The Mamacita Murders (17 page)

“Hey Vince, I’ve looked through pretty much everything. And it doesn’t seem like there’s anything I need to be concerned about. Most of it is just stuff from the crime scene, like fabric swatches, broken glass, and stuff like that. But there’s a card in this envelope and I’m not quite sure who it belongs to. Do you think there’s any way you could open it, so I can just take a peek? I want to make sure I’m not missing anything important,” I say.

“Sure, where’s the bag?” he asks.

Vince touches both sides of the bag trying to feel what’s inside.

“I just want to make sure it’s not drugs or blood. I can’t open that stuff here. That’s gotta be done in a lab,” says Vince.

I stay quiet and smile at Vince.

“Nope, seems like it’s some sort of document or something small I can’t feel,” says Vince.

Vince looks at Kiki and me.

“You know, before we open anything, I might want to get my supervisor down here,” says Vince.

Kiki watches me tighten my lips together, then looks down at her watch before looking back at Vince.

“I
really
gotta get outta here. I have a wardrobe consultation in ten minutes. Would it be too much trouble for you to just open that up for her really quick? I
really
need to go,” says Kiki, smiling at Vince.

Vince looks down like he’s thinking for a couple seconds. Then, he opens a drawer and sorts through it. He starts to rearrange a stapler, some pens, and then a box of paper clips.

“Yeah, yeah, no problem. Only cuz it’s you,” says Vince, smiling at Kiki, reaching far back into a drawer and pulling out a pair of scissors. He begins cutting across the edge of the envelope very slowly and looks inside.

“Hmmm. Officer Hector Cruz. I know who that is,” says Vince, facing the card towards Kiki and me.

“So do I,” I say, remembering him as the one who saved my job pulling Clown over.

I widen my eyes at Kiki, alerting her I found what I came for.

“Can you do me a huge favor and not let anyone know we were here? This needs to stay between you, me, and Gaby,” says Kiki.

“Sure, no worries. You guys know where to find him? Cuz he’s been put on leave,” says Vince.

“Can you tell us?” says Kiki in a soft sweet voice.

Vince grabs a yellow Post-it note, scribbles on it, then hands it to me. I read Cruz’s home address as Kiki leans over to cheek kiss Vince.

Leaving the property room, Kiki and I wave ’bye to Vince. As the door is shutting, he’s holding his pointer finger up to his lips motioning for us to stay quiet.

“Good call on the police pin-up outfit,” I say, winking at Kiki.

Thirty minutes after leaving the property room, I stand outside the front door of Officer Cruz’s home with Kiki. “I can hear someone inside,” whispers Kiki.

“What can you hear?” I whisper back.

“It sounds like a TV,” starts Kiki. “Do you think we should be here?” she says, changing the subject and looking afraid.

“What do we have to lose? He obviously knows Laura,” I say.

“But who cares? You have Clown in custody already,” says Kiki.

“And Cruz’s card in her pocket,” I snap back.

“I’m giving him one more minute to open the door. If not, I think we should get out of here,” says Kiki.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, jiggling the front door handle, checking to see if it’s locked.

“Don’t do that,” says Kiki frantically.

“What is your problem?” I ask.

“Vince said to be careful. He said Cruz is kind of shady,” says Kiki.

“And you decide to tell me this now?” I say.

“You were gonna come here regardless,” Kiki snaps back.

She’s right. She knows me pretty well. “It still woulda been nice to know,” I say.

“Can we go now?” asks Kiki.

“Gimme a second,” I say, noticing the side gate to Cruz’s home propped open on the other side of the closed attached garage door.

It takes me all but thirty seconds to slip through the side gate of Cruz’s rather large, roughly three thousand square foot home. No wonder they call these houses McMansions. Tuckford county is filled with them. Low-income families could afford them until the recession hit along with the subprime mortgage bust and they all went into foreclosure. I walk past a sliding glass door on the side of the house and glance in. Cruz is sitting at his couch facing away from me watching a big screen TV. He takes a sip of his beer can, which is so obviously not his first. At least a handful of beer cans litter the floor around his couch along with a pizza box and some packets of either parmesan cheese or red pepper flakes. Beer bottles line the standing bar area leading to his open air kitchen and on his dining table that sits in a room close to the TV room.

Cruz’s house phone rings, but he doesn’t move or answer it. A Larry King show blares from the TV and music blasts throughout the house. The phone stops ringing and Cruz’s voicemail picks up, which I can’t make out. Someone leaves a message.

As Cruz gets up from the couch, I lose sight of him and watch him make his way towards the kitchen.

Kiki comes walking back towards the sliding glass door. “Get down,” I whisper commandingly.

I strain to hear what Cruz is doing in the kitchen. But Larry King’s voice on the television blasts out interview questions.

“Let’s get out of here, Gaby. I’m scared,” says Kiki.

“Hold on,” I mouth to her.

Kiki shakes her head back and forth, disagreeing with me before walking away.

I rush back towards the side gate, following Kiki back to the pathway leading past Cruz’s front door to get back to my car. Suddenly, the front door opens from behind us.

We stop in our tracks.

Should I run?

Stay calm. Breathe. Walk steady.

I turn to face the front door. Cruz looks right through me, not even recognizing who I am. He balances his unsteady body with his hand against his door jamb.

“Can I help you with something?” Cruz says, slurring his words. I stare at Cruz, seeing my stepfather’s face in his. So many times I tried to speak to my stepfather, but I could never have a decent conversation with him. He was always so drunk, so belligerent, and so mean. I always wanted to ask him why he treated my mom the way he did and why he ruined every opportunity I had to spend time with her. But anytime I’d get the courage to, he’d look at me with those same glassy eyes, that smell on his breath, those unsteady feet, and I would walk away.

“I’m sorry, sir, we have the wrong house,” I say, turning to leave and exhaling as I hear the front door slam shut.

16

RUSH REQUEST

Within twenty minutes of leaving Cruz’s home, Kiki and I stand in the lobby at the Crime Lab with criminalist Miranda Jules.

“Miss Jules,” I begin. “I know that you’re not supposed to talk about these things until they’re reviewed, but my office is going to be making a filing decision Monday. I came here to ask if you could share the results of your DNA analysis with me.”

“Well, I do understand the time constraints you have for your filing decision,” Miranda says. “However, it has always been my practice to wait until my work has been reviewed before I disclose it.”

“How long is that going to take?”

“At least thirty-six hours.”

“Does that include the weekend?”

“We’re talking about business hours. I already rushed all the analysis for you. I’m not going to ask my supervisor to work the weekend to accommodate your office. We are, as you know, understaffed and in a major budget crisis right now,” Miranda says.

“I understand that and I don’t want to rush anyone,” I say. “But our office needs to make a filing decision on whether or not the person we have in custody is actually the person who committed the crime.”

“Well, Dylan seems to be sure you guys have the right guy,” Miranda says. “In fact, when I spoke to him a little while ago, he didn’t seem to care about knowing the results at all. He told me not to rush anything.”

“I’m not speaking about Dylan,” I say impatiently. “And Dylan’s not making the filing decision in this case. I am, or at least I’m going to present the case in a staffing on Monday. And I’m trying to get prepared. I’m just asking you to let me know preliminarily what the results are. I’m not gonna hold you to it or even mention it, but I just personally want to know if we have the right person. I can’t file a case until I believe I can prove it beyond a reasonable doubt.”

I stare at Jules, wanting to rip off her glasses or grab her by the throat. It takes all of me to stay calm while I listen to her. She lowers her voice.

“Look,” Miranda says curtly, “I know you’re probably thinking there are other criminalists here in this laboratory that have no problem sharing this information with you. But like I said when we first met, that is not my procedure.

“There’s a reason that I’m well respected in the community, by the laboratory, by the state licensing committee, criminal defense attorneys, and prosecutors. It’s because I hold myself to higher standards. And what that means is that I follow the rules. I don’t cut corners. Or do favors. I do my work.”

Just twenty-four hours ago, this same woman seemed so much more helpful. I decide to remind her, since I can’t keep my mouth shut.

“You were willing to do us a favor and rush the DNA in this case when Dylan was here. Did that have anything to do with it?” I ask.

“This has nothing to do with Dylan. I don’t know what your problem is with me,” Miranda says. “I did you a favor by rushing this case because you told me how important it was to you. I’ve been working on this case non-stop since yesterday. You showed me a picture of your victim and I did everything I could to help. But I’m not going to rush my supervisors and ask them to work through the weekend just to accommodate you.”

“Of course you won’t. Let’s pretend I tell you it’s important to Dylan.
Now
how do you feel about rushing it?” I ask in a sarcastic tone.

“Ms. Ruiz, this has nothing to do with Dylan,” Miranda says.

“Don’t tell me he asked you to delay this?”

“No, he hasn’t.”

“Which supervisor is going to be doing the administrative review?” I ask.

“I don’t know because it hasn’t been assigned yet,” she replies.

I decide to raise my voice to get my point across.

“What do you mean it hasn’t been assigned?” I ask. “I specifically asked this case be given priority. We have to make a filing decision by Monday. And I’m only asking you for some preliminary results.”

Lloyd Stanley, the crime lab supervisor, opens the door, which leads to the main area of the Crime Lab. He peeks his head into the lobby.

“Is everything okay out there?” asks Lloyd.

“No, it’s not,” I say. “I’m trying to get some preliminary information on DNA results and Ms. Jules can’t help me because they still need to be reviewed.”

“Well, I’m the person who’s going to be doing the review, so maybe I can answer some questions for you. Why don’t we go down to the conference room?” says Lloyd.

“Thank you,” I say, walking past and ignoring Miranda as I follow Lloyd into the Crime Lab with Kiki.

Kiki and I sit near each other at the same conference table I sat with Dylan yesterday. Lloyd sits down next to Miranda.

“What do you want to know?” Lloyd asks.

“Anything you can tell me. Let’s start with the belt that was tied around her wrists. How many profiles were found on that?” I ask.

“I can answer that,” Miranda says. “I’ve created a report based on how many different profiles there were. Other than Laura’s DNA, there was one other person found on the actual belt. But the results need to go through administrative review. It’s especially important in this case, which I’m sure Lloyd will agree with, because it needs to get uploaded into the DNA database.”

Any unknown DNA profiles found on crime scene evidence are uploaded into the DNA database. This means that the DNA Miranda found on the belt is not Clown’s. If it was his, she would know since we gave her his DNA sample.

“Something you need to understand from my standpoint is the importance of the technical review, especially in this case, because it’s getting uploaded in the database. My findings need to be one hundred percent correct. Because uploading an inaccurate profile can subject some innocent person to prosecution if there was a match. This is why we need to stick to the rules,” Miranda explains.

I think for a second how I’ve been subjected to all kinds of inaccurate matches lately, at least with online dating. This morning, I was matched with Bo, a five-foot-six man with a few extra pounds; he has three kids, completed up to high school, and owns a car. The database thought we were a good match because we both like dogs. If online dating websites had the same quality assurance as DNA, maybe I wouldn’t be subjected to so much persecution. After all, I’m an innocent single female, too.

I look back at Miranda.

“There are strict regulations set by the state that require this lab to follow rules before the profile is uploaded,” she says.