper.

  13

  Dr. Ben Herrera’s voice booms through the large autopsy room as soon as we enter, the copious amounts of stainless steel seeming to pick up the words and throw them at us in waves.

  “You know, I’m busy enough around here without you guys digging up more work,” he quips.

  I look at his face to see if he’s kidding, and the Botox veneer he reserves for families of the bereaved gives way to an impish smile.

  “Digging in a graveyard in the middle of the night,” he says with a tsk-tsk shake of his head. “Do you know that in the nineteenth century body snatchers were called resurrectionists? They were so busy, it seems, meeting the demands of the medical schools that some cemeteries were later found to be nearly empty.” He studies us with morbid glee. “Can you imagine?”

  Jimmy smirks at him. “I’ve been called a lot of things in my time with the FBI, but body snatcher is a first.”

  “Resurrectionist,” Ben corrects with a grin.

  * * *

  The autopsy room looks the same as it did yesterday, but with one significant difference: Instead of finding the elderly corpse of William Johansson on the table, we see that of Jason Norris. The sky-blue burial suit that briefly belonged to William has been removed from Jason, and his body lies naked and exposed, though not yet dissected.

  For murder victims, death is only the first indignity.

  * * *

  I’ve grown accustomed to bodies over the years—accustomed, but not comfortable. It’s unsettling looking down at someone who was so recently filled with life, and who now lies unmoving, forever stilled by time or trauma. Even if I’d just stepped into this world from another dimension and had no sense of life or death, I think I’d look upon the body of Jason Norris and recognize that something is missing, that the spark that was him has somehow fled.

  Jimmy would tell me this is our innate sense of God and the soul.

  I respect Jimmy and his views, just as I respect all who seek such answers. I’ve never been what most would call religious, at least not like Jimmy, but I’ve seen things I can’t explain. If that makes me “spiritual,” then I’m okay with that, though I’m not entirely sure what the word means in the bigger sense of things. Maybe no one knows. Maybe spiritual is just one of those terms people use when they want to believe in something, but just don’t want to call it God.

  I do believe in something.

  I believe because I must believe. I’ve seen that missing spark leave the body on several occasions and go … somewhere.

  What the spark is remains unclear, but I’ve seen signs of intelligence in its movements and actions, a sense of purpose. For years I’ve sought answers to this mystery in books about near-death experiences, reincarnation, and even historical accounts of famous mediums, but the questions continue to outweigh the answers.

  I suppose some knowledge is not meant for this world.

  Maybe that’s why they call it faith.

  * * *

  Retrieving a plastic evidence bag from the stainless-steel counter before him, Dr. Ben Herrera checks the seal and waves the bag in the air, a serious look now on his face. “Sorry to drag you down here like this, but I knew you’d want this right away.” He steps toward Jimmy and hands over the envelope.

  Turning it over in his hands, Jimmy stares at it for a moment but says nothing. Ross and I instinctively move in and peer over his shoulder. What I see takes a moment to process, but when it settles into place, I nearly gasp.

  “We found that stuffed into his left pocket,” Ben explains after giving us time to digest the discovery. “Your suspect wanted it found during the autopsy and placed it there with that in mind.” Ben shakes his head.

  Through the clear plastic of the evidence bag, I study the developed Polaroid picture. Filling the exposed rectangle is the close-up of a man’s face. He has a gag ball in his mouth and a nasty contusion over his right eye. His features are overexposed as if a flash had been used at close range in the dark.

  “Wade Winchell,” I mutter.

  The deputy district attorney has looked better. His two-dimensional eyes peer into mine as if trying to convey something; as if he knows the purpose of such a picture and how all this might play out. Despite his predicament, a stern, controlled look is on Wade’s face. His eyes are cold steel.

  I admire him for it.

  I wonder if I would be so composed.

  “What about the others?” Jimmy asks. “Any Polaroids of Noah or Marco?”

  “No, just the one.”

  “Maybe Wade was the target all along,” Ross suggests. “From what I hear, he’s made some powerful enemies over the years, and to be honest, this feels more local.” Ross rubs his stomach as if contemplating lunch rather than homicide. “Jason was probably killed because he’s baggage, a loose end. He’s also from out of town, same as Noah Long. If you think about it, it’s unlikely that someone targeting Jason or Noah would follow them to Bakersfield to do the deed. It would be a lot easier to hit Jason in San Jose or Noah in New York.”

  It’s a good argument.

  Killers tend to be more comfortable around the familiar: county roads, remote woods, lonely bridges. Places they know. Places they can ply their hate or lust with less fear of being caught or cornered. On the other hand, if this is a professional hit—which it feels like—then all bets are off.

  Waving the Polaroid in the air, Ross says, “This might be—I don’t know—like when a hunter bags a big-ass moose. Most hunters like to preserve the moment, so they snap a couple of pics.” He shrugs. “Maybe that’s what we’re seeing here.”

  “This is more than preserving the moment,” I observe quietly. “He’s sending a message. It’s like bagging that moose and mounting its head on a pike as a warning to the others. He’s telling them, ‘Watch your step or you’re next.’”

  Jimmy looks up sharply when I say this.

  “What?” I say.

  He’s silent a moment, but takes the picture back from Ross, vetting the thought as he stares at the image on the Polaroid. “Not you’re next,” Jimmy finally says, holding the picture out and pointing at the face staring out at us, “but he’s next. He’s telling us that he’s going to kill Wade next if we don’t stop him.”

  The air seems to suddenly be sucked from the room.

  “Jeez,” Ross mutters, swallowing the word hard.

  Ben clears his throat behind us, the kind of throat clearing you do when you want someone’s attention, but don’t want to be indelicate. “I’m afraid there’s something else,” he says when we turn his way.

  Holding out a second clear plastic evidence bag, he waits for Jimmy to take it. Unlike the first bag, this one isn’t flat. It has a pronounced bulge caused by a black mass about the size of a softball.

  Jimmy holds the bag a moment … then squeezes.

  The mass gives, suggesting something soft and pliable. When Jimmy hands the bag to me, he alrea
dy knows what it is and its significance, though not its meaning. Flipping the bag over in my hands several times, I pull it up close to my eyes and squint through the clear plastic. Jimmy leaves me to it, walking over to the body of Jason Norris. Crouching, he examines the man’s bald head without touching. When he’s satisfied with his assessment, he stands and glances at the doctor, who just shrugs and gives a slow shake of his head.

  That’s when I understand.

  “Hair,” I say, more to myself than those around me. The sudden urge to get rid of the envelope overwhelms me, and I hand it off to Ross as quickly as I can, trying not to look distressed.

  “We found it in the jacket pocket,” Ben says flatly.

  “Why shave his head?” Jimmy wonders aloud.

  “William Johansson was bald,” I say, leaving an unspoken question in the words.

  “Makes sense,” Ross says. “He swapped Johansson for Norris. Might as well do it right and shave his head to match?”

  “Johansson is white; Norris is Black,” Jimmy points out. “One was close to eighty, the other is in his forties. If he did it for uniformity, I think he picked the wrong grave.”

  “No one said criminals are smart,” Ross replies.

  “Yeah, but they’re not always stupid either.” Jimmy studies the corpse of Jason Norris another moment before looking up and meeting Dr. Herrera’s gaze. “Anything else?”

  “Isn’t that enough?”

  * * *

  Jimmy finds a bench along the sidewalk in front of the coroner’s office and plops down as he pulls Special Agent Kip Weir’s card from his shirt pocket. He dials the number and spends a moment with our FBI counterpart recounting our findings. Weir, it seems, has become fixated on Abel Moya. I can hear his voice on the other end, and though I can’t make out every word, I get the gist.

  My partner’s rolling eyes fill in the gaps.