by Tom Barber
As he drew closer to Santiago’s apartment building, he saw two Fords suddenly pulling up behind the one he and Hendricks had arrived in. Shepherd and a blonde woman he vaguely remembered from that day at the 114th stepped out of one, Josh and Marquez getting out of the other, all four looking at him in surprise.
‘Too late, guys,’ Archer said. ‘You missed the show.’
‘Story of our goddamn afternoon,’ Marquez replied, moving forward with Josh to meet him.
FIFTEEN
Hendricks’ unsilenced Smith and Wesson gunshot and Archer’s shotgun blast resulted in a flood of 911 calls from both inside the apartment building and from nearby, meaning back-up was already on its way by the time Archer had finished explaining to his colleagues how he’d ended up in Rikers, his confrontation with the gang in the shower block, how he and Hendricks had got the information regarding Goya and Santiago’s place ahead of everyone else and the shootout that had just followed.
Officers in squad cars patrolling the area had pulled up outside and were now reassuring frightened residents and concerned onlookers who’d gathered on the street. A Forensics team had also just arrived and were already heading up to the apartment, carrying cases full of their gear.
Walking back upstairs, accompanied by Josh and Marquez, Archer moved down the corridor towards 4E and watched as CSU unpacked their equipment, two investigators taking photographs of the crime-scene, focusing on the dead figure by the doorway while residents down the hall were being ushered away as they stared in shocked fascination at the figure in white sprawled on the floor.
Beside the corpse, Hendricks was talking with CSU’s lead investigator, running her through the incident. The three rounds he’d taken to the vest had left holes in the front fabric but they were the only clue he’d been shot. Archer remembered only too well the sensation of being hit in the vest. Hendricks’ reputation wasn’t undeserved; he was one tough bastard.
Shifting his attention, Archer looked down at the dead figure in white overalls. The gas mask had been removed, revealing a slight, brown-haired woman with several moles visible on the side of her face. Her slack head was lolled to one side, dried blood running from the side of her mouth, her eyes open but the light behind them forever extinguished.
However, even in death there was something about her that was unsettling.
Who the hell are you, he thought, looking into her vacant eyes.
‘How many others were with her?’ Marquez asked him. ‘Just one?’
‘Two. The guy I was chasing jumped into the back of a white van. Someone else was driving; the guy we saw when we first pulled up.’
‘Where are we at with the plates?’ Josh asked.
‘Ethan’s on it,’ Marquez said. ‘The local Precinct is sweeping the area searching for the vehicle. We’ll find it.’
Archer looked beyond her at the blonde woman who’d shown up with his three team-mates; she was staring down at the body. He remembered seeing her at the 114th eight days ago when he’d laid out Royston and vaguely recalled her name was Palmer, a social worker. Even though they had bigger things to focus on, her presence here bothered him; he’d learned from past experience never to trust someone unless their background checked out.
‘Do you know who she is?’ Palmer asked quietly to no-one in particular.
‘Not yet,’ one of the CSU investigators said, bending down beside the body and pushing the woman’s fingers onto an electronic pad. ‘But I’ll send her prints out. She’ll have a file somewhere.’
‘You can be so sure?’ Palmer said.
‘You don’t do something like that and not have some kind of history,’ the guy said, jabbing a thumb towards the apartment’s bathroom.
‘Something like what?’ Josh asked, as beside him Archer suddenly remembered that acrid chemical smell. He hadn’t had a chance to take a proper look inside the bathroom before he and Hendricks got jumped.
‘Go take a look for yourselves,’ the investigator said. ‘But be warned; it ain’t pretty.’ He looked at Palmer. ‘Suggest you stay here.’
Archer, Josh and Marquez turned and walked over towards the bathroom. Shepherd was already in there with an investigator; he turned as his three detectives approached and shook his head, a strange look on his face.
Once the trio stepped forward, they could see why.
What remained of what had once been a man was lying in the bath. He was submerged in some sort of chemical cocktail that was eating through his body. It was a horrific sight, made worse by the acrid smell of chemicals hanging in the air, the extractor fan whirring but not man enough for the job.
Staring in horrified silence at the tub, the trio stood beside Shepherd, the only noise in the room the rattling extractor fan.
‘Well those are my nightmares sorted for a while,’ Marquez muttered.
The investigator in the room rose, looking at the four detectives.
‘I present Alex Santiago,’ he said. ‘Or what’s left of him.’
‘What the hell is that stuff?’ Archer asked, looking at the translucent liquid around the body. ‘Acid?’
‘It’s a lye mixture I’ve never seen before,’ the investigator replied. ‘Sodium hydroxide, water and some other chemical that I’d need a lab to identify. Variations of it are called piranha solution. I’ll leave it to your imagination to figure out why.’
He pointed at the tub with a gloved hand.
‘I can tell you already, this particular brew will chew through a two hundred pound body in under an hour. And whoever did this knew exactly what they were doing.’
‘How do you mean?’ Josh asked.
‘Ninety nine per cent of people who try to dispose of a body like this screw up and use acid, which eats through the tub and destroys the pipes. Lye solution doesn’t do that and the fumes aren’t anywhere near as toxic. Give it sixty minutes and this stuff will eat through anything you put in there. Then you turn on the taps and flush away all the gunk that’s left at the bottom. No blood, no trace, no damage to the pipes; nothing. Not even a tooth or bone fragment as forensic evidence.’
He directed his attention to Archer.
‘If you’d been thirty minutes later, there wouldn’t have been anything left. He’d probably have gone down the drain and you’d never have known he was here.’
There was a pause.
‘Have you ever encountered anything like this before?’ Shepherd asked.
‘Heard about it but never seen it for myself until now. I know Mexican drug cartels have used it to dispose of bodies but that process normally took days, not as fast as this. God only knows what else they’ve put in it or where they got the recipe from.’
The man indicated to the apartment behind them, at the aftermath of the gunfight, the shot-up furniture and pock-marked walls.
‘Did it look like this when you first arrived?’
Archer shook his head. ‘No; no damage or sign of a disturbance anywhere. Everything looked normal.’
‘If they shot him, hit him over the head or cut his throat, it would have left blood spatter or other evidence for us to work with. That means they restrained and killed him silently, leaving no trace and without anyone else in the building hearing anything. Then they went to work disposing of the body but would have had to fill the tub with liquid they brought with them, from their vehicle. That means they made a number of trips in and out of the building without raising any suspicions.’
‘The neighbour thought they were a team of fumigators,’ Josh said. ‘She saw them when she got back from work earlier and thought they were here for pest control until they knocked on her door and put a gun to her head. White overalls, black boots, gas masks, no other details.’
‘So they had this all planned, not only with their disguise but with the lye solution,’ the CSU investigator said. ‘That requires patience, a cool head, zero conscience and a very strong stomach.’
He looked at the foursome.
‘Christ, you’re dealing with some na
sty people here, guys. I’ve done this job for seven years and encountered some real unpleasant characters. Whoever did this is right up there.’
None of the four detectives replied; a moment later the silence was broken by the sound of Marquez’ phone ringing in her pocket. She withdrew it and answered, glad to have a reason to avoid looking at what was left of Santiago in the bath.
‘Marquez.’
She listened for a moment, then looked at Shepherd, giving a thumb’s up.
‘It’s Rach. She got the dead woman’s prints from CSU and already pulled a result from the NCIC.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Hold that thought, Rach,’ Marquez said, moving back into the apartment and putting the call on loudspeaker, everyone in the room stopping what they were doing to listen. ‘You’re on speaker.’
‘Her full name is Nina Lister. Twenty four years old, born in South-Side Pittsburgh. Five six, a hundred and thirty pounds, former heroin addict. Medical records say she overdosed a few years ago which left a blackened vein on her neck.’
‘That’s her,’ Marquez said, the phone resting in her palm. ‘We see the mark.’
‘No records of any family. She used to be a prostitute; convicted of first degree manslaughter in San Diego when she was sixteen. Served two years.’
‘San Diego?’ Shepherd said, frowning. ‘The victim?’
‘A client; turned out he had quite a history. He’d hand over the money then waste the hookers in a motel room or wherever afterwards, taking his cash back. He tried the same with her but she cut his throat.’
‘Since?’
‘That’s what’s strange. That jail time is the last entry on her record from six years ago and that was on the other side of the country. No sign of her since.’
‘Associates?’
‘Just low-level players in San Diego. As I said, she was a hooker; most of the crew she ran with are either dead or in jail.’
‘No links with New York?’
‘Just Pittsburgh, from what I can see. Parents aren’t on the file, so I’m guessing she was fostered or orphaned. When they arrested her, SDPD couldn’t find anything more on her background and she wouldn’t tell them anything.’
‘Keep looking, Rach,’ Shepherd said.
‘Will do.’
As the call ended, Marquez slipped the cell back into her pocket. ‘An ex-con street hooker from Pittsburgh who served time in San Diego. How the hell did she end up in New York killing Santiago with this lye shit?’
‘And why?’ Josh added. ‘What’s the motive?’
‘Before we figure that out, we need to locate Santiago’s partner,’ Shepherd said. ‘Carlos Goya.’
‘If they whacked Santiago like this, I’d take a guess they’ve done the same to his friend,’ Hendricks said. ‘We might never find that son of a bitch. He’s probably been flushed down a plug hole already.’
‘Until we have proof of death, we have to assume he’s still alive,’ Shepherd replied.
‘Judging by what’s in that bathroom, Lister and her two friends don’t leave proof, Shep.’
During the exchange, Archer had gone quiet. As the others continued to debate what to do next, he swung round and walked back towards the bathroom, where the CSU investigator and a colleague had now pulled what was left of Santiago’s body out of the tub, dumping him straight into an open black body-bag to take him to the lab.
‘Was his phone in his pocket?’ Archer asked, covering his mouth from the fumes as he arrived at the doorway, deliberately not looking at what was lying on the plastic.
The investigator nodded, holding up a transparent tagged evidence bag with the remains of a black Nokia inside, the exterior whitened and eaten away. ‘It’s completely fried.’
‘What about the SIM card?’
The man looked at him for a moment; then he opened the bag and took out the mangled cell, turning it over and forcing off the rear case. Unclipping what was left of the battery, he reached inside and withdrew the SIM card, holding it up.
It looked relatively undamaged, like a pearl inside an oyster, protected by the shell, the last thing to dissolve.
‘Got a glove?’ Archer asked, opening up his own phone as Shepherd, Hendricks, Marquez and Josh stopped talking, his conversation with the CSU investigator catching their attention. The investigator passed him a spare.
Stepping out of the bathroom, Archer snapped it over his hand, took the SIM and slid it into his Nokia, pushing the battery back and turning the phone over.
‘C’mon,’ he muttered, pressing the power button.
Nothing happened.
Shaking the device, he tried again.
Again, nothing happened.
But then it switched on.
‘Son of a bitch,’ Josh whispered, watching as the phone took a few seconds to recognise the SIM before syncing with it.
‘No PIN or password?’ Palmer asked, peering over Marquez’ shoulder as she watched.
‘These guys use disposables,’ Archer said. ‘Ninety nine percent of the time, they don’t bother with passwords or PIN codes. They use them until they run out of credit then ditch them and buy another.’
Going to the recently made and received calls, Archer saw Santiago had made several to a number yesterday, a three week gap between them and the other most recently-called number seeing as the man had been serving time in prison. Showing the screen to Shepherd, Archer waited as the Sergeant pulled his own cell and called the Bureau, putting it on loudspeaker.
‘Ethan, I need you to check a number for me.’
‘Go ahead, sir.’
He read it out as the others waited.
‘One moment,’ he said, the sound of tapping keys coming down the line. ‘Searching.’
Pause.
‘Got it. It’s from a motel outside Scranton, Pennsylvania.’
‘Can you connect me to their police department?’
‘Yes, sir. Doing it right now.’
As the group waited, Shepherd looked at Hendricks and his team. ‘Ten bucks says it’s Carlos. He’s probably hiding out there, waiting for the heat on him to cool.’
Looking at what was left of Santiago’s body as it was zipped up in the black bag, the entire apartment stinking of lye, Archer didn’t reply.
If he and the other detectives had located Goya that quickly, no doubt Lister and her two friends could have done the same.
*
‘Shit!’ the smaller of the two killers shouted as he hit the steering wheel, the van roaring uptown through the dark East side streets. ‘They killed her, bro! They killed her!’
Beside him, his partner didn’t reply, finishing tapping a text message into his phone with hands shaking from anger as he gradually steadied his breathing after his escape from the apartment building. What had just happened was not only devastating but also a major problem. Lister had served time in San Diego, which meant her prints were still on file. The cops would know who she was by now, which meant for the first time in years they’d have a sniff of a trail. Once that happened, it was just a matter of time before shit went south, especially on a case involving cop-shooters.
For the first time in a very long time, the extermination team had made a mistake.
Trying to calm down and think clearly, the big guy stayed silent, waiting for a response to his message. Beside him, his partner saw the lights of a cop car reflected off a shop window ahead and swore. Spotting a sign, he suddenly turned a hard left and moved into an underground garage, pulling into an empty space.
Not wasting a second, the pair jumped out, the driver taking some fresh plates and starting to replace the old ones as the big guy opened up the back of their van and pulled out a jet-gun attached to a barrel of water. As his partner changed the plates the larger man turned the tap on the barrel for the jet-gun and then started spraying the outside of the van, the outer white layer peeling off from the force of water and revealing a black coat underneath.
As he worked he fought to st
ay cool, waiting for the buzz in his pocket indicating a reply to his text. Nina might have been killed but their work tonight was nowhere near finished.
And it meant they were going to need a hell of a lot more lye.
SIXTEEN
Law enforcement arrived at the Pennsylvania motel within eight minutes of Ethan and Shepherd making the call. Scranton PD had their own SWAT team and they descended on the site with military precision, the motel owner already pulled aside and being questioned as the place was surrounded, sharp-shooters covering every exit, the rest of the task force encircling the building.
Around the corner from the forecourt, the SWAT Sergeant was standing with the motel owner beside the police team’s truck, an iPad in his hands with Carlos Goya’s NYPD mug-shot on the screen.
‘This the guy?’
The man nodded. ‘That’s him. Room 5.’
‘How long’s he been here?’
‘Nine days.’
‘Last time you saw him?’
‘Yesterday.’
As officers covered the back window in case of an attempted escape, rifle scopes on every exit, one of them came to a halt beside the door, a stream of armed officers behind him poised to enter the room, weapons loaded, body armour and helmets in place.
The point man took the key they’d been given and slid it into the lock.
In one fast movement, he opened the door half a foot and the officer behind him pulled the pin on a stun grenade, tossing it into the room. Pulling the door back, he and the other officers covered up as the flash-bang detonated with a whump of light.
A beat later the point man smashed the door back and they poured into the room.
‘Police!’ they shouted, quickly clearing the space, searching for Carlos Goya.
There was no-one in the main room. The trash was full of empty food wrappers, beer cans and take-out containers, the bed sheets were messed up, all a sign that the occupant had been here for a while. The SWAT team ripped open the closet, upturned the bed and pushed back the bathroom door, checking every possible hiding place.