Robin Burcell - Face of a Killer

“McKnight testified?” she asked, moving out of the way of a woman wheeling a suitcase in one hand, and trying to keep hold of a toddler in the other.

“Not sure, yet. I haven’t finished reading all the particulars. The congressional subcommittee report’s about as long as War and Peace . But the Freedom of Information Act combined with the Internet is a beautiful thing. If you type McKnight’s name into the Internet with the initials BICTT, it brings up the congressional subcommittee report. His name shows up under the chapter heading ‘CIA and Arms Sales.’ Same with Orozco. Since McKnight’s sort of dead, I think you need to find this Orozco dude.”

“Brilliant deduction. Any chance you’ve found out where to locate this Orozco dude?”

“Unfortunately, no. Doc Schermer checked every government file he could get into. Like I said, the guy dropped off the face of the earth about twenty-two years ago.”

Twenty-two years ago was when her father was injured, and when he uprooted them to move to the Bay Area. The timing wasn’t lost on her, but how it might help her was. Another dead end, or something more to be checked out? And thinking of things that needed checking… “Please tell me you and Doc Schermer found something on Wheeler’s case? As of tomorrow he’s at four days and counting.”

“We did. The news isn’t good. Not a lot to go on, I’m afraid. The original investigator died of a heart attack a couple years ago, and out of the three witnesses that testified on

Wheeler’s behalf, only one is still alive. Wheeler’s girlfriend, the mother of his baby, overdosed on heroin about a year after he was incarcerated, leaving their baby in the care of

Wheeler’s maternal aunt, one Jazmine Wheeler. Had a hard time tracking her down, because she’s listed under the report by her married name, and her first name was incorrectly spelled in the report with an S, instead of a Z. You know what a bear it is if the first name’s not right. Apparently she went back to her maiden name, Wheeler, shortly after the trial, when her husband, witness number three, walked out, leaving her to raise Wheeler’s baby on her own. Her ex was killed in a car crash about five years back, so she’s it.” “Any luck contacting her?”

“Not yet. She’s a nurse at a methadone clinic in the city, but she’s out of town for a couple days.”

“A couple days…?” What chance did Wheeler have? “Sorry, kid. Our best chance of talking to her is at the clinic, Sunday afternoon, or maybe at her house before. I hate to break it to you, but between her and the photos, there’s nothing left you can do. And the way I see it, the photos might be

Wheeler’s last hope, or his ticket to the big house in the sky.”

He was referring to a surveillance camera from a neighboring business that had caught stills of someone climbing into the pizza parlor’s rear window.

“But I thought those photos were unusable. That they couldn’t identify anyone.”

“And that may still be the case. But there’s been a lot of progress with image enhancement techniques since the trial.

Back then they didn’t have the digital tools they have now with all the bells and whistles.”

“That’s good, then?”

“That’s real good. The photographs are still logged into evidence. I’ve got a contact out at DOJ who can enhance the images, print up some photos that might just tell us who was climbing in that back window. If it turns out it’s someone other than Wheeler, we’ve got our case.”

An immense wave of relief swept through her, but a shortlived one, when she realized that with only four days left, there wasn’t a lot of time. “How soon can we get those pictures?”

“My contact is putting a rush on it, Sydney. Thinks he can get it back to us in one, maybe two days, working on his off hours. Schermer’s driving out to pick up the photos as we speak.”

“Tell him I owe him.”

“He knows. And really, there’s nothing else we can do for the guy if this doesn’t pan out…”

In other words, Wheeler’s last hope was probably in those photos. “Call me if you find out anything more on either of the cases. I’ve got about an hour before my plane boards.”

“Will do.”

She disconnected, then started down the terminal toward her gate, walking past a gift shop decorated like some tiki hut. At least there was some progress on Wheeler’s case, even if it did seem to come at a snail’s pace in comparison to how much time he had left. That was more than she could say on this other matter. Who the hell was this Robert Orozco? The name meant nothing to her, but she felt as though it should. Just as the whole BICTT scandal meant nothing to her. No doubt it was covered in some course at the National Academy, but not to any great extent that would make an impression over any other scandal funding terrorists, she thought, reaching her gate. She chose a seat that backed up to a support column, giving her something to lean her head against, because she was wiped out from the redeye. Sinking into her seat, she propped her backpack behind her head and closed her eyes, feeling herself drift off, and wondering if she’d hear the boarding announcement if she did.

Bob.

The name popped into her head and she jerked awake, sat up.

Robert Orozco… Bob the Boat Guy. She dug the letter from her backpack, read through it again: I tried to call Boston. I always thought he’d be sick of fish and beer after twenty years. He was the only smart one. We should have all gone down there.

She called Carillo back. “I know who he is.”

“Who?”

“Robert Orozco. He has to be Bob, the guy my dad fished with every year in Mexico. They were going to open up a fishing business in Baja when they retired. That was my father’s big dream.”

“Baja’s sort of a big place.”

“That boat I told you about, Cisco’s Kid? There’s a picture on my nightstand of me and my dad on that boat, and I need a copy of it.”

“How am I going to do that?”

“My landlord, Rainie. She’s always home. She can get it for you. I also need a contact number from my desk for Pedro Venegas of the AFI.” AFI was Mexico’s version of the FBI. Sydney had done some work for Venegas, and now it was time to call in a favor.

“Okay, so what’s the purpose of going to Baja?”

“Because Bob, the boat guy, told me that was the first boat in their fleet. If he’s the same guy, he’s eating fish and drinking beer just south of Tijuana, and that boat is docked down there with him. He’s got to be ‘Boston’ in the letter. It seems McKnight was using nicknames.”

“Hold up, there, Pollyanna. Swinging over to Texas is one thing. How’re you going to justify a trip to Tijuana?”

“What any good agent would do when they want to look in on something on their own time. Claim I have serious jet-lag and call in sick.”

The temperate offshore wind gusted, then died, and Sydney brushed her hair from her face and her eyes as she stepped out of the Rosarito hotel where she’d spent the night, and taken a blessed shower. A light marine layer covered the sky, made her glad for her leather coat, though no doubt she’d be stuffing it into her backpack as the haze burned off later in the day. Her AFI contact, Pedro Venegas, was waiting for her out front.

“Senorita Fitzpatrick. It is good to see you again,” he said, his English perfect, with only the slightest of accents. He wore a dark suit, a crisp white dress shirt, but no tie.

“Senor Venegas,” she said, shaking his hand. They did not greet each other officially, primarily because she wanted no attention drawn to her. “Thank you so much for agreeing to meet me.”

“I regret I can’t offer you more, but perhaps what little I found will be of help. I hope you don’t mind. I took the liberty of bringing you some good Mexican coffee.” He waved his hand toward a black sedan parked nearby. On the hood was a cardboard carrier with two insulated coffee cups sitting within. They walked over, and he gave her one, took the other for himself. “This is from the best coffeehouse in all of Rosarito. Off the beaten path.”