by Peg Brantley
Jax had scheduled the autopsy for nine, a full hour later than usual. Chase managed to cut through the damp fog in his brain and focus on business. Jax swore under her breath a few times, lack of sleep impacting her usually good nature.
Pending lab results, the only information involved things he already knew. All of the young Hispanic male’s internal organs had been cut out, like some kind of frog on a slab.
After the autopsy, Chase paid a visit to the Chinese restaurant and three other businesses in the area, none of which yielded much information. Only one of them, Cobalt Mountain Books, had a working camera. Unfortunately, the snow had made a mess of the lens and only fuzzy movement could be seen. Still, he requested the tape and booked it into evidence. Maybe the crime lab could make something of it. They’d been known to do more with less.
He needed help and made a request through official channels, directly to his lieutenant. Chase’s money was on not getting an answer anytime soon. In Lieutenant Butz’s mind, all murders were not created equal, especially if the victims had brown skin and uncertain social status. If necessary, Chase would go directly to Chief Whitman, but he hated to jump over Butz’s head. Because of Chase’s personal friendship with Whit, Lieutenant Butz tended to take every interaction between them as a direct threat to his job, so it would make an already strained working relationship worse.
Terri Johnson walked into the squad room bearing gifts. More sustenance from The Coffee Pod, not the sludge machine down the hall. Coffee. The woman has a halo on her head. Tilted and a bit tarnished, but a halo.
She handed him a cup. “I saw you earlier today and you looked like shit. You’re working on the dumpster DB, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. Thanks for the coffee.”
“Need help?”
“I’ve asked Butz.”
“What he doesn’t know… ” She set a bag down on her desk. “Want a muffin?”
“Thanks, no. The sugar would be nice for about five minutes, then I’d be in real trouble. And thanks for the offer of help. Don’t need to stir up more with our lieutenant than is already stirred.”
“We’ve got a squad meeting tomorrow. Maybe he’ll come through.”
“We’d have better luck if my DB had blue eyes.”
“Tell me about it. Even breasts wouldn’t be enough for Butthead.” Her cell phone rang and she checked the caller ID. Without a word, she took the call and walked out of the room.
Chase took another sip of his coffee and tried to figure out what to do next on this case. He’d looked for Skizzers earlier when he’d gone to the businesses, but the doper had disappeared and no one seemed to know where he hung out during the day. Chase made a note to call Patrol. The uniforms usually had a handle on the more interesting characters who called Aspen Falls home.
Chase clicked another file in his computer. It was dated four days ago, Saturday, September 15. Some hikers from Lakewood had found a dead body on a trail just south of town. The trail, rated difficult, didn’t get a lot of traffic, and if the body hadn’t been discovered that weekend, the young man’s remains might not have been found until next summer—if at all.
As with all of his cases, Chase had attended the autopsy. Other than the fact the man had undergone a nephrectomy within the last six months, the ME had found nothing unusual. Kind of young to lose a kidney. Right now, she’d listed the cause of death as undetermined. Some of the autopsy results should be back next week.
Two unidentified bodies in less than a week. Both Hispanic, both male, both young, both of whom had missing organs (one planned, the other not so much), and both in Chase’s caseload. He needed to find something to link them. Two cases with unidentified victims in a small mountain town were two cases too many.
His life had become complicated. Again.
Chase picked up the phone to call the patrol sergeant. A doper might be his best lead. A doper who thought he’d seen the Batmobile.
Chapter Four
The Benavides Home
Wednesday, September 19
General unease fanged into dread as it licked the edges of Elizabeth’s thoughts. Pulling her thick mane of dark wavy hair, she haphazardly knotted it out of the way then tried Rachelle’s cell phone again. Voicemail.
Rachelle never ran late. Elizabeth’s younger sister set her watch ten minutes fast and arrived at her appointments twenty minutes early. Rachelle phoned to let people know she’d be on time, for crying out loud.
The two hours she had pretended that her sister—who never wanted anyone to worry about her, who always thought of others before she thought of herself—would walk in the door breathless and contrite, morphed into four hours. Then Elizabeth sat and called each one of Rachelle’s friends, her sociology professor (whose class she had gone to that morning), and everyone else she could think of. Her shoulders tightened with each call.
Finally she called her mother. Ramona Benavides didn’t have a cell phone, so Elizabeth had to call Aspen Falls Elementary. After explaining that it pertained to a family emergency, the receptionist forwarded her call to the kitchen where her mother worked.
“Do not talk to anyone else, Elizabeth. I will come home now. You wait.”
Elizabeth paced until her mother came racing in the door, tears streaming down her face.
* * *
“Mamá, quit crying. We have to call the police.” Elizabeth trailed her mother into the family room. She sat on an ottoman while Ramona Benavides fell into a chair and tugged shoes from swollen feet.
“No,” her mother said between sobs. “We are not calling the policía. Not until we talk to your father. That is final.”
Elizabeth could barely control the frustration she felt toward her mother. “What time will Papá be home?”
“Not until late. They got a new piece of equipment for the cows that needs to be set up by tomorrow. We raised you to respect your parents. Watch your mouth. No me gusta tu actitud. We will wait. Your father will know what to do.”
Carlos and Ramona Benavides shared a traditional Mexican marriage. Elizabeth’s father, as head of the household, revered her mother and treated her like his queen. But all decisions were his to make. Period. Getting her mother to take action without his okay was like kicking a brick wall. Barefoot. Submission to male authority—all male authority—came as natural to Ramona Benavides as breathing.
Elizabeth’s hands fisted. “If Robert were here, you’d listen to him.” She wished, not for the first time, to hear her brother’s voice tell her mother what she needed to hear. Tell her what they needed to do. Make Mamá listen. Instead, her brother had a uniform on in the war zone. Robert Benavides was fighting for his country.
And Ramona Benavides sat in her favorite chair in her own home in the land of the free—afraid to call police for help.
Elizabeth rubbed her neck. Some country.
“Roberto isn’t here. Your father is. Show some respect. No policía unless he say so.”
“The police can help us.”
“They can bring us trouble.”
“What trouble, Mamá? What trouble?”
Elizabeth’s mother stopped rubbing her feet and looked at her with sad eyes. “You know the trouble I’m talkin’ about.”
She was getting nowhere. Her mother would not listen to her.
Elizabeth tried again. “Rachelle is missing, and we need more help than a few friends—and a tiny search—can give us.”
Her mother’s shoulders slumped. A strangled sob ripped the air. “My Rachelle. My baby.”
Elizabeth watched her mother rock back and forth, her movement punctuated by moans. She saw the head of gray hair, the familiar face filled with wrinkles, the swollen red eyes, and wondered when her mamá had gotten old. She moved to wrap the small woman in her arms.
Together, mother and daughter swayed.
“At work they say it is the policía who are behind the other missings,” her mother said. “We do not need to bring more trouble.”
“Mamá!” Eli
zabeth punched to her feet and began to pace around her mother, arms slicing the air. “We are legal. We have rights.”
“Our rights cesan when friends would be in danger if we got your police involved. Our rights cease when we could bring pain to others.”
“But it’s Rachelle. Our Rachelle. What about her rights? She isn’t just playing games. She’s in trouble. And no one we know has the power to help her.”
Elizabeth sat back down on the ottoman and reached for her mother’s hand. “Will you at least call Papá and let him know?”
Her mother’s brow wrinkled and tears welled again in her world-weary eyes. “It is a bad day to call him at work. He is busy and his boss need for him to get job done today.”
“Please, call him.”
“We must wait for your father and not bother him at work. It is in God’s hands.” Ramona Benavides stood. “We go to start the dinner.”
Elizabeth went to the coat closet by the front door and pulled out a light jacket. I need to get out of here.
“Where you go?”
“I’m going for a walk. I need to get some air.”
Twenty minutes later, Elizabeth walked into the Aspen Falls Police Department and asked to speak to someone to report a missing person.
Chapter Five
Aspen Falls Police Department
Wednesday, September 19
Chase met with Elizabeth Benavides for the better part of an hour, drank one cup of coffee and two Red Bulls like they held the secret to youth, and ran some checks while she sat—somewhat impatiently—at his desk. While she told her story, he made notes and searched various databases to confirm her information. At the end of that hour, Chase thought there might be something to what she said. A young girl, who had every reason to return home to her family and no reason to run away, had gone missing.
Chase thought about his two John Does in the morgue and wondered if there might be a connection.
Rachelle Benavides, Elizabeth’s younger sister, just seventeen, a part-time student at the Aspen Falls Mountain College Outreach Program, hadn’t returned home when expected. The girl had graduated high school early and enrolled in the program without skipping a beat. She had chosen to focus on economics and social work, and was very serious about her future. The only boyfriend in her life attended CU in Boulder. Chase got the contact information, but instinct left him inclined to believe Elizabeth when she told him she didn’t believe her sister had run off to see him.
“She is a dedicated student, Detective Waters. She is not a flighty teenager. And Anthony is equally dedicated to his education.”
Rachelle had plenty of family and friends who loved her. And that included a very determined sister.
And she was Hispanic.
When you have a dead body with no ID and no one looking for him, plus no fingerprint matches, you’ve got a cold case before it even gets warm. And Chase had two of them. Two male unidentified DBs that were going nowhere fast.
And they were both Hispanic.
Chase stood and stretched his back and shoulders, ran both hands through his hair, then reached for his sports coat by the door. He didn’t really need the jacket, but guns made some people nervous, and the coat hid his weapon well. Fingering the inside pocket he pulled out a package of red licorice twists. “Would you like some licorice?”
The young woman shook her head. Her shoulders sagged and she closed her eyes. Chase knew what had happened. He’d seen it in interrogation rooms. He’d seen it disciplining his kids. He’d experienced it personally when David died. When people give up, they visibly deflate. Whatever force holds them up and keeps them going escapes with an exhale. He stuck a twist in his mouth and bit off the end.
“I need to talk to your parents and see your sister’s room.”
Elizabeth stiffened in her chair, shoulders pulled back again, but made no move to get up. “I should probably tell you that my mother doesn’t know I’m here.”
“Why is that?”
The girl blushed and for the first time since she’d been escorted to his office by the desk sergeant, wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Chase understood. He’d dealt with suspicion and distrust while working on cases in the past, especially where minorities were concerned. There were plenty of cops who hadn’t helped race relations in the past. Hell, his own lieutenant ranked as bad as any of those idiots.
“If you think something has happened to your sister—and I’m inclined to agree with you—the sooner I get the information I need, the sooner we’ll find her.”
The girl nodded and rose to her feet while Chase picked up his phone and punched a couple of numbers.
Chase finished off the strawberry-flavored licorice twist and spoke into the phone. “You working on anything right now?” He looked at Elizabeth and smiled. Hoped he looked reassuring. “Good. Meet me at my car. We’ve got a missing girl and I want you to come with me to check out her computer.”
Chase didn’t really need Detective Daniel Murillo to check out any computer. He could bring the computer back to the station for that. He needed Daniel Murillo as eye candy. Maybe keep the situation a little more in control. Maybe get a few more answers.
Daniel would hate it if he knew.
Chapter Six
The Waters Home
Wednesday, September 19
Bond Waters carried her iPad toward the kitchen. She wanted to review the agenda for the library board meeting and make sure her Realtor could meet her at a possible site for her antique store on Saturday. She passed the entrance to the family room and could hear Angela and Stephanie. Her Mom antennae picked up a frantic element to their whispers, and then she heard a sob. Time for a detour.
The second she entered the room both girls fell silent.
“What’s going on?” Bond sat on the couch between her daughters. She waited. “One of you needs to start talking.”
Angela, fourteen, pinched her lips and folded her arms. Stephanie squirmed. Although not always the case, eight year-old Stephanie was the weak link in whatever the two sisters had been discussing this time. Bond squared her body toward her youngest child and waited.
“It’s a secret, Mommy.”
Something cold and shard-like shook loose from Bond’s memory, but with a skill honed from years of experience she slammed it back and closed the lid, almost but not quite able to pretend nothing had happened.
“Some secrets are good to keep, some are not.”
Angela sniffed. “A secret is a secret, Stephanie Marie.”
Bond shook her head. “That’s not true.”
“What’s the difference?” Stephanie asked.
“Well, there’s the present kind of secret. That’s a good one, right?”
“Uh-huh. Like birthday presents.”
“Then there are the kind of secrets that might be bad to keep.”
Stephanie shoved her hands under her butt.
Shadows dipped in and out of Bond’s vision and a heaviness pressed on her chest. Her nose wrinkled at a remembered scent. Please God, not my daughter.
“If either one of you are ever hurt, or worried about something or someone, those are not the kind of secrets to keep. Those are things you need to talk to us about.” Bond paused. “Me and Daddy. Not each other.”
Angela tipped her chin higher and Stephanie inched closer to Bond’s side.
“Some girls are being mean to Angela. They say she’s a narc because of Daddy.”
Bond reached out and held Angela’s arm. Her relief about the scope of this problem made her want to laugh but she also recognized that to Angela, being called a narc was right up there with being a nerd. “Stephanie, leave your sister and me alone for a few minutes, will you please?”
Twenty minutes later, Bond scrunched the phone up to her ear with her shoulder. “Mother, I really don’t have time for this.” She nodded at the clay sculpture Stephanie held up to her for approval, and went back to putting some kind of dinner together for her family, phone still p
ressed against the side of her head.
The refrigerator door open, she watched McKenzie, their Bichon Frise, rush up, grab something from the lower shelf, and run like four-legged lightning out of the room. She had no clue what he had snatched. Meanwhile, her mother continued to drone.
“Darling, you need to be exposed to culture again. You need to be around important people. You need to come home.”
“Look, Mom, I can’t just drop everything and go to Chicago to visit you and listen to all your reasons for why I should leave Chase. How many years has it been? Oh, yeah. Eighteen. I’m happy. Get over it.” Bond pulled out an egg and the milk and set them on the counter. She closed the refrigerator door. Her mother could make it hard for her to breathe.
“How can you be happy living where you are? Without any cultural stimulation? Without people to bring out the best in you? Without David?” The mention of David stopped Bond in her tracks. Crap!
“Don’t go there, Mother.” Bond swallowed and reached for a mixing bowl. Her hand shook.
“I’m just saying that lives go through different seasons. And seasons change. People outgrow each other. People of a certain breeding come to realize they need more. They need their own kind.”
Her mother had called her three times today. Three. Her first message had been when Bond had been reading to a kindergarten class at the library that morning. The second had been during her two o’clock library board meeting.
Her mother’s messages both times had sounded petulant. Manipulative. Guilt-inducing. Bond had managed to avoid contact until this phone call. She’d been distracted enough to answer without noticing the caller ID. My bad.
“Mother, what’s so important you’ve called me three times today? Is Daddy okay?”
“He’s fine.”
“Let me talk to him.”
