Justice by Fire

23

Flashing his Federal Bureau of Investigation identification to the admitting clerk, Agent Gallucci demanded: "I got a report of a gunshot case here. What room?"

Waiting outpatients and visitors crowded the reception room of San Jose County Hospital. A teenage candy striper wheeled a cart of magazines from couch to couch; a young man with a leg in a cast waved to get her attention. At the front desk, the clerk glanced at Gallucci's identification.

"Just a moment…" The white-haired clerk touch-coded an extension number. "What is the status of the Mexican man?" She listened for a moment, then turned to the agent. "He's under sedation, sir. We're preparing an operating room for him now."

"Is he conscious?"

"In and out. He has a compound fracture of his left femur, shock from blood loss, serious gunshot wounds. I doubt if he could answer questions."

"Where did you find him?"

"In front of the hospital. Someone simply dumped him on the parkway. They had given him expert first aid, but..."

"What name did he give you?"

"That's a problem. The police tried to question him about that. His identification says he's from Mexico. On a business trip, but he told us he's Salvadoran. Kept begging us to call the State Department. The United States Department of State. Says he wants asylum. Is that why you're here?"

Gallucci nodded. "How long until he goes into surgery?"

"Soon."

"Well, I'll see what he has to say."

"Officer, he..."

"If he's conscious, we'll talk. If not, I'll come back tomorrow. What room?"

"Room 113. That doorway and to the right. Halfway down the hall."

Passing through the lobby, Gallucci glanced at the security guard posted at the side of the large room. The potbellied guard leaned against the wall watching the waiting area's television. Gallucci continued into the hallway. He noted that the food-service workers wore plain white uniforms without badges or identification tags.

Room 113 smelled of blood and antiseptic. The wounded Salvadoran opened his eyes as Gallucci went to the bed. Gallucci looked at the bandages covering the young man's body. He could not be the soldier who escaped.

"You are State Department?" the wounded young man asked.

Gallucci went to the room's bathroom. He looked inside, saw the door to the adjoining room open. No one occupied the other room. Gallucci pulled the door closed and locked it. Only then did he answer the Salvadoran.

"So you want asylum? Why?"

"I… have had enough of war and… killing. No more."

"War? What're you talking about? You're a Mexican. Mexico's not at war with us."

"I am Salvadoran… My commander, Colonel Quesada… he ordered… I come to kill North Americans."

"Who shot you?"

"North Americans. Why do you ask me that? I told them everything..."

"You mean the police?"

"Who shot me… who killed all the others… I told them everything…"

"So you're willing to cooperate?"

"Yes… I cooperate…"

"That's all I needed to know. Adios, amigo."

Gallucci left the room quickly. He went to a pay phone in the lobby of the hospital and called a San Francisco number.

An hour after the young Salvadoran left surgery, a food-service worker entered his room. The worker pressed a pillow over the face of the Salvadoran.

His war had indeed ended.