A Forest of Corpses (7 page)

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62

A Forest of Corpses

by P. A. Brown

I was late next morning. My fault. I had kept Jason in shackles for what turned out to be nearly two hours, proving once more that what he did to me was far beyond what any other man had ever done. We had collapsed on our double bed well after midnight not waking up until the phone dragged me out of bed, long after the alarm would have gone off. Jason mumbled and burrowed back under the warm covers while I sat on the side of the bed, trying to shake sleep off as the voice on the other end went on about how much I really needed new aluminum siding for my house. It was a measure of my half-awake state that I didn't hang up on the jerk for a full minute.

"Whassat?" Jason slurred and winced when he cranked one eye open and peered at me over his pillow. "It can't be time to get up."

"Fraid so." I pulled the covers off his shrinking body, barely pausing to admire his trim, hairless form. "We have to hurry. We're both running late."

He groaned but did as I ordered. We shared a shower to speed things up, kissed at the front door then dashed to our respective cars. I broke a few speed limits on the way in to the station. Both Miguel and Nancy were already there, and I thought I caught a knowing smirk from Nancy before I buried my head in the pile of reports on my desk.

"We need to find Momo," I said shortly.

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"I agree," Miguel said. "I put a BOLO out on her this morning. Patrols are looking for her as we speak."

"Good." I filled him in on my speculations of the day before.

"Racially motivated hits?" Miguel looked troubled. "I've heard of it happening in L.A. but not here."

"I guess some things are too good to keep to themselves."

I knew I sounded cynical, but after nearly a decade of being a cop I'd seen enough to make anyone a cynic.

I transcribed the field reports from our conversations with Hardy and the nameless woman, then I pulled up the chrono report I'd started the first day of Simpson's murder. This covered everything Miguel and I had done from the original 911 call, including my wildest speculations on why the crime happened, right up to this morning's entry. Most such speculations turned out to be false leads, but every so often something would spark, and I'd find the trail that would lead me to a killer. I thought I might be on that trail now. Part of me hoped I was wrong, but that was the part that still believed in basic human goodness. For the most that had been beaten out of me by reality.

I finished up and added the pages to the murder book, pausing to look over the crime scene photos again. One close-up shot clearly showed the pair of entry points where the .25

caliber rounds had penetrated Simpson's head. The picture was so clear I could make out the dark stippling around the entrance wound that meant the weapon had been held only inches from the target. Whoever had shot Simpson had wanted to make sure the job was done. It spoke of a cold 64

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calculation. Simpson must have known what was happening to him. Had he understood it? Had they taunted him before the execution? I tried to envision the faces of the attackers. I didn't have a handle on them yet, but I was getting closer. I went back to studying the autopsy report.

Faint ligature marks on Simpson's wrists suggested he'd been restrained, probably with hands. So what did that mean? Two men? Three? Simpson wasn't a small man, he might have been old and scrawny, but I suspect he put up a struggle at the end. So my guess was three men, two holding him in place, and the shooter. I thought of the bangers Miguel and I had chased off the other day, the ones we had ID'd when we returned to the station. Would any of them be capable of such a heartless murder? At least two of them had jackets full of violence and assaults, with and without deadly weapons. So my guess was, yes, they were more than capable.

Fideo hadn't been among them, but that didn't mean he didn't know what his posse was up to. I could safely bet my pension he knew everything his barrio brothers did.

Back on my computer I pulled up our crime database. I also dug up Fideo's rap sheet. Looking over his KAs, I found a slew of other bangers. Some of his known associates had their own paper, some didn't. I could give them the benefit of the doubt and figure they were clean, or be realistic and guess they just hadn't been caught. I found a list of likely suspects and printed copies of all of them. When that was done I glanced over at Miguel.

"Want to talk to some
cholos
?"

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"You find something?"

I grabbed my jacket off the back of my chair. "I'll tell you on the way."

I'd printed out an extra copy of the chrono and handed it to him once we signed out a car and were heading to the first address. My gang expert had ID'd the most violent of the Eastside bangers as a shot caller. The man who gave orders.

Before we went door knocking, I turned to Miguel. "Your Spanish is a lot better than mine. Jump in whenever you want. We can't force anyone to talk, we don't have enough for warrants or probable cause, but we may be able to spook something out of them." I glanced down at the printouts in my hand. "I want to tackle the younger brother first. He's been in a lot less trouble and may not be as familiar with the system. If we can rattle his cage, he may drop a few tidbits we can use on the older sibling. In fact..." I tapped my finger on my upper lip. "Why don't you take him? I'll keep his older brother..." I looked at the jacket, "Ramiro, occupied."

"How do you want me to handle him?"

"Play on his ego. Ask him what he and his homies have been up to. Make him feel like an important part of the set.

Ask him if he got jumped in yet, like you're jealous. He's only fourteen, his machismo is stoked, so stroke him; he might buy that from you. Don't just listen to his answers, watch him. Take it for granted he's lying about everything. Ask him the same question two or three different ways. People always make their lies way too complicated to remember them for long. Watch his body, it'll tell you when he's lying for sure.

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The eyes can be a dead giveaway. Watch the position of his legs. If he looks like he wants to bolt, you're getting to him."

"Yes, sir."

"Then let's go nail us some...bangers." I'd been about to say assholes, but that might not sit well with my straight-laced, younger partner. "And drop the sir. We're equals out here, and if you carry that stuffy military attitude in there, you might as well wear a target."

"Yes, s—ah, Detective Spider."

He still sounded like a raw academy boot. I let it go. It would come in time, or it wouldn't. He was the master of that decision.

It took less than ten minutes to reach the first address.

The streets were a mix of well cared for Spanish-style, white-walled homes and a few rundown three-story walk-ups.

Statistically at least one of them would be a grow-op and there'd be a meth lab in the 'hood, too. There weren't too many neighborhoods these days that didn't have one or the other. We climbed out of the Crown. I checked the pancake holster under my left armpit, verified its accessibility then glanced at Miguel, who nodded. Together we approached the immaculate, green-trimmed stucco bungalow. A pair of potted orange and red flowering plants flanked the steel-barred door. My gaze restlessly scanned the front of the house, watching for some sign we'd been spotted. No flutter of curtains, no curious eyes peering out, no glint of a metal barrel taking aim on us. Nothing on the street but vehicles.

No black Escalades in sight, though.

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We took up places on either side of the door. I rapped on the wood and announced ourselves. "Santa Barbara police.

Open up."

Nothing. I listened, then knocked again. Harder.

"
Es la policia,
" Miguel called.

Feet scuffled on the other side of the door. I felt Miguel tense, taking a step back, freeing his gun hand. I did the same and we were both rigid with watchful tension when the door cracked open enough to let a thin female face peer through.

"
Quien es? Que quiere?
"

"
Es la policia, Senora,"
Miguel said. "
Necesitamas hablar
con usted por favor.
"

"
No, por favor vallanse, no puedo hablar...
"

"
Senora, tine que, no nos vamos a ir, hasta que
hablemos.
"

"
Dejenos!
"

When Miguel told her to come out and talk to us, she shouted to leave them alone.
Not going to happen, lady.

"
Senora, no puedo hacer eso.
" Miguel spoke softly. Only I could see the tension in him, his feet planted firmly, hands not on his service weapon, but ready to act in a split second decision.

"You have to talk to us,
Senora,
" I added, as though saying it in English was going to make her more amenable.

But without probable cause to enter the place, we needed her to come outside. We didn't even know if any one of the sons we were looking for was inside.

Then the matter was solved for us.

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From inside the house a door slammed shut and the woman's eyes went wide and she darted a look behind her, her face blanching. "
No, ese...
"

"
Senora...
"

We all heard the commotion in the back of the house a minute later. A deep-throated barking was barely interrupted by a string of Spanish curses.

Miguel beat me around to the backyard, arriving seconds before I got there. Definitely needed more exercise. We found a heavily tattooed Hispanic man halfway over a beaten down wooden fence. His legs dangled on the other side. He'd been trying to climb back. The hundred pound Rottweiler in the yard next door had foiled his escape. It clamped jaws the size of dinner plates around the guy's ankle and was dragging him over to the other side. He saw us and his curses grew more violent. When he fumbled in his belt I shouted and dropped into a shooter's stance.

"Don't even think about it, asshole," I yelled.

They never listen. He pulled a silver plated revolver out of his waistband, but instead of aiming it at us, he pointed the barrel down at the dog.

"Don't!" I screamed seconds before a shot split the air. The dog yelped and Miguel dragged the shooter off the fence, laying him out on the ground where he kicked the gun out of his hand, and slapped cuffs on the still cursing man's wrists.

He hauled him upright and slammed him against the fence that rocked under the combined weight of the two of them on one side and the hysterical dog on the other.

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Cursing and struggling, he wasn't giving up. Miguel shoved him again. "Shut up or I'll toss you over there, and let Fido finish the job."

I had to admire my partner's quick wits. The cuffed guy subsided into sullen silence and glared at both of us under the dome of his tattooed, hairless head. Movement near the back door drew me around, Beretta still in hand, to find the woman we had talked to earlier standing in the doorway. There was a worried look on her lined face that already bore a lot of worrylines.

"Don't hurt him, officers. He's a good boy—"

We ignored her as we hauled the disarmed 'good boy' past her into the house we had tried to enter earlier. She trailed after us, wringing her hands. "Are you arresting him? You can't arrest him, he hasn't done anything."

I made a quick study of the visible parts of the house.

Nothing suggesting illegal activity, but we'd have to wait for the warrant to search deeper. In sharp contrast to what Miguel and I were there for, the house was inviting and homey. The rich smell of cooking meats and sharp spices filled the small space. The stovetop was covered with simmering pots and pans.

Miguel shoved his arrestee down onto a sofa and began to list off the charges, first in Spanish, then in English,

"Resisting, carrying a concealed weapon and if I'm guessing right, a non-registered weapon—if you're still on parole that compounds those charges—discharging a weapon, assault of a police officer, animal cruelty...that'll do for starters. I'm 70

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sure we can add more as we go along. Where's Antonio, Ramiro?"

"He not here," Ramiro said sullenly.

I stepped up beside Miguel and leaned over, planting my arms on either side of Ramiro's head. He flinched back from me. "Where is he,
cholo
?"

His sullenness grew. "
No mames. Vete a la verga.
"

I was in his face. "You kiss your mother with that mouth,
pendejo
?"

He tossed out a few more choice curses, leaving Miguel with a flaming face and an angry set to this mouth. We were marching him out to our vehicle for transportation back to the station for booking when a teenage boy appeared out of a back room.

"Antonio," his mother cried. "
Ese, vuelva a su cuarto.

The younger son ignored her just like the older one had.

He stared at us, his hostility ratcheting up until I knew he was going to do something stupid.

"No lo haga, el nino,"
Miguel spoke softly, his hand tightening on Ramiro's cuffed wrists. I could see he was getting jumpy. "Stand down,
ese
."

Antonio opened his mouth to tell both of us where to get off. This time his mother took direct action. She latched onto the kid's ear so hard I swear I heard cartilage pop. Antonio yelped and tried to pull away, but she hung on grimly. Ramiro started struggling again, and I was tempted to ask her to take him in hand, but he subsided after a couple of sharp tugs on his handcuffed hands.