Rick Mofina - In Desperation

Dust clouds trailed the white 1999 Chevrolet Blazer slicing through the eroded stretches and dried arroyos of scrubland some thirty miles outside of Ciudad Juarez.

Out here, the police scanner mounted to the dash was picking up mostly static. The driver, Arturo Castillo, a news photographer with El Heraldo, adjusted it and glanced in the rearview mirror.

Jack Gannon was in the backseat searching the desolate expanse for a hint of what awaited him. After Isabel Luna had called him in Phoenix, he’d left for El Paso with Cora’s pleas echoing in his ears.

“Don’t leave me, Jack, please!”

“I have to check something out.”

“What? Where? Why won’t you tell me?”

Hackett was out of earshot but eyeballing him from across the room, where he was working with the other investigators, watching coldly but not interfering.

“Cora, let me check this out. I don’t have details, just a lead from a good source.”

“Jack, please don’t go. Something bad has happened. I feel it.”

A few hours later, when his jet landed in El Paso, Gannon made his way across the border to the offices of El Heraldo. Luna, true to her word, had arranged to rush him to “a location in the desert.” Now, as the Chevy Blazer bumped along the dusty road, Gannon shifted his attention to Luna. She was sitting in the front passenger seat and when she’d finished sending a text message on her phone, Gannon came back to the question he’d asked earlier.

“How solid is your information?”

“My source is unassailable.”

Twenty minutes later, Castillo, guided by the odometer reading and directions Luna gave from her notebook, shifted the transmission of the Blazer into four-wheel drive and headed off road and over the parched grassland.

Two miles in, they came to a fast-flowing irrigation stream. Castillo chose a narrow bend and carefully forded it. The water rose to the running boards as the Chevy wobbled over the stony bottom.

After they’d gone another two miles, a small ranch came into view. As they got closer, Gannon discerned a rickety house that looked as if it was about to collapse and a ramshackle barn. The place appeared to have been abandoned for years…until now. A handful of police vehicles were concentrated at the barn, which was encircled with police tape.

Luna, Castillo and Gannon approached the four uniformed officers leaning on the cars just outside the police tape.

“We are from El Heraldo and the World Press Alliance,” Luna said in Spanish as the three showed their ID. Tapping her notebook against her hip, she added: “Let me speak to the person in charge here.”

A hot breeze kicked up grit as Luna stared into the implacable reflection of the first officer’s sunglasses. A long, tense moment passed before he spoke into his shoulder microphone.

A terse response crackled over the radio. Then, in a move that surprised Gannon, the officer lifted the tape for them to approach. Through the gap-toothed boards of the barn, he saw a car was parked inside.

A man in blue jeans, a polo shirt and cowboy boots, with a badge clipped on his belt near his sidearm met them at the entrance. As he handed over his ID, Gannon noticed the blue latex gloves he was wearing. Taking stock of Gannon, Castillo and Luna, the cop spoke in Spanish with Luna. Gannon soon figured that this cop was asking questions as Luna responded with string of sí … sí … sí ’s. Gannon guessed they were questions about him, as this cop-save for a quick scan of the empty horizon beyond them-never took his focus from him.

The detective was in his late thirties, about six feet tall with a firm build. He had a few days’ growth deepening the craggy features of his face, accentuating his piercing hooded eyes.

“Come inside,” he said in English. “Follow me on the path marked on the ground by tape.”

What was going on? This press access to a crime scene was astounding. As Gannon struggled to figure it out, he was assaulted by the stench of excrement mingled with putrid meat. Something was humming. Flies. Blinding beams of sunlight gleamed through the barn’s walls and Gannon needed a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. Several other men in plainclothes were reviewing notes and items by an open barn window.

Gannon saw that the car was a four-door Chevy Caprice, late model with Texas tags…a rental, maybe? The windows were tinted and reflected the flash from Castillo’s camera as he began taking pictures.

The detective opened the driver’s door. The keys were still in the ignition and the indicator chimed softly.

Pong. Pong. Pong.

The outrush of foul air was overwhelming. From what Gannon could see, the driver was resting clumsily on the steering wheel and his passenger was leaning against the window.

Pong. Pong. Pong.

As Gannon heard the buzzing of insects and studied the spaghetti-lace pattern of black and browned blood everywhere, he realized that both corpses were headless.

Pong. Pong. Pong.

Flies from inside the car swarmed Gannon. One tried to go up his nose and he felt bile erupting along his throat.

Pong. Pong. Pong.

Staggering, he drew a deep breath and dragged the back of his hand over his mouth.

“Are you going to be okay?” Luna asked.

Gannon swallowed hard, hurried out and doubled over in the shade side of the barn, letting sweet-smelling breezes do their work, inhaling fresh air until he felt well enough to stand and face Luna and the detective.

“This is my stepbrother, First Sergeant Esteban Cruz.”

“We have Coke and bottled water, Jack,” Cruz offered.

Gannon said he was fine.

“This is your case?”

Cruz nodded as Gannon glanced around warily.

“Don’t worry. It’s safe for us to talk here,” Cruz said. “These men are not corrupt. Each can be trusted.”

“So what happened? What have you got here?”

“A ranch hand from the next property was out here yesterday morning hunting rabbits when he found them.”

“Who are the victims? What’s the link to my niece?”

Cruz unfolded a piece of thermal fax paper and gave it to Gannon. It was a photocopy of Lyle Galviera’s business card, front and back. The back bore handwritten numbers…possibly codes or accounts.

“We found this on one of them,” Cruz said.

“Is one of them Lyle Galviera?”

Cruz shoved a stick of gum in his mouth and shook his head.

“So who are they?”

“We think they were Galviera’s cartel partners. We fingerprinted them late last night.”

“Why are you telling me this? Why call me down here?”

“To help you understand the gravity of your situation,” Cruz said.

“Is it more serious than what is in there-than having my niece kidnapped by monsters?”

“To begin with, we believe that someone involved in the multiagency investigation of your niece’s abduction in Arizona may be on a cartel payroll.”

“Yes, Isabel said that on her call. So what are we dealing with?”

“Those two dead men are ex-U.S. law enforcement. The one in the driver’s seat is Octavio Sergio Salazar. He was fired from the LAPD a few years back for alleged corruption involving drug shipments in California. The other, John Walker Johnson, was fired from U.S. Customs. He was alleged to have taken bribes in exchange for border access. Not long ago, Salazar and Johnson began double-dealing with cartels that were warring with each other.”

“So what happened?”

“Our ex-cops went rogue to start carving out their own U.S. routes while dealing with at least two cartels. We’re not sure which ones. We think that Lyle Galviera was partnered with the ex-cops, using his courier company, and that he’s holding the missing millions for Salazar and Johnson. And we think the cartels believe the cash was stolen from them.”