Authors: Christopher Valen
Santana watched Gamboni. He knew that she was considering all the options and weighing the consequences before making her decision.
All right,” she said at last. “I’ll hold off for a while. But if Ashford gets wind of this before the investigation is completed, one of you is going to pay. So whatever you find out stays in this room.”
Baker said, “Maybe Mendoza, Pérez and Córdova were all involved in the scam. Maybe Córdova wanted all the action and took out the other two.”
“There should be a record of Mendoza’s transactions somewhere, Nick,” Gamboni said. “Keep looking. See if he deposited large sums of money in any accounts. Kacie you do the same for Pérez. Check their phone records. Look for a link between the two. And check out
El Día
, John; see what you can find out about Córdova. We need to connect the dots.”
Baker was unconsciously tearing the nicotine wrapper in his hands into tiny strips. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead. Santana thought Baker looked ready to jump out of his wrinkled clothes.
“I want to ask Tony Novak about the photo you found in Mendoza’s loft yesterday,” Santana said to Gamboni. “See if he can enhance it. We might be able to find something that can help identify the guy with Mendoza.”
“What photo is that?” Baker asked.
Santana explained.
“My, oh my,” Kacie Hawkins said in her practiced street voice.
“Maybe this has something to do with why Mendoza was killed?” Baker said.
“Everyone loves a good mystery,” Santana said.
Gamboni stood up, ignoring his comment. “Let’s get moving.”
Baker bolted out of his chair.
“The man has to kick that nasty habit before it kills him,” Hawkins said, following Baker out the door.
Santana stood. “I need a warrant for Córdova’s place, Rita.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
He picked up the computer printouts on her desk from Mendoza’s office. “Mind if I take a look at these?”
“Go ahead. If you’re right about the visa scam, John, we might have a possible motive.”
He looked at her for a moment without speaking.
“Something else on your mind, Detective?”
“You made the right decision about the Feds, Rita.”
She started to smile, but then caught herself. “I still have my priorities straight.”
“That’s good to know,” he said.
W
hen he sat down at his desk, Santana heard the familiar whine of the north wind as it hurled itself against the building in ever increasing gusts, rattling the windowpanes with such force that he thought they might shatter. Wind seemed to be a constant in Minnesota. It steamed up from the Gulf of Mexico in the summer carrying hot, humid air that melted his flesh and sucked the energy right out of him. In winter it roared down out of Canada carrying icicles of frigid air that stabbed the nerve endings in his fingers and toes until they were numb.
He checked his voice mail.
“Hey, Santana. Kelly Quinn from the
Pioneer Press
. I’m still working the taco beat. I’d like to talk to you about the Pérez-Mendoza investigation and Rubén Córdova’s death. Give me a call. Thanks.”
He had shared information with Quinn in the past. She was a good reporter and he figured she would try connecting Córdova to Mendoza’s death. Soon she would be asking if Córdova did Pérez as well. He elected not to return her call.
He booted up his computer, clicked on the file labeled reports and began typing a chronological record of his investigation. The information would become part of the murder book along with the autopsy protocols, witness statements, ballistic and crime scene reports and photos, printouts from Automated Fingerprint Identification System, and his notes.
SPPD crime statistics were collected in an automated Single Incident Tracking System known as SITS. They were coded and entered into a database that allowed queries by address, name and incident type. The city was divided into two hundred grids and advanced analysis could be conducted by grid and through combining grids by neighborhood. All SPPD officers had access to the department’s informational systems.
“Excuse me. Detective Santana?”
Santana did a one-eighty in his swivel chair.
The pretty woman standing in front of him had long, thick, raven hair down to her waist. Her dark complexion suggested she had some Indian blood. For an instant he sensed that he had met her before, though he knew he never had.
“My name is Angelina Torres,” she said with a smile that could melt ice. She gestured toward the priest standing next to her. “This is Father Hidalgo.”
The lanky priest’s long, thin hand felt damp and cold. He seemed timid and shy, like a groundhog afraid of its shadow.
“We’ve come to see you about Rubén Córdova’s death,” she said, and her honey-colored eyes suddenly filled with tears.
Santana rounded up two more chairs and sat down facing them.
“How do you know Córdova?”
Angelina Torres wiped her eyes with a Kleenex and said, “I met Rubén when we were in college in California. We had much in common. We were both from Mexico. Our parents worked together in the grape fields. After I came to Minnesota I took a job working for
Latinos in Minnesota
as a social worker. Rubén and I talked frequently. Eventually, he came here, too. And Mr. Pérez hired him as a reporter and editor. Rubén was a very good reporter.”
“So you knew Córdova well.”
“Well enough to know he would never attempt to shoot a police officer.”
The way she said it suggested to Santana that she and Córdova were more than just friends.
“Why did he have a gun?”
She averted her eyes and looked down at her hands. “I don’t know.”
Santana sensed that she held something back. Had she been alone, he might have pressed her more.
He said, “Did Córdova have any family living here?”
“No. But Mr. and Mrs. Pérez were like family.”
“Rubén belonged to my congregation,” Hidalgo said softly. “The Church of the Guardian Angels. He was a fine young man. Incapable of killing anyone.”
Santana had heard that said about many of the murderers he put behind bars. It ranked right up there with “I’m innocent” in the convicted felon’s book of favorite phrases. Still, he was in no hurry to pin both the Pérez and Mendoza murders on Córdova, at least not until he had solid evidence and a clear motive.
“I’m afraid I’m going to need a little more than that, Miss Torres.”
He could tell immediately by the disappointed look on her face that his reply had sounded sarcastic rather than encouraging. He tried a different angle to keep her talking.
“Do you know what Córdova was doing at the Riverview Lofts?”
“I know he was working on a story for the paper,” she said, moving to the edge of her chair. “But Rubén never talked about what he was writing until it was nearly finished.”
“Did Córdova know Mendoza?”
“Yes.”
“Then it’s possible Córdova went to the Riverview Lofts to see Mendoza.”
“I suppose so.”
“Did you know Rafael Mendoza, Miss Torres?”
“Yes. He represented many of the immigrants I work with. He helped them get their papers.”
“Do you have any idea why anyone would want to harm Mendoza?”
She shook her head as if she could not conceive of it ever happening. “I don’t understand Rubén’s or Mr. Mendoza’s death. But the last time I spoke with Rubén, he seemed afraid.”
“Of what?”
“I don’t know.”
“When did you speak to him last?”
“About a week ago.”
Santana paused before he asked Angelina Torres if she knew Julio Pérez. Her answer might help him establish a connection between Mendoza and Pérez. But it might also lead her to believe that there was a connection between the two murders. And Santana had no credible evidence to draw that conclusion. He had his suspicions, but all he knew for certain was that the last call Pérez made was to Mendoza. Still, he thought it was worth the risk, especially if it helped him solve one or both murders.
“How about Julio Pérez? Did you know him?”
“We went to the same church. I only knew Mr. Pérez through Rubén. He seemed to be a very humble, very private man.”
Santana wrote down the information.
“It’s quite a coincidence that Mendoza and Pérez’s deaths occurred on the same evening?” Hidalgo said.
Santana looked up from his notebook. He had not considered what conclusions Hidalgo might draw from his questions.
“Do you think their deaths are connected, Detective Santana?”
There was a time when Santana would never have lied to a priest. That time had long since past.
“There’s no indication of that,” he said.
Hidalgo looked for a moment as though he wanted to pursue the possible murder connection in more detail, but then he nodded his head slowly in apparent agreement.
Rather than give the priest more time to think about it, Santana jumped in quickly with another question.
“Pérez and Córdova were members of your parish.”
“That’s right.”
“How about Mendoza? Did you know him?”
Hidalgo set his jaw and tightened his lips. Had Santana not been watching the priest carefully, he would have certainly missed the nearly imperceptible movement. Maybe the whole ordeal surrounding Pérez’s death provoked such a strong emotional reaction that Hidalgo chose to keep the full extent of his feelings private, particularly in front of Angelina Torres — or maybe he was actually hiding something.
“I didn’t know him well,” the priest said.
“Tell me, Father, does your church help immigrants?”
“Of course.”
“Illegal immigrants?”
“If someone needs assistance, we provide it. It is not up to us to judge others, Detective. Only God has that power.”
Santana got the distinct impression that the pointed statement was directed at him. Apparently felons were not the only ones who had a book of favorite phrases.
“So, Mendoza wasn’t a member of your parish?”
“No, he wasn’t.”
Hidalgo got up suddenly, signaling the end of the conversation.
Angelina Torres hesitated and then stood up as well.
“Please let us know if there’s anything we can do,” Hidalgo said.
Santana pushed himself out of his chair and handed each of them a business card.
Angelina Torres looked as if she wanted to say something more. But she turned instead and followed Hidalgo out of the cubicle.
Chapter 5
S
ANTANA AND
P
ETE
C
ANFIELD
, from the Ramsey County Attorney’s Office, stood beside Reiko Tanabe in the morgue at the medical examiner’s office, a one story building just off University Avenue next to Region’s Hospital. They were dressed in green scrubs and booties. The ME wore large latex gloves and a disposable plastic apron over the scrubs. Stiff, white masks covered their mouths and noses. Santana and Canfield had rubbed wintergreen oil on the inside of their masks to cut the smell.
Tanabe had removed the black body bag and clean white sheet around Julio Pérez before fingerprinting and photographing his body with and without clothes. The tag that had been attached to his left big toe at the crime scene listed a case number, date, name and location of the body. Tanabe had attached a second tag to Pérez’s right ankle when he arrived at the morgue. The tags maintained the chain of evidence and a record of who touched the body intact.
The perforated metal sheet underneath Pérez kept the stainless steel autopsy table in the center of the room clean by allowing running water and body fluids to seep through to a metal catch basin below and down into the drains in the tile floor. A scale used for weighing organs hung over the table. The scale looked like a larger and more precise version of those found at a supermarket. A dissecting block, scalpels, ruler, pruning clippers and an electric vibrating bone saw lay on a smaller steel table opposite the scale. A wide stainless steel refrigerator door covered most of one wall. Jars of preservative on the counter held tissue samples and excised body parts. The temperature hovered just above freezing, and the room reeked of astringent cleaner, tissue preservative and bodies on the verge of decomposition.
“Hey, Doc,” Canfield said. “You know the difference between a surgeon, an internist and a pathologist?” He winked at Santana.
“I’m afraid to ask.”
A surgeon knows nothing but does everything. An internist knows everything, but does nothing. And a pathologist knows everything and does everything, but it’s too late.”
Canfield laughed uproariously at his own joke.
“Blow yourself,” Tanabe said, but Santana could tell she was smiling behind her mask.
Santana knew that Canfield told jokes to relieve his uneasiness. Prosecutors, cops, medical examiners, anyone who had to watch a body being eviscerated, had coping mechanisms. Santana remembered how he had vomited the first time. Viewing another autopsy now elicited no more of a response than if he were at the market watching butchers prepare a good cut of steak. He had learned early on that it was important to remain as detached as possible. Each body told a story of how the victim lived and how he died. Emotions often impaired objectivity. Only the body of an innocent child lying on the cold metal table still lit a fire inside him. Whether it was the result of neglect, abuse or homicide, a child’s death smoldered within him until the perp was either behind bars or dead.
Tanabe had nearly completed her external evaluation of Pérez’s body. She had started with the neck and worked her way downward to the chest, abdomen, pelvis and genitalia, as she spoke into a microphone connected to a digital recorder. This sequence allowed the blood to drain from Pérez’s head. Santana knew she would examine it last.
He went over to a second stainless steel table and looked at Rafael Mendoza’s naked body. Santana could see immediately that Mendoza had no appendectomy scar. He was not one of the men in the photo Gamboni had found in the loft.
Rubén Córdova’s naked body lay on a table next to Mendoza. Córdova had balloon-like paper bags around his hands and feet to entrap any trace evidence. The entry opening in his chest where Anderson’s bullet had struck him had drawn together after the bullet passed through the skin. Santana could see the distinct contusion ring around the entrance caused by the bullet scraping off the external layer of epithelial cells. The contusion ring was round; indicating Anderson’s bullet had struck Córdova squarely, though no smudge ring was evident because the bullet had first passed through clothing.