“Remember, don’t get too excited. They will come back. You need to decide who will keep watch. Make shifts. All day, all night.”
Everybody nods in agreement, says they understand. A few even thank me, tell me that I’m a hero.
I want to tell them I’m no hero, but I don’t want to ruin their good spirit. So after a couple moments, forcing a smile, I turn and start toward Yolanda’s house.
Gabriela is waiting for me around the corner. Her eyes are wide with excitement.
“That was amazing! Weren’t you scared?”
“Not really. It’s not the first time I’ve been in a situation like that.”
“But you could have died.”
“Yeah, well, that’s what happens when you have a gun aimed at your face. That’s why I just always expect I will die. That way I’m not scared.”
She stares at me, stunned, and then frowns as she reaches for her pocket.
I ask, “What is it?”
Gabriela pulls out her cell phone.
“A message just came in.”
She stares at the screen for a moment, and then her eyes go wide again.
“Holy shit, they found him.”
“Who?”
“Miguel Dominguez.”
“Is he alive?”
She scans whatever message came through and shakes her head.
“No, they only found his body. But I know where it is. Shit, I need to go there right now.”
I glance back toward the square and the few townspeople milling about.
“After what just happened, I should stay here.”
“I shouldn’t be long. Maybe by the time I get there the investigators will be there. I’ll tell Ramon you said hi.”
“That’s probably not a good idea. Look, Gabriela, you need to be careful.”
“I know.”
A Beretta PX4 Storm Compact has been pressing against the small of my back this entire time. It’s one of the guns we found in the narcos’ house.
I grab the gun, hand it to her.
“Take this.”
She stares down at the gun for a long moment.
I say, “You’ve fired a gun before, right?”
“Of course.”
But the way she says it, she doesn’t sound very convincing.
“See this thing here on the side? That’s the safety. Just flick it like this and then point and squeeze the trigger.”
She nods and takes the gun from me.
“I’ll be fine. I won’t have to use it.”
“Let’s hope not. Now, I want to get back to Yolanda’s before the food gets any colder than it already is.”
Forty
Ramon stared into the barrel and thought of a jigsaw puzzle.
Years ago, a foot had been found by children playing in a field. The foot was bare and severed at the ankle. They had searched the area but found no other body parts. Then, a week later, an arm was found across town. A week after that, a leg. Little by little, a body had begun to emerge from all the missing pieces until finally the last piece, the victim’s head, was found on the doorstep of the police station. At that point they were able to establish who the victim was—a shopkeeper who had gone missing the previous month—but it was unclear what sin the man had committed to deserve such a vicious and elaborate death.
They had never figured out who murdered the shopkeeper, which wasn’t rare in their line of work. They were crime scene investigators, yes, and they were pretty good at their jobs, but they didn’t have the resources they needed to follow up on leads. Still, following those body parts week after week had stuck with Ramon ever since, and now as he stared into the barrel, he was reminded of how disgusted he was at the world then, and how he had been disgusted at the world ever since.
Miguel Dominguez had been cut up in pieces much the same way as that shopkeeper years ago. Only the killer had been kind enough not to disperse his body parts all over the city. At least, it didn’t appear that way from where Ramon stood. Everything was in the barrel—Miguel’s feet and legs and torso and arms and hands. His head was at the very top of the heap, staring up at the cloudless sky.
Carlos said, “I have a hunch our friend here pissed somebody off.”
Ibarra and Serrano stood around the barrel with them. A few other officers sealed off the area the best they could. They were in an alleyway, and crowds had begun to form on both ends.
Carlos stepped back and looked at Ramon. When he realized Ramon was still staring into the barrel, he reached out and snapped his fingers in front of his face.
“Hey.”
Ramon blinked, looked at his partner.
“What?”
“You look pale. You’re not getting soft on me, are you?”
Ramon shook his head, focusing again on the barrel.
“I’m just thinking about that shopkeeper from a couple years back.”
“Oh yeah. Whoever did that was one sick fuck. Hell, whoever did this is one sick fuck. Maybe it’s the same person.”
Carlos chuckled at his own joke and then went quiet. He squinted at the two PFM agents.
“What do you two think?”
Serrano said, “Doesn’t add up.”
“How so?”
“Call it a gut feeling.”
Carlos snorted.
“My gut is telling me this guy pissed off the wrong person.”
Ramon murmured, “You said that already.”
“Well, I think it bears repeating. From what we can tell, Miguel wasn’t a drug dealer. He worked at that shitty motel and made shitty money and lived in a shitty apartment. Not the kind of person somebody would want to cut up and stuff in a barrel.”
Ibarra pulled his cell phone from his pocket and turned away as he placed it to his ear.
The other men didn’t say anything while the agent spoke quietly on the phone. They stared down at the pieces of Miguel Dominguez’s body. Right now they couldn’t do much until the barrel was transported to headquarters so that Jorge could start his work. Though at this point Ramon didn’t know what more Jorge would be able to tell them except maybe what kind of blade was used to sever the body parts. There was the possibility the can was covered in prints, but it was a good assumption none of those prints would belong to
