When the Devil Doesn't Show: A Mystery (24 page)

Mazer opened his eyes at the sound of the door closing behind Gil and tried to focus on them, confusion apparent across his face.

“We’re police detectives,” Gil said, keeping the introductions to a minimum for now so Mazer could understand the information in his deteriorated condition. “Can you tell us what happened?”

Mazer shook his head and whispered, “Didn’t see him.”

“Did someone break into your house?” Gil asked.

“They broke down the door.”

“They?” Joe said. “There was more than one person?”

“I … don’t know,” he said, closing his eyes again.

Gil took out the picture of Abetya, “Have you ever seen this man?” Gil asked, raising his voice, making Mazer pop his eyes open. He looked at the photo for a second and licked his lips before saying no.

“How about this man?” Gil asked, showing him a photo of Hoffman. Mazer looked at it, but closed his eyes again before he could answer.

“Mr. Mazer?” Gil asked, raising his voice, trying to rouse him again. But this time Mazer’s eyes stayed closed.

*   *   *

George Gonzales was belly down on the floor of the schoolhouse, his hands handcuffed behind his back.

“This is just a precaution,” Kristen said. “I’ll take them off you as soon as we have things straightened out.” She had heard Detective Montoya say much the same to his suspects. It always seemed to have a calming effect.

“Are you injured?” she asked. “Where had the blood come from?” George didn’t answer, so she snapped on some latex gloves she had stashed in another compartment in her belt and searched him. She found a lighter and some old tissue in his pockets, but no wounds on his body. The blood wasn’t his.

Using the handheld radio clipped to her gun belt, she called for a patrol unit to transport George, since she had come in her personal car. Keeping the gloves on, she pulled an evidence bag out of a small zippered compartment on her gun belt and dropped the gun she had taken out of his waistband inside. She pulled George’s wallet out of his back pocket and found his driver’s license. As she was taking a picture of it, she noticed it listed an address in Santa Fe and not Nambé Pueblo. She took a picture of the gun as well and texted both photos to Joe, along with the message, “Found during welfare check. Suspect has blood on his shirt. Bringing him to station.”

She took a moment to look out the windows of the schoolhouse, both to check if the patrol car had arrived and to see if Mary had decided to come find out what was going on. At her feet, George was making sniffling noises while sweat fell off his face onto the hardwood floor.

“Are you sick?” she asked. “There’s something going around.”

He didn’t answer, but his face looked gray. Something occurred to her. “When was the last time you fixed? Has it been more than eight hours?” If so, then he wasn’t sick in the usual sense. Instead, he was dope sick. When heroin users go into withdrawal, they get body aches, runny noses, and intense fatigue. In essence, they feel like they have the flu, only ten times worse.

“Two days,” he said, so low that she had to strain to hear it. “Almost three.” It was the first time he had spoken.

“You must really be hurting,” she said. “I will get you some water as soon as we get to the station.” They both went silent again. She knew she should be taking advantage of the fact that he had finally spoken, but she wasn’t sure what to say. She decided to make small talk.

“I talked to your mom and your wife,” she said.

He turned his head as best he could to look up at her and asked, “How are they?”

“They are really worried about you.” He didn’t respond. “I saw your kids, too. The baby is adorable.” His face softened, and she knew she had found the right tack, but then heard the sound of the patrol car pulling up outside.

She got George up to his feet and escorted him outside. Another patrol car pulled up, and she heard a yell, and turned to see Mary Gonzales running awkwardly up the hill, toward them, hauling the baby’s car seat with her. Kristen put George in the backseat of one of the patrol cars and closed the door just as Mary reached her, out of breath.

“What is going on?” Mary asked, as she tried to push her way past Kristen. “You said you were just going to talk with him.”

Kristen put her hands up to stop Mary from approaching the car. “There are just a few things we need to sort out.”

“He hasn’t done anything,” Mary said, setting the car seat down while the baby inside it slept.

“That might be true, but he has blood on his shirt,” Kristen said. “We have to figure out where that came from.” What she didn’t add was that the pistol she had taken off George had a long, thin barrel and a wooden grip on the handle—just like the Browning Natalie Martin had described.

*   *   *

The surgeon had gone into the room to exam Mazer, which meant Gil and Joe were back outside in the hospital corridor, standing around. As the surgeon came out, Gil waylaid him, asking about Mazer’s prognosis.

“We’re taking him up to surgery now,” the doctor said.

“When can we have another chance to talk to him?” Gil asked, as Joe moved away to answer his ringing phone.

“Not until after the procedure,” the doctor said. “The bullet hit his right radial collateral artery and possibly the middle collateral. I won’t know for sure until I get in there. Give it about five hours, then check back.”

“Is he in danger of dying?” Gil asked.

“Not if I can help it,” the surgeon said, not actually answering the question.

Joe came back over to Gil, snapping his phone closed and saying quickly to the surgeon, “Can we have just another second with him? We just need to ask him two more questions.” Gil looked at Joe, not sure what he was talking about. Before the surgeon could answer, an orderly brushed past them and went into Mazer’s room. Joe was right behind him—through the door to Mazer’s bedside. The surgeon made an exasperated sound but didn’t move to stop him. Gil went into the room, too. Joe was showing Mazer, who had his eyes closed, the screen of his phone.

“Dr. Mazer,” Joe was yelling. “I just need you to open your eyes. Open them … just open your eyes.”

“Joe—” Gil had started to interrupt, needing an explanation from Joe, when Mazer opened his eyes.

“Good,” Joe yelled. “Now look at the picture. Have you seen this man?”

Mazer nodded slightly.

“Who is he?” Joe asked.

“The man who shot me,” Mazer said, groggy but audible.

“And is this the gun he shot you with?” Joe asked, sliding his finger over the phone’s screen and holding up another picture on it for Mazer to see.

“Yes,” Mazer said, closing his eyes again, then adding, “That’s it.”

“Thank you, sir,” Joe said, almost joyfully. “Thank you.”

Joe went back out of the room and said to Gil, “We need to go back upstairs and see if Natalie Martin can make a positive ID, too.”

“What is going on?” Gil asked.

“We have a suspect in custody and the murder weapon,” Joe said.

*   *   *

Gil stood in the observation room, looking through one-way glass at George Gonzales, who sat uncuffed in the interview room occasionally wiping his nose on his sleeve. Because they were needed as evidence, Gonzales had changed out of his bloody shirt and his jeans and shoes. He now sat in an orange inmate jumpsuit, although he was not under arrest—yet. It was a gamble, but Gil had decided to wait until after he’d interviewed Gonzales to give him a Miranda warning. Until Gil said the words “you have the right to remain silent,” he wouldn’t be able to use in court any statements Gonzales might make. Instead, he could use the information only to further the investigation. Joe had read over Gonzales’s arrest record during the drive to the station. There were plenty of minor drug possession charges and a DWI, but nothing that reached the level of severity and brutality of the home invasions. As Joe had said as he read the reports, “Gonzales is a criminal, but he doesn’t seem like a bad guy.” Gil decided to use that as the premise of his interview—Gonzales as victim in the classic “wrong place, wrong time” situation. That would be the story Gil would spin. With any luck, Gonzales would pounce on that idea, agreeing that he wasn’t a bad person, just in a bad situation. Having established this, Gil could then suggest to Gonzales that because he was a good guy, he would want to help set the record straight and tell his side of the story. The object of all of this was to give Gil what he sorely lacked at the moment: Gonzales’s cooperation. Without it, they would never find Hoffman.

*   *   *

“How did he seem when you first found him?” Gil asked Kristen, who stood next to him in the observation room with Joe on her other side.

“He was quiet,” she said. “The only time he spoke was when I told him his family was worried.”

“What did he say?” Gil asked.

“He asked how they were,” she said. “Oh, and he did say he was dope sick. It’s been two days since he last fixed.”

“Good job,” Gil said, smiling at her so she would know he meant it. “Why don’t you watch from here?”

“Actually, sir, I wanted to check on his wife,” Kristen said. “She was on scene and followed us to the station. I just want to make sure she and her baby are somewhere out of the way.”

“No problem,” Gil said.

He went out to his desk, where he unclipped his gun holster from his belt and locked it in his desk drawer. He then grabbed a notebook and went into the interview room. Natalie Martin had identified Gonzales as well; he had willingly participated in the attack of the young family, yet Gil was about to make him believe he was a misunderstood hero—but it was the game Gil had to play.

Gil sat in the chair opposite Gonzales and started with his usual question. “Why do you think you’re here today?”

Now that Gil was this close to him, he could see that Gonzales was having a hard time focusing his eyes, the lids half closed.

Gonzales didn’t answer.

“You don’t have any ideas why you are here?” Gil pressed. Gonzales just shrugged. His body language could have been interpreted to mean he was apathetic or relaxed, but he had his arms wrapped around him and didn’t look up when he talked. He was scared—very scared.

“All right,” Gil said. “Well, I think you should know, George, that our investigation will uncover all the details regarding the case. In light of that, if you know anything about it, you should tell me now.”

Gonzales said nothing.

“Look,” Gil said, leaning in. “I know some bad stuff has happened in the past couple of days. Things that anyone would have a hard time with. And I know you want to tell your side of the story.”

Gonzales didn’t answer.

“I know you were just a good guy who found himself in an impossible situation,” Gil said.

Gonzales stayed quiet.

“Things probably just got out of control and you were stuck, right?” Gil asked.

Gonzales still didn’t answer.

Gil leaned back. Gonzales wasn’t taking the bait, which was unusual. This type of interrogation, which was used by investigators across the country, had a high success rate. As part of the tactic, Gil had specifically not asked Gonzales about the gun or the blood on his shirt. The idea had been for Gil to talk in generalities until he had built a rapport with Gonzales. A mention of specific evidence could shut the conversation down before it started. Gil needed to switch methods. He needed to shake him up a bit. He decided to see how Gonzales would react to a more concrete question. “Why don’t you tell me about Tyler Hoffman?”

Gonzales’s right foot began to bounce and he pulled his arms tighter around him, but he still didn’t answer.

*   *   *

Kristen Valdez found Mary Gonzales out in the waiting room, near the receptionist desk, the baby asleep in her arms.

“Where is he?” Mary asked.

“He is being interviewed by some detectives,” Kristen said.

“What?” she asked. “Why?”

“They just think he has some information about a case they are working on,” she said. “We are trying to figure out as quickly as possible what is going on, I swear.”

Mary shook her head and looked away.

“I just had a question for you that might help clear something up,” Kristen said. “Why does George’s driver’s license list an address in Santa Fe when he lives in Nambé?”

“What? How does that matter?”

“I’m just curious. I need to tie up a few loose ends.”

“He’s had the license forever,” she said. “Since before we were married. He lived in the city for a while a few years ago. I guess he just never changed it.” New Mexico driver’s licenses were good for eight years. It was a safe bet that many New Mexicans no longer lived at the address listed on theirs.

“Why do you care where he used to live?” Mary asked.

“Like I said, just tying up some loose ends,” Kristen said. She told Mary good-bye, but instead of going back in the station, she went out to her car. She got in the front seat and fished her phone out of her pocket. She pulled up the screen listing the photos she had taken with the phone and found the picture of George Gonzales’s driver’s license. She took a second to look at the address—1267 Camino Dulce—before starting her car and heading to the outskirts of town.

*   *   *

Mentioning Hoffman’s name had rattled Gonzales. He was more scared now. His eyes, which he’d had a hard time keeping open a few minutes ago, were focused on the wall behind Gil, unblinking. He had pulled his arms tighter around his body and was bouncing both legs. Gil needed to bring him back to safe ground. Kristen had mentioned that Gonzales was worried about his family. This was something Gil could use.

“I heard your wife is here,” Gil said. “Do you want to talk to her?”

The effect was instantaneous. “She’s here?” Gonzales asked, unwrapping his arms. “I don’t want to see her.” That was good news for Gil, who had been lying. There was no way he could let the two of them talk.

“Tell her not to go home,” Gonzales said. “She has to go to her mother’s.”

“Why?” Gil asked. Gonzales didn’t answer. “Are she and the kids not safe at home, George? Are you worried Hoffman will go after her?”

Gonzales didn’t answer and kept bouncing his leg.