The Broken Saint: A Detectives Seagate and Miner Mystery

by Mike Markel

  Ryan said, “Why would the angels have sent us?”

  “I have sinned. Beyond redemption. I have killed our Heavenly Mother.”

  Ryan nodded his head and said, “When did you do that, Mark?”

  Mark gazed off into the distance. “I sinned with our Heavenly Mother and then I killed her. Moroni is here to kill me.”

  “Who was our Heavenly Mother, Mark? Did she have a name?”

  “She’s spirit now.”

  Ryan said, “What was her name, Mark?”

  “She’s not dead, she’s spirit now.”

  I could hear some sounds from the store on the other side of the door. A car or small truck was heading down the alley beyond the wall in this horrible room.

  “I understand that, Mark,” Ryan said. “Do you know how she died?”

  “She’s spirit now.”

  The room fell silent for a moment. Ryan tried another approach. “How did you learn that she’s spirit?”

  “Moroni told me.”

  “Does Moroni talk to you a lot?”

  “Moroni talks to me all the time.”

  “Do you see Moroni now?”

  “Moroni is standing next to you.”

  Ryan turned to his side, then nodded. “Did you kill Maricel, Mark?”

  “I killed our Heavenly Mother, and the Lord has sent Moroni to kill me.”

  “We need to talk with you about Maricel. Do you think Moroni will mind?”

  “I don’t want to talk to you anymore.” He turned his attention back to his computer screen.

  “Mark, we need to talk. It’s important. It’s about someone hurting Maricel.”

  “Nobody can hurt Maricel now.” He smiled. “She is spirit, and she is going to the Celestial Kingdom.”

  “Listen, Mark,” Ryan said, “I know you’re upset about Maricel, and so are we. We need you to help us figure out who hurt Maricel.”

  His face contorted into a scowl. “Fuck you,” he shouted. He jumped out of his chair, knocking it over. “Fuck you, too,” he screamed at me. “Fuck you both.” He rushed at Ryan and threw an awkward punch at his face.

  Ryan was awfully good at Krav Maga. I wasn’t worried. Ryan ducked the punch, pushing Mark’s right arm away, swiveling him one-eighty, then came up behind him, pinning his arms to his side. “Calm down, Mark,” Ryan said.

  I had my cuffs out and looked at Ryan.

  He shook his head and said softly, “I got it, Karen.”

  I walked back toward the corner of the room, away from Ryan, Mark, and whatever angels the kid was seeing.

  “Okay, Mark,” Ryan said. “Let’s calm things down now. We’re going to sit over here, let you take a minute.” Ryan half escorted him, half pushed him toward his chair in front of the computer.

  Mark settled onto the chair. “Moroni is here already,” he said and started laughing. Then, the laughing stopped instantly. Mark turned toward the screen and started tapping the keyboard.

  Ryan pulled me aside and led me over to the other side of the room, where we sat down on some folding chairs near the wall. “Let me have another go at him,” Ryan said.

  “What if he’s armed? He’s obviously out of his mind. We have to get him over to the hospital.”

  “Yeah, I know, he’s having a psychotic episode. He probably hasn’t taken his meds since he heard about Maricel. Probably hasn’t slept much. But if I can have five minutes with him before they sedate him we might be able to figure out how he fits in. Just give me another shot at him.”

  I nodded, and we sat there for five minutes, watching Mark type on the computer. He paid no attention to us. If Moroni was still in the room, Mark wasn’t paying any attention to him, either.

  Ryan walked over to within three feet of him. “What’re you working on?”

  “A game.”

  “Yeah, what’s it about?”

  “Book of Mormon.”

  “You’re telling the story?”

  Mark was looking at the screen. “The new story. About how I betrayed the Lord with our Heavenly Mother and then killed her.”

  “What happens to you in the story?”

  “The Lord kills me.”

  “The Lord is infinitely merciful, Mark. He wouldn’t kill you, would He, Mark?”

  “The Lord showed me His mercy after I killed my brother. But when I killed His wife, He decided to kill me. Moroni told me that.”

  “Let me talk to Moroni now,” Ryan said.

  “Do you see Moroni?”

  “Yes, I do. Moroni is right over there,” Ryan said, pointing to the corner of the room where two couches came together. “Don’t you see him there?”

  Mark started smiling. “Yes, I see him there. Please talk to Moroni now. Tell him I didn’t mean to kill our Heavenly Mother.”

  Ryan turned to face that corner of the room. “Moroni, Mark is telling the truth. He didn’t mean to kill Maricel. It was an accident.” Ryan paused.

  Mark looked confused, then he began to smile. “Heavenly Father has forgiven me.”

  Ryan smiled, too, and went over to hug Mark. “I knew our Lord would not punish you.”

  All of a sudden, Mark began to cry, uncontrollably. “I sinned with Maricel.”

  “Heavenly Father knows what you have done, and He knows you did not mean to. He recognizes your contrition, Mark, and He forgives you.” Ryan stroked the boy’s matted hair. “The Lord loves you, Mark. He has always loved you. And He will always love you.”

  I walked over to the two of them. “Tell us about Maricel, Mark,” I said. “What was your relationship with Maricel?”

  Mark was still crying, tears all over his face, snot on his top lip. “I met Maricel on August 13, at 2:35 pm, when she arrived here in Rawlings.”

  “She had just flown in from the Philippines?”

  “Yes, from the Philippines. My father had arranged it with the Church.”

  “You mean the Catholic orphanage where she lived in the Philippines?”

  “She lived in an orphanage run by the Church. She was my friend. She thought I was her friend. But when she called me, I couldn’t answer her. And then she slipped and fell. She fell into the spirit world. I killed our Heavenly Mother.”

  I looked over at Ryan, who was on the phone, calling the hospital. I heard him telling them to kill the sirens.

  It took ten minutes for the paramedics. There were two of them, each as big as Ryan. They came into the back room where Mark Gerson was now seated at his computer.

  Mark looked up when the two men came in. He turned to Ryan. “Are they here to take me away?”

  Ryan said, “You should go with them, Mark. Moroni sent them to help you. Moroni and Heavenly Father are going to help you.”

  Mark Gerson started giggling as the two paramedics led him out of the back room.

  I was sitting on a folding chair, looking down at my hands. Ryan came over and sat next to me.

  I said, “Did you understand what the hell he was saying?”

  “Surprisingly, quite a bit of it.” Ryan looked wrung out. “Maricel was our Heavenly Mother, the wife of Heavenly Father.”

  “God has a wife?”

  “Some LDS people think so, some not.”

  “And Maricel was God’s wife?”

  “Apparently.”

  “And Mark killed her.”

  “Well, that’s where it got a little confusing. I’m pretty sure Mark killed Maricel, or thinks he did, or had a sexual relationship with her, or maybe he didn’t. Or Hector did, and Mark really didn’t like that.”

  I just looked at him. “That’s what you’ve figured out? I don’t know anything about your church, plus I’m dumb as shit, and I got that far.”

  Ryan was looking off across the room, his brow furrowed.

  “What is it?”

  Ryan said, “Remember when Mark said his father arranged it with his Church?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m wondering how the LDS Church has anything to do with Al Gerson arranging for Mar
icel to come over here as an exchange student. Wouldn’t he be arranging things through the Catholic Church if she’s been brought up in one of their orphanages?”

  “The LDS Church could have helped with the arrangements in some way. They’ve got all kinds of missionaries in the Philippines, right?”

  “Mark said Maricel lived in an orphanage run by the Church.”

  “So what? He’s obviously got scrambled eggs for brains. He could’ve meant to say the Catholics.”

  Ryan was shaking his head. “When a Mormon says ‘the Church,’ he’s referring to only one Church.”

  “The kid says he killed God’s wife, and you think he’s confused about which church he’s referring to?”

  “No,” Ryan said. “I don’t think he’s confused at all.”

  “Okay,” I said, standing up. “I’m gonna call the Gersons, tell them where their crazy son is. You figure out which church Mark Gerson was talking about.”

  Chapter 12

  “The Latin Vice Lords have been around here for about fifteen years. They’re a branch of the Almighty Vice Lord Nation, based in Chicago.”

  I smiled, then I noticed the hard look on Martinez’s face, a look that said you really don’t want to think anything about the Latin Vice Lords is funny. “It’s just the name, kind of funny,” I said. “Like they’re puffing themselves up.”

  Martinez didn’t say anything, which was his way of saying how what I was doing and saying was rookie. I’ve worked with a few Anti-Gang guys here in Rawlings over the years. Most of them I don’t like. They get better training and bigger weapons, and they’re more likely to get killed on the job than the rest of us. I get that, and I respect it.

  But some of the real hardass Anti-Gang guys see themselves as special, too good to have to work regular cases. A guy kills his girlfriend, the first thing Anti-Gang wants to know is if the guy has teardrop tattoos on his cheek. If he isn’t a member, it’s like the girlfriend isn’t really dead, like the guy didn’t kill her, like the Anti-Gang guy should be back at headquarters, his feet up, cleaning his gun or checking out his biceps in the mirror in the weight room. And if the rest of the cops don’t get how special Anti-Gang is, well, that’s why they’re not Anti-Gang.

  “The Almighty Vice Lord Nation has dozens of branches around the country, with maybe thirty-thousand members,” Martinez said. “They’re mostly drugs, but also prostitution, racketeering, weapons, extortion. Some branches have specialties, but drugs are the common denominator. The Rawlings branch is unusual in that they’re one-hundred percent Hispanic. Most of the other branches are black. But the Latins are definitely drugs and extortion.”

  Sergeant Gary Martinez was standing in front of my desk, his feet planted apart, his right fist slapping against his left palm, then the left fist against the right palm. I’d asked him if he wanted to go sit down in a conference room, but he’d said no, like guys like him don’t sit down and don’t stop moving, but he was good with me and Ryan sitting at our desks. He was about six two, two-fifty, twenty-eight or thirty years old. His black hair was cut jarhead, razored all the way up the sides and back, a quarter-inch long on the top. His black t-shirt was meant to show off his bod, which looked like Marine Corps standard issue, even without the Semper Fi on his right bicep. He wore his piece in a shoulder holster on his left side, completely covered up by a bicep thicker than my neck. Okay, message received. You’re one bad motherfucker.

  “Are they the biggest gang in town?” I said.

  “Yeah.” Martinez’s voice was kind of high, but I doubted if anyone ever said that to his face. He looked like he might be into steroids.

  Ryan said, “So you put The Latins at about how many members?”

  “Twenty to thirty.”

  “Who’s the head?”

  “Guy calls himself The One. Born Oscar Villas about forty years ago, we think in LA.”

  “What should we know about him?” Ryan said.

  “Very intelligent. Absolutely ruthless. Won’t tolerate any insubordination. The way he administers violations—”

  “Administers violations?” I said.

  “That’s what they call it. A violation is a punishment.” Martinez wore a look that said I shouldn’t interrupt him to ask about his special gang words, but it was plain he enjoyed telling us about his dangerous world. “He makes the members stand in a circle. One guy hits the guy who’s gonna get the beatdown. The guy turns to defend himself, then the others swarm him.”

  Ryan said, “What do they use?”

  “If it’s something minor, like the guy was supposed to take a shot at a rival banger but didn’t, just fists and feet. It’ll go on two, maybe three minutes. The guy might still be conscious, some busted ribs, pissing blood. They drive him to the emergency room, no ID or anything, slow down, roll him out of the back seat.”

  “If it’s something major?” Ryan said.

  “Something major, like an insurrection, we never even find the body.”

  “You know that’s happened?” I said.

  “Three or four times last couple years. Guys just disappear.”

  “How come we never hear about that?”

  “Unless there’s a body or the family files a Missing Persons, there’s no crime. So there’s no detectives,” Martinez said. “The One visits the family, explains why they don’t want to file a Missing Persons. The family usually understands.” He paused for dramatic effect. “Why you two interested in The One?”

  “It’s the Salizar murder,” I said. “You know, the exchange student? She had Vice Lords colors on her when we brought her body in. Her boyfriend’s a guy named Hector Cruz. Heard of him?”

  Martinez shook his head.

  “Cruz has been straight for eight years,” I said. “Works in maintenance at the university. Has a short record, including a battery from when he lived in California. But nothing serious here. So we’re talking with him, and Ryan sees their tat on his chest. We ask him about it and he says he put the tat on some years ago when he was thinking of joining up. That sound right to you?”

  Martinez smiled. “I wouldn’t recommend that kind of thing—not with any gang. It’s not like wearing a team jersey. You have to earn the right to wear their ink.”

  “Let’s say he was telling the truth,” I said. “He was kinda mixed up, playing with the idea of joining, puts on the ink. The leader finds out—what’d you say his name is?—”

  “The One.”

  I shook my head. “Yeah, The One. He finds out, what kind of violation is that?”

  Martinez scratched at his cheek with his fingers, his eyes half closed. Then he looked at me. “Might go either way. I could see The One letting him live if he thought the guy had potential.”

  “You mean, like he might join later?” I said.

  “That, or maybe he could see a way to use him even if he wasn’t in the gang.”

  “How’s that?”

  Martinez sighed, like there were too many examples to list. “These gangs are always recruiting. They lose maybe ten percent a year get killed or go inside. If they thought the guy could reach out in the university, maybe deal to the dormitories—I don’t know. Or maybe he has a relative inside who’s helpful to the gang. The One is very big on respect. All we know,” Martinez said, shrugging his shoulders, “Cruz’s uncle could be a major player in Folsom.”

  “Is The One the kind of guy we can talk to?”

  Martinez half-laughed. “I wouldn’t just drive up to their place. You know, just the two of you,” he said, making it clear we were in way over our heads. “Let me know when you want to do it. We’ll come with, in another car.” He said it like he wasn’t just offering.

  “You think he’d tell us if Hector Cruz was bullshitting us?” I said.

  “It’s possible. Thing you have to understand about guys like The One, everything is a business transaction. Even a conversation. If there’s a reason for him to tell you the truth, he will. But only if you’ve got something for him.”

/>   “Such as?”

  “They see us as competitors.” He liked describing The One as a businessman, wanted to spin it out a little more.

  “Competitors for what?”

  “For bangers. Every Hispanic kid who stays straight, goes to college—whatever—is a soldier they’ve lost. So they’ll talk with you, maybe even do deals with you, but unless you give them a reason to want to do business with you, they’re gonna bullshit you.”

  “Got any ideas on deals?”

  “At this point, since he doesn’t know you, you don’t have anything. You’re not a player. Best you can do is try to show him you’re not interested in busting his guys for minor stuff—you know, weapons and possession, that kind of thing.”

  “This guy sells meth to junior-high kids, and I have to audition?”

  Martinez just looked at me. He didn’t say anything, like my comment was so stupid he wasn’t going to embarrass me by pointing it out. “And show him you’re not out to put him in the newspaper or make him look dumb or weak. Bottom line, you show him you understand he’s a player here in town, running a business, and if he plays by the rules you’re not gonna bust his balls, he might talk to you.”

  “Thanks, Martinez,” I said.

  He nodded and walked away.

  I turned to Ryan. “Asshole.”

  “Me?”

  “No,” I said. “Him.”

  “Why is he an asshole?”

  “Because his point was, The One needs to be treated with respect. He’s a player. And Martinez is a player. Me and you? Not players.”

  Ryan smiled. “Okay, there’s some of that. He was playing it up a little—you know, because you’re a woman.”

  “What is this, junior high?”

  “He’s probably not that into gender equality on the police force.”

  “See? That’s why he’s an asshole.”

  “Be that as it may, he knows something about staying alive.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “And since that’s one of my goals, too,” Ryan said, “I think we might pay attention to what he says, asshole or not.”

  I smiled. “I got you cursing like me.”

  “The Lord’s given me a pass here on the job. He knows who my partner is.”