Look the Other Way

by Leigh Jones

Ever the politician, Kate thought.

  “But as Mr. Price said, if we don’t get our spending under control and end up having to raise taxes, everyone will pay. And higher property taxes will just discourage businesses from moving here. That’s the one thing we don’t want to do—scare off potential employers.”

  Hanes leaned forward, his hands clasped in front of him, and looked intently at the audience.

  “I’m sympathetic to the police union’s position, but they simply can’t continue to hold this city hostage with threats of lawlessness. Galveston is very different than it was 20 years ago. The drug dealers and gangs are gone. It’s a safe place to raise a family. We deeply value our law enforcement officers and the contributions they make to our safety. But no one needs to live in fear here.”

  Right, Kate thought. Tell that to the girl laying in the morgue, whose killer was still on the loose.

  Chapter 6

  Kate woke with a start to the clang of a garbage truck scooping up the dumpster beside her building. She’d quit grumbling about the weekly pickup months ago, but she hadn’t yet learned how to sleep through it. She didn’t need to look at her alarm clock to know it was about 5 a.m. The garbage truck came at the same time every Tuesday. Normally, she managed to fall back asleep, but today she lay looking at the ceiling long after the truck rumbled down the street.

  She stretched her arm out and felt the depression where Brian, her boyfriend of just a few months, had been sleeping an hour earlier. He had only stayed over a few times, and she still wasn’t used to waking up to him there. The first night she lay beside him, she never really fell asleep. The memory of his arms around her and his throaty laugh kept dragging her back to consciousness.

  Brian had been a surprise. Focused, dependable, easy-going. A doctor. He wasn’t the kind of guy she gravitated to. She only said yes the first time he asked her out because she wanted her ex-boyfriend to see she wasn’t fatally wounded by his defection to a sleek Brazilian waitress.

  Brian sent her flowers the next day and called that night to see if she was free the following weekend. She said yes because she didn’t want to go out alone and bump into her ex. But by the end of the night, Brian had started to reel her in. They spent two and a half hours over dinner swapping work stories. He watched her with intense blue eyes as she railed against the island’s vicious local politics. She laughed so hard she cried when he recounted some of the bizarre cases that came into the UTMB emergency room.

  And now? Kate frowned into the darkness. She was not in love. She had managed to avoid that so far in every relationship, and she saw no reason to fall apart now. Love was messy, dangerous and inevitably painful. But something drew her to Brian. He was easy to be around, and she felt no pressure from him to give more, do more, or be more. He seemed to take her in without any expectations, just enjoying the ride. Most men she’d dated tried to tame her or break into her emotional fortress. Brian seemed content for now to walk around the walls, although Kate suspected he was feeling for cracks. She planned to cut him loose before he found any.

  Giving up on going back to sleep, Kate rolled over and turned on the police scanner sitting on the floor next to the bed. The light banter scattered across the scratchy airwaves focused mostly on the upcoming shift change and breakfast options. Empanadas from the panaderia on Broadway were winning out over burritos from the taqueria just a few blocks down.

  As she had almost every morning for the last two weeks, Kate thought about the still unidentified Fish Village murder victim. The case had gone completely cold, and she had never seen Johnson so morose. The lines creasing his forehead looked like they were becoming permanent. She’d heard of police officers sinking into depression or becoming obsessed over that one case that got away. She hoped Johnson wasn’t having an early breakdown.

  It had taken her a week to bring herself to apologize for accusing him of keeping information from her.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he’d said, staring at the painting on his office wall.

  “Really...” she began, not exactly sure how to convey how sorry she truly was.

  After an uncomfortably long pause, he finally looked at her and managed a grimace that seemed intended for a smile.

  “It’s ok, really,” he said. “I know you’re just doing your job. And I’m trying to do mine.”

  The complete lack of progress on the case was eating him alive.

  Now another week had passed, and still no tips, no leads, no answers. Kate was just starting to replay the facts of the case in her mind when the scanner crackled to life with a new urgency.

  “All units in the vicinity of 54th Street, respond to a 10-54,” the dispatcher said in a dispassionate monotone. “The caller says you should look about 10 yards up the alley.”

  Kate was on her feet and pulling on a shirt before the first unit acknowledged the call. A 10-54 sometimes meant an old lady had died in her sleep. But since old ladies rarely slept in allies, even in Galveston, Kate was pretty sure this call would turn into a good story.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  The putrid stench of rotting garbage punched the back of Johnson’s throat, making him gag as he climbed out of his car. An unpaved alley stretched out in front of him. A pile of old tires, waist-high weeds and overflowing garbage cans broke up what should have been a clear view to the next street. One naked bulb shining over the back door of a rundown house offered the only weak light in the otherwise dark corridor. In a house behind him, a small dog yapped incessantly.

  For the last few weeks, Johnson had reviewed the details of the Fish Village murder at least three times every day. He took the thin case file home with him at night, poring over the notes in hopes something new would jump out. The longing to find the killer filled him with a restless energy that had no outlet. He took his dogs for long runs on the beach after work and spent mornings at the police gym, straining his muscles against weights he could barely lift. He fell into bed each night exhausted, but still the nameless victim’s vacant stare burned into his mind and made it hard to fall asleep. Her eyes had taken on a hint of accusation that filled his fitful dreams with an unquenchable helplessness. He woke up tired and angry.

  He thought this battle was long over. Hadn’t he conquered the belief that he needed to right wrongs in order to find peace? He knew the righteousness at the end of that road was a mirage. The water in that desert would never quench his thirst. But his heart still longed to drink anyway.

  This morning’s call over the scanner had given him a jolt of hope. He assumed immediately the body in the alley was a murder victim. If the cases shared a connection, his stalled investigation might finally get some traction. If they didn’t, at least he’d have a new victim who needed justice, something to keep his mind off the other case.

  “Let’s get some light in there,” he yelled.

  Three patrol cars had arrived at the scene before him. The driver of the one closest to the alley entrance repositioned his cruiser so the headlights flooded the narrow lane. The body lay about 20 paces in. Johnson pulled a flashlight out of his glove box and walked toward the victim. He had fallen on his side, facing toward the far street. At first, Johnson thought he was lying next to a pothole filled with water from the previous day’s afternoon downpour. But when he got closer, he could see the shiny puddle stretching out behind the victim’s head was dark red.

  “Well, he’s definitely dead,” Johnson muttered with a shudder.

  Shining his flashlight around the body, he could see scuff marks in the damp dirt. It looked like the victim had struggled with his attacker briefly before succumbing to the fatal blow. When Johnson stepped around the body to get a view of the man’s face, he saw right away what had killed him. A dark, jagged gash cut across his neck, just below his Adam’s apple.

  “A slasher. You don’t see that too often,” said the officer who had followed Johnson into the alley.

  The detective nodded absently as he examined the man’s clothes—jeans, flip flops and a T-s
hirt Johnson recognized. The slogan on front declared him a proud supporter of the Ball High football team. At least he probably wouldn’t be hard to identify, a relief despite the pain of notifying the family.

  Looking back to the street, Johnson could see a crowd already gathering behind the crime scene tape the other officers had stretched across the alley entrance. The sky had started to lighten, and as soon as the inky pre-dawn faded into the pale blue of a perfect summer morning, they’d be able to see everything. Flashing red lights announced the ambulance’s arrival. Once they confirmed the death, dispatch would send the coroner. In the meantime, the paramedics would cover the body. Signaling for the officer to stay in the alley, Johnson walked back to the street. He told one of the other officers standing guard to call in reinforcements to help interview everyone who lived nearby and all the people gathered to catch a glimpse of the action. Chances were, someone knew the victim.

  Locals referred to the blocks between 57th Street and 39th Street as “Little Mexico.” It was a tight-knit community of blue collar families. Most of the houses had peeling paint and bare yards. The cars in the driveways and on the street had shiny rims. On most Sundays, plaintive yet festive Tejano ballads punctuated by wheezing accordions filled the warm afternoons. Officers had walked this very block just two weeks ago, knocking on doors in an attempt to find someone who knew the girl from Fish Village. Now they’d have to do it all over again.

  Glancing at the crowd, Johnson noticed Kate, notebook in hand, already interviewing potential witnesses. Her light brown hair was pulled back in a ponytail, accentuating her high cheekbones and grey eyes. Her round face and little, upturned nose made her look soft and girlish, quite a contrast to the determined and often caustic woman Johnson had come to grudgingly admire. Cursing softly, he walked toward her. When she saw him, she cut short her conversation with a middle-aged woman wearing an apron over a garish, hot pink mumu and met him at the yellow tape barrier.

  “They’re all wondering who it is,” she said. “They’re half afraid and half hopeful it’s someone they know.”

  Johnson smiled, his first genuine expression of amusement in weeks. He knew exactly what she meant. No one wanted a murder victim in the family. But people who knew someone who died earned an extra, if temporary, measure of importance in the community. They would be at the center of the gossip, sharing details perhaps no one else could. Neighbors would ask them questions at the corner store and the hair salon. They would be pitied almost as much as the grieving family. They had known the victim personally, after all.

  “I don’t have much to tell you yet, but stick around and I’ll see what I can do,” Johnson said.

  He expected an argument, but Kate just nodded and wandered off to talk to more of the neighbors. The cloudless sky overhead now radiated an almost colorless light, the last gasp of night. About 15 blocks to the east, an orange sliver would just be visible above the muddy Gulf of Mexico. Now that neighbors could see the growing police presence, Johnson expected the crowd of onlookers to grow.

  More squad cars pulled up, giving the detective enough manpower to shut off the block and start asking questions. He had just gathered a few officers into a huddle at the alley entrance when he heard raised voices coming from the end of the street. The officer stationed at the corner to keep anyone from entering or leaving the block was arguing with a woman waving her hands wildly and speaking in rapid Spanish. Although he couldn’t make out what she was saying, Johnson could hear the urgency and terror in her voice. She looked nothing like the half hopeful gadflies hanging around to see whether they knew the victim. It was obvious this woman carried the crushing weight of the conviction that she did.

  Johnson waved at the officer to let her through. His stomach churned with growing dismay as she ran full tilt toward the alley. The crowd parted to let her through. She stopped when she got to the crime scene tape.

  “Julian!” she wailed as one of the older women in the crowd put a comforting arm around her shoulders. “Mi Dios! Julian!”

  She started to rock forward and backward, tears streaming down her cheeks. The crowd closed in around her, forming a protective cluster. She never took her eyes off the body, now covered with a sheet. When Johnson approached her, the older woman spoke first.

  “This is Muriel Costa. Her husband is Julian.” At the mention of her husband’s name, Muriel Costa let out another loud wail.

  “Mrs. Costa, I’m Detective Peter Johnson. We haven’t identified the victim yet. What makes you think it’s your husband?”

  The inconsolable woman just shook her head and moaned. The older woman rubbed her back while she tried to catch her breath. Johnson suddenly had the feeling she was trying to figure out what to say.

  “I...I...can’t find him,” she finally managed. “I don’t know where he is, and he won’t answer his cell phone. Mi Dios!” she exclaimed, breaking into sobs again.

  Johnson hadn’t stopped to check the man’s pockets for a wallet or identification. He motioned for two of the officers to follow him back down the alley. The paramedics stood a little to the side. At Johnson’s signal, they carefully lifted the sheet covering the body, angling it toward the crowd to screen the view. He took a pair of gloves from one of the officers and tugged them on as he crouched down. He pulled a wallet out of the man’s back pocket. The leather was shiny and dark with use. Johnson flipped it open and stared at the ID.

  The paramedics slowly lowered the sheet when Johnson stood up. Holding the wallet in his hand, he walked back toward the crowd. The tightness in his chest made it hard to take a deep breath. As soon as she could see his face, Muriel Costa began to wail again.

  “No, no, no, no, no,” she cried, shaking her head and trying to break free from the arms encircling her shoulders.

  “I’m so sorry...” Johnson said thickly. He could feel a tingling behind his eyes. His constricting throat cut off the rest of what he intended to say. It didn’t seem to matter anyway.

  When he looked away from the grieving widow, he caught Kate’s eye. She held her notebook up to her face, covering her mouth. Her nostrils flared as her wide eyes absorbed the human tragedy unfolding just a few feet away. He was used to her detached nonchalance. This naked horror was new. Just like police officers, reporters shielded their hearts with a hard shell of cynicism and distance. But sometimes, other people’s suffering broke through with soul-shattering force.

  As Johnson started to turn away, he noticed Kate wiping the corner of her eye with trembling fingers.

  Dock worker murdered

  Man found just four blocks from home with his throat cut

  By Kate Bennett

  Galveston police are investigating the second murder in as many weeks after finding a body in an alley between 54th and 53rd streets early Tuesday morning.

  Neighborhood residents identified the victim as Julian Costa, 27, a longshoreman who lived with his wife and three small children about four blocks away.

  Investigators say Costa’s throat was cut. They have not identified any suspects but are interviewing the man’s family, friends, and co-workers in hopes of finding out what he was doing in his final hours.

  The victim’s wife, Muriel Costa, was among those who gathered at the scene as dawn broke. Although police had not even checked the victim for identification, Costa seemed convinced the dead man was her husband.

  Between sobs, she said she had been unable to reach her husband on his cell phone. But she gave no other explanation for how she knew he was dead or where his body would be.

  She was too distraught to speak to investigators at the scene. Det. Peter Johnson said he expected to interview the widow in the next few days.

  According to neighbors, Julian Costa was a Galveston native who graduated from Ball High School and went to work at the port almost immediately.

  “He’s a hard worker, and he loves his family,” said Violetta Martinez, who lives less than a block from the crime scene and knows the family. “They have a little
baby too, pobrecito. And they go to mass regular. What’s she going to do, his poor wife?”

  Pedro Briones, who went to high school with Costa, said he had never known the victim to be in any kind of trouble.

  “He was a nice guy, quiet,” Briones said. “That’s it. It’s a damn shame. I hope they catch whoever did this.”

  Tim Hammond, head of the dock workers union, described Costa as a hard worker who was good at his job. He did not seem like the type to get into trouble or be involved in anything that would get him killed, Hammond said.

  “We will miss him on the waterfront, but I feel most for the family,” Hammond said. “This young woman must now raise her three children all alone. That’s a very vulnerable position to be in.”

  Although investigators don’t yet have a lead on Costa’s murderer, they are likely to have more clues in this case than they did in the island’s last homicide. The young woman found shot to death in Fish Village two weeks ago remains unidentified.

  Investigators have no reason to suspect the two cases are connected, Johnson said.

  “But obviously we will look into that as a possibility,” he said. “Nothing is impossible at this point.”

  Chapter 7

  Johnson looked down at his feet and took a deep breath before knocking on the white metal door. The clapboard house, once a soft apricot, had faded to a dingy beige in the unrelenting summer sun and salt-crusted air. The front door had muddy smears just below the knob, at about the height of a five year old. In the flowerbed flanking the porch, Johnson noticed a small red bucket next to a yellow plastic shovel, the kind parents bought their kids to take to the beach. Just a few feet away sat two dark green plastic chairs shaded by the canopy of a big oak tree. He imagined Muriel Costa sitting in one of the chairs, watching her children play after they came home from school. He wondered how long it would be before she could sit there again and smile with genuine joy.

  The small boy who opened the door didn’t say a word. He just looked up at the detective with a solemn expression, sizing him up. His red shirt and khaki shorts were clean but faded, a sure sign of hand-me-downs. His soft brown hair had a slight wave, and in the back, one piece curled up, sticking out from the rest. On any other day, Johnson guessed the boy might be mischievous. He held the child’s gaze for a few heartbeats before smiling hesitantly. He was about to ask his name when an older woman appeared in the doorway behind him. The detective recognized Violetta Martinez from the previous morning’s crime scene. Putting a gentle but firm hand on the boy’s shoulder, she steered him back into the house, opened the door wider and motioned for the detective to come inside.