The Mamacita Murders Read online

  Snitches are inherently unreliable. Juries don’t like them and have a hard time believing them. What’s worse is that if I use them and they blow up in my face, my whole credibility is out the door. A lot of these convicted felons are natural liars; so even where there is some truth in what they say, there might be lies mixed in there, too. A good investigator will see through the lies and get the snitch to tell the whole truth.

  “I’ll talk to him right now and see what he wants to do,” says Bruce.

  The side room of Department Nineteen gives Dylan, Bruce, Clown, and I barely enough room to sit around a table. I read Clown the one-page King for a Day agreement that we signed, which tells him he’s not getting anything for what he’s about to tell us.

  “We are tape-recording this conversation. It’s my understanding that you have information you wanted to share with us, is that correct?” I ask, placing Dylan’s small recorder on the table.

  “Yes,” says Clown.

  “You understand that I am not making you any promises for this information. You are charged with assault. You are facing life on this case. Anything you say today won’t ever be used against you, but you’re not getting anything when you walk out this door today,” I say, pointing to the cherry-colored wooden door that leads to the corridor outside the courtroom.

  Clown shakes his head back and forth.

  “So whatchu got?” asks Dylan.

  Clown looks down and shifts his body weight, causing his wrist and ankle chains to clank.

  “Man, I ain’t talking. Just roll my prints,” says Clown.

  “You had something to tell us. Talk to us, man,” says Dylan.

  “Nah, forget it. I ain’t talking,” says Clown.

  “I’m sick of this shit. You show up at the Prosecutor’s Office wanting to talk to the Assistant Prosecutor, then you take off running. Does it have to do with me being here or something? What’s your problem, dude?” asks Dylan.

  Clown shakes his head back and forth. I don’t blame him. As much as it’s important to build a rapport with a victim on a sex case so they disclose information about what happened to them, it can be just as important to build a rapport with a suspect or possible informant. In general, they don’t trust law enforcement, especially gang members. They know it’s a big gamble to be a snitch and turn over information to police. Once they decide to do that, there’s no turning back. It has to be worth it to them, like they are going to get a huge break in their own case.

  Agreeing to speak with us is not for the weak-minded. Clown doesn’t have to do this. And he knows it. It goes against all codes and rules, no matter whom you’re giving up information on. Even if it’s a police officer like Cruz he was going to expose, it wouldn’t matter.

  Dylan turns the tape recorder off and places his fingerprint kit on the table before opening it. Bruce motions with his finger at me to follow him outside the room.

  Bruce and I stand in a tiny corridor separating the hallway from the courtroom. I’m close enough to him to smell his cologne, which I recognize being the same one Neil used to wear. I feel instantly repulsed.

  “I’m sorry, I really thought he was ready to talk,” says Bruce.

  “This is a total waste of time,” I say.

  “I thought I was doing you guys a favor.”

  “You’re not. You’re wasting my time. I should be packing for my trip tomorrow. This is what I can’t stand about defendants. They play with the system. Had you already explained to him that he wasn’t getting anything today? He looked a little surprised when I mentioned that he’s not walking out the door with anything today.”

  “I did. He said he was ready to do this. He even made a comment about being ready to debrief and get out of the gang.”

  “Yeah, right. This guy’s in too deep. Just last week he’s running a prostitution ring and he’s got this huge letter L on his arm. Give me a break.”

  “I’m just telling you what he said.”

  “It seemed like he was expecting me to cut down his sentence or drop charges. I just don’t like when defense attorneys give them false hopes.”

  “I told him you couldn’t do anything today, but I also told him that in some cases, snitches get leniency, kickbacks from the police, or relocated through a witness protection program.”

  “And what did he say?”

  “He understood. But I’m thinking he still was hoping for something today. I talked to him all weekend about this. He wanted to come forward. So I’m actually surprised. He was saying things like he was ready to get his life back in order. He said what happened to Laura really upset him. He’s telling me he didn’t do this,” says Bruce.

  “And you believe him?” I say sarcastically.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I hear these things all the time, but, yeah, I really believe him,” Bruce says. “I’ve known him for a while and he just spoke differently about this one. I can’t put my finger on it.”

  “Do you think him not talking had anything do with Dylan being in the room?” I ask.

  “I don’t think so. I just don’t think he’s wrapped his head completely around the idea of being a snitch.”

  “Tell me this,” I say. “Can you give me any other information about what he was going to tell us?”

  “I really don’t want to do that. He’s the one who needs to come forward and give that information. I don’t want to put him in danger.”

  “I know, but you do have an obligation to give me any exculpatory information. If you have credibile evidence that he didn’t commit those crimes, I need to know.”

  “That’s not true. My clients tell me all the time they didn’t do it and I don’t tell the prosecutor. Are you forgetting there’s something called attorney-client privilege?”

  “Okay, but don’t you think it’s important to give me information that shows your client might be innocent?” I ask.

  “Sure, but not when it’s coming from my own client’s mouth. Those communications are privileged and he has asked me not to say anything. I don’t want him shanked in jail because he decided to talk to you guys. If the gang gets wind of him even thinking of talking with the prosecutor, I’m putting him in danger.”

  “I won’t say anything.”

  “I know you probably won’t. I’ve asked around about your reputation and you seem trustworthy. But Investigator Mack is in there. And I don’t know much about him. Just think about it from my perspective.”

  “I can respect that. But I also want to make sure the right guy is prosecuted.”

  “Is there a reason you don’t think he’s the right guy? Do you need to turn over exculpatory evidence that my client may be innocent?” Bruce asks. “Because I certainly would hope you’re not prosecuting someone you believe did not commit the crime. That would be a serious ethical violation and prosecutorial misconduct.”

  “You don’t need to explain my duties or ethical responsibilites to me. I’m aware of them, thank you,” I say.

  “Are you always this defensive?”

  “Yes, if someone talks about prosecutorial misconduct without something to substantiate it.”

  “Sorry,” he says.

  “Do you have anything left to discuss? I think this conversation is over. I’ll be ready for the prelim in ten days. I think it would be worth it to cut my vacation short to do a preliminary hearing against an attorney who’s questioning my ethics.”

  “Oh c’mon. Lighten up. Look. He didn’t tell me much, to be honest,” he says.

  “He really didn’t mention anything specific. He said he wanted to tell you guys to look at someone else, but he didn’t give details.”

  I study Bruce’s eyes for any indication he has more information than he’s giving me.

  “Oh. One more thing. We would be happy to waive time until you get back from your vacation. I already discussed that with my client.”

  “No pressure, I’m fine with changing my flight.”

  “Honestly, my sense with Mr. Garcia is that he has a
lot of information, but he’s not ready to give it up. He’s a gang member. I’ll work on him while you’re away. Maybe when you get back, he’ll be ready to talk.”

  “Did he seem sorry for what happened to Laura?” I ask.

  “He just said something about knowing he did wrong with her, but what happened at the motel was sick. He kept saying ‘That is sick shit,’ ‘That is sick shit,’ almost like he had seen the crime scene. He also kept saying, ‘You don’t do that to her.’ Yesterday, before I left the jail visit, he said he knew who did this and he wanted you to know, too.”

  “So why isn’t he talking?”

  Bruce leans in close to me and lowers his voice.

  “Because snitches get stitches,” says Bruce.

  20

  LA CIUDAD AMURALLADA

  As I sit on a lounge chair on top of our historic hotel outside the Walled City waiting for Dylan to finish showering in our room, I read the sign on the building next door. Centro de Convensiones de la Ciudad Amurallada. It’s the Walled City’s Convention Center. The vibrant-colored flags wave in front of it.

  At a distance is the historic central area of the Walled City. It’s called the Walled City because it’s engulfed by a twenty-foot concrete and stone wall. Centuries ago, a fortress was built around the city to keep people in and invaders out. The walls shielded them from cannons and gunfire. But they couldn’t protect them from illnesses that swept through the town. I guess that’s one reason not to build walls around yourself. Mine are coming down slowly, but they’re not down yet.

  The cool breezes from the humid ninety degree weather cool me down as I sit in a purple, colorful, strapless cotton dress I specifically picked to bring on this trip. It flatters my petite frame and goes perfectly with my Carmen Miranda pin-up outfit I brought to help me get into the back rooms of the police department here.

  “Hey there, it’s lovely up here,” says Dylan.

  “Oh, you scared me.”

  “How did you find this hotel?”

  “Just a little research and I love the historical feel of it,” I say. “Mariposa, where my mom met Señor Santiago-Borges, was my first choice. But my office wouldn’t foot the four hundred dollar per night rate. So this was the next best choice.”

  “Well, it’s a great choice. Hey, check out that boat.”

  A dark brown-trimmed boat with black exterior and tall masts connected to white sails sits in the water outside the Convention Center. It’s the pirate ship kind. Stairs up to the deck make it inviting enough to climb up if it was any closer to me.

  “I wish we had time to tour the city and take a closer look at stuff like that, but I know we’re here for work,” I say.

  “I’m sure we can make a little time for some adventure. I mean, we are in the Walled City. And it is your birthday,” Dylan says. “Plus, I hear we need to get in tune with the schedule here. You have two choices here — history or sun. And since we’re not going to be doing much sunbathing, we should learn about the history of this place. Let’s take a stroll into town.”

  Walking through the Plaza feels like I’ve flashed back one hundred years. White, yellow, and tan-colored historic buildings line the cobblestone streets. Storefronts filled with clothing, handmade arts and crafts, bars, and music add to the vibrancy of an already lively city. The air suffocates me as I walk through the town perspiring. The loud music blares from all sides of me. Bands no more than fifty yards away from each other compete for the attention of tourists. A beautiful lady in a tight red skirt with a slit that travels up her thigh moves her hips to the rhythm. The red flower in her hair bun takes me back twenty-four years.

  Growing up, my mom signed me up for dance classes to honor all the places she got to travel with the family she nannied for. I learned to dance Ballet Folklorico, Salsa, Tango, and Flamenco throughout Old Town. Before class, my mom would slick my hair back in a bun and fasten a big red flower next to my ear. In Ballet Folklorico, I got to play castanets, which are wooden shells tied to my fingers that I’d roll my nails over to clack pretty sounds on. I synchronized it with tap dancing heel-work patterns. Every Christmas I’d perform a dance recital at our local Catholic Church. One of my favorite pastimes was helping my mom sew on five thousand yellow, green, and red sequins on my China Poblana skirt.

  I still remember the story my mom told me. The China Poblana comes from a legend that a Chinese princess was taken into slavery in Mexico. A rich family from another town bought her and adopted her into their family. The princess was known for her gentle manners, loving kindness, and helpfulness towards others. When she died, all the young girls in the village of Puebla wanted to be like her so they began dressing like her. All my costumes reflected the culture of different regions of Mexico.

  My dance troupe was selected to perform at the Old Town Castle one year. So I worked hard to get my skirt finished for the show. One by one, I stitched the sequins along a sketch of an eagle perched on a cactus holding a serpent in its mouth on the front of the skirt. On the back, I sequined an Aztec calendar. It took me five months, every day after school, to turn my skirt into a sparkling Mexican wonderland of rich culture to perform at the Castle. The skirt was so heavy, we placed it on the floor and then I stepped into it before my mom pulled it up, hooked the metal eye, and cinched my waist tight with a green, white, and red satin band.

  Watching the girl with the red flower in her hair dance around the cobblestone street makes me realize why my mom loved the Walled City so much. The life, the passion, and the love for the rich culture here is undeniable. It’s a life that is different from anything I’ve seen back home.

  People from all around the world along with locals fill the streets vending beautiful pearl, silver, and colorful stoned necklaces, rings, and bracelets laid out on blankets. The blare of music in the distance and warm breezes add to the feel of a vacation for me.

  Dylan pulls my hand and yanks me up to the sidewalk as a horse-drawn carriage clip clops down the narrow street.

  “You were almost run over by a horse. Imagine that on your gravestone, death by horse carriage,” says Dylan.

  “I think it would be a perfect way to go out. To die in the beauty of this culture would be a blessing,” I say.

  “The police station should be right up here,” says Dylan.

  The police station blends right into the narrow streets and side shops of the Walled City. The white painted splashed walls and dark wooded reception desk represents the traditional style of this entire city.

  “Hello, ma’am. Is Officer Nuñez here? We have an appointment with him,” I say in Spanish.

  While watching her speak to Officer Nuñez on the phone, I’m reminded that the Walled City has some of the most beautiful women. Even this policewoman, with her hair slicked back and dressed in her dark green police uniform and hat, has an elegance that’s rare to see in the female officers at home.

  She hangs her phone up. We continue speaking in Spanish.

  “He’ll be down in a few minutes,” she says.

  “Put these on,” she says as she hands us the badges.

  “They are asking us to put these visitor badges on,” I tell Dylan in English, handing him one.

  “One more thing, ma’am. Do you know an officer named Santiago-Borges?” I ask the woman.

  “Yes, I know who he is. He works with politicians. Why do you ask for him?” she asks.

  “He met my mother many years ago when she visited here in the Walled City and I was just curious,” I say.

  “What is your mother’s name?”

  “Anita Ruiz. But she passed away. I was just curious to see what happened to him. He had a special place in her heart. I at least know that,” I say. “She was in love with him.”

  “Oh, they were in love,” she says affirmatively.

  “I don’t know if he was,” I reply.

  She starts laughing and winks at Dylan, who has no clue what we’re saying. But he still smiles back politely.

  “I don’t think
one experiences love alone. It is something they both must have felt for each other,” she says.

  I can’t help but want to persist in a debate about all the one-sided love affairs I’ve had. But her phone rings.

  I fill Dylan in on our conversation. He pokes at my side trying to tickle me and we look at each other and laugh.

  She hangs up the phone. “That was Officer Nuñez. He asked that I take you upstairs. Please follow me,” she says.

  Within seconds, we are whisked to the top of a staircase inside the police station. I can instantly connect with what my mom must have found attractive in Officer Santiago-Borges if he looks anything like Nuñez. Officer Nuñez’s light skin, dark hair, fuzzy eyebrows, fine features, and deep sexy Spanish accent send me into a trance.

  There’s something about a hard-working blue collar man with a uniform on that is extremely sexy and even more so when he is speaking in his native tongue, something I can’t help but fantasize about it entering my mouth.

  “Dylan, do you have the name of the mortuary where Señor Hector Cruz was sent to?” I ask.

  “Yes, I have it here in my phone,” says Dylan.

  After exchanging some playful Spanish banter with Officer Nuñez, he pulls up on his computer six different addresses of the mortuary locations throughout the Walled City, one being close by.

  “Will you be able to assist us in contacting the mortuary and locating Señor Cruz’s body?” I ask in Spanish.

  “Yes, we are prepared to assist you in that way. We have orders to work with you. Whatever you need, we are here for you. I will contact them now; however, I will say one thing. I can’t make any guarantees the mortuary will cooperate with us, but I will try. We may have to get a letter from a judge. How much time do you have?” Officer Nuñez asks.

  “However much time you need. This place wouldn’t be so bad to stay in,” I say.

  Giving him one of my biggest and warmest smiles, which comes so naturally to those who win my affection, has Nuñez making eyes with me and me back before he picks up his telephone and starts dialing the mortuary.