Shortly after noon on the ninth of December, the head nurse of the emergency room at Flagler Memorial Hospital was notified by a policeman that "a school bus with serious injuries" was on its way to the hospital.
Assuming the worst, which is the only sane way to function in Miami, the nurse immediately declared a Code Orange and scrambled every available surgeon, anesthesiologist, scrub nurse, and lab tech in the hospital. The other patients—miscellaneous gunshot victims, drug overdoses, and screeching teenagers in labor—were shuffled out of the way and told to manage as best they could. Flagler Memorial braced for full-scale carnage and catastrophe.
In no time the E. R. filled with TV crews, newspaper reporters, photographers, and personal-injury lawyers. After about an hour of waiting, everyone got cranky and wanted to know what was the damn story with this busload of mangled orphans. Where were the choppers? And the ambulances? Where the hell were the grieving parents?
The head nurse was getting baleful glares from the orthopedic surgeons ("It's Sunday, for Chrissakes!") when the bus finally clattered up to the emergency-room door.
It was not a school bus, though once it might have been. And in fairness to the cop who radioed it in, the bus had the right colors, yellow and black; the yellow being paint and the black being rust.
The driver, a phlegmatic fellow with a Budweiser in one hand, seemed extremely surprised to be met by bright lights and Minicams and an army of tense-looking people dressed in white. Drunk as he was, the driver could sense their collective disappointment.
For the bus was not packed with seriously injured children, but perfectly healthy migrant workers—Jamaicans, Haitians, Dominicans, and Mexicans, all sweaty and dusty and peeved that their day in the tomato fields had been cut short.
"I don't understand," the nurse said, scanning the dark faces. "Where's the emergency?"
"There's your fuckin' emergency," the bus driver said, waving a stubby arm. "Up top."
The nurse stood on the tips of her white shoes and saw what the driver was talking about: a young man strapped to the rack on top of the bus. He looked damp and half-conscious, his clothes soaked with blood. For some reason a briefcase had been placed under his lolling head.
"Hmph!" said the nurse, turning to face the throng. "Relax, everybody."
A pair of orderlies clambered atop the bus and untied Brian Keyes. As they placed him on a stretcher and carried him into the hospital, the emergency room emptied with a groan. Only one reporter hung around to ask questions, and that was Ricky Bloodworth.
Nobody bothered to retrieve the briefcase from the top of the migrant bus. Miraculously it remained there, unsecured, almost halfway back to Immokalee, until the bus accidentally struck an opossum crossing Route 41. The jolt launched the briefcase—containing all Skip Wiley's vital evidence—off the roof of the bus into the Tamiami Canal, where it sank unopened into a gator hole.
Al Garcia was in a bellicose mood. He hated the night shift if he couldn't be out on the streets, and he couldn't be on the streets if he was running the motor pool. The motor pool was a terrible place for a detective; there was nothing to investigate. The highlight of the evening was when one of the K-9 guys drove in with chunks of dead cat all over the backseat of the squad car. The cop said the cat had gone crazy and attacked his K-9 German shepherd and the dog didn't have a choice but to fight back—it was just a terrible thing to see. Garcia said sure, pal, and wrote it up anyway, musing over the sick possibilities.
Al Garcia did not want his career to end this way, in a stale little office on a parking lot full of police cars.
He was still furious about the two goons from I.A.D. who had foraged through his house, hunting for a typewriter that wasn't there. They'd each carried Xerox copies of the El Fuegoletters to compare with anything they found. But all they'd discovered was a bunch of hand-scrawled hate letters Garcia had once written to Lee Iacocca, the president of Chrysler Motors. For some reason almost every cop car in America is made by Chrysler, and Al Garcia calculated that he'd spent at least forty thousand hours of his life riding in Chrysler-made automobiles: Furies, Le-Barons, Diplomats, Monacos, Darts, you-name-it. Al Garcia was an expert on Chryslers, and he hated the damn things. Hated the steering, hated the shocks, hated the brakes, hated the radios. Garcia especially hated the seats. He had hemorrhoids the size of bell peppers and it was all Lee lacocca's fault. So Garcia had dashed off a few appropriate missives, which he wisely never sent. Typically the letters would begin: "Dear Shit-for-Brains." For some reason the guys from I.A.D. found this fascinating. They sealed the letters in a plastic bag and exchanged congratulatory whispers. Garcia gave them the finger on their way out the door.
He didn't really expect to see the I.A.D. boys again anytime soon, so he was mildly surprised when one of the assholes appeared that night at the motor pool. Garcia remembered that his name was Lieutenant Bozeman. He was very young to be a lieutenant, and much too sharply dressed to be a good cop.
"I hope you need a car," Garcia said. "You like cats?"
Bozeman helped himself to a seat. He took a notebook from his coat.
"Just a few questions, sergeant, if you don't mind."
"I domind, dipshit. I'm very busy right now, in case you didn't notice. I got six marked units waiting to have the tires rotated, I got a rear bumper missing off a paddy wagon, and the transmission just dropped out of an undercover car in the middle of the Rickenbacker Causeway. Much as I'd love to help you, I got no time."
Bozeman said, "Harold Keefe thinks you wrote the Fuegoletters."
"Why would I do a stupid thing like that?"
"To make him look bad."
"Hal doesn't need my help."
Bozeman scribbled something in the notebook.
"Weren't you passed over for a promotion last year?"
"Yeah," Garcia said. "Failed the swimsuit competition. So what?"
Scribble, scribble. The scratch of the pen jangled Garcia's nerves.
"You don't like Detective Keefe very much, do you, Garcia?"
"I love Detective Keefe," Garcia said. He leaned over and beckoned Bozeman with a fat brown finger. "I love Hal very much," Garcia whispered. "In fact, I wanthim."
"That's not funny," Bozeman said stiffly.
"You're right, it's very sad. See, Hal doesn't want me ... what did you say your first name was?"
"I didn't."
Bozeman started jotting again. Garcia firmly took him by the wrist. "I like you, too, lieutenant."
"Stop it!"
"Please don't be shy. Are you married?"
"Sergeant, that's enough."
Garcia frowned. "You don't want me either?"
"No!"
"Then why are you getting a lump in your pants, you little fruit!"
Bozeman pulled away, as if burned on a stove. Garcia wheezed with laughter and pounded on the desk.
"You!" Bozeman tried very hard to look icy, Bronson-style, but was betrayed by his crimson blush. "You're nothing but a psychopath, Sergeant Garcia."
"And you're nothing but a well-dressed sack of shit." Garcia stood up and exhaled straight into the lieutenant's face. "Now get out of here before I launch that Bic pen up your Brooks Brothers ass. And put this in your notebook: whoever wrote those Fuegoletters is crazier than me, and he's for real."
After the I.A.D. guy left, Garcia didn't have much to do so he scrounged up a police manual and looked up "moral turpitude." The definition wasn't so bad but, Christ, those two words really jumped off the page. Especially turpitude,which inspired images of Great Danes and Reddi Wip and double-jointed cheerleaders. Certainly wouldn't go over very big back at the homestead. If I.A.D. dumps on me, Garcia thought, maybe they'll have the decency to go with simple "insubordination." With a creep like Bozeman, who could tell.