Dick Stivers - Justice by Fire

"Mr. Gallucci! Over here." One of the San Jose county sheriffs called him over to a Silverado truck.

"Look at this…" The sheriff pointed to a pattern of holes in the passenger-side door.

Holes of .30 caliber and other holes not much larger than pinpoints created the outline of a man's legs. Chipped enamel indicated where other shot balls had lost velocity as they passed through the man's legs and only dented the truck's sheet steel. A trail of blood from the truck led to a corpse in the weeds.

Gallucci looked up at the hillside to confirm the angle of aim to the door panel. He examined the holes punched into the truck's steel.

The sheriff explained. "Only time I've seen buckshot penetrate a car is point-blank, straight on. But look. I estimate twenty-five yards from where the shotgunner fired. At a twenty-something degree angle. But his pellets — looks like a mixed load, buckshot and bird shot — they went straight through the sheet metal. Except for where that Mexican was standing. And the shot went through him and still dented the door."

"It'll give the lab something to think about," Gallucci told him.

"Me, too. Someone is running around who I don't want to meet."

Gallucci noticed marks in the dust of the road. As if continuing his search for more evidence, the FBI officer walked away from the county sheriff.

On the other side of the Silverado, handprints and the wider prints of knees indicated a man had crawled from under the truck to the other side of the road. Gallucci continued to the roadside. The handprints and scuffs showed where the escaping man had gained the concealment of weeds and trash. Footprints from the trash led toward the highway.

Gallucci glanced around at the other officers. They were combing the hillsides and killing ground. The Silverado blocked their view of him.

As if he only walked back and forth to examine the ground, Gallucci eradicated the marks of his Salvadoran brother-in-struggle who had escaped.

A sheriff called out, "Mr. Gallucci. We got a break!"

"What?" Gallucci walked to the sheriff's department patrol car.

"There's a gunshot case at the hospital."

"Let's go!" Gallucci ran for his bureau vehicle.

Flashing his Federal Bureau of Investigation identification to the admitting clerk, Agent Gallucci demanded: "I got a report of a gunshot case here. What room?"

Waiting outpatients and visitors crowded the reception room of San Jose County Hospital. A teenage candy striper wheeled a cart of magazines from couch to couch; a young man with a leg in a cast waved to get her attention. At the front desk, the clerk glanced at Gallucci's identification.

"Just a moment…" The white-haired clerk touch-coded an extension number. "What is the status of the Mexican man?" She listened for a moment, then turned to the agent. "He's under sedation, sir. We're preparing an operating room for him now."

"Is he conscious?"

"In and out. He has a compound fracture of his left femur, shock from blood loss, serious gunshot wounds. I doubt if he could answer questions."

"Where did you find him?"

"In front of the hospital. Someone simply dumped him on the parkway. They had given him expert first aid, but..."

"What name did he give you?"

"That's a problem. The police tried to question him about that. His identification says he's from Mexico. On a business trip, but he told us he's Salvadoran. Kept begging us to call the State Department. The United States Department of State. Says he wants asylum. Is that why you're here?"

Gallucci nodded. "How long until he goes into surgery?"

"Soon."

"Well, I'll see what he has to say."

"Officer, he..."

"If he's conscious, we'll talk. If not, I'll come back tomorrow. What room?"

"Room 113. That doorway and to the right. Halfway down the hall."

Passing through the lobby, Gallucci glanced at the security guard posted at the side of the large room. The potbellied guard leaned against the wall watching the waiting area's television. Gallucci continued into the hallway. He noted that the food-service workers wore plain white uniforms without badges or identification tags.

Room 113 smelled of blood and antiseptic. The wounded Salvadoran opened his eyes as Gallucci went to the bed. Gallucci looked at the bandages covering the young man's body. He could not be the soldier who escaped.

"You are State Department?" the wounded young man asked.

Gallucci went to the room's bathroom. He looked inside, saw the door to the adjoining room open. No one occupied the other room. Gallucci pulled the door closed and locked it. Only then did he answer the Salvadoran.

"So you want asylum? Why?"

"I… have had enough of war and… killing. No more."

"War? What're you talking about? You're a Mexican. Mexico's not at war with us."

"I am Salvadoran… My commander, Colonel Quesada… he ordered… I come to kill North Americans."

"Who shot you?"

"North Americans. Why do you ask me that? I told them everything..."

"You mean the police?"

"Who shot me… who killed all the others… I told them everything…"

"So you're willing to cooperate?"

"Yes… I cooperate…"

"That's all I needed to know. Adios, amigo ."

Gallucci left the room quickly. He went to a pay phone in the lobby of the hospital and called a San Francisco number.

An hour after the young Salvadoran left surgery, a food-service worker entered his room. The worker pressed a pillow over the face of the Salvadoran.

His war had indeed ended.

Stepping over trash and bottles, Antonio Rivera descended the urine-stinking stairs. Graffiti identified the gangs claiming and competing for the tenement as territory. At the first-floor door, Rivera peered into the lobby before stepping out.

He saw the clerk staring at a television behind the steel wire and bulletproof glass of the manager's office. An elderly resident of the deteriorating hotel slept in an overstuffed chair salvaged from some garbage heap. A Mexican resident pushed through the doors. Recognizing the Mexican as an illegal, Rivera knew he could leave the hotel without risking walking into a squad of Immigration and Naturalization officers.

With a quick " Buenos" to the Mexican, Rivera hurried out. Derelicts and winos sprawled on the sidewalk, warming themselves in the late-afternoon sunlight. Rush-hour traffic from the offices of downtown Los Angeles sped past. With their windows rolled up, secretaries and lawyers and accountants drove past without looking at the human dregs littering Main Street.

Rivera hurried to the corner of Eighth and Main. There, he went to a pay phone in the corner of a cafe. Taking a business card from his wallet, he punched the buttons for a San Francisco number. After depositing a dollar in coins, the phone rang.

"Good evening, Holt, Lindsey and Stein."

" Buenas tardes . May I speak with Mr. Holt."

"This is the answering service, sir. The office is closed for the day. Would you like to leave a message, sir?"

"Mr. Holt has gone home?"

"I have no idea, sir. I only take messages for the office."

"This is Antonio Rivera calling..." He turned the card over. On the back, David Holt had written his home number. "I will call Mr. Holt's home. I must speak with him personally. Thank you."

"Good night, Mr. Rivera."

The second call cost him the last of his coins. After several rings, a young man answered the phone.

"This is the Holt residence. Who is calling?"

" Buenas tardes . This is Antonio Rivera. May I please speak with Mr. Holt?"

Only a quick intake of breath answered him. He heard a hand close over the phone. Then the voice returned.