The Bone Fire: A Mystery (19 page)

“Are you talking about Brianna Rodriguez?” Gil asked.

“An advanced being . . . a kind of . . . a certain . . . hands of motherness, that’s right . . .” he said and then giggled again.

“What do you know about her disappearance?” Gil asked.

“My sins never hope . . . that’s why they want me, I think,” he said. He looked up at the sky and grinned.

“Is he laughing about Brianna?” Joe asked.

“I don’t know,” Gil said to Joe. Then he asked Geisler, “Can we come in?”

The man said nothing; he just stared off with a slight smile on his face.

“I’m taking that as a yes,” Joe said, opening the door. Geisler made no move to stop them. Inside was the normal living room, but the couch had pillows and blankets on it. It appeared to be where
Geisler slept. Two closed doors led out of the living room, but one was blocked by an ironing board and the other by a large chair.

“I was wondering, Mr. Geisler,” Gil said, realizing that the man’s mental illness was making him nervous enough that he kept using the formal title. “How do you feel about the Catholic Church?”

“What was said by the priests, they can hear my thoughts. It’s just . . . it’s just . . . the energy coming out of me . . . and I put it together . . . this means something,” he said, nodding.

“So the priests can hear what you are thinking,” Gil said. “That must be scary.”

Geisler put his hand over his mouth and giggled. “I am a superpower . . . anyone who puts together a creative understanding . . . it’s like
1984
.”

“Did you know Brianna Rodriguez?” Joe asked as he looked around the room, which had beige carpet and paneled walls, making the room dark. It was made bleaker by the lack of pictures on the wall.

“They don’t . . . they don’t . . . God goes to penetrate the subconscious . . . and the prayer . . . it’s like rats,” he said. “That’s why they want me . . . and I put it together and let it go . . . and if I let it go . . . Jesus is bankrupt.”

Joe shot Gil a look. They weren’t going to get anywhere questioning him. They should go talk to the neighbors and maybe his family to see if he’d ever been violent. Gil was about to turn to leave when Joe pushed aside the ironing board blocking one of the doors and opened it.

The room was carpeted in the same beige color and had the same paneling. It had no furniture, but over in one corner some bedsheets were taped by their edges to the ceiling and hung down in a wall of white. Making a separate room inside the room. Gil’s daughters used to make forts like that when they would stay home from school on snow days. Gil pushed his way past the soft white fabric, holding the panel back for Joe. On the other side was a kitchen table lined with newspapers. In its center lay a silver samurai sword, its black handle embedded with silver triangles.

The curved tip of the sword reflected the dim light of the room.
As Gil moved closer to the sword, he noticed that rust had started to form on the blade’s edge. It took him a moment to realize that the rust was more the color of dried blood.

Gladys Soliz Portilla stood at the bus stop and looked again at the time on her cell phone. She needed to pick her son up in fifteen minutes, and the bus was ten minutes late. She had called her babysitter, who had said she wouldn’t wait. Now she was trying to get in touch with one of the neighbors to see if they could go get him.

She missed her car. It had been more than ten years old when she bought it from a nice man who lived near downtown Santa Fe, but it was reliable. And it was hers. Back when she was married, whenever she and her husband went anywhere together, he always drove. They had fought about it a little. She told him he was too traditional. He said she was too liberal. She missed him, too.

They had been married for only three years, but she had known him much longer. When he told her he was entering the new police academy that the state of Chihuahua was creating in order to combat the drug cartels, she didn’t try to talk him out of it. She knew what might happen, though. As did he. She also knew that he would take the worst job out there, if it meant providing for her and her son. Plus, it was more interesting work than what she did at the factory.

Her father-in-law had followed his son into the academy, seeing that it was the best way to make an income. She wondered about her mother-in-law for a moment, about how she was doing. The two of them had never really gotten along. Even so, she should send a card, just to let her know that her grandson was doing all right here. That Gladys was doing all right, too.

Well, mostly doing all right. Except for the car problem. The bus came up, puffing out a little black exhaust from its backside. Gladys got on quickly, thinking she might still make it in time to get her son.

Gil and Joe waited outside the house, watching David Geisler through the open windows as the man puttered around in the near dark. Gil had called Kline to get an arrest warrant more than twenty minutes ago. Joe paced back and forth next to the cruiser while Gil stood
considering. He knew he would have to get inside Geisler’s mind in order to get a confession during the interrogation, and right now what was worrying Gil was that Geisler’s mind was none too intact. Gil might have to accept that even if they got a confession, their case would ultimately rest with the evidence, and that meant the sword, the blood on it, Geisler’s previous behavior toward neighbor children, and his match to the profile.

Joe stopped near Gil. “I know it’s not scientific, but that laughing thing he was doing makes me think we’ve got our guy.”

Gil felt the same way. For the first time all day, he had hope that they might actually solve the case. Then the brutality of the crime scenes would be washed away. At least from his conscious mind. His unconscious would never forget.

A car sped down the street and pulled up. Chief Kline got out of the driver’s seat and handed Gil a piece of paper, saying, “Here’s the warrant. Go get the bastard.”

“Yeah, let’s do this,” Joe said.

He and Gil went back to the front door and knocked again. This time Geisler didn’t answer. They were forced to go in, hands on holstered guns. Geisler quietly sat in the living room as they entered. Gil read Geisler his Miranda rights while Joe cuffed him.

Geisler didn’t resist as they put his hands behind his back. He only said, “They’re trying to kill me for my sins.”

“What sins are those?” Joe asked.

“I’m so scared that the table has a stomachache,” Geisler said, looking at his coffee table, as Joe pulled him up to a standing position.

“That’s always a big concern of mine, too,” Joe said.

As they were walking out the front door, the crime scene techs arrived at the house with a search warrant. Now everyone could get to work.

As Gil and Joe arrived at the station with Geisler, the rest of the skeleton crew of officers stood in front of the TV in the conference room. They were watching the local news stations, all of which were doing a live feed from the Zozobra crime scene. Gil, who was putting Geisler in a holding cell, was too far away to hear the newscaster. Geisler had gone completely quiet during the car ride, not responding to even the most innocuous questions. Gil was worried he might go catatonic, which was known to happen in schizophrenic suspects.

Gil went over to his desk and pulled out his criminal law book. In the index, he looked up “mentally ill,” then tracked down the appropriate case names. He had read
Colorado vs. Connelly
during his first few months of law school before dropping out after his dad died, but he couldn’t recall the specifics of the argument at the moment.

Kline came to Gil’s desk and asked, “When are you going to get in there and question him?”

“As soon as I can,” Gil said. “I just want to make sure that any information we get won’t be suppressed at trial. I need to reread
Colorado vs. Connelly
and then look over
Smith vs. Duckworth
. We have to stay within the guidelines of a voluntary confession so it will be admissible in court.”

“Just because he’s mentally ill doesn’t mean any confession you get isn’t voluntary,” Kline said.

“That’s true,” Gil said, “but there are plenty of court cases that get thrown out because the defendant was mentally ill and the police interrogator took advantage of that to get them to confess.”

“From my perspective the law is pretty clear on this,” Kline said. “His schizophrenia isn’t going to make him confess.”

Joe came over and said, “Hey, did you guys see the news—” before realizing that they were involved in a conversation. “Oops. My bad.”

“Look, I’m also not sure how I feel about this,” Gil said. “My whole goal in interrogating that guy is to get a confession. I do that by manipulating him to hell and back. How ethical is it for me to do that to someone who is mentally ill? He doesn’t stand a chance. He’ll end up agreeing to whatever I say.”

“Geez, Gil,” Joe said with a laugh, “I didn’t know you were that good—”

“I just would feel better if we could talk to the district attorney,” Gil said, “to get their take on how to handle the interrogation—”

“I agree, sir,” Joe said, surprising Gil. “This is a high-profile case. One of those cases that can make or break a department. Everything has got to be aboveboard or the press will kill us. Plus, this way we all get some sleep and come at it fresh in the morning. Geisler’s not going anywhere.”

“All right,” Kline said, looking at his watch. “We have twelve hours before we need to legally figure out what to do with him. He’ll be fine here. We’ll consider it again tomorrow.”

Kline walked off, and Joe started smiling, clapping Gil on the back, saying, “I might be a jackass, but at least I’ve got your back, brother.”

“That’s true,” Gil said. “You are a jackass.”

Gil opened the front door of his house as best he could in the dark. Susan had forgotten to keep the porch light on again. He walked quietly to the hallway closet and opened the door. On the top shelf, which only Gil could reach, was the gun safe. He opened it and put in his sidearm and BUG, then closed it and spun the lock.

He went to Joy’s room but just stood in the doorway, watching her sleep. She was getting so old. She was almost thirteen. Probably the same age as Ashley when her father started abusing her. Gil closed his eyes, turned his head skyward, and breathed deeply, trying to release some of the tension he had been holding all day. Trying to banish the evil images that kept popping into his head.

He walked closer to Joy’s bed and put his hand on her head, saying a prayer in Spanish that he had said over her every night since she was born. It was the same prayer his father had said over him. “May the angels watch over you as you sleep, and may God smile on you when you awake.”

Gil went across the hall to Therese’s room. She was, as usual, curled up in a ball with all the covers thrown off the bed. Susan called Therese their little fussbudget because she never could stay in one spot as she slept. Gil pulled the blankets over her and put his hand on her head, her skin soft and cool underneath, as he repeated the prayer again.

He went to his own room and opened the door, thinking Susan would be awake. Instead she was lying on her side, snoring. She’d probably had a long day trying to get ready for Aunt Yolanda’s annual fiesta party tomorrow. Susan, with her natural organizational skills, somehow always ended up in charge of the party. A party that Gil might actually be able to go to, now that they had a suspect in custody.

He quietly kicked his shoes off into the closet and got changed into sweatpants, a T-shirt, and running shoes. Gil had always been religious about getting a run in every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. It was something that had been drilled into him since his days on the basketball team.

He locked the front door behind him and slowly jogged the first
block to warm up, then picked up the pace on the next. Gil rounded the corner and felt his mood improving, the crisp night air making his lungs ache slightly. He had agreed to meet Joe back at the office at 9:00
A.M.
, but Gil suddenly remembered that he also had promised Susan he would check out a house in Eldorado. Their current home was a three-bedroom that was cramped up next to his neighbors and was starting to need almost constant repairs. Whereas in Eldorado—which was referred to as a bedroom community—the houses were mostly new and were on lots that covered at least a half acre. Then they would have the breathing room Susan craved. If only they could sell the house they had now.