The Incident (Chase Barnes Series Book 1) (20 page)

FIFTY

The other spot wasn’t even a storage unit.  It had been at one time before the entire facility was renovated.  Now it was a free standing unit on the opposite end of the parking lot and the rusted out unit’s primary purpose was to store lawn and maintenance equipment for Treasure Island Storage.  Another goon named Trigger met Source at the original storage unit on the second floor of the facility.  Together, they held Esteban under the elbows as if he were a high- profile criminal being brought before the judge.  Esteban’s hands were still knotted behind his back.  Trigger was about three inches shorter than Source but carried much more upper body muscle.  He walked like a scarecrow.  Trigger had a shaved head and large diamond earrings dangling from each earlobe and several moderately- sized scars scattered all over his forehead, neck, and exposed arms.  Visible signs of hard living. 

              Esteban was dragged from the first storage unit down a lengthy corridor and down a flight of stairs.  Trigger and Source kicked Esteban’s feet to the right after exiting the stairwell and dragged him down another dingy corridor and finally outside and across a moderately sized parking lot. 

              Esteban felt dead inside from the torture and punishment he’d experienced and was using this as an opportunity to exhibit some of his defiant behaviors.  The unit was already open and Esteban could see the glow of light.  His impulses forced him to consider making a run for it but he eventually came to his senses and reconsidered.  Even he knew there was no way of escaping the death grip of Goon 1 and Goon 2.  It’d been the first time Esteban had been outside and had a breath of fresh air in a week.  The wrists tightly tied behind his back wouldn’t do him any good. 

              Inside the unit were four chairs, one in each corner, facing their respective corners.  Three of them were occupied by other kids of about equal age, also with their hands laced and tied behind them through the folding chair.  Two were black and the other was Hispanic but because of their positioning Esteban couldn’t tell if they were anyone he knew.  Each corner had a space heater hanging the way some people caddy- corner small televisions for all to see.  But this was no sitcom.  Each space heater glowed a bright orange and the heat was streaming out of it.  They were angled downwards, blasting each seat with hundred- plus degree heat. 

              “I’m tired of this shit, man.  I told you I don’t know nothing.  What the fuck?”  The impulsive rage was starting to rise in the back of Esteban’s throat. 

              “Shut the fuck up and have a seat,” Trigger said and shoved Esteban across the floor of the open expanse and into the only vacant seat.  Trigger’s muscles were bulging out of his short- sleeved shirt like a hippo in a tutu.  He was just under five and a half feet and his shaved head was instantly glistening with sweat from the thick layer of heat. 

Esteban felt the intense heat. 

The sound of Trigger’s voice startled one of the other boys.  He turned his bleary eyes in Esteban’s direction but quickly dropped his head back down to his chest.  Esteban attempted to kick Trigger in the shin but Trigger quickly side- stepped the blow and returned a swift back hand to Esteban’s temple. 

              “What the fuck Chooch gonna do with all of ‘em?” Trigger asked.  Trigger been a late recruit of Klein’s but Klein liked his work.  He had only been a runner for a few short months before Klein noticed his potentials were being wasted on such juvenile work.  Klein bumped him up in the ranks and now sat as one of Klein’s right- hands.  Some promotion. 

              Source said, “Fuck ‘em.  I don’t give a shit what he do with them.”

FIFTY ONE

I saw it was pushing eight- thirty when I pulled up in front of Esteban’s house again.  I dropped Lindsey off at home on the way. I needed to find out what happened to Esteban when he was six- years old that caused him to suddenly begin his aggressive, impulsive behaviors in school and I certainly didn’t want her to be any more a part of this than she already was.  This wasn’t something I could let fester until morning.  I mean I hated my fair share of teachers, tests, and homework assignments but never so much that I picked up a chair and hurled it at a teacher.  The thought surely crossed my mind but I knew I’d never do it.  I began to wonder how many chairs he’d thrown at home, how many broken windows he’d punched, and how many times he threatened his siblings with a pair of scissors.  From what I gathered thus far, it was probably a regular occurrence. 

              While I waited for Ms. Cruz to answer the door I looked up and saw a large patch of gray clouds hovering above. 

              I suddenly had a waft of rain- soaked air fill my nose.  Ms. Cruz answered the door in a bathrobe and holding one of the babies.  Shocker.  There was a dimly lit exterior lamp above the door that was in desperate need of repair.  She didn’t seem surprised to see me and allowed me to follow her into the house without a word.

              “I see you ain’t found my boy otherwise you wouldn’t be here alone,” she said.  “So what you want now?” 

              I love it when people exchange such nice pleasantries.  Makes me feel like I’m doing the world some good.  I stepped inside just before the raindrops began to fall even harder.

              “We need to talk.”  I even surprised myself with the amount of command that was behind my voice.  “Can we sit?” I asked, gesturing to the kitchen table.  She agreed.

              “About what?”
              “Esteban,” I said.

              “I told you everything you asked already.  Just find my damn boy!” she yelled.  The baby Ms. Cruz held didn’t flinch an eye muscle when his mother screamed.

              “That is true, Ms. Cruz.  You did answer all of the questions that I asked, and I greatly appreciate it, but now I have more,” I said.

              “Fine, what is it?”  Ms. Cruz lit a cigarette.

              “According to Esteban’s file at school he started acting out and misbehaving around the time he was in first grade.  Is there anything in particular that might’ve caused him to suddenly change his behavior?”

              She sat, smoking her cigarette, and had her thinking face on but, to me, it looked like an act.  I let her play it out to see where she’d go.

              “I don’t remember,” was all she said.

              “I don’t think you’re telling me the truth.  The file said that you declined comment when the school psychologist who tested Esteban asked you some background questions,” I said.  I leaned in closer to her as a comforting gesture and said, “I know this is hard, Ms. Cruz, but this information will help me find him.”
              She began to cry and I began to feel awkward and uncomfortable.  Crying women was never my thing.  “He’s really a good boy,” she said through her sobs.  “If I knew it was happening I would have stopped it and killed him myself.”

              “What and who are you talking about?”  I asked.  She hesitated and lit a new cigarette off the end of her old one. 

              “Never mind.  I shouldn’t have said anything.”

              “Can’t do that now.  The cat’s out of the bag and clawing at everything in sight.  Let’s have it,” I said.  I leaned away from her to give her more personal space.

              Ms. Cruz took a drag off her cigarette.  “My brother.  He was sexually abusing Esteban for a few months back when he was living with us.  He was out of work and I felt bad for him, you know, he was- is- my brother.  So I took him in and gave him a place to stay for a while.”

              Was?  Is?  What the kind of door did I open up here?

              “Who is ‘he’?” I asked.

              “Pedro.  Pedro Cruz.”

              “And why did you say that he
was
your brother?’” 

              “It was a mistake.  I didn’t mean to say it,” she said.

              Pedro Cruz rang a bell.  It took me a few seconds but I realized where I’d known the name.  Pedro Cruz was killed in 2009 by one Hector Machado, now recognized as Esteban’s father.  I remember the story being all over the local news and plastering the papers and media websites.  Hector Machado had returned home early from work one day to hear sobs of sadness and agony coming from the back of the house.  Hector quietly approached only to find Pedro Cruz forcing young Esteban on himself while both were naked from the waist down.  Hector screamed in horror and grabbed the nearest weapon he could find- a medium- sized kitchen knife lying on the counter.  Hector pulled Esteban away and, through Esteban’s sobs, Hector stabbed Pedro, from head to toe, thirty- one times. Cutting off his penis as an added bonus- all while Esteban looked on in a state of panic and shock.  It was a sight no one should ever have to witness, let alone a six- year old boy.  That added to all of the drug exposure Esteban had seen from his older brother would be enough to send anyone to the nuthouse.  Hector, however, was eventually acquitted of the murder charges on the grounds of temporary insanity due to the horrific scene he walked in on that day.  In addition, were the repeated signs of bruising witnessed by both of Esteban’s parents at various times as well as the psychological evaluation.  The Machado/Cruz family was never the same after that.

              Now connecting some of the dots, between the sexual violence, being the product of  a murderous father, albeit murderous for the purpose of saving his son, and the exposure to drugs from an older brother, Esteban didn’t stand a chance. 

              “He was killed, wasn’t he?” I asked, even though I knew the answer.  She nodded her head once.  “I remember the story.  I just didn’t put two and two together because Esteban’s name was kept out of the papers due to  his age,” I said.

              “I wish it would all just go away.”  Ms. Cruz lit another cigarette off the end of her current one and stubbed out what was left of the first.  “I thought it all did go away and now you’re asking about it.”

              “Do you know any of your brother’s friends or any one he associated with that might want to get back at you for killing him?  Maybe other family members?”

              “No.”  She said it a bit too quickly, I thought.  Almost as if she predicted the question was coming.

              “Are you sure?”  I asked.

              “I said, no.  The rest of our family lives in Puerto Rico anyway,” she replied.

              “I’m sorry this happened to you and I promise, again, that I will bring Esteban back to you.”  I offered my phone number again just in case she needed me for anything.

              “I’m sorry but I have one more question before I go.  Esteban’s father doesn’t live here anymore does he?”  I waited for the cat to start clawing again but I received just the opposite.  Ms. Cruz dropped her chin to her chest and gently shook her head no.

              I felt my phone buzz when I opened the door to my Santa Fe.  I pulled it out and saw it was from a number I did not have stored as a contact.  I answered anyway.

              “Hello?”

“You still need that fix?” Jamal asked.

FIFTY TWO

I hesitated.  I couldn’t believe he actually called me back. 

              “Yeah,” I said.

              “I can meet you in two hours,” Jamal said.  I looked at my watch and it was almost nine.

              I don’t know why but I said, “I don’t know if I can wait that long.”

              “Listen, motherfucker, you call me and now you gotta play the game my way.  I got the best shit in town and you wanna press me?  You don’t know who you dealin’ wit.”

              “My bad.  You right,” was all I said.

              He gave me the location and I ended the call.  He wanted to me outside Hinchliffe Stadium.  Hinchliffe Stadium is a massive ten- thousand seat stadium built in 1932.  The stadium was named after John V. Hinchliffe, the former mayor of Paterson.  Amongst many, Hinchliffe Stadium is a historical landmark in the Paterson community.  It was the home of the New York Black Yankees from 1933- 1937 and 1939- 1945 and the New York Cubans of the Negro National League from 1935- 1936.  The stadium was obtained by the Paterson Public Schools in 1963 and it was utilized it for school events until 1997.  Since the schools have been possessed by the state due to low academic performances the stadium is in a major state of disrepair.