Byrth and Payne looked. It was the Jamaican, the big guy with the dreadlocks, at the front door. He towered over the crowd and was pacing, pointing his finger at the Latina with the black eye and blue hoodie.
“What’s Bob Marley’s problem?” Payne said.
“Name’s Marcus,” Eldridge said. “Says some punks shot at him this afternoon. He’s been on edge ever since. Usually really mellow, especially when he’s high.”
Byrth, pushing back his jacket and moving his right hand near his hip, said, “Well, mellow or not, that bastard’s a few sandwiches short of a picnic.”
“I told you I want another spliff, bitch!” Marcus then demanded, his deep Caribbean accent booming through the room.
“And I told you fuck off, I ain’t got none!” the Latina snapped back.
In the next instant, Marcus had pulled a knife from his pants pocket and was swinging it wildly.
A moment later he heard two men shout:
“Drop it!”
“Drop the damn knife now!”
When Marcus looked toward the back of the room he saw that the man with the big hat and his partner had pistols drawn—and that they were aiming if not directly at Marcus’s head then just above his multicolored knit cap.
They stepped toward him.
Marcus started to run, then stopped and grabbed the Latina, putting the knife point to her throat. Marcus quickly moved backward with her toward the front door—then let her loose and bolted outside.
“Great,” Payne said, pointing his pistol at the ceiling as he and Byrth started moving faster. “I was tempted to just let the sonofabitch run before he stuck the knife on her.”
—
Matt Payne, keeping the muzzle of his .45 up, flew through the doorway—then slipped when he hit the snow-packed sidewalk. He managed to recover just as Jim Byrth leapt over the slippery spot, landing in the street. They exchanged glances, then took off.
They saw, half a block ahead, Marcus moving quickly. He had his head back, knees flying high, arms pumping.
“Stop! Police!” Payne yelled.
Marcus then made a sliding right turn at the corner.
Approaching the next block, Payne saw that he and Byrth were slowly closing the gap. Payne then saw Marcus look back, then cut across the street. Then he saw at the far corner two human shapes standing beside a dumpster. Marcus, looking back again, ran right toward them.
One of the pair pulled something from his coat pocket. As it was raised, it glinted.
“Sonofabitch! Gun!” Payne said, and quickly crouched, motioning for Byrth to get down.
The pop-pop-pop of gunfire immediately followed, the muzzle flash reflecting on the icy street. The big Jamaican tried to change direction but lost his footing. He went down, striking the base of a metal utility pole headfirst.
Payne was trying to get a good aim on the shooter when there was another series of three shots. And then the firing stopped and there was a clunk as the gun hit the concrete.
The shooter and his partner bolted toward an empty lot beyond the dumpster.
Payne was about to kneel beside the Jamaican when Byrth called, “I’ve got him. Don’t let those other fuckers get away!”
Byrth, sliding to a stop at the Jamaican, pulled handcuffs from his coat pocket. He smoothly slapped a cuff on the man’s big right wrist, then pulled him in place so that he was hugging the metal pole and clipped his left wrist.
Then Byrth took off after Payne.
—
“Over here!” Payne called in a loud whisper from the shadows at the back corner of a line of row houses. He was breathing heavily, the cold air feeling like ice picks to his lungs.
When Byrth came up, Payne said, “They’re in here. They tried wrapping the cable back but didn’t get it locked.”
Payne pointed to a gate in the chain-link fence topped with razor wire. Hanging from the gate was the loose end of heavy-gauge steel cable that had been threaded around a metal post.
In a crouch, his pistol close in at chest level, Payne slowly swung the gate open. He cleared the immediate area, then entered the backyard, signaling with his left hand for Byrth to follow.
Suddenly, the cold air carried a chemical-like stench. It burned his nostrils.
What the hell is that? he wondered, and had to clear his throat.
He heard Byrth grunt, then cough involuntarily.
They moved quickly toward what was the back porch of the completely darkened house, snow crunching with each step. Once across the backyard, they came to another gate. It was wide open. They cleared it and went through.
Then from the far side of the next yard came the clanking sound of another chain-link gate opening, then the fast crunching of feet running on snow and the whine of an engine starter engaging. A big motorcycle rumbled to life—and almost instantly roared off.
“Damn it!” Payne said.
After a moment he felt a nudge on his right shoulder and he saw Byrth pointing at the back door. The porch light was on.
They could see that the door had a piece of torn fabric from an overcoat, and what looked like its insulating filler, caught in the jamb right above the dead bolt.
And that the door was cracked open.
XI
[ONE]
Office of the General Manager
Lucky Stars Casino & Entertainment
North Beach Street, Philadelphia
Monday, November 17, 8:53 P.M.
Nikoli Antonov, his palms together and index fingertips touching his lips, was deep in thought as he looked at the plain brown paperboard box. It was on the far side of his desk, where Dmitri Gurnov, who had just left, had placed it ten minutes earlier.
Antonov was trying to figure out why Gurnov had been acting oddly.
Why is he so nervous?
He said he was distracted with the plans to get the keys from Carlos. But I do not believe that.
It is something else. He is not thinking clearly. Evidence of that is that I told him to call me about this box of muscle relaxer.
Instead, he chose to bring it here, to the casino! Careless!
I told him over and over there can be absolutely nothing associated with those killings and the casino or Diamond Development.
And this drug could most certainly be a “direct connection,” as Bobby and Mike said.
I do not like either of them. But that is different from having a professional respect for them. . . .
—
“Let’s be clear on this, Nick,” Bobby Garcia’s voice had come over Antonov’s speakerphone, his tone impatient. “This is not our first rodeo. We know what we’re doing.” He paused, then added, “Apropos of nothing whatever, per federal law, there has to be proof of a gift being given to a politician that actually caused him to act in some official fashion—and that proof has to be a direct connection.”
Antonov was quiet a moment, then said: “An example?”
“Okay,” Mike Santos had said, his tone equally impatient. “For example: Giving said senator regular use of your Citation results in him having included in another law—one wholly different, say, on immigration reform—a line item that provides a tax exemption for any corporation that engages in the gaming industry and said corporation is run by a blonde-haired former Russian national whose suit size is forty-two long.”
Antonov grunted.
“Short of that, Nick,” Garcia said, “federal prosecutors know they are pissing up a rope at any chance of conviction.”
“That’s the beauty of being a politician, a ‘lawmaker,’” Santos added. “You get to write your own damn laws.”
“And what about his chief of staff?”
Garcia laughed. “Are you kidding me?”
“What do you mean? This is no joke.”
“You know, I learned way
back in boarding school that Lenin had a name for people like that. I’m surprised you don’t know it.”
“Which is?” Antonov said, ignoring the shot.
“‘Tontos útiles,’” Garcia said.
“That’s Spanish, not Russian.”
“Well, I learned it in Spanish first. The translation to English is the same: ‘Useful idiots.’”
“And when they are no longer useful, we replace them,” Santos said. “Shall we paint you a picture?”
“No,” Antonov said, after a long moment. “No picture necessary.”
—
And the manner in which Dmitri placed that box on my desk, Antonov now thought, tapping his fingertips anxiously. It was suggestive. As if it was somehow a power thing.
Antonov turned and watched the images cycling on the quad of monitors on his wall. A surveillance camera captured Gurnov carrying a casino bag out through the revolving doors.
Dmitri is more and more a liability. He must be replaced. Perez, too.
His desk phone began to trill softly, and when Antonov glanced at the phone’s touchscreen display, he snorted and shook his head.
How does he always know?
He cleared his throat, then smoothly picked up the receiver.
“Ah, Yuri,” he answered in Russian. “How are you? . . . What—? . . . No, no. Everything is perfect. And I’m very glad you called. I was just about to call and update you on the dealings with our good friend the senator. . . .”
[TWO]
Kensington, Philadelphia
Monday, November 17, 9:08 P.M.
“And I thought that room full of pot plants was surreal,” Matt Payne said, shaking his head. “This is beyond surreal. It’s . . .”
“Evil,” Jim Byrth said, finishing the thought.
After searching the upper floors and finding no one in the house, they now stood in the basement.
The largest object in the room was the most disturbing one—an orange 110-gallon drum near the back wall. It had a natural gas line fueling the fire box beneath it and a tin vent tube leading from its metal lid up to the ceiling. And metal ductwork ran to a hole in what was the main room of the first floor.
Coming from the drum was the same stench, though somewhat fainter, that had burned their nostrils and throats as they had approached the back door.
Byrth gestured at the long wall where “El Pozolero” had been spray-painted in highly stylized graffiti-like four-feet-high lettering.
“The sick bastard takes a perverse pride in being called the Stew Maker,” he said. “Like it’s something to boast about. Incredible.”
In the middle of the room was a heavy cast-iron incinerator the size of an office desk. It also had a natural gas line feeding it, a vent tube, and metal ductwork that ran to the first floor. A digital gauge on its ductwork read CAUTION! CO2.
Beside the incinerator, on the raw concrete floor, were two cardboard boxes, each labeled “Technical Grade Sodium Hydroxide Lye Beads.” One was empty.
—
“This is getting worse by the second,” Matt Payne said ten minutes later, kneeling by the cardboard box. It was half full of women’s clothing, and he was using the tip of his pen to carefully look through it.
He had just put back a leather string necklace with an Eleguá medallion threaded on it—the clay disc of a child’s face that was the Santería god of destiny—and uncovered an unusual purse.
Some damn destiny, he thought.
He looked at the purse for a long time, dug some more, then looked back at the purse. He pulled out his cell phone and went to the folder he had made with the files Kerry Rapier had sent him in the Keys. He opened one and clicked through the images.
“How can it get worse?” Byrth said.
“Here. Look at this photograph of the Spencer girl.”
Byrth saw that it showed the tall twenty-seven-year-old in jeans and a Temple University sweatshirt and carrying a gold sequined purse that was glinting in the sunlight.
“Okay, the same photo from her file,” he said. Then he turned to look in the box. “Jesus Christ . . .”
Payne met his eyes. “I didn’t find a Temple sweatshirt in any box, and I’m sure there’s more than one purse like this in Philly, but . . .”
Byrth nodded. “There will be plenty of DNA in that purse to see if it’s a match,” he said.
Payne pulled out his phone and hit a speed-dial number. “Mickey, drop whatever you’re doing. I’m about to call in this scene. You’re not going to believe this. . . .”
After he gave O’Hara the address and broke off the call, he saw Byrth watching him.
“What’s the worst that would happen, Jim? They’d fire me, thus denying me sublime moments such as this?” he said, gesturing around the basement. Then he looked back at Byrth. “Remember what Eisenhower said at that Nazi death camp at the end of World War Two, when he was supreme commander of Allied forces?”
Byrth nodded. “Indeed I do. ‘Get it all on record now—get the films, the witnesses—because somewhere down the road of history some bastard will get up and say that this never happened.’ To this day those images are hard to look at.”
“And,” Payne said, “no one would believe that this is happening now. That, however, is about to change.”
Payne hit another speed-dial key and after a moment said, “Kerry, are you picking up my location from this phone?” He paused to listen, then said, “Right. That’s it. We were at the Hazzard address. I need you to send a Crime Scene unit here. I’ll call you back.” He broke off the call and speed-dialed another. “Dr. Mitchell, Matt Payne. You too busy to break away . . . ?”
—
“We’re talking with Philadelphia’s chief medical examiner, Dr. Howard Mitchell,” Mickey O’Hara said, panning the broadcast-quality high-definition digital video camera around the basement of the row house, the lens tracking across the wall with the elaborate four-foot-tall “El Pozolero” graffiti.
He stopped when he had in view the balding, rumpled doctor in the well-worn two-piece suit. The medical examiner stood to the right of the giant orange drum, which towered over him.
“Dr. Mitchell,” O’Hara said, holding a microphone in front of him, “you were calling this process alkaline hydrolysis?”
“That’s correct,” Mitchell began, then stopped as he furrowed his brow. “This is not for public broadcast or any other publication, correct?”
“Not for broadcast, Dr. Mitchell,” Matt Payne confirmed. He was standing behind O’Hara. “Just for documentation purposes.”
Mitchell, looking beyond the camera, nodded and said, “Okay, Matt, I take you at your word. I damn sure don’t want to see myself in those fifteen-minute TV news loops, over and over discussing such an indelicate topic. And that’s what would happen, because I’m too old to try to be politically correct.”
He then looked back into the lens and went on: “The university’s medical school has what is called the Tomb—a large stainless steel cylinder that is about the size, not surprisingly when you consider it, of a human coffin. When bodies are signed over by the families of the deceased and these bodies meet the needs of the medical school, they’re used for teaching gross anatomy, et cetera. Afterward the carved-up cadavers are taken to the Tomb.”
“And how does the Tomb work?” O’Hara said.
“The cadaver is placed in a lye solution in the cylinder, which then is sealed and heated to three hundred degrees Fahrenheit under a pressure of sixty pounds per square inch. In about three hours the alkaline hydrolysis turns the cadaver into a liquid that’s about the color and thickness of motor engine oil. It is an inexpensive and efficient process.”
“But is it safe?”
“Of course. Completely. Safer, in fact, than the embalming fluids that get washed down drains. There is only a bit of bone shadow left ov
er.”
“Bone shadow is what?”
“Calcium phosphate. It’s what makes up most of our bone and teeth mass. This can then simply be ground to a harmless fine powder and disposed of.”
Dr. Mitchell motioned with his hand at the enormous drum.
“And this is essentially the same process—the use of lye and heat. Clearly, the drum here is much more crude than the pressurized Tomb. And considerably less efficient. But lye is cheap and readily available for soap making, biodiesel manufacture, and many other general uses. Any farm supply house in Amish country will sell it to you, or you can order it on the Internet. I would estimate that two hundred dollars’ worth could easily cook four or five bodies. Just add water. And boil.”
—
After O’Hara recorded Dr. Mitchell releasing the row house to the Crime Scene Unit—video that the medical examiner said O’Hara did have permission to use on Philly News Now—he followed Mitchell out the door.
Jim Byrth now watched the Crime Scene blue shirts photographing the large room with its clear plastic tent and small forest of ready-to-harvest marijuana plants. He had his handcuffs in his right hand, having gone back and retrieved them from the Jamaican after confiscating his knife and throwing it in the nearby dumpster. Byrth and Payne had agreed they had more pressing problems and that the stoner had had enough justice served for one day.
“That Rastafarian would’ve pissed his pants over this hydro,” Byrth now said. “It’s maybe four, five times as potent as average Mexican pot. Which is why it goes for a premium. A pound of average weed runs around four hundred bucks. That puts hydroponic at four grand, at least.”
“This room is worth a fortune.”
“Was . . .”
After a long moment, Payne said, “Have you ever seen an operation like this, Jim?”
Byrth turned to him.
“Well,” he said, “I have seen acre after acre of pot fields. And I have seen grow houses in everything from Houston condos to suburban Fort Worth ranch homes. And, I’m sorry to say, to my grave I will take the memory of seeing the horror in the barrels of Pozole. But all this?” He slowly shook his head. “I have never seen anything close to this place. And pray I never do again.”
The Last Witness Page 29
