Broken Saint, The (17 page)

Chapter 28

“I believe him,” Ryan said. “He was telling the truth. I
mean, about how Maricel came apart in the last month.”

“Maybe so,” I said.

I’d asked Hector if he wanted us to run him over
to the hospital, get him checked out. He said no, so he started up the vacuum
cleaner and we drove back to headquarters.

“Young girl like that, an abortion can be a really
big deal. But the way he describes himself so positive—I love you, I want to
marry you—I’m not ready to buy that. Remember what we know about him: the
Latins have their hooks in him—”

“We’re not sure of that,” Ryan said.

“That’s right. But we are sure he has a felony
assault conviction.”

He was looking at his screen. He leaned in closer,
then hit a few keys. “Open your email.”

“What?”

“Karen.” He spoke slowly, then looked up and fixed
his gaze on me. “Would you please open your email?”

He’d just forwarded me a file, a scan of an old
photo. It was in color, but the colors were all faded out, like an old Polaroid
that’s been sitting in a shoebox for twenty years. “What is it?”

“It’s Brother Gerson, with a Filipino woman.”

I zoomed in, but the picture got fuzzier. I could
see a tall white guy, blond hair, glasses, holding the hand of a bronze-skinned
woman. They looked to be twenty. Now that Ryan said it, I saw it was Gerson.
“Son of a bitch,” I said.

“When you’re on a mission,” Ryan said, “you’re
with your companion 24/7. The only time you’re out of each other’s sight is
when you’re in the bathroom.”

“I’m guessing that’s not Brother Gerson’s
companion.”

He just looked at me.

“Who sent you this?”

“It’s from a woman who claims to be Maricel’s aunt.”
He started to read from his screen. “Maricel’s high-school teacher tracked her
down. The aunt’s maiden name is Grace Salizar. The woman in the photo is her
sister: Esperanza. Listen to this—”

“I’m listening.”

“Esperanza takes up with this missionary. Gets
pregnant. Esperanza’s family is very traditional: she’s knocked up, by a white
guy, she’s out of the family.”

“What happened to her?”

“She gives birth to Maricel, leaves her at the
door of the LDS mission Gerson was in—and she disappears.”

“What happened to her?”

“Nobody heard from her again. She didn’t get taken
in by any relatives. Most likely, Grace says, she ended up a prostitute.”

“Grace say what Gerson did about it?”

Ryan was reading off his screen. “He didn’t do
anything about it.”

“Well, that’s shitty.”

Ryan leaned back in his chair, shaking his head.
“You think?”

“What do you want to do?”

“I want to interview him again.”

“You mean you want us to interview him again?”

“I want to lead.”

“Okay, but like I told you before, you can’t stay
on track with this guy, I’m gonna take you off the case.”

“You’d do that?”

“I don’t have that authority.” I looked at him
hard. “But the chief says he will.”

“I hear you.”

We walked over to grab our coats. I wasn’t certain
he had heard me.

It was a little after four-thirty when we walked
into Gerson’s office.

“We need to see Dr. Gerson.” Ryan spoke to the
secretary, who pulled back a little.

“Well, I know he’s just about to head home—”

“No, he’s not.” Ryan walked fast into Dr. Gerson’s
office. I followed him.

The provost, his coat half on, was shutting down
his computer. “Detectives.” His expression showed he realized we were going to
come at him with a little more muscle.

“Dr. Gerson,” Ryan said, “we need to talk.”

“Of course.” The provost took his coat off and tossed
it on the back of his desk chair. He motioned for us to sit.

I took a seat on the small couch. Ryan took a soft
chair a few feet from Gerson’s.

Ryan took a copy of the photo out of his leather
briefcase and handed it to the provost. “You’ve been wasting our time, Dr.
Gerson.”

The provost looked surprised by Ryan’s tone. Then
he gazed down at the photo, and the color drained out of his face. His
shoulders sagged. He sat there, his right eye starting to twitch. I counted
five, then ten, then fifteen.

Ryan was wearing a pissed-off look I hadn’t seen
on him before. “You’ve got a decision to make. Tell us the story right now—the
complete story, totally honest—or our best scenario is that Maricel came to the
U.S. to shake you down and you didn’t want to pay. Which will it be? You going
to talk to us?”

Gerson was slumped down, his hands on the arms of
the chair like he needed to hold on to something. He nodded. “I had a
relationship with Esperanza. She gave birth to Maricel.” Then he was silent.

“We’ve got some time, Brother Gerson. Can you fill
in a few more details?”

“The story is quite long and complicated.”
Gerson’s voice was weak and distant. “What would you like to know about in
particular?”

“What did you do when you found out Esperanza was
pregnant?”

Gerson was wearing the hollow, broken look I’d
seen a lot of times when the guy was cornered. It was a mixture of shame,
embarrassment, and resignation. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You didn’t report it to the Church?”

He shook his head, then his right hand came up to
try to control the twitch.

“You didn’t make any effort to help Esperanza with
the child?”

He shook his head again. “She disappeared. She
didn’t want me to help.”

“If she had wanted you to help, would you have
done so?”

Dr. Gerson looked up, a quizzical expression on
his face. “That is, of course, a hypothetical question, Detective. I like to
think that I would have.”

This time Ryan shook his head. “I don’t think you
would have.”

I stood up fast. “Detective, can I see you a
moment?” To Dr. Gerson, “You, don’t move.”

Ryan stood up, and I led the way out of Gerson’s
office, out past the secretaries and into the hall. “Last warning, Ryan. This
guy’s not on trial for being a sinner. He’s a suspect in a murder case. Here’s
what you’re gonna do,” I said. His jaw was set. “We’re gonna go back into his
office. You’re gonna sit there and take notes. You’re not gonna say a word. You
open your damn mouth, I’m terminating the interview and see that you’re taken
off the case.” I paused. “Is that clear?”

He looked at me.

I waited. “Is that clear?”

“Yes, Detective,” he said.

We went back into Gerson’s office and sat down.
“All right, I appreciate you staying. We have a few more questions.”

He nodded.

“What happened to Esperanza?” I said.

“I don’t know. I believe she was ostracized by her
family.”

“Did Maricel know you were her father?”

“No, she did not. I had not figured out how to
broach the subject with her.”

“Was it your intent to tell her?”

“Yes, it was.”

“Help us understand how she came to Montana.”

“My mission in Manila lasted more than a month
after Maricel’s birth. One way or another—I don’t know the details—the LDS
Relief Society in Manila oversaw Maricel’s care. Someone from that group
informed me of Maricel’s existence there—”

“Did you take any action at that time to connect
with her?”

“No, Detective, to my everlasting shame, I did
not.”

“I know you didn’t have any money, but why did you
make no effort?”

“I offer these words as an explanation, not as an
excuse. I had come into conflict with my companion on the mission. Missionaries
are supposed to be almost literally inseparable—primarily to prevent situations
like the one I was in. Obviously, he knew that, in one way or another, I was in
violation of the Church’s policy of proper behavior.”

“And staying in the good graces of the Church was
more important to you at that time than caring for Esperanza or the infant?”

“I was twenty-one years old, Detective.” His head
was bowed, his voice low. His eye twitched out of control.

“And you had a girlfriend at home?”

“Many young men become engaged to their
sweethearts before they begin their missions.”

“And were you engaged to Andrea when you left for
the Philippines?”

He nodded.

“All right, Dr. Gerson, bring us up to date on
Maricel coming to the U.S.”

“When I started my career and started accumulating
some disposable funds, I began to support Maricel’s care—to the extent that I
could—in the orphanage in Manila.”

“How old was she at that time?”

“Seven.”

“Did she know you were helping with her support?”

“Yes, she did.” He raised his head to look at me.
“We exchanged letters, then emails. All she knew is that I was LDS, and that I
had served my mission in Manila.”

“Did you ever tell Andrea about Maricel?”

“No,” he said. “Andrea knew I was helping support
her, but she didn’t know I was her father. I was tempted to tell her—on many
occasions. Perhaps you can imagine the sense of shame and anguish I was bearing
all those years. But … I thought that telling Andrea would only hurt her
deeply. In hindsight, I think it’s safe to say I did not have the courage to
tell her. Then, after the loss of Mitch—and Andrea’s breakdown, and Mark’s
diagnosis of schizophrenia—I concluded that telling my family would be … would
be almost an act of selfishness on my part.”

“So nobody in your family knows Maricel was your
daughter?”

“Detective.” He looked at me, then turned to Ryan.
“And you as well, Detective Miner. I understand that you have no reason to
believe what I tell you about this part of my life, but I say to you, before
Heavenly Father, that I am truly sorry for my sins, and that I will bear the
shame of my actions forever. What enables me to function is my faith in a Savior.
Without that faith, I would not be able to survive. With that faith, I can
continue to breathe.”

I took this all in. “Dr. Gerson, did you kill
Maricel Salizar?”

“No.” A tear traced down his cheek. “I did not
kill my daughter.”

“Do you know who did kill her?”

“No, Detective.” He was sobbing openly now. “I do
not.”

I stood up. Ryan stood, too. “Dr. Gerson,” I said,
“thank you for taking the time to speak with us.”

He nodded but remained seated. I’m not sure he
could have stood up if he’d tried.

Ryan and I left the building, crossed the parking
lot, and got in the cruiser. Neither of us said anything.

“He telling the truth?” I said.

“I’m allowed to open my mouth now?”

“Don’t pout, Ryan. It’s immature and unattractive.”

We were off the campus and most of the way back to
headquarters when he spoke. “I don’t know if he’s telling the truth.”

“Why is that?”

“Everything hangs together, but it smells to me
like a penitent-sinner parable.”

“Explain.”

“It’s not any one detail,” Ryan said. “It’s just
that—a guy with his intelligence and his experience speaking in the
Church—those stories are second nature to him. He can tell stories like that in
his sleep.”

“And the crying at the end?”

“All part of the performance. I’m not saying he’s
lying and he thinks now’s a good time to cry. But he could be fabricating parts
of the story. He’s been writing and re-writing this story in his head for a
couple of decades. Maybe it’s morphed into the version he told us—you know, the
parable of the reformed sinner who places his trust in the forgiving God—and
that version resonates with all the famous parables, and his body reacts
appropriately. He cries. If the tears are real, they’re for himself. He’s sorry
he screwed up and got caught.”

My head was starting to hurt. “So is he telling us
the truth or lying?”

“No idea.”

“Okay, how do we find out?”

“We could push his wife a little—”

“I’d rather not do that. She’s already on the
ledge.”

“That’s right. But how do we know he hasn’t told
her? For all we know, she could be the one protecting his job and his place in
the Church. Maricel blackmails her husband, she tells him to get rid of the
girl. Or she does it herself.”

“You see her stabbing Maricel?”

“No, I don’t. I’m just saying I’m not ready to buy
his story.”

“Any other ideas on how to get the truth?” I said.

“We could get his financials. Put his and
Maricel’s side by side, we could answer the blackmail question.”

“Maybe. I’m gonna think about that.”

“That’s all I’ve got.”

The late-afternoon traffic was starting to pick
up. I blew the horn at an asshole who cut in front of me without using his
blinkers. I know the cruiser is unmarked, but if he thought about it just a
little, a pale blue Ford LTD with a spotlight as big as a volleyball mounted
above my outside mirror and a computer monitor in the front seat sticking up
high enough to be visible—think a little bit, moron.

“I bought his story,” I said.

“The reformed sinner?”

“Yeah. I think it’s true.”

Ryan didn’t say anything, so I let it drop. We
parked the cruiser in the lot behind headquarters. I swiped my card, and he
held the door for me. “About parables, Ryan.”

“Yeah?”

We walked in, down the hall, toward the
detectives’ bullpen. We hung up our coats. “Don’t they become parables because
they tell the truth? People screw up just like Gerson did. Probably happens to
a lot of people, right? Maybe some Mormons?”

Ryan held my gaze for a moment. “I’m going to
check my email.”

Chapter 29

I’d set the alarm for 5:30, a time of day I really don’t
like. It woke up Mac, who then woke me up. I’d been staying at his place since
the drive-by at my house. I didn’t like Mac’s apartment, a cheapo one-bedroom
he rented a few months ago, when his marriage fell apart for about the eighth
or ninth time. But now that he was out of a motel and officially into his own place,
I think maybe he’d made his decision.

But I never left any of my things at his apartment.
That would have been a lot easier, but I wanted to live at my own house.
Period. Better for Mac and better for me. As a result, I wasted time and gas
couple times a week going from his place to mine, even when it didn’t make any
sense. But nothing about me and men has ever made much sense.

William Saffert, the head of Buildings and Grounds
at Central Montana, had told me and Ryan that Hector Cruz started his shift at
seven this morning. We’d planned to be there when he showed up. I got there a
few minutes early. Ryan was already there. He had told William Saffert not to
tell Hector we were waiting for him.

There were two sets of lockers, with a wooden bench
in between, and a small shower that looked like it didn’t get used much. When
Hector arrived, carrying a gym bag over his shoulder, I was sitting on the
wooden bench. Ryan was leaning against one of the lockers. Hector was almost at
his locker when he noticed Ryan standing there. “Jesus,” Hector said. “You
scared me.”

“Sorry,” Ryan said.

“What do you want?”

“We want to search your stuff,” I said.

He took the gym bag off his shoulder. “Go ahead.”

“Thanks,” I said, “but we want to look at a couple
of other things, too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” I said. “We want to look in your locker.
And your trailer and your car.”

He shook his head. “Come on, man.”

“Open your locker. And give me your keys—your
trailer, your car.” He didn’t move. I turned to Ryan. “Cuff him.” To Hector,
“Hector Cruz, you’re under arrest for assaulting a police officer. You have the
right—”

“Okay, okay.” He pulled back, his hands up, palms out.
“Give me a second to think.”

“There’s nothing to think about, Hector. Open the
locker, give us two keys, or we take you in.”

“I want to talk to my attorney.”

“Hector Cruz, you’re under arrest—”

“That’s not fair.” His voice was way too loud for
a closed room full of flat metal surfaces. “You set me up.”

“Grow up, Hector. You took a swing at a cop. We’re
giving you a chance to make that go away. You should be thanking us.”

“I want to talk to Samosa.”

“Last chance. Take a minute to think about it.
Hand us the keys or you’re looking at your second felony conviction.”

Disgusted, he shook his head and walked over to
the locker and spun the dial back and forth a few times on the lock. He opened
the locker and stood back. I nodded to Ryan to stick his head in there. He
looked inside.

Ten seconds later, Ryan turned to me. “A few
Styrofoam cups of microwave soup, a couple of clean t-shirts and pairs of
socks, an MP3 player and headphones. That’s it.”

“You see, Hector? That wasn’t that hard. Unzip the
gym bag for me, would you?”

He did it.

I rummaged through it. Gym clothes and shoes, a
towel. “Okay, now the keys to your trailer and your car.” I held out my hand.

He made me stand there a while, then he pulled a
key ring out of his pocket and put it in my hand. It had only the two keys on
it. “Detective Miner and I are gonna go look at your place now. And we’re gonna
impound your car. We might need it two or three days.”

“How’m I supposed to get home?”

“You could take a bus. Goes within a few blocks of
your trailer park. Or call Mr. Samosa. You two could talk about suing me and
Detective Miner for being mean to you. Or phone one of your buddies in the
Latins. He could come pick you up, then you two could swing by my place, shoot
out a few windows.”

“Shit.”

“Where’s your car parked?”

“Near Entrance 2 to the Pavilion.”

“Okay, Hector, you make it a great day, all right?
We’ll be in touch.”

Ryan and I walked out of the locker room. I called
out “Thanks” to William Saffert as we passed the open door of his tiny office.

“Wanna take a walk over to his car?” I said. We were
leaving the one-story Buildings and Grounds.

“Sure,” Ryan said.

The sun was coming up, blue bands of light
stretching across the top of the Pavilion. We walked over to Entrance 2.

“There it is,” I said, when I spotted the dark
blue Dodge Neon shitcan. We put on our latex gloves, and I unlocked the
driver’s door. I handed him the key and he walked around to the trunk. Hector
kept his car cleaner than I did. There were black aftermarket cloth covers on
the two front seats. A short-napped industrial carpet, the same navy blue as
the exterior paint, covered the floors, with beige rubber floor mats. I glanced
in the back. No garbage, no fast-food wrappers. A handful of videos from the
library, mostly old Bruce Willis action shit, sitting on the passenger seat. I
checked the pockets in the front doors. A few Montana maps, and a chrome
tire-pressure gauge. I walked around to the other side, opened up the glove
box, which contained the beat-up owner’s manual, his insurance card, and an
envelope from the tire store containing a warranty for two tires he bought last
year.

“Bingo,” Ryan said. I walked back to the trunk. He
was running his hand over the black polyester mat that covered the trunk.

“Think that’s what we got off Maricel’s clothes?”

“Looks like it to me,” Ryan said. “Anything
interesting inside?”

“Would you consider it interesting that he keeps
his car as neat as you do?”

“Not particularly, no.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

“Want to stop by headquarters, drop off the key
for them to bring it in?”

“Sounds good,” I said.

We drove back to headquarters and asked Robin to
arrange to grab the car. Then we drove out to Hector’s trailer park.

It looked as depressing as it had the last time we
had stopped by. Maybe more depressing, since most other neighborhoods would be
showing some activity as kids were headed off to school or adults to work. But
the whole park was lifeless.

We parked in front of Hector’s trailer. Up the three
black metal steps to the front door, which was hung so crooked either me or
Ryan probably would’ve been able to pull it open with our bare hands.

We unlocked it and walked into the living room. Having
seen his car, I wasn’t surprised that it was neat but rundown. To the right was
the small kitchen, to the left a bedroom and a bath. That was it. The whole
place was covered in dark paneling made to look like mahogany. With only a few
sets of small windows, and no lights on, the place was dark and depressing.

I flicked the only light switch inside the front
door, which lit up a couple of cheap lamps flanking the futon in the living
room. The living room had a glass and wood coffee table in front of the futon,
and an old CRT television on a pressed-wood stand. A battered upholstered
chair, with a floor light next to it, sat near the TV. The wall-to-wall carpet
was shag, maroon with plenty of stains. Off in the corner, the carpet was
pulled back. I walked over to look at it. It was damp, with a trail of
rust-colored stains snaking up the wall and onto the ceiling tile.

“What’ve you got?” I said to Ryan, who was poking
around in the kitchen.

“Nothing interesting. Generic kitchen stuff.”

I walked into the kitchen. Ryan opened the
portable microwave on the Formica counter. It was empty. He rummaged through
the drawers and the cabinets. “He’s not much of a cook, but I don’t see
anything illegal.”

“Let’s try the bedroom.”

It was maybe eight by ten, with a single bed with
a nightstand and a reading light, a wooden chair, and a hand-painted dresser
with a mirror over it. There was a shiny metal clothes rack, with a half-dozen
pairs of pants, three or four dress shirts, and a sport jacket. Under the
clothes rack sat two pairs of leather shoes, down at the heels, and a pair of
sneakers.

Ryan went over to the dresser to check it out.

I walked over to the bed, which was made. Not with
hospital corners, but it had real sheets and two blankets, pulled up, touching
the single pillow. I lifted the thin mattress to see if he kept a stash
underneath. Nope. Then the nightstand, with its single drawer.

“Here we are,” I said, holding up the baggie with
maybe a couple ounces of weed. I put it in a large paper evidence bag I’d
brought with me. “Let’s see what else.” I pulled out another baggie with about
twenty pills. “Do you recognize these?”

Ryan came over and looked carefully. “No. They
look handmade. No markings on them.”

I held open the evidence bag, and Ryan dropped the
baggie in. “Let me check the bathroom,” he said.

I went over to the dresser and checked it, looking
for false bottoms on the drawers or a pistol wrapped up in a pair of jeans.
Just like Ryan, I didn’t find anything.

“Bathroom’s clean,” he said.

I walked the five steps, stuck my head in. A
section of the floor tile under the sink was pulled up, exposing the plywood
sub-floor, which was stained by a leak. The toilet-paper holder was missing,
the TP roll sitting on top of the toilet tank. I pulled back the shower
curtain. The tub was full of rust stains, but clean. All in all, Hector was Poor
but Neat.

“I’m gonna ask Robin to come out,” I said, “but I
don’t see anything. You?”

No,” Ryan said. “The fact that he left the dope
out suggests that he wasn’t expecting us, so if he had a gun, I doubt he’d
hidden it anywhere in here.”

“Probably not,” I said. “If he’s keeping a gun,
it’s more likely stashed wherever the Latins keep theirs.”