The Mexico Run (18 page)

    He stared at me coldly.

    "You think so? That is rather odd, senor. A man murders your wife and you say he could not have done it. Do you see now why we have not closed our case? Why there might be others involved?"

    "What are you getting at?" I asked. "Are you hinting that I…"

    "I am hinting nothing," he said. "I'm investigating a homicide. A woman has been murdered. We have the man who has committed that murder. We are anxious to know why he committed the crime. We are anxious to know how you happened to be out of town during the period in which your wife was killed. You say you are a friend of this man, Cortillo. Just how good a friend are you?"

    "A very good friend," I snapped. "And I tell you he could not have committed murder."

    "Did this Cortillo know your wife?"

    I hesitated. I sensed some sort of trap. Slowly I shook my head.

    "No," I said. "He had never met her."

    "And yet you are very good friends. Friends since boyhood."

    "That is right. But Cortillo had never met Sharon."

    "He met her once, senor. As I have told you, the body was found aboard his vessel. He was present when the body was discovered. He was drunk, unconscious, and there was blood on him from head to foot. The murder weapon was in his hand when we boarded the vessel."

    "How did you happen to board the vessel?"

    "The people on a nearby.boat heard screams, called the local police. They brought us in on the case. And now, if you've recovered sufficiently, I suggest you come with me."

    "Where are we going?"

    "As I have told you, we need positive identification of the body before we can release it."

    I stood up slowly. I was still in a state of shock.

    "When did this happen?" I asked.

    He didn't answer my question. "Are you ready?" he asked.

    I nodded dumbly. It wasn't until some three-quarters of an hour later-a nightmarish three-quarters of an hour, during which I had viewed the pathetic remains of Sharon lying in the local undertaking establishment-that I began to gradually regain my senses. We were sitting in the police car outside the undertaking parlor, and he was next to me, in the driver's seat.

    He had identified himself by this time as Sergeant Jose de Garios. He told me that he was temporarily in charge of the case, but was actually working under the orders of his superior whom he neglected to name. He said he would drive me back to La Casa Pacifica.

    "Where is Angel Cortillo now?" I asked.

    "He is being held incommumcado in the local jail," the sergeant said. "He is still being questioned. We have been careful to release no publicity at all on this until our investigation is closed."

    "I would like to see him," I said.

    "Your request is very unusual."

    "Nevertheless I should like to see him."

    He hesitated for several moments. At last he said, speaking slowly, "Well, I'll see if it can be arranged. It is a most unusual request, however. If you will wait here I will make a phone call."

    He left the car and went back to the undertaking establishment and was gone for some ten to fifteen minutes. When he returned, he wordlessly entered the car and started the engine. He turned to me as he put the car into gear.

    "You may see Angel Cortillo, but only briefly," he said. "And I must warn you again, this case is not closed. We still have no clear motive for the crime. An autopsy was unable to establish if the girl, your wife, had been raped. I don't wish to offend you, but from what we've learned of her, it is rather doubtful that rape would have been necessary. We are still curious as to what motivated Cortillo to commit this crime."

    "I tell you he didn't commit the crime," I said. "I want to talk to him."

    "You can see him, but you cannot see him in private. There must be someone present."

    

    

    There's an old saying that all jails are alike and all cops are alike. This is not true. Jails in the United States are tough, often brutal. But compared to Mexican jails, they're country clubs. A certain number of police officers in the States are vicious, cruel, and often sadistic. Sometimes they ignore the law as often as they enforce it. Compared with Mexican police, however, they are courteous, considerate and kind; gentlemen of the old school.

    On the surface, the jail in Ensenada is one of the better Mexican prisons. It is clean, well kept, comparatively modern.

    I don't know about the police personnel in Ensenada on the local level, but the Federal officers, who also use the facilities, make their own rules, set their own laws, and establish their own patterns of behavior.

    In the States a man can be held for twenty-four hours, and sometimes a little longer, before he is charged. If the police fail to charge him, he is automatically released. In most cases, outside of capital crimes, bail is easily obtained.

    In Mexico, a prisoner can be held indefinitely before being charged, and bail is all but impossible, even in minor cases.

    In that trip from the undertaking parlor to the city prison I had a few minutes to do some clear thinking. I was convinced of one thing. Angel Cortillo could not possibly have murdered Sharon. It had to be a frame-up. I still couldn't understand quite why, but one thing had been growing increasingly clear in my mind. Somewhere in the background was the hand of Captain Hernando Morales.

    We arrived at the city prison fifteen minutes after leaving the undertaker's, and I was ushered into the bleak confines of the jail just after dusk had fallen. Apparently, we were expected.

    The sergeant didn't hesitate as we crossed the lobby and passed the information desk, behind which sat a uniformed officer. A door was opened by a remote-control button, and we entered a long hallway. There were barred cages on each side containing assorted prisoners.

    When we came to the end of the hallway, the guard who'd accompanied us opened a second door. The steps led downward. At the bottom of the flight of stairs there were only two cells. One of them was unoccupied.

    There was a naked, forty-watt bulb overhead, and in the dim shadows behind the bars of the second cage I could see the form of a man lying on a cot.

    Again the guard keyed the door open and the figure didn't stir. The cell was bare but for the cot on which he lay. In one corner was the usual tin bucket. A second naked bulb, not more than twenty-five watts, illuminated the cell itself.

    I stepped inside and the iron-grilled gate was slammed behind me and locked. The guard turned and left, but Sergeant Jose de Garios stood outside the locked door. He turned his back on the cell and lighted another of his slender
cigarillos,
leaning against the bars in a bored posture.

    I took a couple of steps over and sat on the stool beside the cot.

    "Angel," I said.

    The man in the cot, his back to me, didn't stir. He was turned facing the wall. I reached over, put my hand on his shoulder.

    "Angel," I said again. This time I felt a movement under my hand and there was a groan. I sensed that he was trying to move, and as gently as possible, I half lifted him to turn him toward me.

    

    

    He whimpered as I got him on his back. He was naked from the waist up. His feet were bare. I could see his face. He couldn't see mine, because his eyes were swollen closed.

    For the second time that day, I could feel the gore rising in my throat and once again I almost vomited.

    In the States, they do it with blackjacks and fists and they go for the kidneys and the groin. They're careful not to leave marks. It doesn't look good in court.

    In Mexico, they are less delicate. They don't care whether there are marks or not. They hit anywhere and hit hard.

    His nose had been smashed in like a mashed potato. His lips were ribbons of raw flesh, and I could see the stumps of broken teeth behind them. The fingers of his left hand which lay across his chest had been broken, and no one had bothered to set them. No one had bothered to wipe the blood from his broken face and battered body.

    He was conscious, but barely conscious, and his breath whistled from his tortured throat. His right hand found my hand and I felt a touch of pressure and I knew that he was sufficiently conscious to recognize me.

    "God almighty, what have they done to you!"

    Blood and spittle dribbled from his mouth as he struggled to speak, but speech was beyond him. Gently I put his hand across his body and stood up.

    "I'll be back, Angel," I said. "Ill be back. I'll try and get you a doctor. A doctor and a lawyer."

    I went to the iron-grilled door.

    "Get me out of here, you animal," I said.

    Sergeant Jose de Garios slowly turned and looked at me, his expression blank.

    "You wanted to talk to him, senor," he said.

    "Get me out of here," I said. "This man needs a doctor. What have you done to him?"

    "We've questioned him, senor, It's the prerogative of the homicide department to question prisoners."

    Several moments later the jailer returned and again unlocked the door of the cell. I stalked out.

    When we reached the street the sergeant opened the car door, waiting for me to enter.

    I shook my head. "I'll call a cab," I said. I waited until he pulled away and then I walked several blocks until I found a phone booth.

    The third doctor that I tried agreed to go to the jail and see what he could do. I asked him to recommend a lawyer. When I reached the man at his home, I made it as brief as possible. I wanted him to do one thing and one thing only, and I was willing to pay a thousand dollars in cash to have him do it. I wanted him to get to the jail as soon as he could and to see to it that Angel had medical attention when the doctor arrived.

    He said he would do his best. He would call me later at La Casa Pacifica. His name was Fernando, Rodriques Fernando. He told me that he didn't practice criminal law, but that he believed he would be able to handle the situation at the city hall. He would recommend a criminal lawyer when I met him the next day.

    I then called a cab and returned to La Casa Pacifica. There was one other man I wanted to reach, and reach immediately. There was only one way I knew to do so, and that was through Homer Billings.

    It is fortunate that I did not see Captain Hernando Morales that night. Had I done so, I believe I would have put a.45 slug through his guts as he entered my room.

    

    

    As it turned out, however, he didn't show up until the following morning, by which time I had had a chance to calm down and to regain some semblance of control over my shattered emotions. I had also had a chance to start to put some of the pieces together.

    I was sure that Captain Morales was not only behind the murder of Sharon, but was responsible for framing Angel Cortillo for the crime. I couldn't believe it was anything as simple as his anger at the fact that Sharon had tried to skip out, or because he'd discovered Cortillo was helping her to make an escape. His motives had to be more devious.

    The frame-up, and I was sure it was a frame, was almost too perfect. I was not sure that Sergeant Jose de Garios was in on it, but I was sure of one thing. He very obviously had an open and shut case.

    Killing Morales would have given me a great deal of satisfaction. But it wouldn't have helped Angel Cortillo.

    Sharon was beyond help.

    That night as I lay in bed in my room at La Casa Pacifica, after having asked Billings to get in touch with Morales and request that he see me as soon as possible, I began to review the facts.

    Several things immediately struck me as odd. There had been no publicity about the murder or Angel's arrest. They had wanted to keep it quiet. They had not made a formal charge.

    I began to wonder, why the secrecy? I began to wonder just how much Captain Hernando Morales knew about my personal relationship with Angel Cortillo. Had he known that Angel was involved with me in the smuggling of the marijuana? Was that a part of the picture? What was the connection between Captain Morales and that sinister and mysterious man in San Francisco who went by the name of O'Farrell?

    Above all, why would Captain Morales jeopardize what would appear to be a lucrative future relationship with me by involving himself in the murder of a girl I lived with. The frame-up of a friend of mine for that murder?

    Anger at Sharon because she had run out on him? Jealousy or resentment against Angel, because he was involved in her escape? I doubted it.

    Captain Hernando Morales was not a man to permit his emotions to interfere with his finances. He was far too cool a customer for that. There had to be something else behind it.

    I could have saved myself a good deal of mental agony had I been willing to wait a few hours, for by noon of the following day I had begun to figure out exactly what was behind it. I had been warned by Bongo that Captain Hernando Morales was a very dangerous man. I should have taken that warning more to heart, for I was soon to find out exactly how dangerous he was.

    Bongo had told me in Saigon that this Captain Morales had tried to kill him and had failed. Before the following day was over I deeply regretted that in that particular case he had not been successful. For had he been, I would never have met him, as Bongo would never have been able to give me his name.

    By two o'clock in the morning, I still had been unable to find sleep, and I knew that the following day I would need my rest. And so I opened a fresh bottle of Jack Daniels and took approximately half of it in straight shots. Sleep, any kind of sleep, even drunken sleep, was better than no sleep.