Hell's Corner

CHAPTER 28

Carmen Escalante lived in a duplex a few blocks from the river. The neighborhood was within sight of the ballpark of the Washington Nationals, but had not benefited from the gentrification that was going on in other areas around the stadium.

They reached Escalante’s address and Stone knocked on a door that was scarred by at least three old bullet pocks by his quick count. They heard curious sounds approaching. Footsteps and something more. Something that clunked. When the door opened they were looking down at a petite woman in her twenties who had metal braces on each arm to support her twisted legs. Hence the strange sounds.

“Carmen Escalante?” Stone asked.

She nodded. “I am Carmen.”

Stone and then Chapman showed her their badges.

“We’re here about your report of a missing person,” said Chapman.

“You don’t sound American,” said Carmen curiously.

“I’m not.”

Carmen looked confused. Stone said, “Can we come in?”

They followed her down a short hall to a tiny room. The furniture was thirdhand, the floor littered with junk. Stone could smell rotting food.

“I haven’t had a chance to clean up lately,” Carmen said, but her tone was unapologetic. She dropped onto the couch and stood her braces against the arm of the furniture. On either side of her was stacked what Stone could only politely describe as crap.

Stone and Chapman remained standing because there was nowhere else to sit.

“I’m sure you’ve been worried about…?” Stone said in a prompting manner.

“My uncle, Alfredo, but we call him Freddy.”

“We?”

“The family.”

“Are they here?” Stone looked around.

“No, they’re back in Mexico.”

“So you live here with him?”

She nodded.

Stone said, “And his last name?”

“Padilla.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” asked Chapman.

“Two nights ago. He went out for dinner.”

“Do you know where?”

“At a place on Sixteenth Street, near F. He come from España originally, my uncle. My father’s family, the Escalantes, they come from España too, a long time ago. Good paellas in España. He liked his paellas, my uncle. And this place he goes to, it has good paellas.”

Stone and Chapman exchanged glances, obviously thinking the same thing.

That would have put him close to Lafayette Park.

“Can I ask why you waited so long to call the police about him?” Stone asked.

“I have no telephone here. And I cannot get around too good without Uncle Freddy. I think he will come home anytime. But he does not. I finally ask a neighbor to call for me.”

“Okay. Do you remember what he was wearing when he went out?”

“His blue sweatsuit. He liked to wear it, but he didn’t like to work out. I thought that was funny.”

“Was he not in good shape?” asked Chapman.

Carmen made a motion with both hands to indicate a large belly. “He liked his comida and his beer,” she said simply.

“How would he usually get home? Did he have a car?” asked Stone.

“We have no car. He use bus or train.”

“Did he tell you he might go for a walk after dinner?” asked Chapman.

Carmen’s face started to tremble and she pointed to the little TV perched on a particleboard stand. “I see what happened. The bomb. Uncle Freddy, he is dead?” A tear slid down her cheek.

Stone and Chapman again exchanged a look. “Do you have a photo of your uncle here?”

Carmen pointed to a lopsided bookshelf against one wall. There were a half dozen framed photos on it. Stone went over, checked them out. Alfredo “Freddy” Padilla was in the third from the right. He wore jeans but also the same blue warm-up jacket in which he had been blown to bits. Stone picked it up and showed it to Chapman, who nodded, instantly recognizing the man from the countless times she’d watched him on the video. Stone put the photo back down and turned to Carmen.

“Do you have any family who could come and stay with you?”

“Then he is dead?”

Stone hesitated. “I’m afraid so.”

She put a hand up to her mouth and started to quietly sob.

Stone knelt down in front of her. “I know this is a really bad time, but can you think of any reason why your uncle would have wanted to take a walk through Lafayette Park that night?”

The woman finally composed herself, finding some internal strength that Stone was frankly surprised she possessed.

“He love this country,” she said. “We only recently come here. Me for the medicos to help with my legs. Uncle Freddy he come with me. My parents are dead. He get job. It not pay much, but he was doing the best he could.”

“Your English is very good for only recently coming here,” commented Chapman.

Carmen smiled. “I take it in school from when I was little. And I travel to Texas. My English is best in mi familia,” she said proudly.

“So Lafayette Park?” prompted Stone.

“He liked to go and look at your White House. He would tell me, ‘Carmen, this is greatest country on earth. A person he can do anything here.’ He had me go one time. He carry me on his shoulders. We look at the grande casa blanca. He say your president lived there. And that he was a great man.”

Stone stood. “Again, I’m very sorry.”

Chapman asked, “Is there anyone who can come and stay with you?”

“It is all right. I have been by myself before.”

“But do you have other relatives?” persisted Chapman.

Carmen sniffled but nodded. “I have people who can come and take me back to Mexico.”

“Back? But what about your doctors?” asked Stone.

“Not without Uncle Freddy,” she replied. “My parents were killed in a bus accident. I was also on the bus. That was how my legs came to be like this. Uncle Freddy, he too was on bus. They take out his spleen and other things, but he got well. And he was like a father to me.” She stopped. “I… I don’t want to live here without him. Not even if this is the greatest country in all the world.”

“If you need any help will you contact us?” Stone wrote his phone number down on a piece of paper and handed it to her. He paused. “If you could give us something of your uncle’s? A comb or a toothbrush. So we can…” His voice trailed off.

They left with a couple of articles containing Alfredo Padilla’s DNA to compare to the man’s remains. They sealed them in evidence bags Chapman had brought. Stone was certain it was the man. But the DNA would be conclusive.

As they were walking back to the car Chapman said, “Okay, I’m an old cynic, but I want to start crying my bleeding eyes out.”

“Alfredo Padilla was clearly in the wrong place at the wrong time,” said Stone. “And she has to pay the price.”

“He paid a pretty big one too,” Chapman reminded him.

They got back in the car. She said, “What now?”

“We hope Agent Gross has better luck than we did. But something tells me not to count on that.”