Authors: Christopher Valen
Santana walked to the counter and took Córdova’s clothing out of the paper bags. Before undressing Córdova, Santana knew Tanabe had carefully examined his clothes for trace evidence. She had then placed his bloody clothing onto clean wrapping paper to let it air-dry before putting it into paper bags. Each item of clothing had been packaged separately and had not been cut. He could see the .40 caliber hole Anderson’s bullet had made in Córdova’s flannel shirt before it penetrated his body.
“John, can you help me out here?” Tanabe pointed at a clipboard on the counter.
Santana picked it up and returned to the autopsy table.
Having finished her external examination, she used a scalpel to make a U-shaped incision that began at Pérez’s left shoulder and continued under his nipples over to the right shoulder. The cut opened Pérez’s skin as if the ME were unzipping a coat. She then turned the U into a Y by cutting downward below the sternum to the abdomen. With no heart beating, there was no pressure and very little blood. She called out the weight and measurement of each organ to Santana who wrote them down on a sheet attached to the clipboard. She worked methodically, talking into the microphone as she removed each organ.
When she began work on Pérez’s skull, Canfield looked at Santana and said, “You want a cup of coffee?”
“Hot chocolate if you can find some.”
“Oh, that’s right,” he said. “You’re the one Colombian in the world who doesn’t like coffee. I’ll see what I can do.” He turned, slid his mask to the top of his head and hurried out of the room.
Tanabe made a deep incision starting just in front of one of Pérez’s ear, over the top of his skull, to the other ear. This allowed her to pull the scalp down over the front of Pérez’s face. Specks of white dust flew from the circular saw she then used to cut around Pérez’s head.
Santana watched calmly as she put down the saw and used a twisting device that looked like a screwdriver to pop open Pérez’s skull, as if she were removing a cap from a bottle of beer.
It took awhile before she finally found the .22 caliber bullet. Often it was so misshapen that it could not be used for ballistic comparisons, but this time the wait was worth it.
Santana went back to the counter and discarded his mask. He placed the bullet in an evidence envelope and initialed it. The envelope had to be labeled with the initials of the individual collecting the evidence and each person who subsequently had custody of it, along with the date the item was collected and transferred, the case number, type of crime, victim or suspect’s name, and a brief description of the item. If someone was ever brought to trial for Pérez’s murder, Santana didn’t want the evidence thrown out on a technicality.
When Canfield returned with a cup of coffee and no hot chocolate, Santana said, “Any idea when you’ll complete the preliminary investigation on Rick Anderson?”
Canfield took a sip of coffee and wrinkled his nose in disgust. “You know I can’t discuss the investigation with you, John. But I don’t want it to drag on any longer than you do. If the shooting was justified, that’s what the report will say.”
“Okay. I’ll let you know if ballistics matches the bullet Reiko took out of Pérez with the gun we found on Córdova.”
“If Córdova is guilty of a double homicide, I sure as hell won’t object.”
“I won’t cut corners, Pete.”
Canfield’s face darkened, and he stared at Santana with his clear, unwavering hazel eyes. “We’ve worked a number of cases together before, John. I consider us friends. So I know you’d never suggest that I would. I’m also aware that the mayor is looking for a new running mate and I’m first in line. So before you stick your foot in your mouth again and imply that I’m concerned about the direction the political winds are blowing in this town, I want to be clear that I’ll file the same time you do.”
Canfield was the Ramsey County Attorney. Minnesota didn’t use the term district attorney. He had worked in the Prosecution Division of the Ramsey County Attorney’s Office, and had eventually become assistant Ramsey County attorney before being elected to his present position. Attorneys in the Charging and Trial Section of the Prosecution Division handled most of the adult level prosecutions for child abuse, sexual assault, theft, robbery, burglary and murder.
Canfield had been asked several times to run for higher office. He had all the necessary qualifications. He dressed well, wore his dark brown hair just long enough to be fashionable, and could give a terrific speech without offending anyone or saying anything of substance. But he had never expressed a desire to run for higher office. Santana admired him for it.
“I appreciate your candor, Pete. But I’m getting a lot of heat.”
“Since when did that start bothering you?”
Santana held up the evidence envelope. “The lab will match this bullet with Córdova’s gun.”
“If you’ve got a problem with that and want me to run interference for you, just so say. I’m not going to pin the murders on Córdova unless you can prove he’s guilty.” Canfield took another sip of coffee. “God, this is awful.” He headed toward one of the sinks on the counter. “I hate to admit it, but I may have to switch to hot chocolate.”
L
arge flakes of snow fell as Santana drove back to headquarters. He took the elevator up to the evidence room on the second floor where he filled out a property-booking sheet on the .22 caliber bullet removed from Pérez’s brain. He placed the envelope with the bullet in a temporary storage locker where all evidence was stored until the property clerk could log it into the evidence room. The lockers had a self-locking system that could not be reopened from the outside once the door was closed. Each locker had a second door on the property room side that the property officer could open to remove the evidence. The officer could then reach through and release the door latch so the locker could be used again.
Santana asked to see the sexually explicit photo Gamboni had found in Mendoza’s loft and the items found on Córdova the night he was shot. The property officer brought him the photo and Córdova’s wallet, notebook, and keys. Santana found Córdova’s address in the wallet. Then he signed a release for the notebook and the photo and went over to the crime lab adjacent to the evidence room. He pressed the speakerphone button on the wall outside the lab and identified himself.
When the door buzzed open, he entered and found Tony Novak sitting on a metal stool under a bank of fluorescent lights near a large L-shaped metal desk and a couple of four drawer metal filing cabinets. The room smelled of chemicals and looked like a chemistry classroom minus the student desks. The gray laminate counters were cluttered with microscopes, beakers, volumetric and Erlenmeyer flasks for mixing and boiling substances, graduated cylinders, test tubes, small, concave dishes called watch glasses for dissolving powders and viewing materials under a microscope, a vacuum kit for picking up trace evidence, a television monitor and two VCRs, and a large gas chromatograph linked to a mass spectrometer, often called a GC-mass-spec, for separating and identifying organic substances.
Santana had worked with Novak before and respected his intelligence. A former Golden Glove champion in the late 1970s and early ’80s, Novak’s once chiseled frame had softened and expanded. He had a computer and printer on the desk along with a framed photograph of his wife and two teenage sons and two books held up with metal bookends. One was entitled the
Manual of Fingerprint Development Techniques
and the other
Scene of Crime Handbook of Fingerprint Development Techniques
. On the wall above the desk was a framed certificate from the International Association for Identification and a framed black and white photo of a handsome young Novak as a middleweight, before he had gotten his nose broken a few times and put on the extra pounds.
“Hey, John,” Novak called when he saw Santana.
I SEE DUMB PEOPLE was stitched in large white letters across the front of a black T-shirt Novak wore underneath his open, white lab coat. He got off his stool and came toward Santana, moving lightly on his feet, as though he were still bouncing around the ring.
“I’d like you to take a look at the photo Gamboni found in Mendoza’s loft, Tony.”
Santana took the photo out of the evidence envelope and showed it to Novak. “I want to know if there is anything we can use to identify the guy on his knees.”
“What about the guy standing?”
“Look closely. He’s got what appears to be an appendectomy scar.”
Novak’s mustache and short curly hair were both gray, and as he tilted his head forward to look down at the photo, Santana could see the small, round bald spot on the crown of his head.
“That’s what it looks like to me. Fairly recent, I’d say. Although this isn’t a real clear photo,” Novak said, pushing his heavy black frame glasses back up to the bridge of his wide nose. “Let me guess. You need to know soon.”
“Very. Along with the results of the ballistics test on the .22 Córdova had on him the night he was killed. I just put the bullet Tanabe removed from Julio Pérez in a temporary locker.”
“You think they’ll match?”
“I’d bet on it.”
“We still on for the Chandler fight on the twenty-seventh?”
“Maybe.”
“Well,” Novak said with a shrug, “I don’t know when I’ll be able to get to this, John. I’m really backed up here.”
“So you’re not going to help me out if I don’t go to the fight with you?”
“Did I say that?”
Santana let out a sigh. “Okay. You’re on.”
“Great,” Novak said with a big grin. He headed back to the microscope he had been looking through when Santana entered the lab. “We’ll stop at Mancini’s for dinner first. You can buy.”
“Eat a big lunch,” Santana said.
He found another stool at the counter. He spent the next twenty minutes paging through the spiral notebook Córdova used for his interviews until he reached the last page dated two days ago. If Córdova had talked with Mendoza, he had not taken any notes.
S
now was still falling. The flakes were smaller than before, but more numerous. Santana brushed off the windows of his Crown Vic before driving to the offices of
El Día,
which were located in a small, one level brick building on the West Side of St. Paul. The chairs in the reception area were vinyl-padded and had aluminum legs, as did the Formica topped coffee table. On the table were two copies of the latest edition of the paper and on the walls were framed certificates recognizing it as a member of the National Federation of Hispanic Newspapers and the Minnesota Newspaper Association.
Santana spent two hours interviewing the staff that consisted of a receptionist, a marketing and sales manager, an art director, a photographer and two contributing writers. Everyone appeared upset by Julio Pérez’s murder and seemed to have concrete alibis for the day and approximate time of his death. Santana made a note to check out each alibi. Then he moved on to Pérez’s office where he went through the dead man’s desk, date book and papers. Nothing he looked at seemed important or offered clues to Pérez’s murder, so he walked down the hall to Rubén Córdova’s office.
In a desk drawer, Santana came across Córdova’s calendar and appointment book. He flipped the pages until he found yesterday’s date. Córdova’s handwriting was nearly illegible, but he had no appointment scheduled with Julio Pérez. He had, however, scribbled Mendoza’s name on the line next to 7:30 p.m., which placed him at the crime scene at the time Mendoza died. In a space below the line, Córdova had scrawled what looked like the words:
learn more about scandal
.
Experience had taught Santana that most criminals were as bright as a dimly lit bulb, despite how they were portrayed on television crime shows and in movies. Córdova appeared to be even dimmer than most. Along with his appointment book, he had conveniently left a .22 caliber cartridge in Julio Pérez’s study that could be matched to the weapon used in the killing. The evidence clearly suggested that Córdova murdered Pérez and then Mendoza. Then why, Santana thought, did he still have doubts?
Chapter 6
R
UBÉN
C
ÓRDOVA LIVED IN
F
ROGTOWN
, one of St. Paul’s most diverse neighborhoods. A mile and a half square area bounded by University and Lexington Avenues, Rice Street and Pierce-Butler Route, Frogtown was a working class neighborhood, settled by Germans, Poles, Swedes and Hungarians in the 1880s, immigrants who wanted to be close to their jobs in the railroad yards and those who worked in the industries that developed as a result of the railroads. Asians were the majority now, with whites and blacks in the minority. The area had the highest crime rate in the city until the SPPD instituted a weed and seed program that targeted drug dealers. Called Operation Sunrise, the weed part of the program managed to lower crime by pushing the dealers and prostitutes into other neighborhoods, but economic development had stalled due to a lack of funds.
Legend had it that Frogtown got its name from the French who first settled the area, or from the late Archbishop, John Ireland, who named the area Frogtown after he heard frogs croaking in the wetlands near Calvary Cemetery.
The houses along Charles Street were built in the 1930s and ’40s and their dark windows looked out onto the street like eyes blinded by cataracts. Córdova lived in small, white, two-storied clapboard with a peaked roof and an enclosed porch that looked as though it had been added as an afterthought. Two porch windows were covered with plastic instead of glass and the paint was chipped and peeling. A satellite dish attached to the flat porch roof looked as out of place as a sailboat in the desert.
A dog began barking in the yard behind the house as Santana walked up the sidewalk that was now covered with three inches of snow. The flakes came down fast and were accumulating at an inch every hour.
Santana opened the screen door and entered the porch. Gamboni was working on a search warrant, but the doorjamb looked worn and weak. Inserting a pry bar horizontally across the doorframe, he pushed until the bolt popped free from the striker plate and he could easily open the front door. He leaned the pry bar against the siding and took a moment to examine the bolt. A series of fresh scratches ran lengthwise along it indicating someone had used a sharp instrument to force it back. He jotted the information down in his notebook and then went into the house.