by Chris Culver
“How’s your Spanish, Detective?” asked Molina.
I tried the door, but it didn’t open. It must have had a child lock.
“Nonexistent,” I said. “You transport a lot of kids in here?”
Molina flashed me a smile before opening his own door.
“Give me a second. I’ll get you right out.”
He stepped out of the vehicle, closed his door, and pulled out his cell phone to make a call. The windows blocked his conversation, but I didn’t like this. I glanced at Sasquatch.
“I’ve got a bad feeling about this place, and the longer we stay, the worse it gets,” I said. “If Molina doesn’t come back within a minute or two, I’m going to arrest him for interfering with a police investigation.”
“Good,” said Sasquatch. “I don’t like being locked in the back of an SUV.”
I nodded and dropped my hand to my firearm’s grip. Molina opened my door a few seconds later and then hurried around the car to get Sasquatch. The lines demarcating one spot from another on the asphalt parking lot looked freshly painted, and the lawns and flower beds around the building were immaculate. The building itself had smoked glass windows and a modern, gray granite exterior. At least we knew where Ross Kelly Farms spent its money.
Molina looked at me and gestured toward the building.
“After you, Detective,” he said. I nodded and walked toward the front door. Before we reached it, Molina hurried forward and waved his wallet in front of the key reader. The door buzzed and unlocked. The building’s interior was clean and utilitarian. Thin gray carpet covered the floors, while light blue-gray paint covered the walls.
“This way, officers,” he said, leading us toward an elevator up the hall. Molina accessed this, too, with his keycard.
“Your security is tight around here,” I said. “It’s almost like a prison.”
Molina tilted his head to the side and chuckled. “Some days, it feels like a prison.”
We took the elevator to the third floor before Molina led us to a small, nondescript office with two empty bookshelves, a big desk, and a pair of windows overlooking the parking lot.
“Will this office work for your interview?”
“Sure,” I said, glancing toward the door, “but if you lock us in here, I’ll arrest you.”
“Don’t worry,” he said. “These doors lock from the inside. If you’re tired of seeing me, you can even lock me out.”
I nodded, although I didn’t smile or acknowledge the joke.
“If I needed to use the restroom, where would I go?”
“If you need to go, I’ll call a staff member to escort you to the ladies’ room.”
I crossed my arms. “I can’t walk on my own?”
He shook his head. “Our company policy requires an escort for all guests. Would you like me to call my assistant? She’d be happy to escort you wherever you’d like to go.”
“Just bring in Mr. Sanchez, our first guest.”
“Sure,” said Molina. The door shut behind him as he left, so I tried the handle to make sure he hadn’t locked it. Molina turned down a hallway to the left and disappeared. I grabbed a lanyard from my purse to hang my badge from my neck. Then I looked at Sasquatch.
“Stay here. I’m going to take a walk.”
He nodded. “I’ll hold down the fort.”
I grunted and left to explore. The floor held twelve offices, two restrooms, and a break room, but no people. There were emergency stairwells at either end of the building and an elevator in the center. Every exit required a keycard to enter, which meant Molina had locked Sasquatch and me on the floor.
I walked back to the office and found Mr. Molina and a second man inside with Sasquatch. Molina put a hand on the shoulder of his guest. He was short, maybe five-six, and he weighed about a hundred and fifty pounds. His barber had trimmed his hair close to his scalp. Wrinkles accentuated the roughness of his skin.
“This is Gabriel Sanchez,” said Molina. I shook Mr. Sanchez’s rough, calloused hand. “Find anything interesting outside?”
“Yeah, the elevator and stairs are both locked,” I said. “You guys like locks around here, don’t you?”
“Ahh,” said Molina, nodding as if he had realized something. “This floor isn’t in use, so the management keeps it locked. In an emergency, the electronic locks on the doors disengage. You were never in any danger.”
“Great,” I said, crossing the office. “Please tell Mr. Sanchez to sit.”
Sasquatch opened his mouth to translate, but Mr. Molina barked an order before Sasquatch spoke. If Molina wanted to translate, that worked for me.
I started the conversation by introducing myself and asking Mr. Sanchez to confirm his name, occupation, and address. Then we got into things. I showed him a headshot of my victim and watched his face for any signs of recognition. Even though she was dead, he barely reacted.
“Is this woman familiar, Mr. Sanchez?”
Molina translated, and Sanchez shook his head.
“Please look again. Are you sure you’ve never seen her?”
Mr. Sanchez looked at my phone and nodded that he was sure. The worker clutched a baseball cap between his hands, and his foot tapped rhythmically on the carpet. He looked nervous and kept stealing glances at Molina, like a child hoping to get a read on his dad’s mood.
“Do you ever go camping?” I asked.
Molina translated, and Mr. Sanchez furrowed his brow as if he didn’t understand. Molina repeated the question. Mr. Sanchez shook his head.
“Do you know of a campsite on company grounds? And remember, camping isn’t a crime—even if you get drunk. No one’s in trouble for that. I’m here about a homicide. I’m not interested in anything else.”
Molina translated, but before Mr. Sanchez responded, Sasquatch cleared his throat.
“Detective Court, can I talk to you in private?”
I glanced at him.
Now? I mouthed. He nodded, so I looked to Molina.
“Can you step out into the hall, please?” I asked. “And take Mr. Sanchez with you.”
Molina hesitated, but then he and Sanchez left the room. I looked at Sasquatch.
“What’s going on?”
Sasquatch lowered his voice. “Molina didn’t translate your question. He told Mr. Sanchez that if he doesn’t stop complaining about the conditions at the plant, you’ll take him to the woods and shoot him like you shot that woman in the picture. Then he asked whether Sanchez would like to see his family shot in front of him at a campsite.”
I closed my eyes and ran a hand over my brow.
“Tell me you’re kidding.”
“I’m not kidding, boss. What do you want to do?”
“I want to do my job,” I said. I swore under my breath, stood, and checked my firearm to make sure I had a round in the chamber. I saw Sasquatch do likewise. Mr. Molina and Mr. Sanchez were both in the hallway outside the office. Neither spoke, but Molina looked at us and smiled.
“Everything okay?” he asked.
I nodded. “Yep. Please turn around and put your hands on the wall. I’ll pat you down, and then my partner will put cuffs on your wrists. You’re under arrest for interfering with a police investigation. And because you’re a dick.”
7
Sasquatch and I had to use Molina’s keycard to get out of the building, which pissed me off. Outside in the sunlight, I jerked Molina’s elbow without speaking, pulling him toward the road in front of the building. I tried to keep my expression neutral, but inside, I seethed. We had found our victim on the company’s property. It wasn’t far from Nuevo Pueblo. Someone in that town might have known her. Maybe someone even saw the murder.
They wouldn’t help us now, though. And even if they wanted to, I couldn’t trust them. Molina had told them we were part of a government-sanctioned kill squad sent to put down workers fighting for better conditions at the chicken processing plant. It sounded ridiculous, but the men and women in that town could have seen those sor
ts of squads firsthand in their home countries.
I wanted to kick Molina’s ass up and down the road to show his workers they didn’t need to fear him, but that would only make them even more scared of me. Molina and his security staff had poisoned this well so thoroughly the entire town was a lost cause. It’d take us years to earn their trust again.
At least I’d get to see Mr. Molina sit in jail for a while.
Instead of taking his SUV, we walked to our vehicles at the Catholic church with Mr. Molina’s hands tied behind his back. Two people came out of their houses as we passed, but they turned away when Sasquatch shouted hello to them. In time, we might convince some of them to trust the local police, but my victim’s murderers would have disappeared by then. We were on our own for now.
By the time we got to our cars, my stomach was rumbling. I helped Sasquatch put Mr. Molina in the backseat of his cruiser, and then I glanced at my cell phone. It was a little after noon.
“You had lunch yet?” I asked. He shook his head. “How about you drive this asshole back to the station, and I’ll pick up sandwiches at Able’s?”
“Meatball on Italian?”
“You got it. I’ll meet you at the office,” I said, walking toward my truck. As I climbed in and buckled up, Sasquatch got into his own car. We drove off together a moment later but separated when we reached the town.
Able’s Diner was a greasy spoon about a block from Waterford College. At night, it filled with drunk college students looking for milkshakes, cheesy hash browns, and greasy hamburgers, but in the day it did a brisk business with sober men and women from the town.
I parked in one of the few open spots in the lot and ordered food at the counter. Able’s didn’t have the biggest kitchen around, but what it lacked in size, it more than made up for in efficiency. Within ten minutes of walking through the door, I left with one meatball sub, one cheesesteak sandwich, and one chocolate milkshake. Not too bad.
Trisha was behind the front desk as I pulled my station’s front door open, so I smiled hello before looking around.
“Have you seen Sasquatch?”
“He’s writing a report,” she said. “He said you made an arrest this morning. You solve your case already?”
“Not even close,” I said. “Unrelated matter. Your day going well?”
“Uneventful, so yeah.”
“Good,” I said. “I’ll see you around.”
She nodded and smiled, so I walked into the bullpen, where I found Sasquatch at my desk, typing on my computer. He glanced up at me before saving his written report.
“Didn’t think you’d mind if I used your desk,” he said. “Everybody else has stuff all over theirs. I feel like I’m typing in somebody’s bedroom.”
Where other people had family pictures and houseplants and mementos from family vacations on their desk, mine held an empty coffee mug and a computer monitor. It said something about my life choices that I didn’t even have a picture of my mom and dad, but I didn’t care. I liked my privacy and my life.
I put Sasquatch’s sandwich on the desk beside him before digging into my own. For a few moments, I ate in silence, but then Harry walked toward my desk. He nodded to both of us.
“Detective Court,” he said. “I was hoping I could talk to you for a few minutes in my office. Bring your lunch.”
I hesitated.
“Can’t we talk here?” I asked. “If you plan to swear, you can tell Sasquatch to put his hands over his ears. I don’t think he’ll mind.”
Harry considered and put his hands on his hips. “I can talk to you here, but I planned to chew you out.”
I rolled up my sandwich.
“Ahh, an uncomfortable conversation,” I said, looking to Sasquatch. “Take your time. I’ll write my report later.”
Sasquatch looked at Harry before nodding. The boss and I left the bullpen a moment later and took the stairs to his office on the second floor. When we got there, he closed the door and gestured toward a seat in front of his desk.
“You get lunch from Able’s?” he asked.
“Yep. Cheesesteak,” I said. “Healthiest thing on the menu.”
He grunted instead of laughing at my joke. Then he sat down on his side of the desk. “You made an arrest this morning.”
“Lorenzo Molina,” I said, nodding. “He was jerking us around. Sasquatch and I picked him up for interfering with a police investigation. I plan to release him tomorrow morning.”
“I’ve already had two county councilors call me about your heavy-handed tactics at the plant this morning. They said multiple constituents had called to say you rolled on the town like jackbooted thugs ready to crack skulls.”
“That sounds like me,” I said, nodding as I opened my sandwich wrapper. “I love to crack skulls.”
“This isn’t a joke, Joe.”
I took a bite of my lunch and tilted my head to the side.
“It’s bullshit,” I said. “The town was dead. Even if we had rolled in like jackbooted thugs, no one would have seen us.”
“So you didn’t talk to anybody but Lorenzo Molina?”
I put my sandwich down and wiped my mouth with a napkin. “We talked to a guy named Gabriel Sanchez. Molina told him that Sasquatch and I would kill him like we killed the girl in the woods if he didn’t stop complaining about conditions in the plant. He was using us to scare his employees. That’s why I arrested him. You’re getting phone calls because the County Council knows who butters their bread. The management at Ross Kelly Farms complained, and the council did their duty and bitched us out. That’s all this is. We can all move on now.”
Harry sighed and leaned back. “I hate this job.”
I nodded and let him sit for a moment. Harry had only been sheriff two weeks, but already he had bags under his eyes and a short temper. I liked working for him, but he had no business being the sheriff. Office politics went over his head, and he didn’t care about statistics. He focused on fairness and justice, two guiding principles that had little bearing on his new position.
“On the plus side, assuming you don’t stroke out or have a massive heart attack, you’ve only got four or five years left until your term is up. Then, you can retire. You might be a shriveled shell of a man, but you won’t be a quitter. That doesn’t sound so bad, does it, boss?”
He smiled but shook his head. “I appreciate your candor, but sometimes you can be a little too honest, Joe.”
Harry and I got along pretty well, so I stayed up there for another twenty minutes to chat. After lunch, he kicked me out because he had a phone call to make, but I had stuff to do anyway. I walked downstairs to my desk to type my notes and plan the rest of my day. About halfway through that, my phone rang. I answered without looking at the caller ID.
“It’s Dr. Sheridan at the coroner’s office.”
“Hey, Doc,” I said, sliding back from my desk. “Haven’t talked to you since the storm. How are you doing?”
He grunted. “Been better. A big tree hit the van. It’s a total loss. I had to rent a hearse from Boone and Sons funeral home until we get a new one.”
“I’m glad I pulled Sam out.”
“So is he,” said the doc. “Mrs. Rumora, the body I was transporting, didn’t fare so well. Her family was not happy to hear what happened.”
“I’m sorry. It was touch and go for a while, so I’m glad all the living pulled through,” I said. “I don’t imagine you called to chat, so what can I do for you?”
“I’m calling to let you know I ID’d your victim from her fingerprints. Her name is Laura Rojas, and she’s an attorney licensed to practice in Missouri, Illinois, and Kansas. She was twenty-six at the time of her death, and she lived south of St. Louis. She had to submit her fingerprints as part of the character and fitness test when she applied to take the bar exam last year.”
I grabbed my notepad from my purse and jotted down notes.
“Anything else you can tell me about her?”
“Gunshot wound killed
her. I pulled a nine-millimeter round from her thoracic spinal column. It’s pretty trashed, but I sent it to your forensic lab for analysis. Aside from the gunshot wound, her body lacked major trauma. She had minor cuts and scrapes, but they were postmortem. Her hands and forearms lacked bruising, and her body exhibited no signs of sexual trauma or recent sexual activity. She was, however, pregnant.”
I winced and leaned back. Some of the energy I had felt earlier disappeared.
“That’s sad. How far along was she?”
“Ten to eleven weeks. She wasn’t showing yet, but she would have known.”
I blinked and drew in a breath as I tried to fit that with everything else I knew.
“Can we tell who the father is?”
“I can pull DNA from the fetus, but I won’t have anything to match it to.”
“We’ll get you something,” I said, sitting upright and clearing my throat. “Why would someone take off her clothes if not to rape her?”
“I couldn’t tell you,” he said. “I hate what happened to this young woman, but she didn’t suffer before she died at least. If you don’t mind, I’ll contact her parents and let them know what happened. They might take it better coming from a doctor than they would from the police officer who threw her body in the back of a police car.”
“If you notify them, let them know I need to talk to them later.”
“I will,” said Sheridan. “Good luck, Detective.”
Before hanging up, Dr. Sheridan gave me the victim’s address. She lived in Mehlville, a suburb south of St. Louis. Given what had happened at Nuevo Pueblo, her occupation as an attorney was interesting. Ross Kelly Farms had problems with its workforce. If those workers hired Laura, and if she found significant safety or labor violations at the company’s plant, she could cost them a lot of money.
It felt tenuous, but it was a start. I stood and walked toward the front door. Along the way, I stopped by the front desk. Trisha was typing something, but she looked up as I approached.
“Hey, Joe,” she said, glancing down at the computer screen. “You look like you want to ask me something.”
“I need a background check on a young woman named Laura Rojas. She lives in Mehlville.”
