A False Dawn (23 page)

FIFTY-NINE

The next morning, Dan Gant met me at the Boston Coffeehouse in DeLand.  I said, “Davis was still breathing when I left and called 911.  Gomez and his cousin, Hector Ortega, weren’t anywhere to be seen.  I don’t know if the fire did any damage to the interior cargo area of the van.” 

“I checked with the ER.  Davis is alive.  Bullet grazed his shoulder.  The force of the crash knocked him out cold.  You saved his sorry-ass life.” 

I reached in my pocket and handed him the leaf in the Ziploc bag.  “This, most likely, will be an exact genetic match with the other leaves I gave you.  Match the plant DNA and you’ll place their van at the crime scene where the last body was dumped.  Use liminol inside the van.  If the fire didn’t engulf the cargo floor, you’ll probably find traces of blood there.  And I’ll bet you that it matches the blood from the last victim.”

“We’ll test the van for a blood match,” he said, sipping the coffee.

“Speaking of blood, I’ll give you directions to a place.  A cinderblock building, about 1200 square feet that sits close to the St. Johns River.”

“Now why would I want to go there?”

“You wouldn’t.  Meet me there.  Bring some of your best forensics guys.  Keep it from Slater.”  I sipped my coffee.

“Okay, why am I going there?”

“The place has been used for years as a tanning house.  It’s got a cooler, running water and drains.  A licensed gator hunter, guy by the name of Floyd Powell, told me he sold it.  He sold it and six adjoining acres for top dollar to a consortium, a group of fishermen, to use as a retreat.  Floyd kept gators he killed in there until he had time to skin and dress them.  Leslie said the ME found alligator blood on the last vic’s hair.  The property isn’t that far from the wildlife refuge.”

“You think these freaks are using a former gator processing shop to remove the organs from these women?”

“It might not be only women victims, and that’s exactly what I think.”  I drew on the back of a napkin.  “Here’s a rough map to the place.  When can you get there?”

Dan looked at his watch.  “Give me a few hours to pull everyone together.  Let’s meet at 2:30.  I can’t imagine what we’ll find.”

“I can.”

SIXTY

I drove down State Road 40, south of the bridge near Astor, and looked for the high-tension power lines.  I turned off the road and onto a dirt drive almost hidden by scrub oaks.  I stopped the Jeep, shoved the Glock in my pants, got out, and walked a few yards down the dirt drive.  There were fresh tire tracks.  Wide tires.  Probably from an SUV or something like a Mercedes. 

There, in a clearing, was the concrete block building.  It was about the size of a small home.  The cinder blocks were painted white and baked to a dull yellow under the Florida sun.  There was a detached awning that would shade a car.  A fishing cast net hung from one of the four wooden posts that supported the awning. 

I parked the Jeep under the cover of a cabbage palm strand and then approached the building, circling around the rear before going to the front.  There was a low droning noise coming from inside.  It sounded like a refrigerator or freezer motor. 

A rustling sound came from behind me.  I raised the Glock toward the noise.  A long blacksnake scurried through the dried palmettos and slid through a hole beneath the cinder-block foundation in the building.

I holstered the gun in my belt, put on plastic gloves, and tried to turn the handle on the rear door.  Locked.  I walked to the front door and picked the lock in less than a minute.  I held the Glock, took a deep breath, and jerked the door open. 

The hinges squeaked and a two-inch cockroach ran from between the joints towards my shoes.  I stepped over the roach and entered the room.  The light switch was to my immediate left.  Fluorescents flickered and than illuminated the room.  It was solid concrete.  A stainless tree table stood near the center of the room.  There was a single light on a large gooseneck stand in the corner.  On one wall was a double stainless steel sink.  A pair of rubber gloves were folded and hanging on the faucet.  The concrete floor was sloped to a large drain in the center.  The air in the room smelled musty, like a biology lab with a mixture of bleach, formaldehyde, and gas.

I turned the handle on another door, and it opened to an office that seemed to be a storage shipping area.  There were two folding chairs next to a long table.  On the shelves were dozens of small Styrofoam coolers.  A dry-ice machine sat in the back of the room, the motor barely audible.

I walked back out into the concrete processing room and approached a large stainless steel door in the rear.  I pulled the handle and the door opened toward me, the blast of cold air hitting my face.  The air was stale and had the odor of death.  I turned on the light and stepped in the cooler.  There was a clear, icy liquid in a large stainless steel vat, a frostlike effervesce on the outer rim. 

A pool of blood, the color of dark plums, coagulated on the floor in a near frozen state.  I didn’t want to breathe the air into my lungs.  I stepped out of the cooler. 

A gun barrel was shoved between my eyes.

“You’re next,” Juan Gomez said.      

SIXTY-ONE

I could smell stale beer and decaying beef jerky between his teeth.  Gomez pressed the barrel against my forehead and said, “Drop the gun!”

Silas Davis, fresh stitches across his forehead, stood behind him, a pistol in hand, his lips parting in a grin.  I dropped the Glock.

“Step out of the cooler, asshole,” Gomez ordered.  “You’ll be in there soon enough.  Silo, bring a chair.”

Gomez backed up, and I stepped out of the cooler.  Davis returned with one of the folding chairs from the other room.  Gomez said, “Sit, asshole cop.  Sit right there next to the drain.  It’ll make cleanup a lot faster.”  He pushed me toward the chair.

Both men had their guns pointed at my head as I sat.  Gomez said, “Tie him up.  There’s some rope next to the storage shelves.”

“Why waste time?” Davis asked.

“`Cause we got to call Santana.  He has to make the arrangements.  Everything has to be timed perfectly.”

Santana,
I thought.  Now I knew that the phone call Gomez made wasn’t to Santa Ana.  It was Santana.  Maybe Dave Collins was prophetic.  Santana, as a serial killer, would be the ultimate hit man.

The Bagman had a name, and it was a name that I might carry to my grave.  I looked at Gomez and Davis and said, “Why do you do it?”

“Shut up!” Davis said.

“You let Santana turn the clock back before the Civil War to enslave people?   How can you play a part in slavery?  Isn’t there someplace in your gut where you say stop the oppression, the same thing that enslaved your ancestors?  Is Santana’s hold over you as strong as the chains that held your forefathers?”

“You!” shouted Davis. “Shut your fuckin’ mouth!”          

I had to stall them.  “Why do you take advantage of these people?  The physical and sexual abuse is bad enough…but murder…why do Santana’s bidding?”

Gomez said, “Forget you ever heard the name Santana!”

“Why are you working for him?  You’re businessmen.  He’s a psychopath.   What’s his hold, money?  How many have you killed?”

“We don’t do the killin.’  We started doin’ the packaging and the disposal.  Cops wouldn’t found the last girl if they hadn’t been stoppin’ traffic at the crossroads, lookin’ for DUI drivers.   Had to dump the body in a place where animals and shit can get at it.  Hate doin’ that.  Disrespectful to the dead.”

“If you aren’t killing these people, who is?  Santana?  Does he call you to tell you where to find the bodies for organ removal after he’s had his fun?  And you go from harvesting crops to humans?”

“Shut the fuck up!”  Gomez yelled, s string of saliva hung from his lower lip.  He snorted and said, “There are seven billion people on the planet.  Lot’s of sick people waitin’ for hearts, kidneys, livers, whatever.  Many of these people are scientists, doctors, people who make a difference.  That’s why in any society we have the sacrificial lambs.  You’re about to be a lamb we’ll sacrifice to the greater cause.”

“Santana’s got you, didn’t he?” 

“Kiss my brown ass, O’Brien!” Gomez said.  “You know nothin’ about Santana.  The man’s much smarter than you and the rest of your cop friends.  He’s a genius!”

“He’s smart enough to get you and Silas to do all the grunt-work while he calls the shots from the sidelines.  What’s his hold on you, Gomez?  Why partner with Santana?”

“Because he’s one of us!  He’s powerful!  El Diablo!  The man knows and sees things.  He knows who we’re seein,’ what we’re doin,’ what women are in our trucks.  How many, and even what they look like.”  Gomez pulled a pint of Jack Daniels from his pocket and took a long pull, passing the bottle to Davis. 

I said, “That’s because he controls it.  What if he has people to handpick the women from third world countries?  What if he knows what’s happening in your migrant camp because he has spies there?  Can you trust Silas?”

Davis sipped the whisky, pumped up his chest, and glared at me.

“Or can you trust Ortega, or any of the farm workers who might be on Santana’s payroll.  If the Brennens are on his payroll, if he’s got a detective in his pocket, don’t you think he can buy Silas?”

“Shut up, fool!” barked Davis

“The Brennens’on his payroll?” Gomez asked, his eyes wide.

“Shut the hell up, cop!”  Davis yelled.  He turned to Gomez.  “Don’t believe a fuckin’ word this dude’s says.  I ain’t never even seen Santana.  For all I know, there ain’t no Santana.  Could be something you and Hector invented to cut me out later.”

“I might cut you out now!”  Gomez said.  “How about last month when you were gone to Miami for three days?  Maybe you were meeting with Santana up in his penthouse.  Santana is a Santeria master!  He can control men’s souls.”

“Juan, listen to yourself!” Davis said.  You sound like some damn voodoo nut!”

Gomez cut his eyes over to Davis and said, “Get that rope from the other room.”

Davis went into the adjoining office.

“Shut up about Santana,” Gomez’s voice was flat, something drained from his eyes, replaced by half closed slits of hate.  “You had to keep stickin’ your nose where it don’t belong, amigo.  Now you’re a dead man.  Not all gonna be lost ‘cause the good thing is this…you’ll be keepin’ somebody else alive.  Part of the great cop lives on!”

Davis brought the rope.  Gomez said, “Tie his hands behind the chair.”

Davis yanked my hands behind the chair and began tying the rope tightly around them.  I could feel the circulation cutting off.   

To Davis, Gomez said, “I’m callin’ Santana.  He can get Doc out here quick.  Soon as Doc arrives, we’ll pop him.  Until then we’ll make him pray he’s dead.” 

Gomez drove his fist square into my jaw.  The blow almost turned over the chair.  The force caused a white explosion in my brain.  I was back in a dank interrogation room in Afghanistan, the slap of a nine milliliter across my jaw, the surge of electricity through my body.  The whirl of chopper blades fading. 

I spat blood and heard Davis laugh.  It sounded like a laugh tract playing a second behind the first tract.  Through blurred vision, I could see Gomez stepping to the open door to use his cell phone.  “We got O’Brien…at the gator shack.  Send Doc with all his tools…sure, Santana…no problem...got it, yeah...okay man.”

He closed the cell phone and stood in front of me.  I looked up at him, blood dripping from my crushed lip and gums.   

Gomez rubbed his knuckles and hooked his thumbs in his wide belt.  He rocked on the ball of his ostrich skin cowboy boots.  “We got a little time to kill before you go under the knife.  What can we do to pass the time?”

Davis said, “We can cut his balls off.  Toss ‘em in the river for the baby gators to chew on.  Don’t think nobody wants recycled cop’s balls.”

My right eye was beginning to swell, closing my vision.  Through my left eye, I watched him take the pistol out of his pocket.  I said, “Why are you two going down for Santana?  Do you think I came here alone?  Santana is calling the shots from his hide-away in Miami while you two are about to be arrested.  If you cooperate—” 

“Shut up!” Gomez bellowed.  He stepped closer and held out the pistol.  “I had a feelin’, sooner or later, I’d take you out.  You’re one tough dude, O’Brien, but every man’s luck runs out if he keeps on rollin’ the dice.”

Davis stood to my left, his arms folded, a smirk working on his face.  “Before you waste him.  I need to pee real bad.  Always wanted to piss on a cop.”

“You piss on him and Doc would be pissed.  He don’t have that kind of time.”

Both men laughed.  Davis said, “I think Doc left one of his scalpels in the drawer.  We can use it to scalp him.  Maybe that’s where they got the name scalpel.  Got it from cuttin’ people’s scalps off.”  He laughed and said, “Mexicans learned the art from the Southwest Indians.  Shit, man, we probably taught them how to do it, you know?”

Gomez cell rang.  He answered it, stepping to the door for a better signal. “Yeah.  Where you at?”  He paused for a beat.  “If you’re a few minutes away, we can go on and take care of him.  We know you don’t like that part, Doc.”

He disconnected and turned back toward me.  “Crazy dude, Doc.  He can filet a man faster than I can cut on a steak, but he don’t like the part when the lights go out.”

Davis gripped my hair in one hand and jerked my head back.  His breath was sour, smelling like vomit and marijuana.  His T-shirt stank of chicken grease and reefer.  He used the index finger of his other hand, stuck it in the blood pouring from my mouth and drew an imaginary line across the top of my forehead.  “We could start the cut here, go down to the bone, and end over here.  It’s like pullin’ the skin off a catfish.  Hand me the scalpel, Juan.”

Davis stood in front of me, legs slightly spread, a sneer on his face.  I waited for just the right second.  I brought my left foot up hard between his legs, burying my shoe deep in his groin.  His face seemed to detonate in pain.

 He hit me in the ribs.  The air blew out of my lungs.  

Gomez said, “Stand back, Silo!  ‘Less you want O’Brien’s blood spray on you.  Headshot sprays like a melon dropped from a movin’ truck.”

He pointed the pistol directly between my eyes, a grin working at the corner of his mouth.  “Now’s the time to kiss my brown ass, O’Brien.”

I saw a shadow move.  Between Gomez and Davis.  In the threshold of the door.  I looked at Gomez, his eyes wide with delight.  I said, “If you drop the gun, you and Davis walk out of here.  If you don’t, they’ll carry you out in a body bag.”

He laughed and brought his left hand up to his right, holding the pistol with both hands, the barrel less than three feet from my face.

“Beg, asshole!” Gomez yelled.

I said nothing.

“Waste him!” Davis said, stepping back.

“I want to hear O’Brien beg!  Beg cop!”  Gomez shouted.  “Lemme hear what you’re gonna tell the Virgin Mary!  O’Brien, you ain’t gonna go to heaven.  You’re gonna see the devil.  What you gonna say to him, huh?”

I looked deep into Gomez’s eyes and said, “Fuck you.”

He brought his left hand back to the pistol.  He stopped grinning.  His face blank. “You really aren’t afraid to die!  You got balls, O’Brien.  Now they’re dead balls!”

I could see the index finger on his right hand slowly start to move against the trigger.  He grinned just as a hole the size of an orange exploded in his throat, blood spraying across my chest and face.  Gomez fell like a giant at my feet.

“Put your hands up!”  It was Dan’s voice.  He had his arms extended and a pistol pointed at Silas Davis’ head.  Dan and two uniforms stepped into the room.  They threw Davis up against the wall and cuffed him. 

I said, “There’s another one coming.”

“He’s the first we got.” Dan said.  “Cuffed.  Scared.  Sitting on the grass crying like a baby.  Says he didn’t kill anyone, only did the organ removal after death. ”

“What a boy scout,” I mumbled, my head entering a vertigo spin.

Dan knelt down.  He used both hands to hold and examine my face.  He turned to one of his men. “Call for an ambulance.  Tell them to step on it.  Now!”