When the Devil Doesn't Show: A Mystery

by Christine Barber

  “Okay,” Joe said. “Okay. No problem. Sorry.”

  They sat in silence. Joe tapped his hand against his leg, while Gil kept going over his notes.

  Joe lasted only a minute before saying, “What if we just talk in generalities about how Abetya fits in the whole thing? Is that okay?”

  Gil rolled his eyes. “Seriously?”

  “Just listen for one second,” Joe said. “So Tyler James Hoffman, Lupe Escobar, Pat Abetya, and George Gonzales somehow meet up with one another and say, ‘Hey, you’re evil. Let’s do crime together.’ Then they somehow get the addresses of all the laboratory employees who work in the Primary Structural Biosystems department and decide to kill them off one by one.”

  “When you put it that way, it sounds like they were working from a hit list rather than finding houses to rob,” Gil said.

  “Okay, that wasn’t my point at all,” Joe said. “I was trying to draw your attention to the fact that we don’t know how all these bad people met each other.”

  * * *

  The woman who opened the door was in her late sixties. She wore polyester pants with a floral blouse and her long gray hair pulled back in a bun. She stepped out onto the porch and shooed at the dogs while Kristen Valdez identified herself.

  “I have a driver’s license from George Gonzales, and it lists this as his address,” Kristen said.

  “Oh, George hasn’t lived here in years,” the woman said.

  “He lived with you?”

  “No, he lived in the trailer over there, with Johnny,” she said. “They moved in together for a little while after high school.” Kristen knew she looked confused, mainly because she hadn’t expected to find anything here, least of all that George Gonzales had once lived with Lupe Escobar’s drug dealer. Both men had Camino Dulce listed as their addresses, but Johnny Rivera’s records had him living at 1241 Camino Dulce, while George Gonzales was at 1267. At first glance, it had seemed to Kristen that the different numbers would obviously belong to different houses. But the Rivera family likely owned the only property on the road, so any number combination listed as being on the street “Camino Dulce” would have ended up in their mailbox. When it came to deciding on addresses in the rural areas of the state, it often came down to guesstimating, leaving the mailman to deliver mail based more on the receiver’s name than anything else.

  “They went to St. Catherine’s together?” Kristen asked.

  “Yes,” the woman said. “Well, mostly. Johnny got suspended his senior year, but he and George stayed friends. Johnny’s mom had Santa Clara Pueblo blood, which is how he could go to an Indian school.”

  “So, are you related to Johnny?” Kristen asked.

  “I’m Mrs. Rivera,” she said. “His grandmother.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?” Kristen asked.

  “Oh, let’s see,” she said. “He borrowed my car about a week ago, when his friends came over.”

  “Do you remember exactly what day that was?” Kristen asked, trying not to rush the words out.

  “Let’s see, it had to have been December nineteenth,” she said. “I remember thinking it was my older sister’s birthday. She’s passed away now.”

  “I’m sorry,” Kristen said automatically before asking, “Did you see his friends?”

  “I only saw them from a distance as they got into the car,” she said.

  “How many people were there?”

  “It was hard to tell,” she said. “I think four. One of them was a girl. I heard her laugh. That kind of sound always carries. It made the dogs bark.”

  “Could one of the other friends have been George?”

  “I guess,” she said. “Although it would have been nice if he’d come over to say hello.”

  Kristen got a description of the vehicle—a 1998 Honda Civic—and wrote it down in a small notebook she’d fished out of her pocket. She thanked Mrs. Rivera and hurried back to her vehicle to call Joe, the dogs following along. She was about to open her car door when she turned to look at the graveyard. Tall brown weeds poked up from under patches of snow, and a few fake flowers, bleached almost white, were twisted among the fences around the graves. She put her keys back in her pocket and walked toward the cemetery. As she got close, she stopped to look at the egg-sized rocks that had been placed on the headstones. Kristen had never known anyone who wasn’t Catholic. In grade school, high school, and even at the police academy, everyone she knew was a member of the Church. But she had seen Schindler’s List and she remembered how, at the end of the movie, the Jewish families put small rocks on Oskar Schindler’s grave. Her mother had said it was a Jewish custom, a way to remember and honor the dead. Kristen stopped next to the nearest headstone, which was a stone cross with two small rocks balancing on top of it. Hand-carved into it were the years 1885–1942 and the name Adonay Moises Rivera. She walked through the snow to the next tombstone and looked at the inscription: BELOVED WIFE AND MOTHER YSAAC RIVERA. Below the name, a cross had been carved into the stone, and on either side was etched a faint Star of David.

  * * *

  Gil sat across from George Gonzales. He held his notebook in his hand, but it was closed. Next to him on the floor was a covered file box with Gonzales’s name on it. In front of him, between his chair and Gonzales’s, was another box. This one was empty and uncovered. Since getting Kristen’s call, Gil had stopped trying to figure out an interview strategy. Joe had been wise enough not to say “I told you so” within Gil’s hearing afterward, but that didn’t stop Gil from feeling momentarily adrift. He started to doubt his motives in pursuing Abetya, wondering if all he had been after was old-fashioned revenge, but he stopped himself midguilt. There would be time for that later. Now his only priority was finding Hoffman before he moved on to his next target.

  Kristen’s phone call had crystallized everything for Gil. He had all the pieces he needed. That meant he could do a soft interrogation. It was the method preferred by security firms when interviewing employees suspected of stealing. But it worked only when a strict time line of the crime could be established. It was simple enough: the interrogator presents all the evidence without asking the suspect for input or even allowing him to talk. The interrogator makes it clear that the investigation is wrapped up and that the person is completely guilty. This puts the suspect on the defensive and ready to listen.

  “George, we are almost done,” Gil said. “We have all the information we need to make our case. We know that you, along with three accomplices, committed four home invasions within the last week. I can guarantee you, George, that our investigation will uncover all the details regarding these cases. In light of that, if you know anything about it, you should tell me now.”

  Gil didn’t wait for Gonzales to respond. He was done playing games. “On December nineteenth, you, Tyler Hoffman, Guadalupe Escobar, and Johnny Rivera met at Rivera’s house to plan a series of home invasions.” He spoke matter-of-factly, with little intonation, as if he were reading the weather report on the radio. “At some point that day, you went to the store and, using a list that Ms. Escobar had written out, bought the following items.” Gil took the cover off the closed box and took out an evidence bag containing the handwritten murder list. He read out loud: “Beer, box cutters, duct tape, trash bags, pads, and Tampax.” Gil took the evidence bag and threw it in the empty box in front of him. It wasn’t the real list. That one was still down with Liz, in the Albuquerque crime lab, in an evidence locker where it would stay until the trial. This one had been written by Joe, who had forged it as best he could.

  “On December twentieth you went to the house of James Price and Alexander Jacobson. Both men were tortured. Someone cut off Alexander Jacobson’s genitals and put them into James Price’s mouth. My guess is that was Tyler Hoffman, and he also was the one who carved the letter T into Alexander Jacobson’s chest.” Gil pulled an evidence bag containing the slightly bloody duct tape that had been used to tie down Dr. Price and looked at it a moment before throwing it
into the empty box.

  This duct tape had actually come from Gil’s desk drawer. Joe had dripped some ketchup over it then dried it using the hand dryer in the men’s restroom. Gil would never have used the real evidence in an interrogation. There was too much of a chance it would get damaged. Plus, the more people who handled the evidence, the more likely a defense lawyer could get it thrown out for contamination.

  “At some point, Johnny Rivera was tied up and hung from the ceiling in the back bedroom, where he was tortured and then burned. We know it was him because genetic testing matched the body to someone of his ancestry.” Gil pulled out an evidence bag with some ash in it. He wasn’t sure what Joe intended the ash to be. In actuality, it was just some burned paper and white pieces of broken plastic. Gil thought maybe Joe had intended it to look like human flesh and bone. “On December twenty-first, you went to Stanley Ivanov’s house. Mr. Ivanov was tortured as well, and someone carved an L into his chest. I am assuming that was Ms. Escobar.” Without waiting for Gonzales to respond or defend himself, Gil continued, “On December twenty-second, you went to the Martins’ house, where you tied up Natalie and Nick Martin. You tried to get the keys for their Pontiac Tempest, but before you could, Natalie Martin was able to get away. As you were leaving, someone shot Nick Martin in the head. I am going to assume that was you,” Gil said, as he took out an evidence bag containing a generic car key—Joe’s, actually—and threw it in the box.

  For the first time, Gonzales started to speak, “Wait that wasn’t—” Gil could see the glint of sweat on his forehead.

  Gil continued, ignoring him. “That brings us to today, when you went to Brian Mazer’s house and beat him up. At some point, Brian Mazer was shot. And this time we know it was you who shot him because he identified you before he went into surgery, and we found the gun on you.” Gil reached into the box next to him and took a picture of the Browning he had printed out, throwing it into the box in front of him.

  “Hold on—”

  “Just as I was coming back here to talk with you, I got a text from my partner.” Gil took out his phone and read the text from Joe. “Brian Mazer pronounced dead at 1430 hours.” Gil held up the phone so Gonzales could see the text. “So that means you will be charged with murder.” Gil put his notebook into one of the boxes and started to pack them up.

  “Wait … wait,” Gonzales said, trying to stop Gil from leaving. “I didn’t murder him. It was self-defense. I swear.”

  Gil stopped for a second, but then opened the door and walked out.

  * * *

  Gil stood in the hallway holding his two boxes of fake evidence and looked at Joe.

  “We need to let Gonzales go,” Joe said. “He was just doing what any of us would have done when threatened by a beaten man tied to a chair. It was clearly self-defense.”

  When Gil didn’t react, Joe sighed and said, “Fine, I will go put the word out to patrol to be on the lookout for the Honda Civic Johnny Rivera borrowed.” Joe took the boxes from Gil, who went back into the room with Gonzales.

  “Tell me how you met Hoffman,” Gil said, sitting down.

  “I just want to make sure that nothing I tell you will come back on me…”

  Gil stood up and started to walk out the door. His hand was on the knob when Gonzales said behind him, “Okay, okay. Just tell the lawyers that I am helping you.”

  “How did you meet Hoffman?” Gil asked again, sitting down.

  “It was just like you said,” Gonzales said, wiping his nose. “I went over to Johnny’s place, you know, just to hang out.” The pitch of his voice was a little too high, which probably meant “hang out” was code for something illegal, such as buying drugs. “I was just sitting on a couch when this guy comes out from the back room and says his name is Ty. We have some beers and I say how I need some cash. Ty says he knows of this ripe house where the man just has money laying around. He said it would be a quick in-and-out. So we get in Johnny’s car. On the way, Ty says we need a fourth person, so we pick up Lupe at her place.”

  “Johnny was Lupe’s dealer, so that’s how he met her and Ty?” Gil asked.

  “Yeah,” Gonzales said. “I guess. So we pull up to this big-ass house and Ty grabs this baseball bat that Johnny kept in the backseat. He goes right up to the door, turns the knob like he knew it would be open, and yells, ‘I’m home.’ This guy comes out in his bathrobe and Ty just swings at his head with the bat. And then there’s blood everywhere, and he drags the guy over to this chair in the dining room and just starts tying him up with duct tape then cutting on him with a box cutter. I’m freaking out, and I want to get the hell out of there—”

  “Hold on, there was one guy at the house, not two?” Gil asked, knowing that the house Gonzales was talking about had to be Price and Jacobson’s.

  “Nah, just the one guy,” Gonzales said.

  “What day was this?”

  “I dunno,” he said. “The first day.”

  “On December nineteenth?” Gil asked. “And where was this house?”

  “In Tesuque.”

  That meant that the first house hit wasn’t Price and Jacobson’s. It was Mazer’s.

  “What happened next?”

  “Ty was like ‘This is my house. Make yourself at home.’ Then he turns a TV on and sits on the couch and starts watching a game. We drank the guy’s wine and had some leftovers. I passed out. I don’t think Ty slept at all. Next thing, it was morning and Ty says we have another job to do.”

  “What happened to the man in the chair?”

  “I don’t know. The chair was still there in the dining room, but he was gone. I didn’t see him. I just followed the guys outside.”

  “What happened next?”

  “Ty gets in the man’s SUV and hands this paper to Johnny and tells him we’re going to the house owned by these gay guys because they’ll have better stuff than most people.”

  “What was on the paper?”

  “It was a list of names and, like, their addresses and what kind of stuff they had.” Gil nodded. So it was Mazer who had given the home invasion crew his co-workers’ addresses. But given the circumstances, he’d probably thought he had little choice. “What else can you tell me about the list?” Gil asked.

  “It was a printout, like from a computer,” Gonzales said. “There was, I think, like, five names on it.”

  “Five names? Do you remember any of them?” The crew had already hit three houses on the list, not including Mazer’s. They had to find out where the other residences were in case Hoffman and Escobar decided to keep at it.

  “No. I didn’t really see it. I just remember Ty saying that doing five houses was good, that it was enough to have some fun and not so much that we’d get caught.”

  “What happened when you got to the next house?”

  “The same thing,” he said. “Ty goes and busts down the door and ties the guys up.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Nothing, really,” he said. “We just hung around and watched TV and, you know, I took a nap and Lupe and Johnny were playing pool. They had a really nice Xbox.”

  “What happened to Johnny?” Gil asked.

  “Ty was going kind of crazy,” he said. “It was bad … worse than before. Ty—we were just sitting there, and he gets up and starts cutting on the gay guys, but not like before, with the other guy. He’s cutting one guy’s junk, and there’s all this blood and screaming.” Gonzales shifted in his chair, then crossed his arms over each other in an act of self-comfort. “I just had never seen anybody do anything like that. And Johnny—he couldn’t take it. He said he was leaving, and Ty hits him from behind, drags him to a back room, and ties him to the ceiling.”

  “What did Ty do to Johnny?”

  “I can’t—he made us cut on him … not for any reason; just to make a point,” he said. “Johnny—he and I were tight…” His eyes started to tear up, his face lined in grief.

  Gil interrupted, asking, “What happened next?” He couldn’t
let Gonzales dwell on his friend. He needed to hear the rest of the story. Gonzales didn’t answer right way, wiping a tear out of his eye. “What happened next?” Gil asked again, more firmly, less caring.

  “Ty went back out into the living room,” Gonzales said, after a moment. “Seconds later, I hear two shots. And I realize he’s shot the gay guys. Then Ty comes back in the bedroom, takes a bottle of vodka, and dumps it on Johnny and lights him on fire. He’s on fire in front of me—holy shit, his screams … and that smell.” Gonzales stopped, shaking his head, tears in his eyes. “But then the fire went out, and Johnny was still alive and just kind of moaning. So Ty goes out to the garage and comes back with gasoline and lights him on fire again. He went up so fast, and then the ceiling caught fire, so we booked it out of there.”

  “Where’d you go?”

  “Back to the first house.”

  “You went back to the house in Tesuque?”

  “Yeah,” he said. “We kind of just hung out there all week. Last time I saw Ty, he was still there.”

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  December 24

  Lucy had already had her turn in front of the judge, and was watching the other women in her cell block take their turns, when a corrections officer came over to her and said, “Your bail has been posted.”

  “Really?” she said. “By whom?” But the corrections officer said he didn’t know. He led her out of her cell and over to the locker where she had stored her clothes and purse. As she got changed, she wondered who her savior was. Most likely Tommy, since she had been pretty clear with Joe that she didn’t want any help. She tied her shoes and headed toward the front of the building, collecting her court appearance paperwork along the way. She went through the heavy metal door and into the glass-and-tile lobby.

  And there was Nathan.

  * * *

  Joe was waiting for Gil when he left the interview room. With him was Kristen. Before Gil could thank her for her help, Joe started ranting.