by Carmen Amato
Today Lt. Inocente had been moved to the head of the line. The body was laid out on a stainless steel table. Fresh cuts crisscrossed the body where the organs had been taken out. From a few feet away, with a surgical mask clamped firmly over her nose and mouth, Emilia watched Prade wrap up the autopsy. All she’d had to eat that day was coffee and cola. She was wired and lightheaded at the same time.
Prade nodded to his assistant to finish and walked over to Emilia. “I don’t have much for you.” He stripped off gloves and mask and dropped them into a lift-top trash can.
“That’s too bad,” Emilia said. “Everyone’s breathing down my neck. Wanting this wrapped up yesterday.”
“Why your neck?”
“Meet the new acting lieutenant,” Emilia told him. “Courtesy of the police union.”
“The union?”
“Specifically Victor Obregon Sosa.”
Prade raised unruly eyebrows and peered at her over his tortoise shell glasses. He was in his mid-fifties, with short brown hair and a wiry frame. His white lab coat was clean but unpressed and he wore a plaid shirt underneath it. Emilia respected him, not only for his obvious medical skill and dedication to a difficult job, but because he treated her as respectfully as he treated the male detectives. Moreover, he knew about the las perdidas list and always let her know when an unidentified woman passed through the morgue.
“You be careful around him,” Prade said. “He’s a powerful man.”
“He’s already let me know,” Emilia replied. “But what about Lt. Inocente?”
“Well, let’s see what we have here for you.” Prade led her to a long work counter at the narrow end of the examining room. He found a form with Fausto Inocente at the top. “Lt. Inocente died from a major blow to the head. Actually several.”
“Not shot?”
“No.” Prade wrote on the form. “No bullet wounds anywhere on the body. He was fit, in good shape. No sign of a struggle such as bruising on the body, scratches or blood or skin residue under the fingernails. Time of death probably around midnight or a little after.”
Emilia pulled out her notebook and wrote on the timeline. “The maid said he left the house around 10:00 pm.”
Prade shrugged. “So you have a limited time between the victim leaving his house and being bludgeoned to death. That should help pinpoint what happened.”
“Can you tell what he was hit with?” Emilia asked.
“The murder weapon was smooth, not jagged,” Prade said. “The plastic bag wasn’t punctured but was embedded in bone shards and brain matter.”
“What do you mean?” Emilia looked up from her notebook and her surgical mask shifted. “The bag was already on his head when he was hit?”
“From the way the loose plastic was caught up in the skull, I’d have to say yes,” Prade said. “The plastic bag was already on his head when he was struck with substantial force a number of times.”
“With something smooth.”
“Left no particulate on the bag or on his clothes,” Prade said. “From the indentations in the skull, I’d also say that the item was rounded, like a rolling pin. But in all honesty, the head was fairly fractured so I can’t be certain. Would you like to take a look?”
The body on the cold metal table was ten feet away. The lab-coated assistant was doing something with it. The head was tipped back oddly and the eyes were still open. Her stomach fluttered. “I trust you,” she said. “What about the clothing?”
“Nothing memorable. Nothing in the pockets. Blood residue on the clothing is his. Diluted with salt water, of course.”
“No keys, identification, anything like that?”
“No.” Prade continued to scribble on his form. “What else?”
Emilia was dying to get out of this room with its ghastly smells and cloying touch of death but he’d given her so little. “There were rounded metal handrails on the boat,” she said. “Could he have fallen?”
Prade looked at her. “Of course he could have fallen while boating with a bag on his head,” he said dryly. “Who wouldn’t?”
“I mean could he have fallen hard enough against a metal handrail to hurt himself that badly?” She was groping, she knew.
“Unlikely. I imagine for that to happen his head would had to be bounced repeatedly off the handrails.” Prade set down his pen. “With some force.”
“By someone.”
“Yes.” Prade bumped his glasses higher on his nose. “Was the body found near any of the handrails?”
“No.” Emilia admitted. “The body was found inside the cabin. Sprawled on the floor. Near the controls.”
“Hidden from view?”
“Yes, more or less.”
“All right,” Prade said. “I saved the best for last. He had a blood alcohol level that was elevated. But not by much. At the time of his death he wasn’t severely drunk. Also, he’d had sexual activity shortly before his death.”
“Sex?” The question came out a little too shrill.
“You think not with la señora?”
Emilia shook her head. “She’d gone out before he even got home from work.”
Prade smiled. “So maybe you need to check if he had a friend.”
“A lover’s quarrel?” That put an entirely new spin on things.
“Up to you to find out.” Prade consulted the form. “There was quite a bit of fresh semen on his underwear, suggesting that he hadn’t used a condom. At first I thought he might have been masturbating and put the bag on his head to restrict his airflow. Teenagers do it by hanging, aiming to ejaculate at the moment of near suffocation to heighten the experience. Unfortunately it often results in death by misadventure.”
Emilia pushed past the image of Lt. Inocente at the urinal to the equally disturbing image of Lt. Inocente pleasuring himself alone on his boat. “So maybe he . . . uh . . . had his moment with a bag on his head while he was on the boat,” Emilia said. “Suffocated and then fell against the handrail?”
“A man of his size and weight would not have been able to fall, even in a dead faint, hard enough to have damaged his skull to that extent.” Prade adjusted his reading glasses. “Also, his pants were buttoned but unzipped and the zipper was stuck in his underwear. If he’d suffocated during masturbation his penis would still be outside his underwear. He’d hardly pull up his drawers and close up his trousers, even partially, before he died.”
“We thought he might have been killed elsewhere and dumped on the boat,” Emilia said. “There were some bloodstains on the side that suggested the body being dumped or carried over the side.”
“If the bloodstains match up with his.” Prade looked toward the body and the stack of clothing next to it. “But I’m just a doctor. All I can verify is the blood alcohol level and the recent sexual activity, both of which could be totally unrelated to the manner of death.”
“Which was blunt force trauma with an unknown but smooth and rounded instrument.”
“Numerous blows made by an assailant standing behind and to one side,” Prade said. “Not too far away.”
“And he was struck after he had the plastic bag on his head.”
“Yes.”
“So,” Emilia said. “I guess that’s what I tell the mayor tomorrow.”
Prade signed the form. It was a multiple copy affair, with attached sheets of carbon paper. He rifled through the pages, extracted a yellow one and separated it from the rest of the form. “I can only tell you what the body tells me, Emilia. And you need to only say what will serve your purpose. There is someone out there who knows why Fausto Inocente was killed, and with what, and they’ll be judging to see what kind of adversary you are.”
A small bell tinkled in another part of the building. Emilia realized that the assistant was sewing up the cut down the length of Lt. Inocente’s body. The head was now encased in clear plastic, no doubt to keep what was left of the contents from spilling out. Two more assistants wheeled in a new naked body.
“Solve this cas
e fast, Emilia,” Prade said. “We’re running out of room.”
“Again? We haven’t had a big shooting or accident lately.”
Prade shook his head and lifted his chin in the direction of the examination table. “We’re taking in bodies from a cartel ambush in Ixtapa,” he said.
“They have a morgue.”
“Civil society is under attack. Even a coroner isn’t exempt.” Prada indicated the man on the table. “Professional courtesy. We don’t have time for the others.”
Prade slid off his stool and Emilia reluctantly followed him over to the new corpse. The man’s mouth was swathed in rings of silver duct tape. Hands and feet were bound with the tape as well, the skin pulled taut. Emilia counted four bullet holes in the chest before she was abruptly seized with dry heaves.
☼
Emilia sat at her own desk in the squadroom and quickly typed up her notes from the meeting with Bruno and Rita Inocente. It was 6:00 pm and the place was deserted. The clack of the computer keys sounded extraordinarily loud.
Silvio had done a good job with the murder board. The entire side wall had been transformed into a battle center, with space to add additional pictures and pin up new facts on yellow cards kept for that purpose. Emilia had added the details from the coroner’s report: approximate time of death, semen on his underwear, no gunshot wounds but death by blunt trauma while head in a plastic bag. Pictures of the body, including the smashed head, were taped to the top of the wall along with photos of the blood pattern on the boat. Emilia printed out a picture of Bruno Inocente from the Seguros Guerrero website and taped it to the side.
The hotline was staffed by two uniforms in a small room upstairs. Emilia had come back to the squadroom to find a typed note on el teniente’s desk chair with the hotline number and a bulleted list of how the number would be advertised. A public service announcement would run on two local television channels and there would be a notice in the major newspapers for the next three days and a banner on the Acapulco police website. Flyers were being printed up with a picture of el teniente in happier days and instructions to call the hotline number if the reader had any information as to the man’s whereabouts last night.
Silvio knew his stuff, Emilia thought grudgingly. It would have taken her a week to work through the bureaucratic hurdles and get all that together. As it was, she wasn’t sure she’d get el teniente’s phone records any time soon, although the pictures had made an impression on the telecommunications office.
She checked her watch at 6:10 pm. She finished the report and hit the send button.
Rico and Fuentes walked in at 6:30 pm.
“A shit day,” Rico announced as he flung his jacket onto his desk. “How many people did we talk to, Fuentes?”
The younger detective opened a bottle of water and downed half before speaking. “We talked to 37 people.”
“All at the hotel?” Emilia came to stand by Rico’s desk.
“And nobody saw shit except the two who found the boat drifting.” Rico smirked at her. “Did you know Rucker and the French guy are training for a triathlon? Rucker did Ironman last year.”
Emilia didn’t take the bait. “So nobody in that entire hotel, with all those windows facing the ocean, saw that boat last night?”
“Nope.”
“What about hotel security? Who works at the hotel marina?” Emilia had a hard time concealing her disappointment.
Fuentes read from a notebook. “Palacio Réal’s marina locks down at 11:00 pm when the dinner cruise comes back. There’s a night guard, works a 12-hour shift starting at 8:00 pm. Night shift guard has to make sure all the boats get gassed up ready for the next day and secure them for the night. After that he’s supposed to walk the pier every 30 minutes. Other than that he’s got a fancy guardhouse and a television.” Fuentes shrugged. “It’s a pretty simple arrangement.”
Emilia looked at her watch. “You say the night shift guard got off at 8:00 this morning? So you didn’t talk to him?”
“No,” Rico replied acidly. “I’m going back later.”
Fuentes flipped a page in his notebook. “We also need to talk to a repair technician who was there late last night working on one of the boats. Not a hotel employee, but from a maintenance company they use.” He put down his notebook and settled in front of his computer. “A lot of money in those boats.”
“They’ve got a head of security,” Rico growled. “Used to be some flash detective in Monterrey. So he said. Kept on us like white on rice.”
Emilia grinned. “Maybe he didn’t want you scaring the hotel guests.”
“Hell, he could do that himself.” Rico waggled a finger at her. “Did you know they’ve got a fleet of security? All disguised as bellhops in flowered shirts.”
“So what was this security guy’s name? We might need to go back there.”
Rico flipped her a card and Emilia just managed to snatch it out of the air. He hadn’t yet made eye contact with her.
“So are you the only ones coming?” Emilia asked.
“We talked to Gomez and Castro. They didn’t have shit on the wife’s alibi, either.”
“Did you tell them you’d pass that on?” Emilia felt herself beginning to steam. Castro and Gomez had probably passed the afternoon in a bar.
“Yeah.” Rico knew her well enough to recognize the clipped tone but this time he didn’t seem to care. “Told them to head out, we’d come here.”
“He wasn’t shot?” This was from Fuentes as he read text on his computer screen. “The coroner said he wasn’t shot.”
“No,” Emilia said. “He wasn’t.” She gave them the short version of what Prado had found.
“So sex, plastic bag fun, head cracked like a melon, dumped on the boat,” Rico summarized.
Emilia nodded. “That’s the working theory.”
“You like the brother for it?” Fuentes walked over to the murder board.
Emilia shrugged. She’d felt sympathy toward Bruno and Rita Inocente but that didn’t mean there couldn’t be something there. “There were some hard things going on between el teniente and his brother.” She recounted the conversation in the house in Las Brisas. As soon as she mentioned the gambling debts Rico snorted. “We’ll need to follow up,” Emilia went on. “I’ll look into their alibis and you check out--.”
“We’ll look at the business and the gambling shit,” Rico interrupted her.
“Okay.” Emilia nodded, not sure if he was coming back to her side or not. “Bruno said they’d sold off some assets to pay off el teniente’s gambling debts to the El Pharaoh casino a while ago. Maybe he owed big money to somebody else again.”
“And they came to collect.” Rico finally looked at her and she knew he was thinking the same thing she was. Or maybe he paid with funny money. “Always wanted to see what the inside of the El Pharaoh looks like.”
Rico’s eyes flicked to Fuentes, who was now by the murder board, in a silent warning. Emilia gave an imperceptible nod. “I’ll let the mayor know we’re following up with what we have so far,” Emilia said. “I’m supposed to brief her tomorrow.”
Fuentes came back to Emilia and Rico “You sure you don’t want me to go back to the hotel with you, Portillo?”
“Head on home, kid,” Rico said.
The younger detective slapped Rico on the shoulder, nodded to Emilia, and turned off his computer and desk lamp. He collected his jacket and left.
Rico stayed where he was.
Emilia waited. The squadroom felt dim and over-used. The smell of sweat and stale coffee lingered.
“Talking to people in that hotel was a waste,” Rico finally said. “He kidnapped that kid. Everything I’ve got says his death connects back to that and the stinking money.”
“I know,” Emilia said.
“Somebody got him for it. Or those folks who had the money in the car. Who were they?”
“The Hudsons. From Arizona.”
“The gambling and his brother are long shots.”
“Maybe he kidnapped the kid to use the ransom to pay off his gambling debts.”
“You think he didn’t know the ransom was counterfeit?”
“I think he knew it was fake,” Emilia said. “Otherwise he wouldn’t have given us so much. But maybe he didn’t know it until after he’d already given the boy away.”
“So he pays his debt,” Rico started to pace. “Knowing the money is fake. Thinks he’s tricked the casino or the bookie or whoever. They find out and off him.”
Emilia nodded. “Let’s start there.”
Rico rubbed his eyes. “You know who’d be good to talk to?”
“Who?”
“Ruiz. The driver.”
Emilia gave a wry smile. “Sure.”
Rico grinned back and for a moment they were partners again.
The phone rang in el teniente’s office, making Emilia jump. Rico sat at his desk.
Emilia went into the office and answered the phone with her usual “Detective Cruz.”
“Cruz?” a gruff voice queried. “You have an appointment with the chief in 15 minutes.”
“What?” Emilia glanced at her watch.
“There’s a VIP parking space saved for you,” the voice went on. “Be there at 8:30 sharp.” The connection broke.
“Madre de Dios,” Emilia swore under her breath.
“Obregon?” Rico asked as Emilia ran back to her desk.
“Chief Salazar,” she said over her shoulder as she grabbed her bag and ran out.
☼
“So you’re Cruz.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chief of Police Enrique Salazar Robelo had given Emilia her detective badge in the graduation ceremony two years ago. Grudgingly, she supposed. He’d aged since then, lines etched deep into a narrow face with a hawkish nose and a shiny hairless head. He looked like an old sepia portrait of a Spanish don.
“Victor Obregon says you’re my best detective.”
“Señor Obregon is very kind, sir,” Emilia said. “But there are more senior detectives who would make a better replacement for Lt. Inocente.”
Salazar Robelo looked vaguely annoyed.
“Like Franco Silvio,” Emilia said.