Authors: Christopher Valen
Many of the photos of Julio Pérez were taken with local celebrities and politicians. In one he was receiving an award at a Chamber of Commerce dinner. In another he was throwing out the first pitch at a St. Paul Saint’s game. Pérez had been a slender, good-looking man with silver hair, a neatly trimmed silver mustache and eyes the color of dark coffee. His chestnut skin looked firm and his complexion healthy.
A framed copy of
El Día
, one of the monthly Hispanic newspapers in St. Paul, hung next to the family pictures. A former mayor had signed it. Santana remembered reading the newspaper when he first came to Minnesota.
El Día
became his main source of information and events, his lifeline to the Hispanic community. Since he spoke and read very little English at the time and preferred solitude to groups, he would often reread the same stories while he anxiously waited for the next issue to appear in the newspaper racks along Grand Avenue.
He moved on to the desk. A humidor filled with cigars sat on one side. A half-smoked cigar rested on the edge of a ceramic ashtray beside a yellow pad of post-it notes and a Rolodex open to the card of a well-known local attorney, Rafael Mendoza. Santana wondered why Pérez had called a lawyer and if the phone call was related in any way to his murder.
He walked into the master bedroom off the study. A thin layer of frost filmed the lower panes of the windows that looked out on the lighted park behind the house. The January sun already lay far below the horizon and a starless darkness covered the landscape. It was nearly mid-winter, yet the hard ground was still brown and free of snow, making it difficult to find any impression evidence.
A small statue of the Virgin Mary stood on the nightstand beside the neatly made double bed. A large crucifix hung on the wall. On the wall opposite the windows was a Holy Card called
Estampa de la Santísima Trinidad
, the trinity, and one called
Estampa de Jesús
.
Santana took off his latex gloves and stuffed them in his coat pockets. Then he went into the living room where Mrs. Pérez and her daughter were huddled together on a tweed couch. He sat down in a matching chair across from them.
Serapes
draped the backs of the couch and chair. Paintings of Native Americans on horseback hung on the walls. A picture window at one end of the room looked out onto the front porch. A statue of the
Virgen de Guadalupe
stood on an end table beside a burning candle that gave off an aroma of cinnamon.
“I know this is a difficult time for you both,” Santana said. “But I need to ask you a few questions.”
“
Por que alguien querría matar a mi esposo
,” Mrs. Pérez said, wiping her red, swollen eyes with a Kleenex.
“
Mamíta
,” her daughter said, embarrassment evident in her voice. “Speak English, please.”
“Forgive me,
señor
,” Mrs. Pérez said with a heavy accent. “When I am upset, I sometimes forget my English. I was asking why someone would kill my husband.”
The words brought tears to her eyes again. She rubbed them with the palms of her hands like she had just awakened from a nightmare and was uncertain if what she had dreamt was actually true.
“It’s okay,” Santana said. “
Yo entiendo bien el Español, Señora Pérez
.”
The two women looked at Santana as though he had just beamed down from the starship Enterprise.
“You are from Mexico?” the daughter said.
“Colombia.
Me llamo
, John Santana.”
“You have only a slight accent,
señor
.”
“It wasn’t always that way.”
Santana could tell by the way the daughter’s body relaxed that she saw him differently, now that she knew he was not a
guero
; he was not the enemy.
“I am Gabriela,” she said with very little accent as well. “This is my mother, Sandra.”
“
Mucho gusto
.”
“
Te pareces a mi sobrino
,” Sandra Pérez said. She put a hand momentarily on her mouth to prevent the words from coming out. “I’m so sorry, Detective Santana. But you do look like my nephew. It is the dark, wavy hair and blue eyes. And you are both handsome young men.”
“
Muchas gracias, señora
.”
“You must be over six feet.”
“Six feet one inch.”
She confirmed the fact with a nod and cast her eyes downward for a moment, as though she were imagining a happier time, perhaps with her nephew.
Santana said, “You were home all day,
señora
, except for the two hours when you went shopping?”
“Yes.”
“When was the last time you spoke to your husband?”
“When I left the house,” she said. “He was working in his study.”
“Do you recall what time you left?”
“It was just after three o’clock.”
“Was your husband planning on going out later?”
“Why?” Gabriela asked.
“Your father was wearing a white shirt and tie.”
“Julio was always a good dresser,” Sandra Pérez said. “It did not matter whether it was a workday or whether we were going out or staying in. He was just that way.” She dabbed her eyes with the Kleenex and sighed deeply.
Santana gave her a smile to reassure her that he understood. “Was your husband expecting anyone? A visitor, perhaps?”
“No. I do not think so.”
“And you, Gabriela? When was the last time you saw your father?”
“Yesterday evening. I came over for dinner. I like to do that at least once a week.”
Santana watched both of them carefully, their mannerisms, how they reacted to his questions. He had no reason to suspect them of committing the murder, but it would be unwise to rule either one of them out this early in the investigation.
“Your husband owned
El Día
,
señora
.”
“It was his life.”
“Do you both work there as well?”
“No. Gabriela worked there before she went to college.”
“And sometimes in the summer when I was home from school,” Gabriela said.
“You’re not in the newspaper business, then.”
“I manage
Casa Blanca
, a restaurant in St. Paul.”
Santana was familiar with the movie but not the restaurant. “Were you working when you got the call about your father?”
“Yes,” she said hesitantly, as if he had implied she wasn’t.
“Do either of you know a man named Rafael Mendoza?”
Both women shook their heads.
“Why?” Gabriela asked.
“Your father’s Rolodex was open to Mendoza’s name and number.”
“My father never spoke of him,” she said with a slight edge in her voice. “I do not know why he would call him.”
Santana wondered if Gabriela Pérez had a reason for reacting angrily when Mendoza’s name was mentioned or if she was just edgy by nature. Either way, he knew he would have to tread softly if he wanted her cooperation. He turned his attention to Sandra Pérez.
“Did your husband have any enemies,
señora
? Perhaps someone who worked for him at the newspaper?”
She shook her head vigorously. “Julio was a friend to many in this community.”
“Did your husband own a gun?”
“No.”
“Forgive me for asking,
señora
, but were you and your husband having any marital difficulties?”
“Difficulties? I do not understand?”
“My parents were very happy,” Gabriela said. Her dark eyes burned right through Santana.
Asking personal questions, particularly to a grieving widow, always bothered him. Still, most murders weren’t random acts of violence, but were committed by someone the victim knew. Santana considered explaining this fact to Gabriela Pérez before he concluded that she was not the least bit interested in hearing his reasoning behind the question.
“When you feel up to it,
señora
,” he said, “I would like you to look carefully around your house to see if anything has been taken.”
“You suspect robbery as a motive?” Gabriela said.
“We can’t rule it out.
Señora
, we’ll need to see your financial statements, bank accounts, credit cards.”
“I do not know about these things,” she said with a small shrug.
“I can help,” Gabriela said.
“Would you mind if I borrowed a photograph of your husband,
señora
? I might need it during the course of the investigation.”
“Gabriela will get one from the albums.”
Gabriela put her arms around her mother and stroked the back of her head, as if she were consoling a child.
Santana took a card out of a pocket and placed it on the coffee table. “There’s a name and number of a victim advocate, the medical examiner’s number, and the Ramsey County Attorney’s number on this card. Once we’re finished here, your husband’s body will be taken to the medical examiner’s office at Regions’ Hospital where an autopsy will be performed.”
He stood and closed his notebook. Behind him he heard the front door opening and closing and the sound of footsteps in the hallway. The evidence techs and ME had arrived.
“If you think of anything else or have any questions, please call me.” He gave them both a business card with his direct number at the station. “Is there someplace your mother could stay tonight?”
Gabriela looked at the card in her hand and then at Santana. “She will stay with me.”
“That’s a good idea.”
He started to leave when Gabriela said, “My mother is right, Detective. No one who knew my father would want to kill him.”
Her dark eyes had softened. An indication, perhaps, that she realized she would never see her father again.
“I’m very sorry for your loss,” he said.
“
Por favor
,” Sandra Pérez said with trembling lips. She pulled away from her daughter and stifled a sob. “
Encuentre al asesino de mi esposo
.”
The desperation in her voice imploring him to find the person who murdered her husband triggered the sudden rush of adrenaline Santana always felt when he began a homicide investigation. He had no idea yet who had murdered Sandra Pérez’s husband. But he had no problem promising her he would find out who did it.
“
Si, se lo prometo, señora
,” he said and returned to the study.
T
ony Novak, the crime scene investigator, and his usual contingent of forensic techs were measuring distances and collecting evidence. A police photographer used a Minolta 35-mm single-lens reflex camera to shoot black and white photos of the crime scene, the physical evidence and the body. Behind him, a sketch artist made detailed drawings. On the ground next to the .22 shell casing stood a small, yellow evidence marker with the number 1.
“Hey, John,” Novak said. “I just got a couple of tickets for the Chandler fight on the twenty-seventh. This kid is the best lightweight I’ve seen in a long time. You interested?”
“I might be.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
Santana smiled and said, “What do you have, Reiko?”
Reiko Tanabe, the medical examiner, leaned over the body. A strand of her dark hair fell across her face. She brushed it away with a latex gloved hand and touched the birthmark just below her right ear. The café au lait mark was small and light brown in color. Santana figured Tanabe wore her hair long so that it covered the mark when she was off the clock. At crime scenes she wore her hair in a ponytail and had a habit of unconsciously touching the blemish.
“Well, I’d say he’s been shot dead.” Tanabe looked up at Santana with a wry smile.
Santana had worked with her many times before and knew that she was as competent as they come, despite the lame humor. “What about the time of death?”
Tanabe felt Pérez’s jaw and neck and then proceeded down the trunk to his legs and feet. “Rigor’s just beginning in the lower jaw. Have to pop a thermometer in the liver and get the body temperature. But you know that can be unreliable.”
She looked at the body now and not at Santana, as though talking to herself. “It’s warm in the room. He’s wearing clothes. Could keep the body temperature up. I’d say maybe between two-thirty and four-thirty p.m.” She lifted Pérez’s head off the desk. “Right side of the victim’s face doesn’t show any lividity.”
Santana noted it was different on the left side of Pérez’s face. It had turned the familiar maroon color of death. Postmortem lividity only formed on parts of the body exposed to pressure. More evidence that Julio Pérez’s body had not been moved.
“Give me until tomorrow afternoon,” she said. “I got a couple ahead of this one.”
“Bobby,” Santana said to one of the techs. “Hand me a pair of latex.”
The evidence tech gave Santana a fresh pair of latex gloves and he put them on.
Santana hit the redial button on the phone on the desk. He picked up the receiver and held it close to his ear. A message machine answered after the fourth ring. The voice was unfamiliar, but he recognized the name. He hung up, took out his notebook and copied Rafael Mendoza’s phone number and address from the card in Pérez’s Rolodex. Then he began his search of the remainder of the house.
The bathroom towels were free of bloodstains and dampness indicating the perp had not bled at the scene and attempted to clean up. Santana found nothing hidden in or around the toilet tank and no illegal drugs in the medicine cabinet.
He left the bathroom and went to the small kitchen. A backdoor opened into a chain-link fenced yard adjacent to a park and playground. The door was unlocked. Neither the bolt nor the doorjamb showed evidence of forced entry.
Three paper bags full of groceries sat on a kitchen counter. Santana found the sales receipt with a stamped time of 4:42 p.m. in one of the bags. If the ME’s estimate of the time of death was accurate, then Sandra Pérez couldn’t have shot her husband when she returned from the store. It was possible that she murdered him before she left, but Santana didn’t read her as a cold-blooded killer.
He peeled off the latex gloves and pulled the used ones out of his coat pockets and tossed both pairs in a container brought to the scene by the techs.