Payne had a mental image of some Latino towering over young girls and flailing with the long-bladed machete, just hacking away at their necks.
What sort of animal does that? he thought.
Certainly a godless one…
Harris finally broke their silence.
“What happens next, Doc?” he said. “We got nothing back from the FBI on her fingerprints. No records, nothing.”
“The examiners will make the usual calls, trying to see if she’s a runaway or similar. But unless someone comes forward, I guess she’ll just go on the list with the other two.”
He nodded at a clipboard hanging on a hook by the door.
Dr. Mitchell explained: “We went ahead and wrote up the two Hispanic males from the motel explosion.”
The ME’s office had a Forensic Investigative Unit. Among other tasks, the FIU worked to identify human remains. Then, if successful, it contacted the next of kin.
Most unidentified bodies brought to the ME were identified within a matter of hours. This was accomplished by matching fingerprints to FBI database records. Folks who died violent deaths of a suspicious nature tended to have an arrest record, which of course included a full set of fingerprints. For those who didn’t have a rap sheet the size of a phone book, the identification sometimes was made using dental records or DNA matching, both of which tended to be more difficult than matches by prints. But, like the prints, these matches were indisputable.
There were those victims, however, who just could not be so matched. Decomposition and charring of the body topped the list of reasons why no records could be found on a John or Jane Doe. And so the ME’s office published a list of these non-name victims available for public review.
Payne walked over and collected the clipboard. He read the top sheet:
City of Philadelphia
Medical Examiner’s Office
Forensic Investigative Unit
Howard H. Mitchell, MD
Medical Examiner To date, using current methods, the Forensic Investigative Unit of the Medical Examiner?s Office has been unable to identify the following persons. It is hoped that this listing of unknown individuals and their description being made public will aid in our identifying them.
Anyone having any information that may help the FIU identify these person or persons is asked to contract the Forensic Services Manager at 215-685-7445.
CASE NUMBER: 09-4087
RACE: Hispanic
GENDER: Male
ESTIMATE AGE: 25-30 years ESTIMATE HEIGHT AND WEIGHT: 5?4”, 140 pounds DATE BODY FOUND: 09 September LOCATION OF BODY: Philly Inn, 7004 Frankford Avenue, Philadelphia DISTINGUISHING MARKS: tattoo of a tear drop at corner of right eye; tear drop incomplete, only bottom inked in PERSONAL EFFECTS: gold earring stud right lobe.
CLOTHING: LUCKY brand jeans size 34x32, [unknown] brand T-shirt size medium, NIKE athletic shoes size 10 BRIEF DESCRIPTION: Charred remains. The decedent was killed in the explosion of a meth lab. Clothing mostly burned. The decedent can be identified by dental record or DNA.
RACE: Hispanic
GENDER: Male
ESTIMATE AGE: 20-25 years ESTIMATE HEIGHT AND WEIGHT: 5?0”, 100 pounds DATE BODY FOUND: 09 September LOCATION OF BODY: Philly Inn, 7004 Frankford Avenue, Philadelphia DISTINGUISHING MARKS: None PERSONAL EFFECTS: Timex wristwatch CLOTHING: Notorious BIG brand jeans size 34x32, [unknown] brand T-shirt size medium, NIKE athletic shoes size 10 BRIEF DESCRIPTION: Charred remains. The decedent was in an explosion of a meth lab but may have died from a cut to the throat. Clothing almost completely burned. Timex wristwatch melted to wrist. The decedent can be identified by dental record or DNA.
Matt Payne snorted as he read.
He handed the clipboard to Tony Harris.
Payne said, “Get a load of the brand names of their jeans. ‘Notorious BIG’ and, irony of ironies, ‘Lucky.’”
Harris took the sheet and looked. He grunted as he handed the board to Byrth.
“Jim, any idea what’s with the older, bigger guy’s tattoo?” Payne then said.
“Hard to say,” Byrth replied as he scanned the sheet, “because the gangbangers have bastardized it so much. A teardrop originally was basically a symbol of someone crying over a lost one, either incarcerated or murdered-a display of closure. Then it came to be a badge of honor, or warning, especially in prison, indicating that the bearer had murdered someone in or out of prison.”
“What about the one on this guy? A tear with an empty top and a full bottom.”
“Could mean he avenged the murder of a loved one.”
Payne looked at Tony Harris.
“The other guy had the slit throat,” Payne said.
Harris nodded. “Could be something. Maybe suggests he wasn’t shy about taking someone out?”
“Certainly fitting,” Byrth said. He then added, “You don’t want to walk around with one in Australia.”
“Why?” Payne said.
“There, convicts who’re accused as being child molesters basically get branded with a teardrop.”
Payne shook his head. “Hell, I don’t want to walk around with one anywhere.” He sighed as he glanced again at the abused corpse. “No offense, Doc, but I’m getting the hell out of here.”
“None taken, Matt. This particular job even depresses a callous veteran such as myself. Good luck catching the sonofabitch.”
Harris and Byrth said their thanks and goodbyes, and followed.
And as they stepped outside, Payne’s cell phone began ringing.
He looked at the screen. It read: UNION LEAGUE OF PHILA-1 CALL @ 2045.
“Wonder who this is?” he said, and a moment later heard Hollaran’s voice.
[TWO] 2480 Arroyo Avenue, Dallas Wednesday, September 9, 7:56 P.M. Texas Standard Time Juan Paulo Delgado stepped carefully as he went through the six-foot-tall wall of red-tip photinias that grew thickly beside the convenience store. He had his Beretta semiautomatic nine-millimeter pistol out, and slowly thumbed back its hammer.
He heard and smelled the grimy man before he saw him in the shadows.
The coyote was humming as he took one helluva piss on the bare dirt.
He’s dirty and he stinks!
El Gato pounced.
His right arm outstretched, he brought up his pistol to shoulder level and smoothly closed on his target. Just as the muzzle of the weapon touched the back of the man’s skull-and the man suddenly realized that he was not alone-El Gato squeezed the trigger.
The hollow-point copper-jacketed lead bullet made a neat entrance hole and mushroomed. It traveled through the soft gray matter, then made an exit wound that fractured so much bone it tore off the flesh of the man’s right cheek.
He immediately fell forward, making a soft splash as he landed in his own pool of urine. Blood drained from the head wounds, mixing with the pool.
Shit! Delgado thought, wiping at the blood spatter on his hands.
And I don’t want to have to dig around in that mess!
Then he saw light reflecting off something metallic in the man’s left hand.
The keys!
He grabbed them. Then he ran a finger through the right back pocket of the man’s blue jeans. He pulled out a wallet and stuck it in his left front pants pocket.
He kicked the man, checking for any sign of life.
The man’s body responded with an extraordinarily long final act of flatulence.
El Gato began stepping back to the wall of bushes. As he went though the bushes, he decocked the Beretta and slipped it back in his waistband. The barrel was still warm, almost uncomfortably so against the sensitive skin of his groin.
He looked around. No one seemed to be paying any attention to him or to the side of the convenience store.
Delgado walked up to the driver’s door of the Expedition. He motioned for El Cheque to roll down his window.