by Julia Derek
“Let’s go over to the bar and see what’s going on,” Larry suggested, and the two of them headed over there. There was one empty stool that Wil slid onto, while Larry leaned against the bar counter next to two heavily tattooed men who were in their early twenties. One of them had a shaved head on which there was a dragon tattoo, and the other had a red bandana covering his head, black curls sticking out underneath. They were both drinking bottled beer.
The bald one glared at Larry, who attempted a friendly glance back and asked, “We’re looking to talk to some Latin Devils. Do you know of any?”
“Who wants to know?” the bald guy retorted testily.
“Me and my friend here.” Larry nodded at Wil. “One of their members was murdered back in New York a few weeks ago. We wanted to let them know about it personally. They might not be aware of it since the killing didn’t take place in the area.”
“We’re Devils,” the guy said, taking a closer look at Larry now. “Who was killed?”
“A man named Diego Martinez. He was stabbed to death in Central Park.”
Baldie frowned deeply. “Diego Martinez? Never heard of him.” He turned to his friend. “You know of a Diego Martinez?”
The man with the bandana shook his head, not moving a muscle in his face.
Baldie turned back to Larry. “What makes you think he’s one of ours?”
“His sister and parents said so. You might not know of him, though, because he was older than you and left Texas more than a decade ago. Who in here would know members from early 2000?”
“Talk to the fat guy over there with the beard,” Baldie said and pointed with the tip of his beer bottle toward a big man seated on a stool next to the pool table. Wearing a sleeveless T-shirt, his beefy arms were covered in tattoos. He seemed to be deeply engrossed in the current game.
“Thanks,” Larry said, and he and Wil walked over to the guys around the pool table. Larry let the guy who was about to fire off his cue stick finish before he tapped the bearded, fat man’s shoulder to get his attention.
The man swiveled his head in Larry’s direction and there was a scowl on his rough face. He could be anywhere between thirty-five and fifty-five; in the bar’s poor lighting and with all that beard covering a good part of his face, it was impossible to tell how old he was. The only thing Larry felt sure of was that he had been around long enough to have known Diego Martinez. Unless he had become a member in the last few years, but that wasn’t likely.
“I’m sorry to interrupt the game,” Larry began, “but we need to ask you about a Latin Devils member who was killed in New York a few weeks ago.”
“Who was killed?” the man asked in a gravelly voice that matched the roughness of his face.
“Diego Martinez.”
The fat man stared at Larry uncomprehendingly for a long moment, then suddenly a light went on in his deep-seated, beady eyes. “The only Diego Martinez that I ever knew to be a Latin Devil was jumped out years ago. More than a decade ago.”
“Really? Are you sure he was jumped out? That’s not what we’ve been told.” Larry figured acting ignorant would get them more useful information.
The fat man placed a beefy hand on the pool table and pushed himself up to a standing position. The others around the table had begun to take notice of what was going on; one after the other was turning their head toward Larry and Wil. They smelled the possibility of an altercation, and it looked like they all welcomed it.
The man was the same height as Larry—six feet—but wider than the black man, who was already on the wide side, and not all of the bearded man’s width was due to fat. Lots of his mass consisted of muscle.
“Who the hell are you and why do you doubt my word?” he wanted to know. “I told you Diego Martinez was jumped out a long time ago. I was there when it happened.”
Larry flipped open the wallet he’d been holding in his hand and flashed his credentials. “We’re NYPD and are investigating his murder. We were told Diego Martinez was a Latin Devils member by reliable sources. So you’re saying he hasn’t been one for a long time then?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” the hefty man retorted; however, he didn’t sound quite as threatening any longer. Others seemed to have noticed the badge as well, because they were returning their attention to the pool game. It was Larry’s experience that the sight of a cop shield tended to have that effect on lowlifes like these ones. “He’s not our problem. Though I can’t say I’m sorry to hear he’s dead. He was a weasel.”
“Do you have any idea who might have wanted to see him dead?” Larry prodded on.
The other man shrugged and had a sip of beer. “Probably a few.”
“What about someone from the Aryan Brotherhood? Did Diego have any dealings with someone in the Brotherhood while he was a Latin Devil? The kind where someone from that gang would want to see him dead?”
“It’s possible. We’re always fighting those fucking skinheads. That was one of the few times Diego proved useful.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was useful in obliterating those racist rats. For a while. He was a good lookout during our hits on them. But that was all he was good for. Being a lookout. And robbing stores. He was a good burglar. One of the best I’ve known and I’ve known many.”
“You’re saying he never physically attacked someone?”
The bearded man gave a scornful smile. “The only time Diego would hit another man was if a child or woman was attacked. He loved to play the hero.”
Larry turned to Wil and asked her to produce the iPad, which she did and handed it to him, removing the cover in the process.
“I want to show you a couple of photos,” Larry said at the same time as he powered on the iPad. The machine instantly lit up and Larry found the photos of the murder weapon. He held it in front of the other man’s nose. “Do you recognize this knife?”
“Was that the knife used to kill Diego?” he asked after having stared at the photos for some time.
“That’s right.”
“I don’t recognize it, but it does look like the kind of knife someone from the Brotherhood would use. Can I get back to my pool game now? We were in the middle of a very crucial part, and I have hundreds of bucks hanging on my guy winning.”
“Yeah, sure,” Larry said and handed the iPad back to Wil. “Thanks for your help.”
“Just one second,” Wil inserted. “Do you know where we can find members of the Aryan Brotherhood? We hear they hang around here in Texas these days.”
“Not any more,” the man answered. “Most of the ones who came here from Oklahoma are in prison now. They always go to prison. They like it there.”
“Do you know which prison?”
Bearded Man smiled, displaying two gold teeth. “If I tell you, will you promise me you won’t ask me any more questions?”
“You have my word,” Wil responded, holding the man’s gaze.
The man pressed his lips together into a thin line as though he didn’t believe her. “Most of them do time at the Marion Federal Prison in southern Illinois.”
“Thanks,” Wil replied, then turned to Larry. “Let’s go.”
The black cop gave the man a nod, and then he and Wil made their way out of the dark, foul-smelling bar.
Wil inhaled deeply as soon as they were on the outside.
“Man, that place stunk almost as bad as Mary Lou Dalton’s house,” she said and kept taking deep breaths, as though she had been under water for a prolonged time. “I need a shower and a change of clothes.”
“I hear ya. Me too. Let’s head back to the motel and clean up. I think we’re done with the Latin Devils anyway.”
They entered the rental car, Larry behind the steering wheel and Wil in the passenger seat. They were off in a matter of moments.
“What do you make of what Jabba the Hutt said?” Larry asked her as he narrowly avoided driving over a stray dog that had decided to cross the street right then.
�
��I think he was telling the truth,” Wil said. “At the very least he considered Diego not to be part of the gang any longer. And I got the sense that this guy was someone who was an important figure in the gang.”
“Yeah, I got that too. I’m thinking it’s a lot more likely Diego pissed someone off in the AB who came to avenge himself as opposed to someone in the Latin Devils wanting to see him dead for ditching them. Someone in the AB that the Devils never knew about.”
“I’m thinking you may be right about that.”
* * *
Chapter 26
The Aryan Brotherhood was formed in the late 1960s at the California prison San Quentin, as prisons became desegregated and gangs began to form along racial lines. The AB eventually went from being a gang that only focused on killing for racial reasons to organized crime, such as drug trafficking, prostitution, and sanctioned murders. After taking on organized crime–like powers, they may be more powerful than the Italian crime families within the prison system. The AB has about 10,000 members in total, some of them are in prison while others are primarily in the middle or southern US states. According to the FBI, the gang makes up less than 0.1% of the prison population, but it is responsible for up to 30% of murders in the federal prison system. Like most gangs, Aryan Brotherhood members mark themselves with distinctive tattoos. Designs commonly include the words "Aryan Brotherhood", "AB", "666”, Nazi symbolism such as SS, sig runes, and swastikas, as well as shamrocks and Celtic iconography.
After his father was killed by two Mexican men in a bar brawl when Pete Dalton was only fourteen years old, the teenager sought out the local affiliation of the Aryan Brotherhood. Back then, nearly two decades ago now, the AB was very active in Norman, Oklahoma. Its Norman leader, Neil Armstrong, had heard of what had happened to Pete Dalton’s dad and welcomed the son with open arms. His initiation was to kill the two men who had killed his father, which Pete gladly did, making sure the men suffered for hours before they finally died. It was unclear when Mary Lou Dalton decided to join the AB, but according to Mrs. Lancaster, it was sometime after Kelly Anne Dalton, Pete’s younger sister, died, mostly because she felt like she no longer had anything to live for. Her smoking that began with her husband’s death went from bad to extremely bad when her daughter passed and her son moved out of the house, fighting with the gang. She also started drinking. Joining her son was a natural progression, considering how lonely she was, the hate growing stronger inside her with every day that passed.
“It’s best if you go in alone,” Larry said to Wil where they sat in the rental car parked in the lot outside the Marion Federal Prison in southern Illinois. They had spent the entire day driving there. “Something tells me whoever in the AB you get to speak to won’t react positively to a black man. And we need them to talk to us. You look like the quintessential Aryan with that blond hair and those light eyes. They’ll be able to relate to you.”
Wil blew out a breath. “Yeah, you’re probably right about that. Let’s just hope they don’t view women the way they view non-whites or we won’t get anything out of them.”
“I’m sure you’ll be able to find a way to get them to talk to you,” Larry said and nudged her, a smile playing on his lips. “Just bat those pretty eyelashes of yours and they’ll talk. Trust me. These men haven’t seen a pretty, young woman like you in ages. Use it to your advantage.”
“Okay.” Wil opened the car door. “Wish me luck. You sure you don’t want to go somewhere and have a coffee or something while I’m in there? It might take a while before I’m back.”
“Nah, I’m good here. I’ll just take a nap. It’ll feel like you’re gone only a minute to me, no matter how long you’re in there.”
Wil laughed. “Oh, yeah, that’s right. I forgot that you can sleep anywhere at any time. I need to work on that skill.” She squeezed herself out of the car. “Okay, see you in a bit then.”
Shutting the car door behind her, Wil headed up the flagstone-covered path that crossed the lawn that surrounded the giant prison. Because the prison wasn’t very far from where they had been in Texas, they had chosen to just drive there and show up, asking the prison administration if they could talk to some of the AB prisoners. After speaking to the Latin Devils, they had verified with the FBI to make sure there were in fact lots of AB members at the Marion Federal Prison. It turned out that prison was the one with the most AB members of all prisons these days. After learning this, Larry and Wil thought that it should be easy enough to find someone who could tell them about Pete Dalton—either in person or by directing them to someone who knew him. Thinking that Pete was their killer, he was most likely not in prison somewhere.
Wil just had to be very careful she didn’t reveal to any AB member the why she wanted to get hold of Pete Dalton, or the gang would hardly tell her where he could be found.
Wil pulled open the heavy metal door and entered a long hallway. She stopped at a counter behind which a stocky, black woman in a gray uniform sat. The woman’s hair was tied back in a tight bun. Showing her police credentials, Wil asked, “Can I speak to Warden Maureen Byrde, please?”
“She’s in a meeting. What’s this regarding?” the woman answered with a stony face.
“I’m investigating a murder that took place in New York City a few weeks ago. My partner and I have reason to believe that the killer is a member of the Aryan Brotherhood. Problem is, while we know his name, we don’t know where he is at the moment. He moved away from his hometown to be with the AB in Texas. And that’s all we know. We need to speak to members of the AB to see if they know where he can be found. The ones here at Marion are supposed to know him.”
The black woman placed her elbows on the desk before her and gazed at Wil with disillusion. “I would love to help you, hun, but I’m not sure your plan will pan out. We do have lots of AB here at Marion, but the AB won’t rat on each other. That I can promise you.”
Wil placed her own elbows on the counter. Leaning toward the other woman, she gave her a little smile. “You can’t actually think I’d be telling them I’m a cop? That obviously won’t go over well. But if I tell them that I have something from Pete’s mother that I need to give him, they might. My partner and I were just down in Norman, Oklahoma where we visited with the mother. She passed a few days ago. No one but we and local law enforcement know about it so far.” This was a big, fat lie; Wil and Larry had spoken to several people in regards to Mary Lou Dalton, and most of them had quickly learned that Mary Lou had passed. But given how unimportant a person Mary Lou appeared to be to the AB these days, they didn’t think the news would travel fast—or at all. If it did, surely no one would have bothered with the detail Wil would use to get the AB to reveal Pete Dalton’s location. “I’ll be telling them that the mother just died and gave me something that he needs in her last hours.”
The other woman nodded. “Yeah, that might work. It’s worth a shot. You look innocent enough. They probably would never believe that you’re a detective with that baby face of yours anyway. Hell, I still have a hard time believing it.” She gave a wry smile.
Wil chuckled, pleased. “I get that a lot. But I can assure you, I can hold my own.”
“I believe you.” The woman straightened up behind the desk. “A few of the older cons that got in a couple of years ago are out in the prison yard right now. Wanna go out there and talk to them? See what happens?”
“Yes, that would work.”
“All right. Let me get someone to accompany you out there.” With those words, the woman lifted the handset of an old phone and dialed a couple of numbers. It didn’t take long before a tall, wide-shouldered prison guard came out of a door behind the woman. He was a light-skinned black man with a shaved head somewhere in his mid-thirties with a grim expression on his face.
He stopped next to the seated woman, who was turned toward him now. “Gene, this is Detective Cooper from the NYPD. She’s investigating a murder that she believes has been committed by a member of the Aryan Brotherhood.
She wants to talk to some of our ABs, but they can’t find out she’s a cop. They need to think she’s a friend of the family. Can you take her out to the prison yard?”
Gene gave a curt nod. “Sure thing.”
The woman turned to Wil. “Go with Gene. He’ll take care of you.”
Gene walked around the counter and motioned to Wil for her to come with him. Together, they walked down the long hallway. They walked in silence through a crisscross of sterile corridors and up one pair of stairs and finally reached what was the prison’s main rest area. That was the only thing Gene told her.
“I’ll be watching you and I’ll notify the guards in the towers and in the prison yard as well,” Gene said. “Be careful. Some of these bastards are insane. Don’t get too close.”
Wil gave a curt nod. “Thanks. I’ll be careful.”
Gene found the right key on his massive key chain and opened the big door before which they stood, then pushed it open. They walked through it and were on the outside, on a gravel path that crossed a small lawn and led up to a tall chain-link fence that surrounded a big outdoor space full of prisoners. Some of them were talking in small groups, while others were sitting alone on benches, just staring at the others. A couple of guys were lifting weights in a corner, another watching them while smoking a cigarette. About six were playing basketball with only one hoop.
Wil shaded her eyes against the setting sun that had suddenly ventured out from between a bunch of thick clouds in the sky. She instantly had a better view of all the prisoners, and it seemed clear that most of them were hanging with their own kind. About a third of them were white and heavily tattooed from what she could see out of the ones who didn’t wear coats.
Here we go, she thought, steeling herself for her impromptu meeting with the Aryan Brotherhood.
