“That’s insightful. He’s probably two moves ahead of anything we can do right now. We need to get a DNA sample from him. Gomez is dead. Davis isn’t talking. He says he doesn’t know where to find Hector Ortega.”
“What about this doctor, Jude Walberg, can he identify Santana?”
“He says he never saw Santana. Only took orders on the phone. He insists the vics were dead before he got there. He says Gomez and Ortega were the ones who packaged and delivered the organs. Walberg said he didn’t know how the distribution worked. Said as soon as he was done they told him to leave. So what we have is Gomez is dead, Silas Davis in custody, Hector Ortega is MIA, and Santana remains a phantom.”
Lauren was silent.
I said, “Detective Dan Grant questioned the girls in the van that night, the same van transporting the vic I found by the river. Dan said the girls didn’t want to talk. One finally did say that when the vic ran from the van, Ortega chased her for a few minutes, but came back to the van and he said, ‘She deserved what she was going to get.’”
“How many victims?” Lauren asked.
“Walberg says at least six. At first it was one a month. Then business picked up and the slaughters become more frequent. Because the doctor only identified Ortega and Gomez, they must have picked up the bodies and took them to the shack after they got a call from Santana. I was convinced that Richard Brennen fit the profile, but the hair on the duct tape didn’t match his DNA. It did match the killer known as Bagman. I bet Bagman and Santana are one and the same.”
“We’ve got to bring Santana down immediately.”
I looked at my watch. “We need a positive DNA match. Follow him.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to try and find the bodies. Maybe I’ll run into Ortega along the way.”
“Do you need back-up?”
“I need to find Ortega. Then I think I’ll find a real body count.”
“If Ortega’s fled to Mexico, what’s left?”
“I hope the FBI has some good bloodhounds.”
“To track him to Mexico?”
“No, to find the bodies here.”
SIXTY-FOUR
It was late afternoon when I drove into the migrant camp. Some of the buses had returned with exhausted workers. I parked the Jeep under two Australian pines and tried to blend in with the farm workers as they shuffled to the store or in and out of the trailers.
Out of the corner of my eye, I felt someone staring at me. I turned and recognized the man. He was the young man I had seen earlier, the man who’d been beaten. He looked the other way and started walking. “Wait!” I shouted. He kept going. I ran toward him. He darted between two trailers, limping on his right leg. I caught him easily, put my hand on his shoulder, and turned him around.
“It’s okay! I’m not here to hurt you. Comprende? I’m here to help. Please… put the knife away.”
“I understand English, some.”
“Good. What’s your name?”
“Manny Lopez.”
“Manny, listen to me. I know what’s happening here. I don’t care what they say, you’re a free man. They can’t hold you or the others against your will.”
“I try to leave…to run…they find me…hurt me…say they kill me next time. Others try…try to run…they no come back. I think they killed…”
“Who do you think was killed?”
“Some workers…I don’t know all names. They take people from camps…you know…some in Immokalee…Lake Placid…Palatka. Some no come back.”
“Is it men and women, or mostly women?”
He gestured with his palms up. “The womens.” He glanced away for a beat, his eyes looking over the dark tomato fields.
I described the woman I had found to him and he slowly turned his face back to me, his eyes heavy.
“She wear a small gold…how you say?”
“Crucifix.”
“Si.”
“Tell me, what’s her name?
“Angela…Angela Ramirez…”
I could see her face as clear as the morning I found her. Now she had a name. Angela Ramirez. “Is her family in Mexico?”
“No. Honduras.”
“How can I find them?”
“I know the casa…where Angela’s family live. I can show to you on map.”
“Thank you.”
“Angela dead?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“How she die?”
“She was murdered.”
“Gomez…he kill her?”
“I don’t think so. I think it’s a man in Miami who’s connected to Gomez, Ortega, Davis and maybe even the Brennens. Do you know where I can find Ortega?”
“I no see him for six days.”
“Where does Ortega usually work? Where might he be hiding?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I not sure. He sometimes with Gomez. Sometimes he with the grande black man name Mr. Silo. Sometimes he take the women’s in the…”
“The van.” I said
He nodded.
“Where does he keep the women?”
He pointed to the doublewide trailer at the end of the road.
“The largest one?” I asked.
Manny nodded. “That’s where they take Angela. She no go…they not break her…” He pointed toward his heart.
“Spirit,” I said.
“Si.”
“Manny, I think even more people have been killed. Is there any place on this farm where someone might be burying bodies? An area difficult to find them?”
“Many places. Some fields have no fruits…no tomatoes. Somebody could make graves out there.” He looked down the hard-packed dirt road and pointed to a backhoe near a tall Australian pine. “That macheen…sometime I see them take it out at night.” He paused, licked his dry lips, and asked, “Angela in a cemetery?”
“Yes. I will take you there.”
“Gracias.” He made the sign of the cross.
I thanked him. Then I headed for the trailer at the end of the dusty road.
SIXTY-FIVE
I walked behind the doublewide trailer. A rusted air conditioner, braced by a sawed-off two-by-four, hung from a window, rattling and dripping water into the sand. There was one rear entrance or exit. To reach the door I had to step up on a large paint can. The door was locked. I worked my way around the back of the trailer, heading for the front, stepping over dozens of used condoms.
I saw the sun wink from something shiny behind a clump of trees to the far right end of the trailer. I recognized the SUV. It was the Escalade that Ortega drove. I could hear the engine ticking from heat. I felt the hood. The motor was warm. It was unlocked, and keys hung from the ignition.
I could feel Ortega was close. Maybe watching my every move.
I opened the front door to the trailer. The recycled air smelled of cheap perfume, sweat-soaked sheets, and nail polish remover.
Six women, all looking terrified, sat on tattered furniture. The couch was the shade of a UPS truck, frayed and faded. The floor was linoleum, stained yellow, dirty and buckling in places. Latin music played from an area that looked like a kitchen. I stepped in from the heat, and closed the door.
One girl, no more than seventeen, sat with her legs bent at the knees, her arms wrapped around her legs, her small body rocking back and forth. She didn’t look up at me, her eyes wide and not looking at anything in the physical sense. I could see cigarette burns on her arms, between the scars from what looked like self-cutting and mutilation. There was a handprint bruise on her thigh, fresh bloodstains on her yellow shorts.
The other women simply stared at me. Expressionless. They were all so young, ranging in age from about sixteen to early twenties. I said, “Buenas tardes. Hablar Ingles?”