Wild Penance

23

Christine Salazar met me at the sheriff’s office. Like most of New Mexico’s field deputy medical investigators, she worked part-time for the Office of Medical Investigation, or OMI, and most of the time at another endeavor so that she had steady income. After several years as a private investigator, Christine’s other endeavor was teaching science at the University of New Mexico.

“I understand you knew the deceased,” she said as she showed me to an interview room.

“Yes, I had met him. Once.”

“Well, I’m sorry for your loss,” she said, closing the door and gesturing for me to take a seat at the table.

I sat down.

Christine sat down opposite me. “But when you witnessed the scene that morning, you didn’t know who it was, correct?”

“That’s right, I didn’t know who it was.”

“Okay, then. For the purposes of this interview, I think it would be best if we tried to proceed as if you didn’t know who the deceased was, even now. It will keep you more detached, and you will be able to retrieve the information from your memory without emotions clouding the data. Do you think you can do that?”

“I think so,” I said. “I’m still kind of in shock about it, and I don’t know why, but I haven’t been able to feel much of anything since I heard.”

“That happens a lot. Now, tell me what you saw that morning,” she said, poised to take notes on the legal pad on the table in front of her.

“I saw movement on the bridge. A big, light-colored truck or van had stopped in the middle. Two people with hooded coats or jackets were moving around. One of them may have walked to the rail and looked over. Then they went to the back of the van or the truck or whatever it was. They were there a long time-or at least it seemed like that-they were doing something at the rear of the vehicle. I thought it was either base jumpers or bungee jumpers getting out their gear.”

“And what happened next?”

“They wrestled something to the rail pretty quickly, before I could tell what it was. And then I saw it happen.”

She looked up from her note taking. “Yes? Saw what happen?”

“I saw the body on the cross, falling into the gorge.”

“Tell me about that.”

I shook my head. “I saw a man on a cross plummeting down into the void.”

“Close your eyes, Jamaica,” Christine said.

I did as she said.

“Now try to run the tape as if it were in slow motion. What do you see?”

I sat for a few moments trying to get myself focused. Then I saw the cross falling, only it was so fast, I almost missed it. I shuddered.

“Take a deep breath,” Christine said. “Now center yourself and keep breathing big, deep breaths.”

“Are you trying to hypnotize me?”

“No. I just know we all store more data in our brains than we often utilize. Let’s see if we can call this memory file up and examine it a little more closely.”

I tried again, and this time, when the cross started to tip over the rail, I managed to replay the scene slowly. “Okay,” I said, my eyes still closed. “Okay, maybe I can do this.”

“Now tell me about the man on the cross.”

“He has a rope around his chest.” I opened my eyes. “Wait, Christine. I don’t know if I’m saying what I saw as the cross was falling or if I’m adding to that what I saw from the bridge through the field glasses when the cross was still partly on the bank of the river below me.”

“Let’s try again, then,” she said. “Close your eyes and take three long, deep breaths.”

I did as she said.

“Now, just picture the cross falling and see if you can hit the pause button in your mind.”

“Okay,” I said, “okay, I think I can do this.”

“What about his face, his head?”

“I can’t see his head. It’s like he doesn’t have a head. All I see is the pale body against the cross.”

“What about his body?”

“It’s lean. There’s a white… wrap or something around his lower torso.” I was quiet for a few moments.

“Do you see anything else?”

“His skin-it’s light. But it’s not white.”

“Can you look at his body carefully? Do you see anything else?”

I drew in a sharp breath.

“What do you see?”

“He has a wound. In his side.”

“Which side?”

“The left side.”

“Where on the left side?”

“Kind of, maybe at the bottom of the rib cage, I think.” I reached a hand and felt under my own rib cage, and then I started to lose concentration and I shook my head.

“Take another big, deep breath, Jamaica,” Salazar said. “Look again at the scene you witnessed that morning. Can you look at the bridge and tell me who is there?”

I inhaled and exhaled, my eyes still closed. “It’s too dark. I’m too far away.”

“But you can see the body on the cross?”

“When I first see it, they have tipped it over the rail, so it is in front of the rail and the fence. And it’s so… shocking to see.”

“Just try to look back up at the bridge now; don’t force it too much, but try. What do you see?”

I shook my head. “I don’t see… they’re gone. The truck or the van is gone, it’s…”

“It’s what?”

“It’s almost dawn. There are stars in the sky and I can make out the silhouette of the mountains against the horizon because there’s a faint purple glow just at the top.”

“Okay,” she said, “you can open your eyes now.” She made more notes on the legal pad. Then she straightened and looked at me. “We know he wasn’t killed by the fall from the bridge.”

“I know,” I said without thinking.

“You know? How do you know?”

“I… I can’t remember.” I tried to cover. “I think I heard it from someone on the task force, I’m not sure.”

“The OMI hasn’t said anything about that to anyone! I’m furious that it has gotten out. Somebody has a big mouth-that could possibly blow it for the investigation.” She shook her head back and forth and let out a big breath of consternation.

“Christine, that wound in his side. I never saw that through the field glasses from the bridge.”

“Yes, you may not have been able to see right under his rib cage from the angle you had up on the bridge. But when you saw the cross falling, the body was more directly in front of your line of sight. Sometimes you have more data in your memory bank than comes immediately to mind, but with some work-”

“But I don’t think I saw the rope around the chest that time. I think that was from looking down through the field glasses. So I sort of have the two memory files mixed up.”

“Actually, that’s not uncommon either. You did well, Jamaica. Really.”

“So, the ropes, the cross, the black bag over his head-was this a Penitente crucifixion, Christine?”

“It certainly looked that way.”

“But I’ve been studying the Penitentes. This can’t be them.”

“You’ve been studying the Penitentes? Are you on the team investigating the stolen icons?”

Stolen icons? Team investigation? I remembered Father Ignacio mentioning icons being stolen. “I’m working on a related matter.”

“I don’t have anything official about sharing information with you.”

“I know,” I bluffed. “I shouldn’t even be talking to you about this either. It could compromise our case.”

“Get the BLM to write me a memo.”

“Oh, come on, Christine. This whole thing will be over before I could get the BLM to write you a memo. You know that.”

She studied me carefully.

I studied back-alert, looking for signs, a predator watching for a hint of weakness in my quarry.

A hint of fatigue had begun to show in her face. She took a few moments to make up her mind. “Well, you better keep a tight lid on this, or heads will roll. And I’m going to find out where the leak is and personally put a cork in it. So if any more information gets out, it will be you I come looking for next. Do you understand me?”

I didn’t want to be on the wrong side of her if I didn’t have to. “I’m not even able to pry my own lips apart, Christine. I had them hermetically sealed last week.” I smiled, trying to lighten things up between us.

It didn’t work. Not even a little bit. “It’s not funny when you have a snitch letting out the clues in an important case, Jamaica. That is not something I can laugh about.”

“Okay, sorry. Look, you remember when we did the cattle mutilations cases? You know I can be trusted.”

She put one hand up to her hairline and pushed her fingers into her thick hair, pulling it back and holding it off of her face, as if this helped her to focus. “Okay. The body was probably wearing a breechcloth, typically worn by a figure playing Christ in the Penitentes’ rituals. There was no evidence of flagellation, no blood on the back or on the shoulders, but there were marks on the wrists, ankles, and chest from where the body had been tied to the cross. But the body had not hung on the cross-we know that from the nature of the marks the ropes made on the body. There was also a black bag tied over the head, as is done in Penitente rituals. That rope also left marks on the victim’s neck. But all these marks were made after the victim had died.”

My mouth opened in surprise and confusion. “Father Ignacio was already dead, and then someone put a bag over his head and tied him to the cross?”

“Apparently so.”

“How can you know that?” I was incredulous.

“Well, ordinarily after the trauma to a body from the fall to the bottom alone, we wouldn’t. And the trip downriver did even more to destroy forensic evidence and deteriorate the body. But oddly enough, being tied to that cross left the torso more intact than most we see in these gorge rescue incidents. And we know the body was tied to the cross after death because of the way blood pools and congeals at the time of death. That affects the bruising and the related marks from any postdeath trauma to the body.”

“So do you know what he died from?”

Christine Salazar nodded. “Again, Jamaica, I have to be absolutely certain that this is going to stay in this room until the task force is ready to release the details to the media.”

“Hey, I’m the only witness. That puts me in jeopardy. I’m not even talking about what I saw to anyone. I won’t say a word.”

“They had to do an autopsy to confirm. He died of an incised wound of the spleen. The wound you remembered on his left side? It was really an unusual one. There was bruising and slicing, as if the tip of the weapon was bent but the side of the blade must have been sharp. The knife, or whatever it was, lacerated the diaphragm and incised the spleen. Death had to have been within a matter of thirty minutes after that, probably sooner.”

“But why… why would anyone… I mean… Someone murdered him with a knife or something and then they tied him to a cross and took him to the gorge? Why not just throw his body over and hope it gets carried downriver and lost in the reeds like that guy I found?”

“Someone is trying to send a message, either to make it look like it was done by the Penitentes or maybe it was done by the Penitentes. I don’t know. This is a tough one. It was really difficult identifying the body. Since we couldn’t commence the raft rescue until the next day, the deceased was in the water for so long that the remains went decom and had begun to turn green. The outer layer of skin had separated, and the forensic pathologist down at OMI had to do a glove to get prints. That’s when they use a scalpel to cut the skin off the hand or the fingers, and it just folds over on itself and drops off, like a glove turned inside out. The pathologist picks it up, turns it back inside out, and there it is.

“But this priest’s fingerprints weren’t in any databases. He didn’t have any tattoos or identifying marks we could make out. Bloat from the water had skewed the weight, but we had his height and hair color-his hair hadn’t fallen out yet, but his eyes had clouded up so we couldn’t tell what color they were.”

“Dark,” I said, almost too quietly. “They were very dark brown, almost black.”

She looked at me for a few moments. “Enough of this gruesome stuff. You don’t need to know all the details. His mother finally filed a missing persons report when the school where he taught contacted her, looking for Father Medina. When questioned, Mrs. Medina told the OMI about a childhood break in her son’s arm. That matched the forensic evidence, and we went from there.”

“I still can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill Father Ignacio. And to make such a spectacle of it!”

“They are still keeping a tight lid on the details of this case. They had to release the name to the media, once they had identified the body and the family had been notified. And it’s officially a murder. But they haven’t revealed any details about how he died or any other information about the case.”

“Well, will you keep me posted if you learn of any new developments? I don’t have a phone out where I live, but you can leave a message at the BLM, and I’ll call you back.”

“Sure.” She stood and took her coat from the hook on the wall. “I’ve got to get back to work. It’s Holy Week, and there are going to be a thousand claims of miraculous healing up at the Sanctuario in Chimayo. The pilgrimage has already begun. There was a story on the news today about a one-legged man who’s walking there on crutches from Albuquerque and a ninety-year-old woman who’s rolling down the highway from Gallup in a wheelchair. Our phones have been ringing off the hook for comments, opinions, interviews.”

I stood and pulled my coat on. “It’s crazy for us, too. I’m working a temporary team assignment up in the area along the High Road.”

“Hey, I heard a rumor about you being in some lingerie fashion show,” Christine said, turning her head inquisitively and smiling as we walked out of the room and headed down the hall. “A fashion show with a lot of excitement.”

“Oh, that.” I tried to act nonchalant. “Let’s just say I was working undercover.” I forced a little laugh. “Maybe I’ll tell you about that some other time, but I’ve got to get to the BLM now.” I headed out of the sheriff’s office at a quick pace.

Damn that Jerry Padilla. I should tell Christine who her leak is.

I was almost to the BLM when I spotted Santiago Suazo’s truck parked in the dirt lot in front of El Toro. I pulled in and went inside. Suazo was sitting at the counter eating a hot roast beef sandwich and flirting with the waitress. There were two empty beer bottles on the counter, and he was working on a third. I sat on the stool beside him. “Rob-bie Sua-zo,” I said.

“What do you want?” His voice was loud and thick, his breath boozy. “Hey, man, why did you go talking to my old lady the other day?” He might have been stocky once; he had broad shoulders still, but his fondness for speed and crank had eaten away at his muscle base and left him looking like a puppet: a large head, long in the torso, short-legged, and listing a little, almost off balance. His face was pocked with deep holes left by acne, and his skin was sallow and grayish. His thin mustache and beard made him look dirty, unkempt, and his wavy dark hair was tied at his neck in a pathetic attempt at a ponytail. He looked like he hadn’t changed his clothes in a few days.

“I want to know what you were doing on BLM land up by Boscaje.”

“You can go to hell, puta.” He pulled hard on the beer bottle, draining it. He set it down, got up, drew a twenty-dollar bill from a thick roll, and threw it on the counter. “We were all better over here before you people came and fenced off our land.” He spoke so loud, he was nearly shouting. “I don’t need a coño like you coming in here when I’m trying to eat! And I don’t like you coming to my house, talking to my old lady, man! You got no business with my old lady, you hear me? Someday, somebody’s going to do something about you sticking your pretty little cola blanca in other people’s business. Your pucha stinks so bad, I have to get out of here. It’s making me sick.” He turned and swaggered away, one shoulder tilted slightly backward, the arm and hand dragging just a little.

I sat there a moment. The waitress grabbed the twenty and began clearing up the counter, avoiding looking at me. I got up. I was livid. I felt a clear bolt of energy move through me, and as it surged into my center, I felt invincible. I hurried after Suazo, caught up with him in the parking lot just as he was about to get in his truck. I tapped him on the shoulder from behind. He was only about five-nine, not much bigger than me, really, and certainly not in good shape, though possibly tough in a wiry sort of way. Suazo whirled on me and took a swipe with his better arm. I ducked. That swipe was all I needed. I threw my body into his solar plexus, and I heard the wind rush out of his lungs with a grunt as my shoulder lodged deep. I grabbed his scrotum with one hand and his windpipe with another, and I rammed him against the side of his truck, squeezing the lower hand hard. His arms didn’t have time to reach for me before his face contorted with pain. He raised both hands in the air in defeat. I loosened my grip a little, but held him there. “I want you to apologize for the insulting things you just said about my anatomy and my profession, Mr. Suazo.” The words barely escaped my gritted teeth. I was a reservoir of seething rage.

“Lo si-en-to, señ-or-i-ta.” His voice wheezed from the blow, but his voice was still bitter. He wouldn’t look at me. His eyes were slits, one lid lazy, almost closing on his fierce stare past my shoulder.

“Now, tell me. What were you doing up by Boscaje?”

“Nada.”

I squeezed hard, and he tried to double over, but I pressed against his windpipe.

“Just looking for fun, man.” He half choked. “Looking for a good time with la rubia-some gringa like you.”

“I’m in no mood, Suazo. You may like to beat on your poor little wife, but this is one woman you better not screw around with. I’d just as soon rip these little jewels right off you as stand here and smell your foul stench.”

“Sí, pero, you’re not going to do that,” he puffed. “You got no jurisdiction here. You got nothing on me, man! You can’t do a fucking thing to me!” His raspy voice attempted bravado, but his eyes protruded from fear and pain. He looked like a big lizard.

“You took a swing at me, Suazo. That’s all I need. I can have you arrested right now for attempted assault on a federal agent. Or you can talk to me about what you were doing up by Boscaje.” We stood there a moment, my forehead almost touching the side of his pitted face, both of us panting, neither one of us moving. I could taste the stink of his beer breath, his fear. His crotch felt damp in my hand. I heard a car door slam behind me and footsteps coming toward us, but I didn’t take my hands away or even dare to turn my head around and look.

“Can I be of any help?” a baritone voice asked. I knew that voice. Where did I know that voice from? I released Suazo, whose eyes were wide with fright. He scrambled into his truck as I turned around and saw Andy Vincent, and behind him Regan.

“Jamaica?” she said, her face full of worry. “Are you all right?”

Suazo’s truck roared to life, jumped the curb, and squealed away.