by Mike McKay
Chapter 21
Kim led the way towards the heart of his slum. Soon they had to dismount the bikes and push them along the muddy footpaths. “Here,” Kim pointed to a clumsy shack constructed from old furniture and car tires. He knocked on the resemblance of the entrance door. “Missis Espinoso? This is Police…”
The door opened, and a heavily pregnant teenage girl appeared in the frame. With all his effort, Mark could not call her a woman, – by the looks, she was between fourteen and sixteen. This pregnancy was obviously not her first – she held a naked toddler girl in her arms. Babies makin' babies! Perhaps, the locally made rag and wooden dolls were not as good as the factory-produced plastic infants of the pre-Meltdown time.
“Good morning. Missis Linda Espinoso?” Kim asked.
“Sure thing. Espinoso, who else?”
“May we come in?”
“Oh… Sure thing. You're Police. Only – sorry, it's, like, messy…” Mark mentioned how the girl's eyes trimmed below Kate's truncated body, and how the girl pretended she was not even looking.
Kate put her elbow over the bike seat, slid from the rack, and reached the ground. Confidently smacking mud with her blocks, she crawled towards the door and swung her body inside. Kim and Mark followed. A king-size bed, with a dirty blanket and equally soiled pillows, occupied almost all the room. It did not help that the shack was clattered with clothes, baby's bottles, and packs of recycled paper. Mark, as the most senior of the three guests, was given the only stool while Kim and Mrs. Espinoso sat on the bed. Kate opted not to add more dirt to the blanket with her muddy shorts and remained at the filthy linoleum floor.
“I called you this morning, Mrs. Espinoso,” Kate started after the introductions. “The case two years ago. You reported an attempted robbery…”
“Sure thing, years ago! But we weren't robbed. The man ran away. There was no nothing.”
“I've checked the Police report, and I believe you can help the FBI with one very difficult case,” Mark insisted. “Any extra details you can recall…”
“Sure thing, any details. No probs, sir. I remember it like now, Mister Per… Pendigus.”
“Can you tell us the entire story, from the beginning? I will ask questions if something not clear.”
“Sure thing, entire story. So we were in the woods, having fun. We're dating back then… 'bout half a year. Pedro was just back from the Army. My Pa said: no way! He's twenty-two, and you're thirteen! And I'm: take a hike, Dad! All my friends sleep with boys already! I'm no stupid… Never mind. So we had to… do it in the woods. We had a nice place. Can't see from the road, sure thing…”
She must be exactly fifteen now, Mark calculated. And having her second baby. How wonderful.
“I have a map,” Kim played with his phone. “Here. Only this sat photo is too old. Now the place has no power line: strips cut the masts six years ago.”
The girl looked at the screen and nodded. “Sure thing. But I'm no good with maps… That night everything was like usual. I told Ma, I go with girls. Tailor shop girls… I worked a tailor shop – before my first baby…”
“Do you remember the date?”
“Sure thing, the date. April. Or March?”
“The report says: eleven-thirty PM, April the sixteenth, 2028,” Kate reminded from the floor. “Did you go to the Beat the same day?”
“Sure thing, the same day. When else?” The pregnant girl glanced at the Kate's wooden blocks and pretended she did not look.
Right. Just over two years ago, and two months before their first reported case. “Please continue,” Mark said.
“So me and Pedro were in the woods. The usual: kissing, chatting, having little fun. Getting ready to… you know… And that man: bang! Jumps out from the bush! Sure thing, he had a knife!”
“The knife. Was it in his right hand or left hand?”
“Sure thing, the knife in his hand. Where else? His right hand, as normal.”
“What kind of knife?”
“A knife like a knife. Everybody have the same.” She rose from the bed and made two heavy steps towards a tiny dinner table at the window. “Sure thing. This kind of knife.” She held a standard-issue Army knife, battered and thin from prolonged use, but still recognizable.
“That man. How did he look like? Tall, short? Do you remember his face?”
“Sure thing. Average. Five-eight, yeah. Five-eight. Or five-nine? But, like, pumping weights. Big arms.”
“How was he dressed?”
“A tank top. Black. Sure thing, pants… Military pants, khaki, but not standard. Not from the Army uniform. The standard pants – I know 'em. We used to modify uniforms, – in the tailor shop.”
“The face, do you remember the man's face?”
“Sure thing, the face! I'm no stupid. A normal face. A bit thin. Black hair.”
“Was he White? Black? Asian?”
“Sure thing, White. As I said: a normal face. Or a Latino. But – the type almost like White.”
“What about his nose? Lips? Eye color, by chance? Beard, mustache?”
“Sure thing, he had a nose! Sorry sir. I don't remember no nose. I looked at the knife! No eye color – too dark. But he didn't have no beard. No beard, and no mustache.”
“What was the man's age, by your guess?”
“Sure thing, he was old.”
“Old?”
“Old! But not as old as you, Mister Pendigus…”
Thanks, Mark thought. Indeed, for this teenage mom, any man past her husband's age resided in the ‘old’ category. He pointed to Kim and Kate. “Would you say, the man was about Deputy Kim's age or Miss Bowen's age?”
The girl looked down, again carefully avoiding Kate's missing legs.
“Older! Older than Deputy. Looked thirty. Sure thing, thirty. Or thirty-five.”
“OK, anything else unusual about the man?”
“Sure thing, unusual! He had Mickey's gloves!” She pointed at the wall above the bed, where cheap plastic Mickey Mouse clock was twenty minutes behind the time.
“White gloves?” Mark asked.
“Sure thing. White gloves with black dots.”
“What about his feet? Was he in sandals or in boots?”
“Sure thing. But not sandals. Shoes. Sporty shoes, light.”
“Light shoes? Do you mean the color? Or weight?”
“Color, sir. What else? But they're no heavy shoes either. Sporty shoes, sure thing.”
“OK. So what happened next?”
“Sure thing, Pedro was a Marine! So he: bang! Jumped to his feet! And that man… He also: bang! And jumped… To our left. And ran to the bush! Pedro, like: I catch motherfucker! And I: ya what? Bananas? No way! I didn't want to stay alone in the woods. I'm no stupid!”
“How far was the man, when Pedro jumped?”
“Ten feet. Sure thing. Ten, twelve feet.”
“And next?”
“Sure thing, the man ran away. I said: Pedro, let's go tell the Beat! The man is dangerous, may kill somebody. Pedro like: dangerous? If this asshole comes back I take his own knife and shuffle into his ass! And I: what are you, freaking Batman on TV? Let's have a quicky, and then go tell Police, that's their freaking job. Pedro said: OK, so we had… sex, I mean. On the way home, we went to the Beat, and Deputy wrote his report…”
“I remember writing this down,” Kim admitted. “But frankly, before today, I saw absolutely no link between this attempted robbery and your investigation, Mister Pendergrass. Perhaps, only the knife, but everybody has the same.”
“Pedro. Is he now your husband?” Mark asked Linda.
“Sure thing, my husband. We went to church!”
“Is Pedro strong? Well-built?” What confession would agree to do a ceremony for a thirteen-year-old? Did priests ask the age? Well, all the indications hinted the teen bride arrived to the chu
rch with a nine-month belly. The groom may now kiss the bride. And the bride may now lie down and deliver.
“Sure thing, Mister Pendigus! My Pedro is very strong. Can bench-press three hundred pounds! The man with the knife, like: no freaking way! Besides, 'bout the man…”
“Yes?”
“He was limping. To his right. Nope, sorry. That's – our right. To his left! Sure thing, sir: to his left side!”
After clarifying minor details and filling the paperwork, they targeted out. Kim crouched down, Kate put one arm over his shoulders, and Deputy lifted his girlfriend onto the bike. Obviously, they had done this trick few times already.
“May I ask a personal question, Missis Espinoso?” Kate smiled to the girl who was standing in the door and waiting for them to depart. “You keep looking at my missing legs. Are you scared or something?”
The pregnant teen hesitated. “…Oh, how to say it… Sure thing, ma'am, you're a vet. I mean: no legs, and that's not your fault… But I'm expecting a baby, so…”
“So what?”
“So they say at the 'Fill! If I look at you with no legs… My baby will come out as a maggot…”
“What?”
“You know: a maggot! No arms and no legs! Or twisted, with a melon-head! Sure thing, ma'am, I don't want a baby like this! At the 'Fill, it happens all the time. Somebody looks at a vet with no legs: bang! A maggot comes out!”
Dioxin. Or some other wonder chemical. We're sailing straight into the Dark Ages. One more generation, and we attribute infectious diseases to bad spirits and not to our dirty water and poor vaccine availability. Or start catching witches for spoiling milk and burn them at the stake…
“OK, what are you making of this?” Mark asked Kim and Kate as they reached the paved road.
“I am not sure,” Kim replied, “at first, I thought this was just a coincidence. No idea, honestly.”
“I believe this was the Butcher, beyond doubts,” Kate pulled out her tobacco box. “OK, the Army knife means nothing by itself, but considering the sporty shoes and the gloves… Want to share a To-Ma-Gochi, Kim?”
“Kate, you keep forgetting we're on-duty! Linda Espinoso did not tell us anything specific about the shoes and the gloves. All we know is that the shoes were sporty and the gloves were Mickey Mouse.”
“I have an official permit for my phantom pain medicine: being a legless vet comes with its perks! How do you imagine a pair of sporty shoes? Not sandals, not 'flops, not even army boots. Specifically: sporty shoes?”
“From the academic standpoint, ‘sporty shoes’ can mean anything. Joggers. Football boots. Sporty flip-flops. Even sporty high boots: horse-riding boots, for example.”
“Sporty flip-flops! How wonderful! What do you understand in sporty shoes, Mister Academic?”
“And what do you, like, understand in sporty shoes?”
“‘Like!’ Comparing to Houston folks, I'm a goddamn expert! In the North, we know few things about shoes. You can't go barefoot in Detroit, especially in the winter! I walked in sporty shoes all my life!”
“Not anymore! Now you're Kate-on-Skate, with wood chunks instead of your sporty shoes!” At this point, Kim received a playful, but heavy slap on his back.
“Stop fighting, guys!” Mark interrupted their ‘academic’ dispute, “I agree with Kate. This may very well be our man. First, consider the height. Espinoso said: five-eight or five-nine. OK, we have one more eyewitness who tells us the perpetrator was five-nine. Besides, we have those Indomerican lovers who saw a suspicious man in the woods. They also told us the man was about five-nine. A mere coincidence? Possible, but I hope for the best. Second, now we have a proof the man in question had special ops training.”
“Why?” Kim and Kate asked simultaneously.
“He appeared as if from nowhere, ten or twelve feet from the potential victims. Was quiet and determined to attack, with a knife in his hand. Observe the sequence of events. Pedro suddenly jumps up, and our perpetrator…”
“The man steps to their left side.”
“To the left side! An average Joe would either boldly continue into the attack or hesitate and step back. That is how our basic instincts work. Stepping to the left of the opponent – that's what they teach in martial arts. So either our perp was a Karate enthusiast during his primary school, or he had been in the special ops. My vote is for the latter.”
“Still, how do we know it wasn't a common robbery?” Kim asked.
“We don't. But here is the third reason: an average robber seldom wants to kill his victims. Bad for the business, especially if you eventually get caught. What if you're captured by local vigilantes, and not the Police? For a murder – you end up hanged on the spot! So your typical robber comes, shows his knife, and communicates his intentions. ‘Gimme your wallet!’ The man, who attacked the Espinosos in the woods, – was determined to kill. No talking, no intimidation. He even had no mask! If you plan to kill your victim anyhow, why hide your face?”
“But your other witness saw the Butcher in a ski mask. Did you say: a black balaclava?” Kim asked.
“He may have learned his lesson from the first attempt. In case of a failure, minimize chances of being recognized. Also conceivable, he thought that the open face gave him away in the darkness and spoiled his attack.”
“If he was in the special ops, he would put a face paint,” Kate said. “On our Piranha, we beached Mil-Int many times. I never saw them using balaclavas…”
“Our perp knows better. The camo paint is superior to a mask, but only for the military ops. In the city, you don't want to walk from the crime scene with your face painted. And a black balaclava is ideal. You pull it off and stick it in your pocket. The only thing that does not match, is exactly what you two have been fighting about: the ‘sporty shoes’! Linda said the shoes were light color. But the other witnesses said – either black or khaki. Perhaps, the killer changed his shoes – less visible in the night.”
“Or Linda Espinoso remembered the opposite way around,” Kate said, making another puff from her medicinal cigarette. “The girl was so focused on the knife, she hardly remembered anything at all. Besides, she's not exceptionally bright. I had my share of ‘sure things’ for a full week! I'm thinking: what if Kim can go and talk to Pedro Espinoso in the evening? Only, this time – I won't go. If Linda pups a baby with no legs, she will blame it on me, LOL!”
Kim giggled. “Too late, Katy-Skaty! Too late. You've been there, stomping around with your wooden blocks. Now, whatever happens, they will blame it on us. Imagine this: hey, Linda, why do you have a maggot for a baby? Sure thing! Our Beat Deputy: bang! Brought a legless girl on his bike! Sure thing, I just looked at her once!”
“One more ‘sure thing,’ and you can cut your balls off! You won't need them for the rest of your short, miserable life! But besides all the jokes, you must visit the Espinosos in the evening. Pedro is technically a witness. In the same right as Linda.”
“Agreed, but don't hold your breath. I remember Pedro from their Beat visit. To her dear husband, Linda is like Einstein! Sure thing… Ouch!” Kate delivered another slap on Kim's back, this time even stronger.
“Enjoyed?”
“Sorry, Skaty, I couldn't resist… The only three phrases Pedro mastered through his entire life: ‘Yes, sir.’ ‘No, sir.’ ‘What, sir?’ At the Beat, Linda did all the talking, and her boyfriend was only nodding. Sure thing… Not at the kidneys, sweety, please… You have such a heavy hand. Pumped muscles on your bloody skate…”
“Kim, what did you do after they reported the assault?” Mark asked.
“What could I do? The robber appeared at something past nine, but the Espinosos reported the incident at eleven-thirty. In two hours, the perp could be ten miles away! I cycled to the scene, looked around. My flashlight gave up in less than ten minutes. Came again, after the sunrise: nothing. Besides, nobo
dy was killed, nobody injured, nothing taken. So heck with it: we had a lot of other things to do. I put the report into a folder and asked Tan to do a cautionary talk with the known offenders…”
Upon his return to the Station, Mark raced to his little office and opened the spreadsheet with three hundred and eighty-seven names. OK, special ops guys, who of you can fit our profile? The people in this list had been filtered by height. Now Mark wanted to select all who could plausibly pass for ‘White or white Latino’ definition. First, he tried to filter the records by the complexion, but quickly abandoned the idea. Instead, he began opening each file in the PDF reader and sorting candidates by their photos and age at the same time. To be on the safe side, he included everybody from twenty-five to forty. The information from the teenage mom was not that robust. In one hour, Mark flipped through one hundred records and had thirty-four hits. To make a short break, he went to check the CSI bullpen.
“How was your sysadmin girl?” Mark asked.
Tom was doing his programming magic. “OK, I guess.”
“An avid player! Unfortunately to Tom, she bats for another team,” Natalie giggled from her cubicle.
“Well, yes, my AFCO contact is a Lesbian, and bravely admits it…”
“You'd better follow up on your neighbor who shot the video for us,” Natalie said, “A much better choice, if you ask me. Unlike some stupid database jockey, a scavenger is a real job! Alice is smart and cute. Follows the fashion! I'm so jealous at her tattoo, although she should be more selective about her earrings. But the latter is easy to fix. Can she cook?”
“Never mind.” Tom nodded, probably considering if to proceed with the fashion-obsessed scav. “I got all the purged records! Just need to sort them and start my script. Unfortunately, the initial list is quite long: I need to separate twenty-two thousand dead from thirty-seven thousand disabled.”
“Did you say: twenty-two thousand dead?”
“Yep. In our AFCO alone, they had almost sixteen hundred KIA on the last DB purge. As for the disabled, I expected to see much lower number too. Now it looks like two point six percent of the entire population are vets! I am afraid we are double-counting something…”
“There is no double-count, Tom. Last time I talked with Salvation Way, they figured about the same: two point five percent, or one out of forty people…”
“Strangely enough, there is no such thing on the news. Not even on the Internet. As if the vets don't exist,” Natalie said.
“That's all our Government can do. They just smile and pretend it's absolutely normal… Anyhow, out of these thirty-seven thousand vets, how many are between twenty-five and forty years of age?”
“Are you still guessing the Butcher's age or there is new data?” Tom asked.
“New data. Remember I mentioned Kate Bowen yesterday?”
“Deputy Kim's new girlfriend? With no legs?”
“Sure thing…” Bloody teenage mom, Mark smiled, now this ‘sure thing’ was going to pop up everywhere! “Kate Bowen, also known as Sherlock-on-Skate, the rising star of Harris County Police. She helped us again! In the Beat office they had a report of an attempted robbery two years ago. Never entered into the database, and remained on paper… I believe we have our case number zero: the first time the Butcher went to the woods and tried to kill a love-making couple; fortunately, he failed. What we learned today: our man is a Caucasian, or a fair-skinned Latino, his age is between twenty-five and thirty-five. OK, make it forty, – just in case.”
“Sherlock-on-Skate? Cool. Sorting by age is easy.” Tom punched few buttons. “It's twenty-one thousand records. Plus change.”
“OK, now get the discharged between January 2024 and March 2028, and the height between five-eight and five-ten.”
Tom modified the query again. “Less than three thousand hits! Excellent! For those, I can extract records by midnight. Tomorrow morning, you will have a full list.”
Two minutes later, Mark was back to his desk, sorting the remainder of the special ops records. This was going to work, after all! He felt like a fisherman: his big tuna not yet out of the water, but already firmly on the hook.
Two more hours of work, and he had ninety-two photos, separated from the PDF and ready to be shown. To keep the investigation objective, he did not attach any names or other details, just the numbers. Mark liked that the file count was less than a hundred. Different people have different attention span. In some, the brain shuts down after ten photos, and all the photographs past the first dozen look identically familiar or unfamiliar. Mark wished Pedro's visual memory was better than his verbal abilities. Zipping the photos and sending them to Deputy Kim was a matter of seconds.
Mark's excitement did not wear off till the very evening. Even after Kim sent an SMS, informing the Espinoso had flipped through all ninety-two photos and could not identify the perp, Mark did not feel disappointed. A typical attention span problem. They would shuffle the photos and try again tomorrow. Tom would generate more photos from the vets' records. The CSIs could sit with the witnesses to do a computerized face sketch, and then compare the facial features with the service file photographs.
The only problem with the Pentagon photos, they depicted young men, perfectly shaved, with regulation haircuts, and in dress uniforms. Add few years of age, an unkempt hair, and unshaven cheeks – and you get a completely different look. ‘Old! But not as old as you, Mister Pendigus,’ he smiled.
Even better if we doctor the photographs, Mark decided. Natalie was very fast and proficient with photo editing. She could add facial hair and change the uniforms into a black tank top, exactly as Linda Espinoso described.
Hello, tuna! Don't get off the hook!
