The Death File

by J. A. Kerley

  “Excuse me,” I said, feeling lost. “Lucha libre?”

  Novarro said: “Ever see those Latino wrestlers with the masks?”

  I nodded, having seen them on television a time or two when surfing channels. “Masks, bright costumes, capes sometimes. Leaping all over the ring?”

  “That’s lucha libre, or free wrestling,” Fishbach said. “The wrestlers are called luchadores. It’s theatrical and colorful and about as big a part of Mexican culture as sombreros and mariachi bands. Anyway, the dealer is a lucha libre fanatic and his favorite luchadore is a guy named El Tigre, the Tiger. So one day the dealer hears huge news in the neighborhood … El Tigre is not only in Phoenix for a match, he’s having lunch at the little Mexican restaurant two blocks down.”

  “Uh-oh,” I said.

  “The dealer figures what the hell, it’s close by. He’ll run over for a few minutes and get his picture taken with El Tigre, an autograph. What could go wrong?”

  I smelled the bottom line. “How far did he get?”

  “Halfway to the street. A shooter hiding behind a wall of tires at a llantera a hundred paces away put a 30-30 round through the dealer’s temple. With a decent scope it would have been like shooting a sitting duck.”

  “El Tigre in on it?”

  “Naw, El Tigre’s a straight arrow, a big pussycat. It turns out that he was paid five grand to eat at the restaurant that day. The owner said he invited him for publicity purposes.”

  “The owner was in on it. Anything there?”

  A sad shake of the big head. “No fucking way to prove it was anything but what he said. And anyway, if Escheverría wanted the owner to invite El Tigre to lunch, there’s no way he’d ever refuse. Not if the owner valued his health and the health of his family.”

  “You’re sure it was Escheverría?”

  “He figures things out, how people work. It’s like a sixth sense. He’s freaking cold, but he’s smart and always one step ahead. Oh, and the next week my snitch turned up dead. He’d been beaten so bad he didn’t look like a person. That was maybe the scariest part.”

  “The killing of your snitch?”

  “My snitch was two layers from Escheverría, insulated. But somehow Escheverría discovered he’d been ratted out. It was almost impossible, but it happened.”

  “Nothing tied Escheverría to the hit on the dealer?”

  “A half-dozen fine and upstanding citizens swore on their mamas’ graves that Mr Escheverría had been in a whorehouse with them the entire evening. We couldn’t break anyone.”

  “Tough case, Fish,” I sympathized.

  “I’m not unhappy that Escheverría took out the dealer; he was a scumball. And when the assholes are killing themselves, they’re not killing any real people.” He sighed. “But that was my best snitch.”

  “Like you said, Mike,” Novarro said. “Escheverría’s screwing with us. And laughing.”

  “Yeah, but we’re sure it was Escheverría in Miami,” I said. “He obviously likes driving pretty red Camaros with great big engines, but if his particular pretty red Camaro was in the shop …”

  “The one he drove to Miami was borrowed or stolen,” Fishbach finished. “Maybe it’s a thing with him. He gets a new red Camaro every two years. Loads ’em up with chrome and spinners and low-profile tires and that kiddie shit they love.”

  Novarro crossed her arms, leaning in the doorway of the cube and gave Fishbach a glittering smile.

  “Did I hear you say you had a little free time, Fish?”

  Novarro next made a call to the Shackletons. The father agreed to answer a couple of questions over the phone and she put it on speaker.

  “Did Brad ever talk about other patients?” she asked. “Did you meet any?”

  “Brad spent some time in group therapy. Dr Meridien thought it good for some patients to spend time together … to relate their experiences. Bradley didn’t talk about it much, but …”

  “Sir?”

  I heard a finger snap. “But I remember a name. Mashburn. Brad said he was a nice kid but that he’d gone … crazy. I take it Mashburn developed schizophrenia and fell into depression or whatever. Bradley was very affected by it.”

  “First name?”

  “Daryl? No, Darnell. That was it. Brad said he was fun at first. But then he got sicker and I’m not sure if Dr Meridien kept treating him.”

  “Any others?”

  “He mentioned a girl a couple times. Cat. I think he called her a few times just to talk.”

  “Last name?”

  “Not a clue. I’m sorry.”

  The phone directory showed a dozen Mashburns in the region; Novarro hitting on her eighth call. She got the number and made arrangements for us to visit the only other patient of Leslie Meridien’s that she had identified.

  “I spoke with Darnell Mashburn’s aunt,” Novarro said after hanging up. “She said Darnell’s having a tough day.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “Guess we’ll see.”

  The Mashburn house was a two-story split-level in a modest neighborhood one street behind one of those suburban connectors filled with Outbacks, Friday’s, Chipotles, Pizza Huts, and the like. The still air smelled like meat and grease. We parked and walked to the house. Mrs Alyce Mashburn was African American, in her early forties, pretty once, but heavy now, with eyes bagged and hair going gray. She wore a purple dress and kept her hands clasped together at her waist, probably to keep them from wringing.

  “He sits up there and watches movies,” she said after we’d provided a sparse outline of our purpose. “Old ones, new ones. Documentaries. Sometimes he talks to them. But it keeps him calm.”

  “Why was Darnell seeing Dr Meridien, if I may ask?”

  “He had socialization issues. That was … when things were better. Last year he developed SAD.”

  “Schizoaffective disorder,” I nodded. “Schizophrenia combined with mood disorders.”

  “They said his IQ was above a hundred forty. He loved school, math, chemistry, everything. And then it all started to disappear. He wasn’t with Dr Meridien much longer after that. She said it was more a brain chemistry thing and not what she dealt with. She recommended other doctors. I liked Dr Meridien; she was honest about Darnell’s problem and called afterwards to make sure we were all right.”

  “May we see Darnell, please?”

  She led us up the stairs to a closed door, knocking three taps with a short pause, one tap, long pause, and a final tap.

  “WHAT!” a voice bellowed.

  We stepped into the room. Darnell Mashburn was a spaghetti-thin seventeen-year-old who looked like he’d been plugged into a 220 volt outlet: sprigs of untamed hair in all directions, bulging eyes with the full white showing around the irises, flared nostrils, and hands in constant motion, like sculpting from invisible clay. He sat on his made bed wearing only a loincloth fashioned from two red washcloths front and back and held in place by a large rubber band, and a pair of blue flip-flops at least four sizes too large.

  His eyes narrowed with a combination of anger and confusion and the hands sculpted faster. I studied the scope of Darnell Mashburn’s world: bed, desk, chair, chest of drawers. In the corner was a large flat-screen TV, and DVD player. Beside his bed a TV tray held a paper plate with a half-eaten burger and some fries barely visible under a thick mound of ketchup.

  “These folks would like to talk to you, Darnell,” his aunt said. “It’s about Dr Meridien. You liked her.”

  “She was MY BITCH!” Mashburn spat. “I FUCKED HER EVERY DAY FOR A YEAR! I MADE HER SUCK MY COCK!”

  I wasn’t surprised by the outburst: sexual scenarios were part of many damaged minds, often involving caregivers.

  “Darnell …” his aunt cautioned.

  His eyes turned to Novarro and me and his nostrils flared. “I don’t like how they smell, Auntie. Make them GO AWAY!”

  Mashburn’s aunt shot us a look. “Do you want me here or …?”

  “We’ll be fine
,” I said.

  She blew out a breath and retreated, leaving us alone with Darnell.

  “We don’t want to take much of your time, Darnell. We just have a couple of questions about Dr Meridien and some of the people you might have met at her office.”

  Mashburn backpedaled on his bed and coiled against the wall. “I can’t talk to you. You’re TOO CLOSE.”

  Novarro looked at me and we stepped back several feet. “Now?” she asked.

  Mashburn shook his head violently. We backed to the door, as far as we could go. He looked even more distressed. I said: “Be right back,” jogging past a perplexed aunt and outside, returning a minute later with the tennis racket I’d seen in Novarro’s back seat. I approached Mashburn slowly and put the handle of the racket in his reluctant hand, angling the stringed head in front of his face like he was behind a fence.

  “It filters proximity,” I explained to his questioning eyes. “It’s a distance machine.”

  Mashburn’s brilliant but afflicted mind stared through the strings, moved the mesh aside, frowned, brought it back into place between us. “OK,” he nodded, satisfied. “What?”

  “Did you know any other of Dr Meridien’s patients, Darnell? Think hard.”

  Mashburn imitated a rapper, holding out thumb and pinkie and shaking his hand while grinning through the racket. “Yo yo yo, bro … the Shakster. Shaks man. We were groupies, brother. Brad’s my best friend YOU ASSHOLE!”

  “Brad Shackleton?” I asked.

  “Yeah, buddy … The Shakster. SHAK-A-DOODLE DO!”

  “When was the last time you talked to the Shakster?”

  He thought a moment.

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Did Brad ever have anyone angry with him, Darryl? Maybe threaten him?”

  “Atom bomb. BOOOOOOM! Fuck atom bomb. Brad hated the atom bomb. The bomb blew itself up.”

  I shot Novarro a glance. It wasn’t going well, or at least in any reality-based direction.

  “Did you know any of Dr Meridien’s other patients, Darnell?”

  He stuck the racket between his thighs and moved his arms up and down like a robot. “There was a mechanical boy. He was funny. I liked him.”

  Darnell had fallen into the world of delusion. “What was the mechanical boy’s name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You must have known—”

  “I SAID I DON’T KNOW!”

  “How about Cat?” Novarro said. “Did you know her?”

  He froze and his eyes tightened on us. “How did you know about the Cat?”

  The cat. Had his aunt been mistaken about it being a woman’s name, or had Mashburn made a new connection in his mindscape?

  “We’re friends,” Novarro said.

  “YOU’RE LYING YOU DIRTY BITCH.”

  “Tell me about the Cat.”

  “THE CAT WAS SWEET, THE CAT WAS KIND, THE CAT WOULD CLAW A MAN OUT OF HIS MIND!” He gave us a quivering smile. “The Cat made me crazy.”

  “Where does the Cat live?”

  He pointed upward. “In the sky.”

  “She’s dead?”

  His eyes widened. His mouth fell open. “THE CAT IS NOT IS NOT IS NOT IS NOT!” he screamed, standing and swatting at the air with the racket.

  We retreated to the hall with Mashburn making bird sounds and beating his bedspread with the tennis racket.

  “Want your racket back?” I said to Novarro.

  “I don’t have anyone to play tennis with.”

  Ms Mashburn met us at the bottom of the stairs. “It didn’t go well, did it?” she said.

  “Not very,” I admitted. “He mentioned a Brad, which has to be Shackleton And a Cat. Have you ever—?”

  “I don’t know who they are. Or even if they are. Did he talk about the mechanical boy?”

  “A bit.”

  “I’m not sure which are real and which aren’t. The doctors are trying some new medications. It’s all they seem to do. You can come back if you want, but I can never guarantee what you’ll find from one hour to the next.” She paused. “Or maybe it’s down to minutes now.”

  21

  Adam Kubiac was pulling on clean pants, trading them out for the ratty shorts he’d worn for two days. Isbergen had tried to get him into some of the hipster clothes she liked so much, but all that stuff itched.

  Isbergen passed by the doorway. “Where are you going, Adam?”

  Kubiac frowned. “I don’t know, Dad. Where do you think I should go?”

  “Dad?”

  “Where are you going, Adam?” he said in a mocking voice. “Who are you meeting, Adam? Are you going to wear those pants, Adam? Hashtag: stopbeingdaddy.”

  “I’m sorry,” Isbergen said. “I just didn’t want you to forget we have a meeting tonight with Cottrell. It’s important, and we have to talk about it first.”

  “Talk about what?”

  Isbergen crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. “I have an idea. A super idea, Adam.”

  “We gonna cut the bastard’s throat? Hashtag: great.”

  “No, Adam. We’re going to get your money back.”

  Kubiac froze and stared. “What did you say, Zoe?”

  “I’ve been thinking about Cottrell. What’s going on in his brain. We’re going to get your inheritance, Adam. You deserve it, so we’re going to get it.”

  “It can’t happen.” Then, in a whisper: “Can it?”

  Isbergen crossed the room to Kubiac and wrapped her arms around his waist, whispering in his ear. “We can’t get all of it, but I’m pretty sure we can get most of it. And that’s a long way from where you are now. Here’s a hashtag, Adam: hope.”

  “It’s impossible.” A long pause. “How?”

  “We make an investment.”

  “In what?”

  “Greed.”

  * * *

  Novarro pulled into her parking spot at HQ, put the car in park. We stepped into searingly bright sunshine and walked toward the building, the wind a hot breath blowing from the south desert.

  “More wasted time,” Novarro moaned. “Christ … mechanical boys, girls in the sky. You think Mashburn’s ever gonna get better?”

  “I’ve seen it happen. Dosages get adjusted. New meds work better.”

  “Optimistic. I like that. I just don’t believe it.”

  “Yeah,” I sighed, back to reality. “Me neither.”

  I followed her to the detectives’ floor. It was, as usual, almost empty and I took it that Solero believed in keeping his people on the street.

  “Ladies and gennulmen …” Fishbach trumpeted as we approached.

  “Not now, Fish,” Novarro said. “I just left one madman.”

  Fishbach knocked and entered Novarro’s cubicle simultaneously, waving a scrap of paper. “I got a hit down in Tucson, Tash. I like it.”

  “A girlfriend?”

  “A red 2014 Camaro 2SS. I like it for Escheverría.”

  Novarro snatched the paper and looked at it, dubious. “How many red Camaros are in Arizona, Fish?”

  “According to the license branch, a hundred or so.”

  “Why this Camaro, particularly?”

  “Same basic model, the big-ass engine. Color’s right. It’s owned by one Thiago Benitez Carazo.”

  She gave him a look. “And?”

  “The name struck a bell from when I was investigating Ramon. I did some cross-checking. The last time Escheverría was doing time, guess who his cellie was?”

  “Carazo,” Novarro said, suddenly fully engaged. “Tell me it’s Carazo.”

  Fishbach just grinned.

  “So it was Carazo,” Novarro said. “Feed me the whole story, Fish.”

  “It was three years back. Crazy Ramon beat the hell outta some guy in an alley, shattered jaw, kneecap kicked backwards, teeth snapped off. Everyone knows the guy’d been slack on payments to his meth source and El Gila was making a statement.”

  “But …” I said.

  “But everyone in the joi
nt says the vic started the fight … including the vic. The judge isn’t buying it. He tallies up some similar situations before Ramon learned self-control, and labels Escheverría a habitual offender. He pitches Escheverría in the can for six months, about all he can do. For five of those months Carazo was his roomie.”

  ‘You’re thinking?”

  “I’m thinking El Gila comes up with a job – two maybe, if what Ryder thinks is right – in Miami. He’s a careful guy, a planner. He won’t fly because there’s too much documentation. He has to drive. But it’s over 2,000 miles; he ain’t gonna take a Prius, he wants what he likes. He knows his old cellie has the same thing – Escheverría probably bragging on his ride in the joint, why Carazo gets one just like it.”

  “Escheverría borrows his buddy’s car.”

  “Probably rented it for a price Carazo couldn’t resist. And because Ramon’s a smart-ass sociopath, he parks his Camaro in the shop for the duration, knowing if he’s spotted, it can actually be better insurance than not being seen. It’s proof it can’t be his car in Miami, therefore it can’t be him.”

  “Got to give this asshole credit,” Novarro said.

  “Tucson’s how far?” I said.

  22

  I drove so Novarro could work the on-board computer, tuning the dash-mounted monitor her way as she dug up all she could on Thiago Benitez Carazo, alternating it with various phone calls, feeding me info as I blew southeast down Highway 10 toward Tucson.

  “Carazo’s a shitbird,” she said. “Got a pissant record going back to age fourteen. Petty thievery early on, a few possession busts, minor, then moved up into Grand Theft Auto, took two falls. I just spoke to his last parole officer, says he thinks Carazo manages an auto junkyard in the desert north of Tucson. A car thief managing auto parts tell you anything?”

  “He’s still moving metal,” I said. “Maybe not whole cars, but I’d bet he’s tied in with chop shops.”

  “Fish just sent an e-mail saying the Camaro 2SS or whatever is base priced around forty grand. If I can’t afford one, how does a guy who oversees ten acres of rust afford one?”