Ripping Abigail, a Quilted Mystery novel

by Sullivan, Barbara

  I could hear them. They were grieving. I glanced quickly and saw that Detective Learner was with them. And I could do without another look at Learner’s erupting face. Beardsley continued.

  “Learner has the lead, of course. But he told me it would be okay for you guys to go in if you want.”

  I was stunned. We were just PI’s. Cops were usually pretty defensive about involving civilians in their business. But, maybe it was time to let Luis know what he was meddling in.

  “Who’s the ME?” I said as I turned to face the woods I knew contained the crime scene.

  “Doc Marana. The weird guy. You saw him….” Beardsley began.

  “Right, at the Stowall autopsies.”

  So he would know me on sight. I’d have to be discrete; even better, hidden behind the shrubs. My relationship with Marana was…strained.

  “The body is about twenty feet in, near the river. ME’s been there about thirty minutes so far. May be wrapping it up soon.” Beardsley.

  So we should move in now if we’re going to.

  “Okay, I’m going in. What about it Luis?” Me.

  Luis looked like I’d asked if he’d like to jump in a snake pit with me. I stifled a grin. Our apprentice needed some training in crime scene etiquette and how to keep his nose where it belonged. This seemed as good a time as any.

  “You don’t have to follow me, Luis. I’m just going in for some pictures.”

  “No, no, I can take some notes.” He was stammering, but at least he was game.

  “Good idea.”

  As we moved away from Beardsley I cautioned Luis to be discrete. We moved through the thicket toward the body and the sound of Marana’s droning voice. He was recording his observations. I pulled back some branches and found myself within twenty feet of the victim. I let my eyes and ears take the lead, signaling Luis to stop before we broke Marana’s concentration. He was bent over the body with his back to us.

  His assistant was aware of out presence, however, and he anxiously eyed us as he took orders from Marana.

  Engrossed, Marana was moving like he was half his six foot five or so frame. In the outdoor light the medical examiner didn’t look half Persian and half Indian as I’d told Sandra the other night. He looked half Indian…and maybe half Chinese, and half...whatever. He was still mostly Will Smith. Which was hard for me to take. Why would anyone who looked like Will Smith want to work with corpses? Then again, here I was….

  Marana’s position had been blocking our view of the boy’s head and upper torso as I quietly snapped a few pictures of the surrounding area. Suddenly he moved and exposed the horrific sight of the victim.

  I heard Luis inhale sharply. I felt an overwhelming sense of sadness.

  The damage done to the young gang member’s face and chest would make it impossible for his own mother to recognize him. His hands were pulled underneath him, probably tied so he couldn’t struggle. The body was in full rigor mortis—right down to his toes. Flies were everywhere.

  Marana dictated into his recorder as he circled, unaware of us.

  “PMI indicates it’s been more than twenty-four hours. Rigidity has passed. Insect inclusions will tell us more. Added note: the parents state their son has been missing for only a few hours.”

  I wondered why the parents didn’t report his absence immediately, and why they were fudging on the time. But then, they were a gang family. The boys probably came and went as they pleased after the age of twelve. Maybe ten. Whenever the gang demanded it.

  Luis made a gagging noise, which reminded me this was a teachable moment.

  “PMI stands for post mortem interval,” I whispered for Luis’ benefit.

  “How come nobody heard this going on?” Luis almost whispered back. Oops.

  Marana’s head snapped around and he growled, “What the hell are you two doing here?”

  But he wasn’t looking for answers. Marana called the nearest cop to task, demanding who had authorized our presence. The young man squirmed.

  Then Luis said, “The family hired us…to investigate the killing.”

  Uh-oh. But I moved quickly forward and snapped close-ups of the body.

  “The Escudero family? Really? We’ve only just told them. What are you, ambulance chasers?”

  Double oops.

  I continued taking pictures as we retreated. Suddenly I stopped and slipped sideways, toward the brook.

  “Are those drag marks on the ground, Dr. Marana?” Me.

  The look on his face told me he hadn’t noticed them yet, and suddenly he was barking orders left and right for a larger perimeter to be formed and for the photographers to return.

  When Learner raced past us in response to Marana’s loud commands, I couldn’t help but say, “There’s no sign of blood splatter at that scene, either.”

  Chapter 53

  Abigail waved to Luis as she left school and walked home with her new group of friends. Only she wasn’t really going home, was she?

  Luis was cute. And nice. And there’d been no trouble today. She was sorry to think this would probably be the last day she’d have his protection.

  Luis was really cute.

  But he was also old, and probably had a ton of girlfriends. And her guy was cute too in his own way.

  Where she was really going wasn’t home. Where she was really going made her thrill deep down inside. Maybe with fear, but also with excitement and this new warm feeling she got whenever she touched him, like now, pressing up against his warm shoulder.

  The other girls were giving her some respect now, because she had a boyfriend.

  The next thing Abigail had to do was find a way to buy some more in clothes. She felt like she was wearing old lady clothes now. Her communist mother never let her go shopping alone, never let her out of her sight, period.

  She was almost fourteen, for crying out loud.

  She’d become so desperate to meet some kids more aware of pop culture--kids not homeschooled—that she’d even been thinking maybe she should go live with her father for awhile.

  He didn’t agree with her staying home all the time. But he was another kind of problem altogether, and frankly didn’t support her art much either.

  Her father was a mess. Cripes, she hadn’t seen him in forever anyway. He never kept his court-appointed days with her, was always too sick.

  So she’d found another solution to her mother’s possessive nature and everything was working out just fine.

  Mom was working—all night again.

  Nana thought she was going to a Halloween party.

  And what neither of them knew wouldn’t hurt them. She’d be sure to get home by ten like Nana had more or less said.

  “I be sleep by ten, little one.”

  Nana was turning out to be pretty cool about this all. They were like co-conspirators now.

  Buddy jostled her shoulder sending another shiver down her spine.

  Chapter 54

  I got home from my second trip up the mountain just after five. It was dark and a group of small children were just beginning to make their trick or treat rounds on our street. I was thinking about getting the candy together for them when I drove down our driveway. But that thought was erased by the sight of my man on our front porch.

  Matt was waiting with his arms crossed over his manly man chest.

  I loved that pose.

  I ignored the pose and marched past him.

  “Is dinner ready, I’m starved?”

  Then the house phone rang.

  “I’ll get it,” he barked, still very angry.

  Matt had called me on my cell on the way home and told me he’d found the message from Tom B. and wanted to know what I was up to.

  I told him what I’d been up to.

  He blew his top, called up Tom Beardsley. Fucking Tom Beardsley. Like it was his fault. I defended Tom, but Matt was too angry to hear me.

  I ended the call by telling him I was driving and couldn’t legally talk. Then I hung up.

&nbs
p; My hubby needed a time-out to get control. By the time I got home he was close, but not all the way there yet. I decided to pretend there was nothing wrong. Sometimes that worked.

  “Who was it?” I called as he returned to the living room. I hadn’t looked at his face yet.

  “Tom Beardsley. Says he’s got a text from Luis that indicates he’s in trouble. We should check our cell phones.”

  Oh, no. The last time I’d seen Luis Lewis he was still out in the field behind the school.

  “He hasn’t checked in with me. Check yours Rache.” Matt.

  I did. He peered over my shoulder as we both tried to make sense of what we were reading.

  The first bunch of Luis’ text messages indicated another girl had been taken by the gang members, another Indian girl.

  “Sounds like it was just after you left. Where were the cops when you left? What time did you leave?” Matt.

  “The police were still back with the crime scene for Jesus Escudero. I left well after four. Why would a student still be on campus?” Me.

  “Wait, here he says the girl was out front of the school, waiting for a ride home. He says he was told to look for her out front.” Matt.

  “Told, who told him?” Me.

  “…he’s following the river in front of the school, south toward the Chicano neighborhood. Damn. I hate his abbreviations.” Matt.

  “Is he chasing the gang members? Do they have the girl?” Me.

  There were pages of his text messages that I hadn’t seen. Then they started coming in real-time.

  “Oh, Matt!”

  Another text arrived.

  “Fuck! He’s in trouble.” Matt.

  It sounded like the Pintos had him surrounded. Then came his last text.

  “No girl. Just me.”

  “Call Will and tell him to meet me up on the mountain at the school,” Matt shouted at me as he ran down the lawn to his truck.

  “Watch out for the kids!” I called after him.

  Alone, I waited for more text messages but none came. Then I worried that it might be the same gang that killed the young boy found behind Pinto Springs high school. What if they got hold of Luis?

  But the second body found that long day and night wouldn’t be Luis Lewis’.

  PART TWO

  woof and waft

  Chapter 55

  Saturday, November, early morning

  Matt and Will were going door-to-door through the Chicano neighborhood in south Pinto Springs in search of Luis. I was at home, waiting.

  When Matt first called me around nine, he’d said that about fifty local Chicano and Native American parents had joined the police in the search. They were growing desperate to find their missing children—the two Indian girls, and another Pinto gang member who’d apparently been missing for about as long as Jesus Escudero.

  The second time Matt called it was after midnight, right after dealing with a guy whose front door looked like it was accustomed to battering rams. Matt began by saying he decided not to ram the door but to knock politely--even though by then his frustration level was so high he wanted to bang heads, not doors.

  “A fucking scrub jay answered the door.”

  His words surprised me. I’m the one that thinks in animal kingdom, not Matt.

  I asked him what he meant.

  “The guy was eyeing us sideways, head up and cocked, and flapping his wings around like he expected menacing would chase us away.” He tried to chuckle, it came out sounding raspy and sere.

  Jay didn’t know my Matt. Jay didn’t know Matt was a Marine, I thought, but did not say. I was just waking up from a brief nap. My brain was only half on, so I mostly listened.

  “’What-chew you want bitch?’” Matt.

  I assumed that was the Jay’s line.

  “Will wasn’t happy with the man’s ‘tude, so he stepped right into the guy, pushed his bulk up against him and forced him back inside his own nest.”

  I have been there when Will got upset. It wasn’t pretty. Matt stopped and I listened to distant voices in the background wondering whose they were.

  “We are deep inside the Pinto Springs barrio, Rache. We’re embedded with the cops. But I figured it was time for a break before Will started World War III.”

  It wasn’t a barrio, just a poor neighborhood to the south of Pinto Springs. Then the bomb dropped.

  “They found the second boy, a half hour ago.”

  “And?”

  “Dead. Gorge Castillo, age fifteen. Forever. They slit his throat, let him bleed out in a drainage ditch about two miles from the kid you saw this afternoon. Sounds like he was also tortured. That’s what got Will so uptight.”

  My stomach flip-flopped. I pushed myself off the couch and paced to control a sudden surge of emotions. Oh, God.

  “Where’s…Luis?” Me.

  “Yes. That is the question.” Matt.

  His tone said so much more. We were both thinking the same ugly thoughts. There was little else to say. After a few minutes, we drifted into closure.

  I hoped I’d soothed his mind a bit, telling him I loved him. But now I was wide awake. So I got a cup of warm tea and sat back down to ponder and stare sightlessly at the television. I turned it off, suddenly afraid I’d learn about Luis through some uncaring reporter’s story.

  The phone rang around quarter to one as I was beginning to snooze. Matt jarred me again with his brief intro.

  “Go to bed, Rache. It’s over.”

  I held my breath. What’s over?

  “I’ll be on the way home soon. They found Luis. He’s alive.”

  “How..?” He interrupted me, thought I wanted to know how Luis was found.

  “The scrub jay caved after our second visit. Will is very persuasive when he wants to be. He suggested maybe they were in over their heads and maybe they should help us get these bad guys.”

  He paused to answer a question from someone off to the side.”

  “Matt, how is Luis?”

  He sighed. “Not good. He’s hurt. They…roughed him up a bit. I’ll tell you more when I get home. Sandy’s on the way to the hospital. You better get some sleep. Luis is in the good hands of Gloria P. now.” Intensive care!

  “How badly was he hurt? Will he be all right..?”

  I was talking to the air. Matt had hung up.

  I knew I’d never be able to sleep, so I just settled back down on the couch to await him.

  Of course I did sleep, at least for a few hours. At some point Matt slipped in the front door noiselessly and went to our bedroom, leaving me to my meager rest. And now I sat staring out our deck window again, this time at the sun rise. Wisdom was out there listening for the sounds from the newly renamed San Diego Safari Park.

  Tonight was the all-night quilting bee. My neck hurt just thinking about it. And there was still no sign of the two missing Indian girls.

  Chapter 56

  Sometime around noon I fell back to sleep, capturing a few more hours of rest before Abigail’s bee. I woke from my nap to sounds of Wisdom sneezing on the back porch.

  Matt and I calmed him as well as we could but he was tearing himself up, poor baby. And now his nose was bleeding again.

  We gave him another tranquilizer and shared a look that said we’d have to do something more on Monday when the vet’s office opened again.

  We weren’t discussing what that something was, but we both knew we were running out of options. The vet had told us after the last procedure—a removal of the first tumor below his eye—that short of chemotherapy or radiation therapy which would leave him blind in one eye, there was nothing else to do but make him comfortable.

  We weren’t that rich. We also would not feel right about spending money on sophisticated medical treatments many people on earth had no access to.

  I flipped channels on the television and discovered that the Saturday afternoon news was giving Gorge Castillo credit for trying to stop Luis’ beating. Matt was inclined to agree based on his experience with the b
oy’s parents, who were now preparing to bury this good son next to his little sister, who had died at the age of eight of bone cancer. I glanced at Wisdom again. Was he experiencing this terrible death so he could someday welcome little children into heaven with a knowing heart?

  My vision clouded over as I fought to keep from crying. So then I turned my emotions on the television, when for their own perverse reasons the producers on the news channel segued into a report of another killing on the Arizona border.

  Both Matt and I thought the media did a terrible disservice to Mexican-Americans and those still trying to escape the poverty in their native country by depicting them as a pack of rabid drug lords invading our country.

  Mostly, they are hard workers willing to take a low-paying job. But unfortunately, like the people of Afghanistan, if you have no other way to make a living than to cater to the Western hunger for illegal drugs, then that’s the route you take. And unfortunately, some small percentage of those crossing the border did.

  In the late afternoon, Matt and I drove up the mountain road again to Cleveland County’s plateau.

  The first thing we did was visit a sleeping Luis in the hopes he’d regained consciousness. We found that Sandra had gone home and the nurses now in charge of ICU weren’t telling us much. Of course Gloria was at home preparing for tonight’s bee.

  If it weren’t for the bandages and bruises, you’d think he was asleep, I mused. It gave me shivers to find him in the same bed that poor Jimmy Winters had occupied.

  As we left, another connection came to me--other than the obvious age differences he looked a lot like Ruth. Behind bruised and swollen lids, his eyes were chasing ghosts too.

  And then we headed for Abigail’s house just a few miles from the hospital. My protective Irish lad was taking no chances on me driving home tired in the wee hours after this bee, by dropping me off there with a promise to pick me up at dawn.