Scratchgravel Road: A Mystery

by Tricia Fields

  She offered a wry smile. “Red Goff was my daddy. Caution was the one good lesson he taught me.”

  Otto walked across the hallway to Santiago’s apartment. He knocked several times and announced himself but heard no noise from inside. A dirty overhead fixture barely gave off enough light for Otto to see the keyhole above the doorknob of Santiago’s apartment. He pulled a pair of plastic gloves from his pocket and jiggled the key until he finally gained entrance.

  He pushed the door open with a shove of his foot and was blasted with sweltering heat and the smell of rotting garbage, a sure sign Santiago had been gone several days. Stepping into the apartment, Otto’s first impression was that it was a place used to eat, sleep, and not much else. Otherwise Colt Goff’s apartment had been a mirror image of the space: murphy bed on one wall, kitchenette on another, small bathroom framed into a corner. Her space had been filled with furniture, pillows, pictures on the walls. It made Santiago’s apartment look all the more depressing.

  The murphy bed was down, the covers neatly pulled up and covering two pillows. At the end of the bed sat a small TV on top of a footstool. A card table littered with newspapers and other papers was centered in the kitchenette area. Two folding chairs sat on either side of the table. The only other furniture was a bookshelf that served as a night stand cobbled together out of pallet wood at the side of the bed. A wind-up alarm clock sat amid several coffee cups on the top shelf. The second shelf held photographs, a few in frames, most of them propped up against the wood, the photos curling around the edges. They were the only visible sign that a person called the place home.

  Otto’s shoulders slumped. Walking into a deceased person’s home gave him an uneasy feeling, especially when the death was unexpected or suspicious. Poking around someone’s personal space with no chance for them to clean up the messes or to hide the secrets left untended bothered him in ways he had difficulty explaining, even to himself. Otto had always made sure Delores knew where all of the insurance and important papers were located, and that she knew how much money was in the savings and checking account each month. The idea of strangers rooting through his things, trying to make sense of his life, kept him awake some nights. But this man’s meager surroundings felt especially depressing; dead, almost a week, with not so much as a phone call to the police from a relative or friend wondering where he was or why he hadn’t called.

  Before walking any farther into the apartment he used his gloved hand to turn on a light switch to the left of the door, then opened his evidence kit to remove the fingerprinting materials. Once prints were taken throughout the apartment he began a methodical search.

  On the kitchen table he found a pile of mail, all addressed to Juan Santiago. Otto opened an electric bill that was current, no late charges, as well as a water bill. Hoping for a phone bill that might show a list of recent calls, he came up empty. Glancing around the room, he found no landline, nor cell phone. There were no letters, nothing more personal than junk mail and bills. He flipped through four days’ worth of newspapers, the most recent dated last Thursday, the day after Santiago went missing from work.

  Otto pulled Santiago’s absence record out of his shirt pocket to check his memory. His last day of work had been Tuesday. That meant he wore his boots home from work that evening. And was wearing them again when he was killed. Otto thought about his own uniform boots. He never wore them off duty. They were ugly, heavy, and he had more comfortable shoes to wear. He walked over to the small closet and opened it. He found one pair of running shoes, a pair of loafers, and a pair of casual cowboy boots. Why would Santiago have chosen to wear his heavy work boots with a pair of jeans and a nice shirt? It didn’t add up.

  After searching through Santiago’s clothing in his closet and drawers, he searched the bathroom cabinet and vanity, finding nothing unusual there, nor in the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator, looking for anything amiss, and winced at the smell of sour milk and moldy food.

  The most promising area was saved for last. Otto pulled a folding chair from the kitchen over to the bookshelf and sat down. The alarm clock was set to ring at 6:00 A.M., although it was not turned on. The coffee cups were used but empty, and there were no lipstick stains. The second shelf held several photographs, three in dollar-store frames. The first picture was a photo of Santiago amid seven other people who appeared to be family members. A heavy woman in the middle of the photograph smiled proudly, and had the distinct facial features that made it obvious to Otto that he was looking at the matriarch. The second photo was more interesting; Santiago and an attractive woman about his age stood together in front of a small home, arms around each other, heads leaned toward one another. It looked to be a picture of a man and wife. The third picture was the same woman but twenty years younger, leaning over a shallow kids’ pool, splashing and laughing with three small children. The other unframed photographs were similar family photos. Otto checked each for writing on the back, and found several dated two years ago, but no names were included.

  The next shelf held pay dirt: a shoebox filled with letters.

  Otto set the letters aside to take back to the police department for Marta to translate. His uniform shirt was soaked through.

  On his way out of the house he took the trash bag in the kitchen, as well as an empty one he found under the sink, and stood by the Dumpster in the alley behind the Family Value. He donned a fresh pair of plastic gloves and pulled the trash apart, throwing away food garbage, and keeping mail and paper to examine later at the office.

  As Otto pulled into his parking space in front of the police department, he received a cell phone call from Marta.

  “They found Teresa! Sergio just called. She was at her father’s. Josie’s with her now.”

  Otto breathed deeply and exhaled, relieved for everyone. “That’s great news, Marta.”

  “Sergio called the bridge authority. The bridge will remain closed tonight, but they hope by morning it may open again. Teresa and Josie are staying at a church tonight. They’ll be safe.”

  Otto said nothing. He knew, as well as Marta, that “safe” was a relative term in northern Mexico.

  * * *

  Josie and Sergio waited outside Javier’s apartment while Teresa packed her backpack and left a note for her father. Josie wondered if her father would even remember she had been there. Teresa walked out of the shabby apartment wearing a red tank top with ruffles around the hem, a denim skirt cut at mid-thigh, and sandals that wrapped leather laces around her ankles. It wasn’t that the outfit was inappropriate for a teenaged girl, but it certainly drew attention to the young girl’s physical features.

  “Sergio,” Josie said.

  He shook his head slowly and glanced at Josie sitting in the passenger’s seat. “You do not need this kind of attention.”

  “Sixteen-year-old girls don’t understand blending in with the crowd.”

  Sergio tilted his head toward the front of the car window. “We’re driving a half mile south. El Sagrado Corazon is in the city, but enclosed within a stone wall, ten feet high. It’s run by the nuns, a sacred place.”

  Josie watched an armored truck, driven by federal police in camouflage fatigues and black masks, pass by their car. Their concealed identities were indicative of the power wielded by the cartels. She had no camouflage in this foreign country and felt as if she was wearing flashing lights announcing her presence.

  “You are welcome to stay at my place,” Sergio said, although his expression showed reluctance. He was already risking his own safety by driving the two around town.

  Teresa opened the back door and climbed inside.

  “We’ll be fine. Just take us to the church.” Josie turned to face Teresa. “Do you have any sweatpants, or old baggy clothing you could change into?”

  Teresa grimaced.

  “I’m in this country illegally. We could be in a great deal of trouble if we’re pulled over. Even worse trouble if the Medrano clan finds out I’m here. I don’t want any undue attentio
n paid to us until we get back home.”

  Teresa nodded, her expression suddenly sober. “I could go grab something of my dad’s.”

  Josie nodded. “Do that. Dress down, pull your hair up in a ball cap. I don’t even want to know you’re a girl when you come out of that door.”

  Ten minutes later, Teresa walked outside in a pair of baggy men’s jeans, oil-stained at the knees, with a large black men’s T-shirt that effectively concealed the girl’s body underneath it. She laughed when she saw Josie and Sergio watching her.

  Sergio turned to face her when she got in the car. “Good girl.” His voice caught in his throat as he watched her close the door. “You have your mother’s beauty. No clothes or hat can hide the beauty you have inside. You always remember that.”

  * * *

  The bell tower was visible above the caramel-colored stone wall surrounding the church. Sergio pulled up in front of a massive wooden door that blocked the buildings within from sight. He stepped out of his car and pulled a piece of thick rope that hung down the left side of the gate, and then spoke into a small microphone mounted onto the wall. By the time he had gotten back into his car, the left gate was slowly opening inward. Once it was fully open, a nun, dressed in black robes and habit, walked quickly across the stone path and opened the other gate to allow Sergio entrance into the courtyard.

  Inside the walls was a maze of stone paths and winding patches of garden filled with red and white flowers and a variety of vegetables. The recent rains had beaten down the plants, but they were lush and full of color. Wooden benches and adobe archways gave way to secret gardens and cubbyholes for meditation. As Sergio pulled his car inside the gates, the bell tower rang to announce it was seven o’clock. Sergio stopped his car and pointed out his window for Teresa to look up and watch the nun pull the rope with both arms, using the weight of her body to move the magnificent iron bell. The sound gave Josie chills. Another nun smiled and waved at Sergio and waited for him to pull the car forward so that she could shut the gates behind them. He followed a round driving path that circled past the church, then past a row of four rustic doors located under a steep overhang that shaded them from the blazing sun. Josie assumed these were the guest rooms.

  As they got out of the car, Josie saw Teresa turn and watch the nun replace a thick piece of wrought iron across the gates, then padlock it on both ends. The enclosed churchyard was small and intimate and Josie felt a sense of peace settle over her that she had not felt in quite some time.

  Sergio introduced the nun who closed the gates as Sister Agnes. She walked quickly up the stone path, smiling and talking to Sergio as if he were an old friend. She spoke in Spanish, her voice pleasant. After several minutes of friendly chatter the nun pulled a key out of her pocket and unlocked the wooden door closest to them. She stepped back and allowed Josie and Teresa to enter first. A window on the opposite wall let in filtered light through a gauze curtain. Shade trees on the opposite side of the room kept the breeze coming through the window warm but comfortable. A twin-size bed was pushed up lengthwise to the left side of the door and another to the right. On either side of the wall was an armoire and a small washbasin, mirror, and shelf for toiletries. The floor was ancient wood plank, and waxed to a high shine. The walls were stone, like the outside of the building, and helped keep the temperature comfortable without air-conditioning.

  Josie smiled and nodded at the nun to show she was pleased with the room, then turned to face Sergio. “Can you ask how much I owe for the room?”

  “The rooms are for friends of the church. No cost. If you would like to make a donation, that is up to you.”

  After Sergio and the nun left, Josie sat on one bed and Teresa sat on the other, facing each other.

  “Now what?”

  Josie smiled. “Beats me.”

  “I guess we can’t take a walk?” Teresa asked.

  “Not outside these walls. I’m not very well liked here by some pretty bad people.”

  “Mom told me.” Teresa looked uncomfortable. “I’m sorry you had to come bail me out. I never meant to cause all this trouble for you.”

  “Just tell that to your mom tomorrow, and we’ll call it even.”

  * * *

  Mitchell Cowan, Arroyo County coroner, stood at the autopsy table and stared at the black and green flesh in front of him, frustrated and angry at his inability to put all of the pieces together. He had originally declared the time of death at forty-eight hours, possibly longer, but over the past several hours he had changed his mind, placing the time of death closer to thirty hours. Otto had called as he was getting ready to go home that evening to inform Cowan that they had confirmed the man’s identity, and the fact that he was part of the cleanup crew at the closed nuclear weapons plant. Cowan had originally estimated the man’s age to be in his sixties. Otto had said the man’s work records put him at forty-four. Something had caused the man’s decomposition to increase at a faster rate than normal.

  After four hours spent reexamining the body, and reformulating his theories, he summoned Otto to his office at almost eight o’clock that night. Otto knocked, entered the lab, and was then directed to wash and suit up before Cowan would talk with him.

  Garbed in a blue gown, latex gloves, and a blue mask and cap, Otto approached the body. Cowan noted that his gaze rested on the dead man’s feet, the only part covered by a cloth. Cowan retrieved the black plastic sheet that lay under the autopsy table and covered the rest of the body in deference to Otto.

  “We have some issues,” Cowan said. “Time of death has proven elusive.”

  Otto asked, “What about the blowflies? I thought they identified time of death.”

  Cowan nodded. “With the wet nature of the sores on the body, it wouldn’t surprise me if the blowflies were on him within an hour of death. The blowfly eggs were hatching into larvae when Josie found the body. It usually takes time for the body to decompose, but he was decomposing before he was dead.”

  Otto winced at the thought.

  “Judging by the decomposition of his body, the green and black marbling of his skin, and the insect larvae, I’m going to change my original estimate. At this point, I think he was killed Saturday night. Gauging the lividity, his body was transported several hours later and deposited in the desert late Saturday night, early Sunday morning.”

  Otto nodded in appreciation. “Nice work, Cowan.”

  Cowan frowned. “It’s not so easy. This whole case is troubling me.”

  “How so?”

  “After you called, first thing I did was go back to the internal organs. This wasn’t the body of a forty-year-old man. I found the intestinal track highly putrefied. The intestinal tract is always first to disintegrate, especially in high heat circumstances, but his entire GI tract was further decomposed than it should have been. The rest of his organs were more in line with the twenty-four-to-thirty-six-hour theory.”

  “Can you translate that?”

  “Something ate up his arms, and then ate up his digestive tract.”

  Otto blew air out in frustration. “We’re all thinking radiation. The guy worked at the Feed Plant. Is that where you’re headed with this?”

  Cowan placed his hand on the black plastic sheet covering the body, and then paused. “I’m putting him away for the night. Turn your head if you want.”

  Otto walked over to the laundry tub and began taking his mask and gown off.

  Cowan began preparing the body for the cooler as he talked. “That’s the angle that makes the most sense. But why his GI tract? If he’d had a massive dose of radiation and chemo he could have developed sores. Some cancer victims develop open wounds and they fester over a year before the body’s immune system can heal them. Conceivably, radiation or chemo could have caused the sores on his arms and head. But I saw no evidence of cancer.”

  “That’s not what I was getting at. Could he have picked up that kind of radiation exposure at the cleanup site?”

  Cowan eyed Otto over his read
ing glasses, then rolled the metal gurney and body over to the freezer. “I know what you were getting at. I can’t answer it, though. I don’t have any idea what kind of radiation might be leaking out at that plant. I find it highly unlikely it caused the sores on this man’s arms, though. My opinion is that it would take a prescribed, intensive, and malicious intent to cause the sores on this man’s arms.”

  “Cause of death?” Otto asked.

  “I’m just not ready to commit. There are three distinct traumas. The exterior sores, the GI tract, and the blow to the head. I’m not able to piece together how they are related.”

  “If they’re related,” Otto said.

  “Obviously, I’m no expert in radiation poisoning. I’ll be contacting the Centers for Disease Control in the morning.” Cowan peeled his latex gloves off and dropped them in a hazardous waste container.

  * * *

  Otto left Cowan’s office at the Arroyo County Jail and stood outside for a long while before entering his jeep to drive home. The case was a mix of barely related details. The victim worked at a nuclear weapons plant that was in the process of being dismantled. A handful of people in the entire nation took part in that kind of specialized cleanup, so who knew if the plant employees were providing good information. The man had been knocked unconscious by a blow to the back of the head, but more than likely he had been killed by some horrendous sores that the coroner couldn’t identify on the man’s arms. Were the sores caused by radiation from the plant, or by some unidentified virus infecting everyone who came in contact with the victim? To top it all off, the coroner just said that his digestive tract was disintegrated as well. And, how had the man’s wallet, empty of ID but containing cash, been found in Cassidy Harper’s beat-up car on the side of Scratchgravel Road?

  THIRTEEN

  By ten o’clock that night Josie and Teresa were both sitting in T-shirts and shorts on Teresa’s bed playing gin rummy with a well-worn deck that Teresa had taken from her dad’s apartment. They had relaxed into one another’s company and were both enjoying what had started out seeming like an endless night.