The Saguaro Murders

By l d bergsgaard

One, two, then three young women are found crucified on the arms of majestic saguaro cacti in Arizona’s lonely and harsh Sonoran Desert. The clock is ticking on Deputy Angel Lopez to hunt down the killer before he strikes again. And have no doubt; he will strike again and again. The politically ambitious sheriff pushes Lopez to join a task force led by an inept and lazy senior deputy, a jealous FBI profiler whose sexual peccadillos lean to the bizarre, and the profiler’s ex-wife, also an agent, who is drowning her sorrows in a bottle and romancing the handsome Lopez.

To aid in the pursuit, Lopez draws upon his best friend, Lalo, a tainted border patrol agent, his wise grandfather who is a retired sheriff, and his grandmother, a kindly woman who practices brujería, casting spells upon the killers.

The chase continues across the Mexican border into a lawless land where the killer has every advantage, including the corrupt police who only interest in solving the murders is the mordito they stand to gain.

• Language: English
• Publisher: l d bergsgaard
• Release date: Aug 21, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370775316

Book preview

October 20

Thursday

HER MILKY EYES stared into the sun setting across the vast arid valley. Hoping to see an image of her killer, I reluctantly peered into them. That would be the best clue the scene would grudgingly yield — that is besides a few footprints the hikers who discovered the body had left to taint my crime scene. Two cigarette butts, snuffed out by a boot lay at the foot of the cactus. They were bagged. From the rock strewn desert floor, I studied her face some twenty feet overhead. While hideous to view now, she might have been pretty, very much Mexican, likely from the southern regions as she bore the strong handsome features of Mayan or Yucatec indigenous people. Her mouth hung open like an idle ventriloquist’s dummy and had become a favored site for a few dozen buzzing flies. A spider had already spun a web across her lips and snared an insect. The murder victim was suspended on the saguaro cactus long enough for nature to begin the reclamation process. The medical examiner would render an opinion on the length of time. I estimated over a week although the scorching and unrelenting Arizona sun could make it difficult to arrive at an accurate time of death. In the underbrush, in the shade, near moisture, the body would deteriorate at a rate differently than one hung on a thirty-foot saguaro cactus.

Her body was naked except for a gold chain bearing a locket swaying with the breeze between her breasts. She was thin and the front of her body unblemished by scars or wounds but for a surgical mark across her abdomen and what almost appeared to be scant traces of human boot prints across her torso. She had been crucified. Her arms spread wide and hands tied to the massive arms of the cactus. Similarly, her bare feet were bound to the trunk of the aged succulent. The soles of her feet were callused and blistered as one might expect from a border crosser who on foot had struggled and suffered for days across the harsh Sonora desert. Two silver toe rings remained on her right foot. Scratch marks, about four feet off the ground and likely from coyotes, were dug into the tough flesh of the green cactus. In a blood lust, the predators had spent long chilly nights trying to get to an easy and ample meal until like spoiled leftovers, the flesh lost its attraction. Ants, less picky, were more successful as they paraded in lines up and down to take a bite of flesh then march in single file back to their nest. In a few more weeks, the rotted arms would have yielded to gravity, the body would have crashed to the sandy desert floor, and turkey vultures, already circling, aided by their eager deputies, the maggots, would have cleaned up the mess. Was this the ultimate dukkha… the ultimate suffering?

Nearby, coyotes yelped and owls hooted as the moon rose large and smiling over the jagged Santa Rita Mountains. I could feel their eyes watching me — an unwelcome intruder into their home. The temperature dropped quickly while the sun cast yellow and orange reverse hues over the Eastern heavens and craggy peaks. An evening gust stirred up dust and delivered a welcome relief from the heat. I buttoned my ranch jacket and walked around the cactus shining my flashlight on the victim’s back — no visible lacerations or gunshot wounds. She had been alive when hung from the cactus. Multiple punctures into her vulnerable flesh from the cactus spines dribbled with blood now dried. Had she been dead when crucified she would not have bled as much from those wounds. It would be a decent guess she died from asphyxiation. Hanging suspended by her arms, breathing would have become increasingly difficult and finally impossible. The medical examiner would determine the exact cause of death. It didn’t matter so much for me, she had not crawled up the cactus on her own and it was my job to find the bastard who had savagely left her to die a horrific death.

Are you guys about done? I asked the two Pima County crime scene techs shooting photographs from a dozen angles. They had brought in a county truck with an articulating arm. Mary, the smaller of the two techs, had climbed into the white fiberglass bucket and was hoisted above the cactus for some overhead shots — not only of the body but also of the faint boot prints at the base of the cactus. The techs had been meticulous in documenting the crime scene.

Yes Angel, unless you have some special requests. Did we miss anything? Mary asked in an accent that suggested Texas. Her pretty smile didn’t hide her relief at being lowered to the ground on a jerky ride by the unsteady truck operator.

"No, as usual, you did well. Gracias."

The two turned to leave. I raised my hand to stop them.

I would like a few more pictures once we get the victim down, especially of her back where you couldn’t shoot because of the contact with the cactus.

Sure, need help getting her down, Angel? the male tech asked.

Ask the truck operator to attach a rope to the bucket. I’ll go up and tie her off so we can lower her to the ground. Could one of you get a body bag spread open so we can lower her directly into the bag without contaminating her body with contact from the ground?

The petite woman trotted into the darkness away from the utility lights brought in hours ago and now illuminating the scene as if it were some macabre movie set ready for a director to shout, Action. The white utility truck backed closer with the inescapable and annoying beeper disturbing the solitude of the desert foothills south of Tucson. I shouted for the dark-haired driver to stop before he knocked over the cactus with the bucket. He lowered the long arm and I crawled in to the cramped bucket, switchblade in hand. While the operator raised me, the scene froze in my mind. Like watching a movie camera panning a ghastly scene, I moved skyward past her feet, her thighs, waist, chest, and head, all eerily illuminated from behind by the full moon. Then as a movie camera would zoom in, the operator sent me flying forward crashing into the body. The woman’s ripe flesh tore upon impact and released the most unbearable stench of decay. Pieces of tissue landed on my face, I cursed and retched — finally vomiting over the side of the bucket.

Mary screamed from below. I wasn’t certain if I had vomited on her which would have been bad or the lower saguaro arm knocked off by the bucket had hit her which would have been worse, maybe even fatal.

All of the "I’m sorry, Señor, I’m so sorry!" shouted by the operator provided no consolation.

When the bucket was pulled back a foot and steadied, I again looked into the victim’s eyes and knew they would be haunting me for a lifetime. They begged me to find her killer.

I took deep breaths and regained some composure. I’d done many unusual tasks during my six years as a deputy but cutting down a corpse from a hundred year old cactus just flew towards the top of the bizarre list. I stretched to cut the lariat style rope from her right arm. Get me about six inches closer and don’t hit the damn cactus this time, I yelled over the sound of the truck’s diesel engine.

The bucket jerked then moved tentatively forward. Enough, close enough! With my knife, I sawed at the stiff lariat until her right arm dropped by her side. Her torso swung to the left. Move the bucket to my right about three feet, slowly now. I jerked sideways as the operator tilted the bucket then swung to my right. Stop! I took a bandana from my coat pocket and put it over my face to quash the smell as I inched closer to the woman. Her hair and the gold locket undulated in the wind. I tied one end of the eight-foot rope to the bucket and wrapped the loose end around her body and then under her arms. Okay, two more feet to my right. When near to her arm, I noticed a faded tattoo, a scorpion, on her shoulder. I cut the left arm free from the lariat suspending her. She bent, then fell towards me. I lurched back. It became apparent I should have cut the rope from her feet before I freed her body. Now, the woman hung from my rope attached to the bucket yet her feet remained attached to the cactus. I reminded myself to first free the feet on the next corpse I cut down. Tim, get a ladder from the crime scene truck and cut the rope from her ankles and hurry, please, I pleaded with the uniformed deputy down below.

So there I was, trapped in a bucket maybe twenty feet in the air and a dead body dangling mere inches away. If we lowered now, we’d tear her legs off. It was a long ten minutes before Tim climbed the aluminum ladder and freed her feet. Having laid their eggs in her eyes, nose, and ears, flies swarmed around my face as if angered I had disturbed plans for their progeny. I shut my eyes and sealed my lips tightly.

Okay Angel she’s free, Tim said as he scurried down the ladder.

Bring the bucket down slow and easy, I said without opening my mouth.

The bucket dropped fast then stopped with a jerk, a hard jerk. So hard that the poor woman’s body ripped apart sending the torso and legs flying separately to the desert sand. There were squeals and screams from below then dead silence but for the hum of the diesel engine. Without further instruction, the truck operator swung the bloody bucket to the left and then lowered me to earth.

I climbed out and walked to join the others. The stench was sickening. Tim, the only other deputy at the scene and the techs had rolled the body into the white bag. Maggots wriggled out of the body and squirmed about inside the bag and on the sandy ground. The desire for a shot of Tequila rushed into my mind. I took a cigar, one of those big Cubans a guy can get anywhere south of the border and lit it. I don’t smoke but as a rookie an old timer showed me how well a cigar could cover the odor of decaying flesh — a fat cigar and Vicks under the nose. I don’t know, maybe it’s just a delusion, but I always kept a bottle of Vicks and a few cigars in my Tahoe next to the body bags, which neatly covered and kept the Tequila bottle out of sight.

Let’s get this poor woman in the wagon, I said. The four of us carted the body towards the station wagon where the medical examiner’s assistant waited with her radio playing a Mexican balladeer’s song of lost love.

Wait, what about the photos of her back? the tech with the protruding Adam’s apple asked. He was a new guy. I hadn’t bothered to remember his name because like the last four who held his position he would not last past a few more grizzly scenes. Mary? I’ve seen her munching burros over decapitations.

Get them at the morgue. We’ve had enough of a mess for tonight, don’t you think?

You threw up on me, Mary held her stained shirt away from her sleek torso and unleashed a string of curses that I surely deserved.

Sorry, Ma’am, I’m not used to being splattered with rotting human flesh. And truth be told, my mouth was open when it happened. I tipped my brown Resistol hat with my free hand as a gesture of good will.

Still, my hair is full of...

Let’s just put all of that in the past, tuck this little woman in the wagon, and retreat to my squad for a shot of the Devil’s own water, I suggested. What else could a gentleman offer to an attractive woman he just barfed on?

Angel, you always know what to say to a gal, don’t you? She broke into a smile revealing a large gap between her front teeth a feature she boasted gave her an amazing ability to whistle at deafening decibels.

I do indeed, Honey, and I’ve got ten gallons of water and about ten thousand antiseptic wipes to clean up with before we try to find our way back to a paved road on this dark and dreary night.

When we reached the examiner’s wagon, the music stopped for breaking news... six more bodies, headless, had been discovered in an arroyo just outside of Nogales, the Mexican side. We gently slipped the victim’s body into the rear of the wagon. Tim uttered a short blessing and crossed himself before shutting the door and rapping on the roof to signal the driver to move on to the Tucson morgue where the victim would be added to the stacks of unidentified bodies found in this harsh and barren land not far from the Mexican border.

The wagon rumbled across a rough cow trail with boulders the size of bathtubs and ruts even deeper. Tim volunteered to follow the body back to Tucson, leaving the cocky tech, Mary, and me in a cloud of dust. Tim, a ruddy-faced Irish boy, with more freckles than brains volunteered for every task that removed him from the sunshine. His tendency towards sunburn pushed him to consistently bid for every dogwatch shift on the calendar. He once scoffed at my suggestion to transfer to Seattle or Portland yet I am certain he’d be the happier for it.

How about a drink, I offered to be sociable and avoid slinking to the Tahoe to sneak a shot by myself. Made me feel like a drunk, which I’m not, but seriously after such an ordeal, who could blame a guy. Heck, I could get a Doc to write a script for a bottle just to calm my nerves.

I don’t drink, the male tech said dryly. He was a wisp of a man, pale and almost ghoulish in demeanor.

Suit yourself, partner. Mary?

You kidding, my hair full of puke, nostrils full of decay, and flies clinging to me like I’m a pile of dog crap; you bet I’m having a snort, likely more than one. Howard, y’all might consider taking up drinking or finding a new line of work. Teetotalin’ don’t mix well with crime scene processing, Mary chided her new partner in a way leading me to believe I didn’t need to remember his name was Howard.

Wearing a pout Howard stormed off to the crime scene van, slid in the passenger seat, and slammed the door shut.

I’ll give him a month, I said spitting a piece of cigar tobacco from my mouth. Least I hope it was tobacco and not remnants of Jane Doe.

Naw, two weeks. Last week, we had a baby chewed up by a pit bull and he was in the crisis intervention office for two days. Hey, man, I don’t fault the dude, this job ain’t for everyone, you know, Mary said. We walked into the moonlight, rubbing shoulders like two lovers on a romantic stroll. But that is yesterday’s news. The pleasant smell of crushed greasewood filled the air. Mary whistled a little tune I couldn’t place and didn’t care enough to ask. My thoughts had turned to Jane Doe. Who was she? Where did she come from? Was her family frantically searching for her? She had at least one child. I saw the scars from the C-section. Was she torn from her child? Did the killers take the child to sell on the sex market? Why crucify her?

Y’all don’t have a clue do you? Mary asked when we arrived at the rear of my Tahoe.

You reading my thoughts, babe? I opened the back hatch door and fished the bottle of Dos Manos Blanco tequila from under the yet to be filled white body bags. I was down to the last two bags and the last few shots from the quart bottle. I made a mental note to restock both items during my next visit to Tucson.

Y’all don’t have nothing, that’s all I’m saying, Mary said. She grabbed the bottle from my hand and pulled the cap, slogging down nearly half of what was left. She plopped down on the rear deck and shifted close to me, shoulder to shoulder. I gave her a little shove to the side. She pushed back playfully.

I do. I’ve got Jane Doe  Hispanic female, in her thirties, from somewhere south of the border. Two toe rings, a gold chain and locket, and a scorpion tattooed on her left shoulder.

Right shoulder. It was on top of her right shoulder.

Okay, on her right side. The killer or killers, probably more than one, you saw how damn difficult it was to get her off the cactus. Had to be even harder to get her up there when she was alive and kicking.

You got a theory hotshot?

"Yup. I believe Jane Doe crossed the border with a group, most likely mixed, men, women, and children, not drug smugglers, just peasants looking for work. She got to maybe within a mile of here and either the group was scattered by Border Patrol, hit by banditos, or she got separated in the dark. The coyotes they don’t go back and look for anyone they are leading across. Those abandoned are left to walk out to the nearest road and surrender to the Border Patrol or perish. I bet she was separated and some perverts found her wandering alongside the road, grabbed her, assaulted her…" I cringed at the thought of such violence against this helpless woman.

Yes, indeed. Then, and here is where y’all loose some traction, they crucify her on the tallest saguaro cactus in the area. Why? Why not just leave her in the ditch like a hundred others we’ve found? A message? A symbol? She was facing south. Was she hung for other border crossers to see? That’s what the Romans did. They kept their crucifixion victims along the main roads as a warning to all not to mess with the Romans, Mary answered her own questions with more questions.

Maybe. We are very near a trail the smugglers use. Some vigilante group? You want the last swig?

Ya, then pour those ten gallons of water over my head before I get back in the van with Howard. I can’t bear the thought of listening to him with his dry heaves. He won’t last two weeks.

Forty minutes later as we drove out of the desert, three sets of yellow eyes shown in my headlights. Coyotes, I imagine, seeing me off, pleased I was no longer putting their prey on alert, happy to watch me leave.

* * *

Journal Entry

10-20 I had that deputy in my sights. I could have taken him out when he went up in the bucket. It would have been an easy shot… maybe 400 yards. But that would have spoiled the fun wouldn’t it? I drove to well within a mile of the cactus when I heard on the sheriff’s radio the body had been found. Then I hiked even closer. As I hoped, Angel Lopez was the deputy to catch this crime scene. That will suit my needs nicely. I detest that man and all he represents. I know his type. His persona is one of a tough cowboy. A breed due for extinction by their own arrogance. Like my stepfather, they sneer at men not endowed with the physical stamina, the savage ruggedness. But the brutes will perish because they lack the intellect only a few of us were granted by natural selection.

That last girl, she wasn’t so gratifying to torment. No begging, no sniveling, just a lot of fight. Not like those girls down Mexico way. Those first three down near Alamos in Sonora, now they were enjoyable. I want them to beg. I want to see the terror in their eyes. And those peasants who found them hanging on the cactus like a martyred saint, they were certain Diablo himself had moved into their village. The cops? They are a joke. There is no risk in Mexico. Everything gets blamed on the el traficantes… drug traffickers.

That little fox in Nogales, she was the best. She begged and pleaded even though she knew in her black heart there was no hope. That’s when she prayed for mercy. I gave her the most blessed of mercies… death.

Two

October 22

Saturday

I DO NOT want you wasting time on this investigation. Are we clear? Lieutenant John Smith pronounced from the working side of a cluttered gunmetal grey desk at the Pima County Sheriff’s substation in Pecan Valley, a peaceful retirement settlement carved out of the rugged desert.

Yes, Sir! I snapped back with the Lt.’s favorite answer to every question he ever posed. In fact, as best I can recall, all of his questions were phrased to elicit the same response. To be honest, I didn’t much care for the man. I feel bad about that. I try to extend a friendly hand to every man. I first met him when I was in the rookie academy and he was teaching ethics. According to Smith, every hypothetical situation a deputy could encounter had a simple straightforward solution. You were speeding! You get a ticket! It was so simple, except in real life it wasn’t because the speeder was trying to get away from an abusive husband or on the way to the hospital. There were rarely simple solutions except in my commander’s simple mind. Maybe it is because he showed no compassion for his fellow travelers that I always felt a negative aura about the tall man with the squeaky voice.

I want you to prepare a report on the crime scene and nothing more. Am I making myself clear? the Lt. loved to drive home a point. Truth be told, he enjoyed the hell out of kicking dead horses. His dream job would be on the killing floor of a rendering plant.

Yes, Sir! I answered with all of the sincerity of a stripper on a lapdance. I finished my report last night when I got home. It’s in the computer system for you to read, if you’d like.

Is there anything else we need to discuss? He rubbed his baldhead as if to conjure up some repressed memory leading him to answer his own question.

Yes, Sir! I sometimes wondered if the Lt. had the slightest hint of my mocking tone in those Yes, Sirs!— probably not. He failed miserably at interpreting others’ feelings. I should at least go to the autopsy, don’t you think?

Of course, I didn’t mean you should not do what is required. When is the autopsy?

Tuesday morning.

The Lt. didn’t comment right away. He looked away from me towards a white wall covered with awards, commendations, and photographs dating to when he graduated from kindergarten. The man was so insecure he needed to show the world his successes, however mundane they might be. I guess the photographs of him shaking the Senator’s milking hand made the Lt. feel that he also had power. After all, a U. S. Senator wouldn’t just shake anyone’s hand, would he? His dark eyes flitted back to his desktop then stopped at my feet like a lizard judging its prey.

That’s all there is for you to do, right? the Lt. asked as he fiddled with an ink pen as if he was attempting to understand how it worked. He was like that... didn’t look a fellow in the eye so he always was fiddling with a pen, his handcuffs, or the favorite of his fiddling toys, a burl-handled custom made switchblade. During one conversation, I counted a hundred and forty-three times he opened and closed the damn knife. I’m thinking a psychiatrist might have some bad things to say about his obsession.

Unless I get some leads from the autopsy or...

I don’t want you going to the media with this! Do you understand?

Yes, Sir! The Lt. was next in line to be reassigned at headquarters in Tucson. He had made it clear since arriving some many long months ago that the only media he wanted from the Pecan Valley District was Good Samaritan Awards, Lion’s Club annual honors banquet, and 100% participation in the blood drive.

This is an isolated instance. I mean there’s a body found in the desert every week. Last count, there were over 2,000 bodies of border crossers found in the Tucson District. We don’t know who the heck they even are. So, this one is no different. I mean it’s not like the desert is full of dead women hanging from cacti. He played so fast with his pen, he lost his grip and it fell to the floor. He pretended not to notice. However, the reporters would play this out to be like we’ve got some deranged serial killer in my district. Am I correct?

Yes, Sir! I had to agree with him. The pretty little gal on Channel 9 would be out to that cactus doing live coverage... Breaking News! she’d call it. Hell, they’d probably even superimpose a body on the cactus. Trust me Sir, I won’t say a peep to the press — not a peep.

Good, we understand each other. I appreciate your attitude, deputy, the Lt. said pleasantly like the mere thought had produced an erection in those neatly creased uniform pants. Truth is, from my point-of-view, I understand the Lt. but he don’t get me at all. He came to our department after retiring as an Army officer, a captain or maybe it was a major. He was openly bitter over having failed to be promoted to Colonel. He was brought aboard our department to lend some military discipline where some fancy over-paid consultant found us deputies were grossly lacking. He wanted nothing more than to reach the rank of captain, wait for the current Sheriff to seek a higher office, and be appointed interim Sheriff until he could run in an election. Now it is not my imagination, the intention came straight from the Lt’s own thin lips. Not that I care if the man has aspirations, I just don’t like his footprints on the back of my shirt as he is making his climb to the top.

I wasn’t always so cynical. In fact, I don’t even think of myself as such. I’m an easygoing guy, slow to anger, mostly happy. But certain guys, never gals, can get my goat and ride that poor billy to the point of nastiness. The Lt. was one of those few. Maybe he needed another trip to Mexico to clean out those rusty pipes. He always was in better spirits when he returned from those trips to Sonora. I vowed to myself I would exercise better self-control and show respect. I’m big on making promises to myself.

My life as a deputy had been so very pleasant when my prior supervisor, Captain Valenzuela was a lieutenant and my superviser. We hit it off. I learned so much from the man as he mentored me through my early years. Learn from your mistakes, Angel or better yet from others’ mistakes was one of his most common remarks when I needed correction. I miss him so much since he was deployed to Afghanistan. At Mass, I pray for his return.

Lt. Smith’s shrill intonations rustled me from my pleasant reflections. You know deputy, I’ve been looking at your personnel file. It’s near time for the annual review and frankly, I’m disappointed.

Yes, Sir!

Yes, Sir what? He fiddled with his razor thin mustache and raised his unibrow lifting his reading glasses above his dull grey eyes.

I know you are disappointed. You told me that a year ago and I haven’t changed a damn bit.

He whipped out his trusty switchblade. One, I counted to myself. "And it is your attitude that will keep you exactly where you are at now, isn’t it?"

I hope so. I like it exactly where I am at now.

Two. He flung a green file folder on his desk and opened it with the tip of the knife blade. Three. He cleared his throat and read, Miguel Angel Lopez, Hispanic male, 5 foot 10 inches, 200 pounds, black hair, brown eyes, five, no six years of college, mostly bad grades, prior employment: bull rider, no criminal history but license was suspended twice for excessive speed, single, one daughter, see what I mean? Four.

Yes, Sir! I do indeed see exactly what you mean.

Unremarkable! You are unremarkable. And do you know why I am disappointed deputy? Five.

I do. I did because he had made this same speech less than twelve months ago. Caused me so much agony, I polished off the bottle of tequila in my Tahoe before I even finished my shift. I swore I would never let this pious pencil-pushing dick-head get the best of me again. And by my count, I am ahead, twenty-six to one. I keep the tally sheet on the visor of my Tahoe where when I’m feeling down, I can look at it and gloat. Six. I was losing my temper. I could feel my blood pressure rising. My face growing flushed.

You are disappointed because I have such exceptional talent yet I’m wasting it. I’ve twice been named Deputy of the Year, once for the entire State of Arizona, won national awards from the FBI and DEA, have more commendations than all the deputies combined in the district, am liked by my co-workers, and especially your pretty secretary, Lucy, and yet I am not about making something of myself. Seven.

Exactly, you could be the next lieutenant or even captain. You should get your four-year degree, your masters; fill your head with knowledge. You are a leader of men yet you are content to waste away here in Pecan Valley like some rotting javelina carcass in the desert. You are a waste of talent. I’m ashamed to call myself your commander. If I don’t make something of you before I leave this post, I will have considered my tenure here a failure! Eight. Nine. Ten.

Yes, Sir! I am indeed a miserable deputy and regret causing you such constipation... Eleven.

Consternation! If you had completed your degree, you would know the difference between constipation and consternation. Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fifteen. Sixteen.

Yeah that too, anything else sir?

Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. He was not going to even make a hundred this time. No, dismissed, deputy. Twenty. Twenty-one.

I was out the door although I heard the snap of the switchblade as I walked out past Lucy, winked and left through the heavy metal back door. Twenty-two.

Across the driveway, sheriff’s volunteers in snappy white squad cars were leaving their garages to patrol the streets of Pecan Valley where the greatest threats to public safety were the elderly drivers who still defied their children’s pleas to hang-up the car keys and the myopic and savage javelina attacking garbage containers waiting on the curbside. I waved to the Gordon Liddy look alike driving the shiny SUV as he passed next to my Tahoe. Be safe, I shouted and gave him a thumbs-up salute. I could feel my calm returning. I could feel my chakras aligning.

I jumped into the burning hot seat of the Tahoe and quickly turned on the air conditioner. I popped out to wait for the heat, well over 100, to dissipate. I yearned for winter, for December when I could play with my nephews and nieces in the snow atop the Santa Rita Range. When I could ride my horse to the peaks with my fleece collar turned up. I dreamed of being in Minnesota, rolling naked in the snow after sweating in the sauna with blonde Norwegian girls like my wayward cousin always writes about.

Hey partner, you look lost in thought, Lalo’s voice startled me. I turned and faced the barrel-chested Border Patrol Agent, dressed in his green Class A uniform.

Amigo, you look sharp! Testifying in court or a funeral?

Naw, wish it was. Court, I mean not a funeral. This one is another Board of Inquiry, Lalo’s voice was full of trepidation.

No, what this time, bro?

"The shooting down at the border fence. Man, they were coming to our side loaded with packs of weed. My partner and me, we move on them, real fast like cats, you know. Then we get pelted with rocks from the Mexico side. Beto, he goes down with a rock to his head. He never was right in his head, a little loco, you know, and now mucho loco, you know. Lalo stopped and looked over his shoulder. When Beto went down, I pulled my pistol and emptied the mag, you know. I did it out of anger. I was afraid they’d killed Beto. I mean he went down like a pole-axed bull. Boom! — right on top of his head and bam! — down he goes. Lalo slammed his palms together. I started shooting like mad and a kid I never even saw went down, gut shot."

Hey brother, I’m there for you. I’ve got your six. What can I do? I put my hand on his shoulder and pulled him close.

Lalo paused then pulled away. "Thanks, man, you know the worst part? I don’t think I hit the kid. The Mexican dealers and the polica, they were shooting and I think it is just as likely they shot the poor dude, 15, you know, just a kid. Hell, I don’t think I ever even seen the kid. If we shoot from our side, the Mexicans, they will cap one of their own just to say we done it."

Fearing for my life and that of my partner, I pulled my service weapon and fired upon those threatening to do great bodily harm or inflict death upon us. That’s all you say, I reminded Lalo of the lines which we all have memorized like some brutal nursery rhyme.

Believe me, I repeated those words ten times in the shower this morning and a dozen more on the drive over. I’m covered. This ain’t my first rodeo, you know, Lalo said with a weak grin. Outwardly confident yet scared that he would find himself behind bars. I don’t care if it’s the hundredth rodeo every cop lives in terror of being charged for some decision he made in two nano seconds.

"Enough belly-aching man. ¿Que Pasa?" Lalo asked evidently happy to change the subject. I admired Lalo for his ability to laugh in the face of pending calamity. He was born with a smile on his round face. A face covered with a nasty scar from his forehead to his jaw  a scar courtesy of a knife attack by a pair of desperate drug smugglers emerging from a Nogales tunnel.

I just had my annual evaluation and covered a nasty murder and I’m trying to decide which was worse. Say, is Marta still flying a chopper for the Patrol?

"Yeah, she’s off two days and back on for six. You need something? Dos Equis air dropped to your Mt. Wrightson hideaway?"

Photographs. If I give you the GPS coordinates, would you ask Marta to take some aerial shots for me? The Lt. has ordered me to stay away from this murder so I can’t ask our chopper pilots to do the job.

Stay away? Why? Lalo asked. He rubbed the back of his thick leathery neck. Stress creeping over his body, a dead give away despite his bravado.

I glanced over my shoulder. Hop in, it’s too hot to tell you this story out in the sun. Besides, I did not need one of the Lt.’s snitches overhearing what I intended to tell Lalo.

We crawled in to the coolness of the air conditioning. Maybe my cousin in Minnesota was right, you could grow to love the cold. I mean I love popsicles and Slurpee’s. I tore open the third air freshener, new car, in a feeble attempt to chase the odor of rotting flesh from my squad. I must have tracked it in on my boots and left scraps on the carpet.

When Lalo had settled in and I had shared a soda from my cooler, I told him the story from start to finish.

Wheeeew, Lalo whistled through his thin lips. Man, it’s a bad one and the Lt., he don’t want no publicity on this one?

No, he’d be jumping like a bean if he knew I even told you and asked for some photographs.

"When I get home tonight, if I ain’t locked up for shooting the dude, I gotta ask Marta. Man, you know how it is with a wife — I guess you don’t. Anyway, I don’t always listen so good but I think she told me that when she was flying the border a few days ago, you know. Well, she was in the chopper and saw a bunch of Mexican cops on their side. She thought her chopper might assist if there was a crossing issue, you know. She put the gyro-binos on the coppers and now I think she said the cops were looking up at a naked woman hung from a saguaro cactus. I think it’s what she said, man, a naked woman just hanging from the cactus. You might have a serial killer, you know what I’m saying, dude?

"Mi Dios, I know exactly what you’re saying!"

* * *

10-22 Bumps found her wandering alone in the desert. Gabriella was her name or so she said while she could still talk. She said that she had been separated from the coyotes leading her across the border. Bumps locked the thin woman in his camper like some caged monkey. I ordered her released. She joined us by the campfire, drinking tequila and smoking dope laced with mescalito. I sensed she believed I would save her. I even gave her my jacket to chase away the chill of the evening.

Her English was passable. She had a nice smile after a few drinks. I told her that I would give her a ride to Tucson and drop her off on the South Side where she could disappear. Then the mescalito hit me. I couldn’t help myself. I came up from behind her and wrapped my arm around her neck. She scratched, bit, and kicked. He held her down. I took my time, first with the hot iron, then with pleasuring myself.

Bumps had a lariat and a ladder nearby. We led her deep into the desert, away from the camp. She screamed. I liked that but not for mercy. She screamed curses. She did not go easy into the night."

Three

October 25

Tuesday

THE PIMA COUNTY Medical Examiner’s Office is located in the heart of Tucson in a building indistinguishable from any other until one sets foot inside the inner sanctum where the gory business of slicing and dicing human cadavers takes place. I gotta be honest, the place smells of death, even with all the fancy air purification systems, and gives me the hibbie-gibbies. Maybe it’s the memories of all those skeletons parading about on Día de Muertos, the Day of the Dead observance in Mexico. When I was a kid, I’d hide under the bed on that holiday and swore I wouldn’t come out until Día de la Virgen de Guadalude, the Day of the Virgin of Guadalupe whom I was certain would protect me from the skeletons, ghouls, and zombies creeping about on the Day of the Dead. I always wondered why the adults would have such a holiday on the heels of Halloween, when my friends and I would be in a state of ecstasy with enough candy treats to last through Christmas and into Lent.

I passed through the cold steel doorway and towards the plain-looking receptionist with the pallor of a stiff, never smiled or used my name to greet me. She simply waved with two fingers for me to enter. Maybe it was too grim a place to smile. I grinned and said, "Buenos dias, Olga." She nodded and returned her attention to the computer screen and her Solitaire game.

I walked down the icy hallway and through the heavy door bearing a sign declaring this to be the examination room and denying access to all except authorized personnel, as if anyone else would care to wander in. I asked the M.E. about that one time. He just said, You’d be surprised Angel. Many people are attracted to death. Like bugs to a light. I didn’t care to know more, preferring to believe in the goodness of my fellow human travelers.

Good morning, Angel, I’m back here and just getting started, come hither, young man. Doc Parker was a jovial sort of fellow even in the early morning over a decomposing corpse. I made my way past the stainless steel cutting tables and donned a surgical mask as I approached. In spite of the three sticks of peppermint gum in my mouth it seemed that I could still taste the bits of flesh that had flown into my mouth at the crime scene. A rookie mistake and I know better.

Wow, not much left of her in the bright light of day, is there Doc? I paused over the body and pushed some Vicks into my mask and under my nose then pulled on some blue latex gloves although I had no plans to be handling any parts. Yet, of that I could never be certain. During my first autopsy, Doc, the