Kierney Scott - Crossing The Line

“No, ma’am. We were waiting for you. I thought you would want to question him first.”

She nodded again. “Thank you.” Jamison had done her a favour. He knew that once Raul Garcia was told the fate of his family, he would be inconsolable. His use as a witness would be more than compromised; he would be useless to the investigation. While there was still hope, Raul would do whatever he could to bring his family back alive. “Can you please call Victim Services? Have them on hand. He is going to need all the support he can get. And intercept any packages that are sent here or to his work. I can’t stress that enough.”

The heads of his family would already be in transit. The Los Treintas were predictable if nothing else. The heads were always sent to the family as a warning, as if losing a loved one wasn’t painful enough. Bile rose in the back of her throat as her body responded to the memory of the night her sister was murdered. She had never seen her dismembered head. She knew it had been sent because she had read the coroner’s report, but she had been spared seeing it. Someone had made sure it never reached her. She wasn’t sure who she had to thank for that, either Torres or Jessop, but she was grateful. She would do her best to extend the same courtesy to Raul Garcia.

“Can you please send me a copy of your case files? I don’t care how small a lead, I would like to see it.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Beth took a deep breath. Time to get to work; time to figure out what made Raul Garcia a target. She stood at the threshold and surveyed the house; no high ticket items that would be out of keeping with a Border Agent’s salary, no flat screen televisions or abundance of electronics, just beige-coloured walls covered in framed photographs. Every wall had at least one family picture but most had several. There were school pictures, wedding pictures, candid shots taken at the lake or at birthday parties. Picture after picture of smiling children and their devoted parents. Grief pierced her veneer, tiny niggling shards of sadness found their way to the centre of her chest but she ignored them.

Judging from the pictures he had three kids: two primary school-aged sons and a preschool-aged daughter. They were beautiful, so young, so innocent. Beth’s throat constricted. She forced herself to look away. She couldn’t think about them right now.

Beth stepped over the pile of discarded shoes in the hallway. Even if she hadn’t seen Raul Garcia’s picture on the wall, she would have immediately recognized him as the victim. He was slumped over on the couch, his hands scrunched into fists, his eyes vacant. She recognized every emotion written on his face because she had felt them all, the anger, the disbelief, the frantic need to do something even though there was nothing to be done.

“I’m Special Agent Thomson – Beth. My name is Beth.” She didn’t reach her hand out to shake his because Raul had lowered his head into his hands.

She considered telling him she understood what he was going through but she didn’t, he wouldn’t appreciate it. No one understood anyone else’s pain. The sad truth of it was everyone was alone in their despair. People could empathize and support but they would never really understand the depth of anguish, they could never feel it. Grief was isolating and unique, singularly different for every person. Had anyone told her they understood what she felt when Paige was murdered, she would have laughed or screamed. No one could ever understand someone else’s pain.

“Special Agent? Like from the FBI? Did you find them?!” Raul asked as he jumped to his feet. He shoved his hand into his pocket. “Here. Take this. You’re going to need a recent picture of them.” He flicked through the pictures in his wallet until her found a picture. “Here.” He thrust the small picture at her. His hand shook as his fingers grazed hers. “It’s the boys’ first day of school. Amalia’s hair is longer now but it still looks like her. This will be OK, right?” His eyes pleaded with her.

A boulder lodged in the pit of her stomach. His family was never coming home but he didn’t know it yet. The enormity of that settled on her, squeezing out all the air from her lungs. She closed her eyes and silently counted to ten. For a moment she couldn’t speak. It was too real again. A month ago it was her waiting for news. She was the one in denial, hoping against hope that everything was going to be OK. This month it was Raul. Next month or next week it would be another family destroyed. How many more lives would the Treintas ruin?

Beth stared down at the photo. His whole world was represented in this picture. And they were gone. Her eyes began to burn. There were no tears, her body had none left but it hurt just the same.

Beth squeezed her eyes shut and told herself to focus. She wouldn’t be any use to anyone if she carried on like this. Later she could reflect and lament and feel despondent. Right now she had a job to do.

She put the picture in her pocket and pulled out a notepad. “I am from the DEA. The investigation into your family’s disappearance is ongoing.”

Raul visibly relaxed. He was expecting her to tell him they were dead. On some level he knew but he was fighting it with every ounce of reason he had. Guilt pricked at her but she ignored it the same way she ignored the pain in her stomach. “Mr. Garcia, when was the last time you saw your family? Where were you tonight?” She hated asking but she had to. He needed to be ruled out but more importantly, she needed to establish the timeline for the abduction.

“Maybe 6:00, 6:30. It was poker night. Some of the guys at work have a game. Once a month. We take turns hosting. Tonight it was at Sal’s.”

“I need the names of everyone there tonight. Anybody that knew you would be out tonight.”

Raul looked up. His dark brown eyes were rimmed with red circles. “Just my buddies from work.”

Beth waited for Raul to process what he had just said. It was possible that Los Treintas had stalked him, followed him, waited for the perfect moment to strike. But it was far more likely that another Border Control Agent had tipped them off. Thanks to Torres, the DEA had identified a dozen agents on cartel payrolls, but they were only the tip of the iceberg.

When Raul didn’t respond, she asked, “Why would Los Treintas want to send you a message? What contact have you had with them?”

He shook his head and started to cry. “I should have let them through.” Raul hunched over, his body shook as he sobbed.

Beth stiffened. Electricity ran the length of her spine. “Who?” She held her breath as she waited for a response.

“Three weeks ago a truck came through. Driver said it was medical supplies, but it wasn’t. I knew it wasn’t. I turned it away. The next day a guy comes through. He says that the truck will be coming through again. Offered me $1000 to look the other way. I should have taken the money.” Raul sobbed again.

Knowing everything she did about Los Treintas, she had to agree, he should have taken the money. But her job meant she could never admit that. Even if she could, she would never tell Raul. He didn’t need anything else to feel guilty about. Once the Treintas had clocked him, his family was as good as dead. She had seen it too many times to count. Plata o plomo : silver or lead. Cartels controlled people, either through money or violence. When Raul turned down the money, he had signed his family’s death warrant. But there was no dwelling on that now; it wouldn’t bring them back.

“What happened?” Beth pushed.

“I told my supervisor. But it didn’t matter. The shipment never came. I thought—”

“I need your supervisor’s name,” Beth interrupted. She caught Jamison’s gaze, one ginger brow arched in question.