“Getting close?” I asked the medic.
“Just about there,” he said, still wrapping the arm. “You’ve been a brave boy.”
Miguel didn’t seem to hear the medic. “I got an autograph from Pop.”
He was talking about the Spurs coach, Greg Popovich, who had a reputation for being a curmudgeon, especially with the media. But the fans adored the man, who had brought five championships to the city.
“How did that happen?”
“It was after the game, and some of the players had stopped before going into the tunnel to sign autographs. I ran down there and held out my program and a pen, hoping that Tim Duncan would see me. But I was too small. And then he walked away.”
Something smashed in the house. Was that glass shattering? Miguel didn’t seem to notice. He was in the zone. I looked to the front door, almost ready to pick him up and get him away from this gruesome scene.
“So what happened then?”
“I turned back to Dad, and he told me things don’t always happen the way you want them. But life would go on and maybe I could get an autograph at another game sometime in the future.”
“Your dad gave you great advice.”
He looked toward the kitchen again. “Yeah.”
“You never said how you got Pop’s autograph.”
“Oh, Dad and I were walking out of the arena, going into the parking lot, and I saw Pop talking to two guys over by this fence. I ran over and asked Pop if he could find Tim Duncan for me.”
This was the Miguel I had recalled from my one visit—outgoing, curious, and willing to put himself out there. “What happened next?”
Now he was sitting with his legs crossed, moving his one free arm when speaking. He was fully engaged with me. “That was the cool thing. Pop tried to go find him, but he came back and said he’d already left the arena. He asked the guard to let me and Dad inside. He shook my hand and autographed my program and told me he was glad I was such a big fan.”
I smiled. “How cool was that?”
“It was awesome. Then he told me that I needed to keep practicing basketball because Duncan was going to retire soon and he would need a power forward in the future.” Now he was grinning from ear to ear. “But he said I had to go to college and get my degree if I wanted to play for him. He said he only allows smart guys to play for him.”
“And what did you say?”
“I knew Mom and Dad don’t have a lot of money, but I said I’d try to go to college.”
“Very cool.”
“Yeah, he said if I wanted it bad enough, I would work hard and get my degree. He gave me a high-five. He was a pretty cool dude.”
Amazing what a few words could do for a kid with a less-than-ideal home situation.
A medic pushed up a gurney. “Do you want a ride out of here, little guy?”
Miguel looked at me. “Nah. I’ll just walk out, I guess.”
Just as he rose to his feet, a hysterical woman tore through the front door. “Miguel, my baby, come here.”
He just stood where he was.
That couldn’t be his mom. She was dead, or so we’d been told.
She bumped past me and wrapped her chubby arms around Miguel, picking him up off the floor.
“Ow, you’re hurting my arm, Aunt Laura,” he said.
Joanna entered the home, her legs moving faster than I’d ever seen them. “I’ve been trying to reach the aunt for over a month,” she said, panting out breaths.
“I had to return back to Mexico to see my mother.”
“Grandma Nan?” Miguel said.
“Yes, Miguel.”
“Is she okay?” A trench formed between his eyes.
“She’s doing fine now, son.” She looked up and appeared to notice the blood.
“Coming through,” a man said, and Joanna moved closer to me. We both flipped around and saw a body bag being carried out by two men.
“Is that my dad?” Miguel lunged past his aunt. I caught his arm a second before he would touch the bag.
Miguel dropped to his knees and started crying, and his aunt cursed in English and Spanish at the two men from the medical examiner’s office. As I urged the men to leave the house and tried to calm Miguel and his aunt, Stan appeared from the back of the house and spoke into my ear. “This isn’t good.”
I gave him the look; I knew that more than anyone.
6
Out of nowhere, I felt claws scraping my face. I blinked and realized it was the fingernails of Mrs. Gideon, who was leaping over me and reaching toward the body bag. “That crazy motherfucker killed my kid. He killed my fucking kid!” she wailed as she fell to the floor just next to Miguel and Laura.
Chaos erupted once again.
“Aunt Laura, what is she talking about?” Miguel began to cry.
“I’ll protect you, Miguel. I have no idea who this crazy bitch is. She’s got no idea what she’s talking about.”
Stan pushed through me, attempting to console Mrs. Gideon. “We don’t know what happened exactly. But please let this boy grieve.”
“Screw you. Screw everybody in this fucked-up system.” She yelled so loudly her voice cracked. She was wailing, trying to reach the bag. Smeared makeup covered her face.
The two MEs were just standing there, jaws hanging open. I pointed a finger at the door. “Take him out of here. Now.” They nodded and pushed ahead, exiting the house in mere seconds.
“Who the hell is this woman?” Laura said, pulling Miguel in close.
“I’m the woman who volunteered to care for Miguel,” Mrs. Gideon said, now on her feet as Stan stood between the two women. “I opened my house, my family, to help a kid I thought needed a break.”
“You’re his foster parent?” Laura asked, a shocked expression etched on her face.
“That’s right. I fed him and most importantly kept him away from his crazy-ass father.”
“My dad’s not crazy!” Miguel screamed.
“He killed my son. Do you hear me? He killed my one and only son, Tommy.” She pounded her chest, then pulled at her shirt. “And where is my husband during this tragedy? Traveling again for his stupid-ass job.”
My gut twisted into a vicious knot. I’d been too slow in reaching the house. Matt Garza had started killing everyone just as he’d promised. And then the SWAT team raided the house, and that was how he’d died.
But what about Monique? She hadn’t mentioned her daughter. Could she still be alive? Where was she?
“Miguel, let’s get away from this crazy woman,” Laura said. “We both know your dad wasn’t capable of killing anyone.”
“Fuck you!” Mrs. Gideon yelled back.
“Ma’am, you need to calm down,” Stan said as he tried to grab her arms, which were moving in every direction. “I’m sorry for your loss. Truly, I am, but this isn’t going to help anything.”
“It’s all his fault,” she shot back, pointing a long finger at Miguel.
In the blink of an eye, Laura, all five-foot-nothing of her, launched herself over Stan’s shoulder, smacking Mrs. Gideon right across the face. Hands and arms started thrashing until uniformed cops jumped in to try to break them up. It took a good minute for a semblance of calm to return.
I grabbed Miguel and pulled him outside.
“I’m so sorry you had to witness that, Miguel,” I said.
Tear-filled eyes glanced at the ME’s van as it pulled away from the curb. I could hear his choppy breaths as he just stared, the cold, swirling wind not bothering him in the least.
“Are you okay? Do you want to talk about it?”
He lifted his eyes until they locked in on mine. “Aunt Laura was right. My dad didn’t kill Tommy.”
“What? Then who killed Tommy?”
“I did.”
I threw up.
7
The final tally: two people dead at the scene, three in total when including Miguel’s mom.
The caravan of police and civilian cars had passed the Bexar Coun
ty Juvenile Detention Center, as well as the police department’s South Substation, on the way to police headquarters, a new facility off Santa Rosa in downtown. I had literally begged Stan and every ranking officer on the scene to allow me to sit with Miguel in the back seat of the black-and-white. Given what Miguel had shared with me about killing Tommy—and later repeated to Stan and other detectives—the authorities wouldn’t allow it. They pointed out that he was calm and unemotional and would be fine sitting by himself in the back seat. That was one of many mind-boggling things about the day at the Gideons’. The moment Miguel had admitted he’d been the one to kill Tommy, his demeanor completely changed. With the flip of a switch, he’d gone from being a preteen to acting like a sixteen-year-old street punk, all about showing how tough he was.
Little Miguel. I just couldn’t believe it.
The stench of body odor loomed in the still air inside the San Antonio Police Department, likely emanating from the two shirtless thugs who had walked by, both looking as if they’d been run over by a car. Probably a fight of some sort. I doubted they’d taken a shower in the twenty-first century.
I sat in the detective pool with a number of folks not directly involved with the shootings. When the detectives had the time, we would need to give a statement and answer any questions related to the multiple investigations: the hostage response, the raid, and the subsequent killings. In between walking in and out of interview rooms, Stan dropped by his desk to grab a candy bar.
“Deputy chief pulled rank and brought in one of his buddies out of the Special Victims Unit to be the lead detective for the investigation. The guy’s a real bulldog. Used to be a detective in Internal Affairs,” he said, his lips barely moving as he sifted through the contents of a manila folder. He took a bite of his Snickers. “I think he and a lot of others around here are blaming me for the entire fiasco.”
“Stan, I’m sorry if I—”
“Not your fault, Ivy. I could have stopped you. Besides, the shooting started before you reached the door.”
“Do you know what the hell happened in there? I mean, Miguel saying what he did…it can’t be true.”
He pulled caramel from his mustache and then took another bite. “I don’t know yet. It’s nothing but a huge cluster—”
Stopping mid-word, Stan looked up and nodded as a man in civvies walked by, staring at his cell phone. He lifted his sights and locked in on Stan without nodding or saying a word. A few steps beyond Stan’s desk, he got on a phone call, then flipped around to look at Stan again.
I could see why Stan was paranoid.
“Rick Huerta. Meanest SOB in the whole department. And he’s the guy the DC assigned to our case as the lead detective investigator.” Stan bit off half of the candy bar and had to put a hand to his mouth to keep everything inside.
“It will be okay, Stan.”
“Eh. We really shouldn’t be talking, not here in the building, unless it’s under the lights.”
That was his term for the interview room.
“Do you know where they’re keeping Miguel?”
“He’s safe, sitting in an office with two uniforms. They gave him a coloring book, but he hasn’t touched it. Just sitting there, staring.”
“When can he—”
A door opened, and Stan held up his hand. “Gotta run. We’ll talk later.” He crammed the last bit of his candy bar into his mouth and walked off.
I had a hundred questions for him and anyone who was in charge, Rick Huerta included, but in this setting I was like a child—I was to be seen and not heard, as one of my pseudo-friendly foster parents told me years ago.
I let my head drop into my hand, as a pulsating pain along my forehead forced me to close my eyes. I’d been dealing with migraine headaches most of my adult life. The onset seemed to coincide with extreme stress. Even a jaded memory from my past could spark one. Nothing shut me down more than one of those migraines. I inhaled slowly and then pushed out a breath.
“Ivy Nash, please tell me that wasn’t you on that video.”
Turning my head wearily, I saw my boss, Old Mother Hubbard, hovering over me with her arms crossed and a scowl that could have melted ice. It was almost impossible to see her lips—they were razor thin in the first place, and when she had that look going on, they nearly disappeared completely.
“What video?” I asked.
“What video?” She planted two fists on her hips and then rolled her eyes. “Are you that unaware of what’s really going on out there? Social media is blowing up because an innocent bystander caught your little act on his phone.”
“My act?”
“Yes, you taking off for the Gideon house all by yourself. I found out you were going to trade yourself for that kid—the one who now admits to killing that innocent little boy.”
Headache and all, my nerves started firing, igniting a dose of adrenaline. I straightened up in my seat. “How did you know? Not that any of what you said is completely true.”
“Are you saying you didn’t convince the police to let you trade places with that hooligan child?”
I popped out of my seat, then realized her three-inch heels only allowed me to reach the level of her nose. “Don’t call Miguel that. You should know better. Look at the crap he’s had to endure.”
“Blind to the truth, as always, Ivy. And look what you’ve done. You think you’re some big hero? No way. The shooting, the deaths, those are on your hands.”
“What the…?” I could only shake my head in disbelief at the words spewing out of her wrinkled mouth.
She started wagging her finger. “I can either go public and put this all on you, which pretty much means that your career as a CPS employee is over. Or you can figure out a way to change the narrative on this story.”
She paused a second, touching her bony finger to her mouth. “We—which means you—might find it very beneficial if we find evidence that this Matt Garza not only killed that Gideon boy, and of course his wife, but also that he’s been a vicious, uncaring father, abuser, drug addict, and horrible person for all of his life. Do that, and we’ve got a chance to save our reputation—which basically equates to your job.”
A door opened at the far end of the room. It was Miguel, surrounded by uniforms. They had put him in different clothes, most notably an orange T-shirt that looked to be three sizes too big. He maintained the same detached gaze. It seemed liked he was twenty years older and making his final walk to the death chamber..
“Like father, like son? For his sake and yours, I hope that’s not the case,” Hubbard said. “See? I do have compassion.” Her lips turned upward until I could see her yellow teeth. “I assume you will keep me in the loop?”
I had so many emotions churning inside of me that I couldn’t get words out. I was barely able to breathe.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” She flipped around and walked off.
I could practically feel steam coming off my head, my heart rapidly pinging my chest. I was pissed more at myself for not holding my ground, not defending my actions, but even more so for not telling Hubbard where she could shove her prized CPS reputation.
How can anyone be that callous, especially in her role?
Without wasting another moment, I headed straight for the bathroom. I leaned over the sink and doused my face with cold water over and over again. Slowly my temperature dropped and oxygen reached my brain in sufficient levels. Anchoring my hands on the counter, I looked up and stared in the mirror. My face was still dripping with water. What little makeup I’d worn had smeared down from the corners of my eyes. My normally pale skin seemed to have lost any blood flow at all. And my hair…wow. I once had a guy say my hair was the color of golden wheat. All I saw now was a halo of frizz.
I took a paper towel and dabbed some of the water around my face, thinking more about the crazy series of events that led to Miguel Garza now being viewed as murderer. I found myself shaking my head; I still couldn’t accept what had happened. There were so many unanswere
d questions, not the least of which being: why? What justification could Miguel have for killing anyone, let alone another child that he knew? On top of that, how would Miguel get his hands on a gun? Where was he when the SWAT team entered the house? And how could he hide the fact that he had killed Tommy until the time he’d blurted it out while we were standing in the front yard?
I’d seen Mrs. Gideon earlier, being escorted by a cop in the parking garage, her clothes coated in blood. Her child’s blood no less. She was an emotional wrecking ball, destroying everyone in her wake. But who could blame her? She had graciously opened her home to help a boy who hadn’t been as lucky as her own kids. By all accounts that we had on record, she had scored well on our in-home evaluations, but I knew more than anyone that parents of all kinds could put on the best act in the world around the right set of folks and then change into heathens a moment later. Frankly, I’d never had a foster parent who gave a shit about me or my well-being.
And then there was Mr. Gideon. He hadn’t witnessed any of this. Closing my eyes, I imagined the scene when he learned that his son was killed—possibly by a child they had taken in and cared for.
Without kids of my own, it was impossible for me to imagine the magnitude of the loss the Gideon parents would suffer for years to come. I felt a pain in my gut when a child from one of my cases was hurt in some way, even when it was more emotional than physical abuse. As a caseworker, I’d seen so many kids in bad situations, and I’d experienced much of that myself, if not worse, as a kid who grew up through the system. I knew I had a soft spot for those who didn’t have a voice. The unprotected.
I exhaled and then splashed more water on my face, realizing my headache had subsided. Thankfully, I’d been able to avoid the migraine. I heard a stall door open and glanced up to see a familiar face.
“Didn’t know you were in here, Joanna.”
With her lips pursed, she turned her nose upward, walked to the sink three down from me, and washed her hands.
“Did a judge put a gag order on you?” I joked, taking another paper towel and cleaning off my face.
The Ivy Nash Thrillers: Books 1-3: Redemption Thriller Series 7-9 (Redemption Thriller Series Box Set) Page 4
