Standoff

Three

Two AM, 3FC, 4MC and 5AF were under the shade tents Gomez and I had seen when we first arrived: they were the victims near the Learjet and the old Aussie trainer. Milling around the area were more than a half-dozen law enforcement officers, a mixture of CSI, medical examiners, and homicide, the latter distinguished from the rest by the word INVESTIGATOR printed on the backs of their coveralls. One of these, a tall sallow guy, had the words LIEUTENANT on his back to avoid confusion.

“What do I get if I guess which one’s Lieutenant Cruz?” Gomez asked.

“A banana smoothie,” I replied.

Liz, our tour guide, caught Cruz’s eye and he came on over. “You pass that information about 5AF to the Chief Deputy?” he asked her.

“Yes, sir.”

He gave a long sigh of frustration. “I’m sure hoping we get a match on the perp’s DNA, ’cause so far we got dick.”

Given the alleged source of that DNA, the detective’s choice of words was a long way from sensitive, but then I’m the last person who should throw stones.

“We sure could use a break,” he continued.

“Sir,” said Liz, “Ranger Gomez and Special Agent Cooper here wanted a word with you.”

“Federal,” he said, instantly on his guard, scowling at me, thinking I therefore had to be FBI.

“OSI,” Gomez informed him.

The Lieutenant visibly relaxed — OSI, unlike the Bureau, not being in the takeover business.

“We were in the area when we got a call,” Gomez continued. “One of Agent Cooper’s deserters turned up here.”

“Yeah, that’s 1AM,” he said, “outside the terminal building.”

“You got no idea what happened here?” I asked, “Other than a bunch of murderers arrived by aircraft and went through the place hunting down folks and killing them?”

Lieutenant Cruz flipped his sunglasses on top of his head and squinted at me. “That’s some interesting speculation you got there, Agent … er …”

“Cooper.”

“Mind telling me what inspires it?”

“Which part?”

“How they arrived.”

“That’s what folks do at airports, Lieutenant. They fly in and they fly out.”

“They could’ve bussed in.”

Yeah, and they could’ve arrived on a herd of dromedaries.

“Look, I know that the killers flying in makes sense. And we have made formal requests for assistance to the FAA and air traffic control at El Paso International. I’m just trying to keep the options open here. We don’t know anything for sure yet.”

Fair enough, but I doubted ATC at the main airport would be able to help. Air traffic control was once my gig back in my Combat Controller days — jumping in behind enemy lines with Special Forces, laying beacons and other nav aids for fighters and bombers. So I was aware that even a cheap on-board GPS had the precision to get an aircraft in and around civilian airspace. A half decent pilot could land a plane just about anywhere these days without tripping any alarms or the suspicions of local ATC, but I said nothing about that. The detective would find it out for himself soon enough, if he did his job.

I gazed at the blankets covering the children and parents murdered there on the ramp. The heat was accelerating the leaking of body fluids, the smell beginning to rise off the asphalt. Forensics was working hard to document the crime scene and get the deceased refrigerated.

“Lieutenant, we’re gonna need some closure here. Your DOA 1AM was trafficking drugs,” said Gomez. “So head office wants us to stick around.”

“Head office” meant Austin — Texas Ranger central. No one argued with Rangers. The business with Whelt and Sponson was my first case with Gomez. He didn’t ask permission, he took it. I liked that. We were gonna work out just fine.

“Just clear it with the boss,” he said.

“Sure,” Gomez replied.

“So victim 5AF. Why was she singled out for special treatment?” I wondered aloud.

“Her name was Gail Sorwick, married to Barney Sorwick.” He pointed at one of the blankets. “That’s him there — 2AM. From the photos in her purse she had two young children — Ryan and Clare.” His finger moved on, pointing them out on the ground. “The whole family, murdered. The kids were five and seven years of age. Mrs Sorwick was a looker. After she was sexually assaulted, she was shot and subsequently mutilated.”

Lieutenant Cruz stepped over to one of the blankets and lifted a corner. The dead woman was naked from the waist up. Her face was clear and placid and, yes, he was right about Gail Sorwick being a looker. “She fought back.”

The woman had bitten her attacker, drawn blood, cut him down to size.

“She’s lucky that they didn’t mutilate her while she still breathed,” Cruz mumbled, leaning over her, talking to himself.

A police K-9, a big German shepherd, was barking incessantly at something out toward the runway. I looked over in that direction. Nothing.

“Her killer wanted to make a statement,” said Gomez. “Send a message.”

Cruz looked at him.

“Why go to so much effort to murder everyone in the area, being careful not to leave any evidence behind,” Gomez continued, “and then lace a mutilated corpse with your jism. It’s a message. Doesn’t make a lot of sense otherwise.”

I had to agree, it didn’t. “What’s the message?” I asked him.

“Add it to the list of questions.”

Lieutenant Cruz nodded. “Well, we’re rushing to check the DNA profile against our records. But I doubt we’ll get a hit.”

I nodded, the lieutenant’s turn to get some agreement.

The dog was still barking, at ghosts apparently. A black Labrador had joined the chorus, straining at the leash, its handler getting curious.

“What about your sole survivor?” Gomez continued.

“The Learjet pilot? Still in a coma. We’re not expecting him to come around.”

“Where’s the other pilot?” I asked.

The sheriff’s investigator looked at me, licked his sunburned lips and swallowed. “What other pilot?”

“A Lear usually flies with two.”

“We, ah …” Cruz massaged his chin and put a hand on his hip. “Hey, Belle!” he called out. “You found anyone else with an FAA commercial ticket in their wallet?”

Belle, a middle-aged, prematurely gray-haired woman with glasses and lines like trenches through her cheeks, glanced up from her discussion with a crime scene investigator and shook her head. “Nope, just the one.”

The lieutenant turned briefly toward the dogs, distracted by the racket they were making, then turned back. “You said it usually flies with two? So it can also fly with one, right? Maybe on this flight, there was only the one pilot.”

“Maybe,” I agreed without commitment because maybe the killers had abducted the other pilot; or maybe the missing pilot had something to do with the slaughter at Horizon Airport; or maybe the Sheriff’s office just hadn’t found him/her yet.

Those dogs were making a hell of a noise. There was something out there in the desert. Their handlers had given in and were walking them over to an opening in the fence, going to investigate nothing. The desert was as empty as my bank account.

I moved toward the edge of the ramp, away from the tents and the bodies, my hand shielding my eyes from the glare of the sun. Sand, rock and low scrub — nothing else out there. The end of the runway shimmered in quicksilver. A couple of birds circled the desert a hundred or so yards away. Nope, nothing. I turned away just as a mound of sand appeared to move beneath those birds. I looked back, but I couldn’t place the movement.

“You saw something,” said Gomez coming up behind me, squinting into the distance, also shading his eyes. “Me, too.”

Whatever it was, it moved again.

“There!” he said, pointing.

We both started to run toward it. At first I wasn’t sure what it was, but then it flopped over onto its back. Jesus, it was human.