An Inconsequential Murder
An Inconsequential Murder
By Rodolfo Peña
Copyright 2010 by Rodolfo Peña and Untreed Reads Publishing
Cover Copyright 2010 by Dara England and Untreed Reads Publishing
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This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.
An Inconsequential Murder
By Rodolfo Peña
Contents
Part 1: Day 1
Chapter 1: Victor Disappears
Chapter 2: The Dead Young Man
Chapter 3: The Three Foreigners and the Car
Chapter 4: The Governor Gets a Phone Call and Makes a Phone Call
Chapter 5: A Meeting at the University
Chapter 6: Clues in the Parking Lot
Chapter 7: Lombardo Visits a Laboratory
Chapter 8: A Home Like a Hole in the Ground
Chapter 9: The Computer Center, Again
Chapter 10: A Not Too Religious Meeting at “The Church”
Part 2: Day 2
Chapter 11: A Visit to the Medical Examiner’s Office
Chapter 12: The Governor Calls the Dean
Chapter 13: No Rest for the Dead
Chapter 14: When a Case Is Not Your Case
Chapter 15: An Invitation to a Cruise
Chapter 16: The Team Flies Home
Chapter 17: The Start of the Project
Chapter 18: A Meeting with the Widow
Chapter 19: The Keys to the Tale
Chapter 20: A High-Stakes Meeting on the High Seas
Part 3: Day 3
Chapter 21: A Two-Day Drinking Spree
Chapter 22: The Logs of Life and Death
Chapter 23: Double, Double, Toil and Trouble
Part 4: Day 4
Chapter 24: The Cowboys Play Dominoes
Chapter 25: A Series of Political Murders
Chapter 26: A Visit with the Dean
Part 5: Day 7
Chapter 27: Bad News Is Good News
Chapter 28: Misery Does Acquaint Men
Chapter 29: A Terrible Chess Game
Chapter 30: An Invitation He Cannot Refuse
Chapter 31: The Devil Is Loose
Chapter 32: Lombardo Confronts His Boss
Chapter 33: The Director Is Directed
Part 6: Day 10
Chapter 34: Lombardo Makes a Promise
Chapter 35: Lombardo Talks to the New Boss
Chapter 36: Off to See the Wizard
Chapter 37: A Dance with the Devil
Chapter 38: John Gets the Green Light
Chapter 39: A Deadly Roadblock
Chapter 40: Tying Up Loose Ends
Chapter 41: The Awful Truth
Chapter 42: The Prodigal Son Comes Home
Chapter 43: Signing Away the Past, Arranging a New Future
Epilogue: The More Things Change…
Part 1:
Day 1
Chapter 1:
Victor Disappears
Victor Delgado left the University
’s computer center a few minutes past one in the morning. He started his car and pulled out of his private parking spot. As he turned into the main boulevard of the University campus, a car parked in a side street started its engine and slowly pulled out of its parking space a few seconds after Victor’s car went past it.
The traffic was light in the streets of Monterrey at that hour, yet Victor drove slowly, carefully, just as he did everything else in his life. Victor was a methodical young man, and his training as a computer engineer perfectly suited his conscientious, careful manner.
The three men in the car following Victor’s were careful and patient, too. The driver of the car made sure that Victor was unaware that he was being followed; he used whatever other cars came along as shields and as cover.
When Victor turned into Figueroa Avenue, the man sitting in the passenger’s seat of the car that was following Victor’s said, “This is it; cut him off.”
The car with the three men jumped forward in a burst of speed and the driver expertly maneuvered in front of Victor’s car and stopped. Victor tried to avoid hitting the car that had suddenly appeared in front of him, but even at the relatively slow speed at which he was driving, it was impossible: Victor’s car swerved, hit the left-rear side of the car in front of him and broke its back light.
Before he could get out of his car to inspect the damage, the three men jumped out of their car and ran toward Victor’s. Startled, Victor pushed a button to open his window and apologize, but before the glass was halfway down, one of the men opened Victor’s car door, grabbed his arm, and dragged the young man out of the car.
Victor hardly had time to make out the three dark silhouettes grabbing at him before a blow to the back of his head made him lose consciousness.
Chapter 2
: The Dead Young Man
Lombardo got out of the car slowly. The
drawn look on his face, italicized by a furrowed brow and an ample frown, eloquently stated how badly he’d slept. His lack of sleep was not unusual. For the better part of his thirty some odd years as a cop he had rarely slept well. The reason was obvious to anyone who had known him during that time; he abused his body—keeping it awake at all hours by plying it with black coffee and cigarettes, allowing it to get bruised, battered, and beaten in countless violent arrests, fights, and car crashes. Then there were the scars from two gunshot wounds with their litany of aches and pains, which frequently kept him awake until the painkillers kicked in and allowed him a fitful rest.
The night before had been no exception. He had been asleep only two hours before his cell phone rang and woke him. The duty officer had called to tell him that an anonymous caller to the 060 number had reported a body by the railroad tracks.
“
Why can’t people get killed at a decent hour?” he muttered as he stared at the corpse under the white sheet. “Say at noon or two in the afternoon.”
Lombardo
slammed the car door shut and as he did, it squealed making an ugly metallic noise as if it were a wounded animal in agony. His old Ford Fairmont was falling apart, but in spite of his many requests, there was no sign his wreck of a car would be replaced. “Damn the Purchasing Department,” he said aloud.
He lit a Delicado and stood there, smoking his pungent, cheap cigarette—mumbling to himself—until he
noticed that everyone was looking at him. “The usual gang of incompetents has already gathered,” he said stifling a yawn. He was referring, of course, to the agents from the Public Ministry, cops from the Municipal Police Force, and the sleepy reporters that were assigned to the “night watch.”
The agents from the
Public Ministry, looking tough and mean in their black uniforms, black boots, and sunglasses, stared at him. Lombardo stared back and looked at the guns and automatic rifles the Public Ministry agents held at the ready. “Always out in force after the fact,” he growled.
He crossed the street and
his black mackintosh flapped like the wings of a flightless bird. The only thing people criticized more than his bad smelling cigarettes, was the way he dressed. He always wore the same black suit and a raggedy burgundy-colored tie. The suit had been pressed so many times it shone like sharkskin.
The p
eople standing inside the secured area pointedly avoided his eyes, but one of the younger cops walked over
to Lombardo, smiling. He carried a thermos bottle and a plastic cup. “Would you like some coffee, Captain? It’s a chilly morning,” he said gingerly.
“
Yes, thank you,” he said as the young cop poured the coffee. He took a sip and then walked over to the group that was standing around the corpse.
Although the
crime scene had already been “secured” and yellow warning tape had been placed—going from a nearby telephone post to a tree and then to a couple of bushes—there were a lot of the people milling about inside of it. The majority were municipal cops who were untrained in even the most basic of forensic procedures. It was obvious that they had already trampled over what little evidence there was.
As he approached
the group that was staring down at the forensic medics working on the corpse, one of the municipal cops turned, clicked his heels, and gave him a half-hearted salute. “Jefe,” said the saluting cop—the others just mumbled, “Buenos días.”
The cop that had clicked his heels, saluted again, and said he was Sergeant Pedroza of the Municipal Traffic Department.
He began his report with, “
Con la novedad de que recibimos.…
”
These old cops had a formulaic way of giving a report that had always irritated Lombardo. As the sergeant began to talk, Lombardo interrupted him and asked who had found or reported the body.
Sergeant Pedroza
said that they had received an anonymous phone call at the 060 number. According to the emergency services people, the caller said that there was a body by the railroad tracks near the brewery and had hung up. He had arrived at the scene soon after. “We found some kids going through the pockets of the deceased but they ran away when they saw us,” said the traffic cop finishing his report.
Fat Gonzalez, possibly the laziest and most corrupt cop in
the Investigations Department, was grinning at him and pointing to the corpse. “Won’t you have a look at what the morning brought, Captain Lombardo?” he said cackling like an old crone. “The Director must really like you; he assigns you to all the most interesting cases—burglaries, dead drunks on the street.”
“
Yeah? What does that say about you, you fat pig? You’re here, too,” Lombardo mumbled.
For the last year
or so, since the present Director had arrived, Lombardo had been assigned to all of the “easy” cases—the suicides, fatal traffic accidents, the persons who had asphyxiated because they left a gas heater on in a closed room, and so on. Things had started badly between the Director of the Agency and Lombardo. When the Director first arrived, he tried to woo Lombardo saying that he was glad to have someone as experienced as Lombardo to act as his personal confidant and counselor. Lombardo had responded that he didn’t like being wet nurse to anybody and that he was nobody’s lackey or “personal” counselor; that he was just a street cop and he liked it like that.
The Director had not taken Lombardo’s frankness kindly, to say the least, and said that Lombardo was too old for the tough, dangerous police work that involved multiple murders by the drug cartels, or using high-tech gadgetry such as cell phone trackers. He threw a case file at Lombardo and said that the last time Lombardo had investigated a smuggling operation it was one coming the other way: an airplane that had crashed with a load of televisions and other smuggled electronics. It was true. It was twenty years ago that Lombardo had been part of a squad dedicated to fighting corruption in the Customs Inspection Services. In those days, illegal goods flowed
from
the United States
into
Mexico. People bought a television in a shop on the American side and paid the shop an extra fee to have it smuggled into Mexico.
