Cruz showed the lieutenant his interrogation summary, on the off chance he’d omitted some key element or gotten something wrong or remembered it differently. Briones read it slowly and placed it on the desk between them when he was done.
“Really, the only thing we got from him was that he claims to have been involved in your family’s execution, which is unverifiable, and he also claims to be involved in a plan to assassinate the President, as well as the American president. Which is also unverifiable. Where does that leave us?” Briones asked.
“I think we have to assume, given the circumstances of the interrogation and when and how he blurted it out, that there may be some truth to his claim. Santiago isn’t smart enough to invent a story like that while in extreme pain. Besides, it doesn’t come across on the report, but the way he said it…you heard him — it was like he was bragging. Like he wanted me to know what he’d done, so when it happened, I’d understand the power he wields,” Cruz concluded.
“I know. I got that, too. It’s what makes me nervous about all this. He seemed almost…I don’t know, almost happy with himself. And if he actually did hire El Rey, we have a real problem.”
“That’s the understatement of the year. The fucking media has made El Rey’s exploits more popular than reality TV, and it will result in an uncontrollable circus if even a hint of this leaks. It has to be just you and I that know about this until I’m able to nose around and see if we can find any corroboration,” Cruz warned the lieutenant.
“The cartels certainly have the money to hire him…” Briones mused.
“I know. That’s what scares me. Who knows what kind of twisted schemes these lunatics can cook up?” Cruz stopped and stared out the window. “But why kill the President? He’s only going to be in office till the end of the year, so why bother?”
“Some kind of a power statement? To show the population who really runs the country?”
“Could be. But I don’t buy Santiago would spend a fortune to prove a point. And it could backfire on him. I don’t know. Who the fuck knows what these animals dream up while they’re high?” Cruz groused.
“What do you think it costs to hire El Rey to do something like this?”
“El Rey? Probably, oh, I don’t know, five million U.S.? He’s got to be the most expensive killer in the world by now. I’ll say one thing, he knows how to market — now that he’s a celebrity in the press, he can command a lot more. These cartel bosses are just like everyone else. They read the papers, too, and money is no object to them…” Cruz trailed off, considering his last statement. Santiago could easily afford five million — just as easily as he could fifty. The take on trafficking Mexican cocaine was estimated to be in the twenty-five billion dollar-plus range at wholesale prices. That was almost the national budget of North Korea. So money was certainly not an issue.
“So how do we proceed from here?” Briones asked.
Cruz surfaced from his ruminations. “We wait to see what’s wrong with Santiago. And then we try to follow up on any leads, and root around to see if anyone on the street has heard any rumors. A loudmouth like Santiago would never be able to keep quiet about something this big, especially if he was behind it.”
The desk phone rang, and a terse conversation ensued before Cruz slammed the receiver down.
“They took him to Hospital Angeles, in Pedregal.” Cruz let out a sigh. “We’d better get over there and see what the damage is. Santiago would be the best place to start if we’re going to get to the bottom of this.”
“Traffic will be hell. It’s going to take forever to get there.”
“Nobody said that police work was all glamour and fun, young man.” Cruz, who was only five years older than Briones, often called the lieutenant ‘young man’ as a subtle reminder of the power structure. “Hope you don’t have any plans for tonight,” he added.
“Not anymore.”
Even with the emergency lights on, it took them fifty minutes to get to the hospital. Dusk had set in as they pulled into the lot by the emergency room. Traffic congestion in Mexico City was infamous, especially during rush hour, and it could take close to forever to cross the city during peak periods.
The pair approached the marble-floored lobby of the pristine edifice and took the elevator down one floor to the operating rooms. Cruz had spoken with one of the officers sent to guard the prisoner, and he’d reported that the doctors had rushed Santiago into surgery after a hurried evaluation. The officer had called for backup, and there were now eight heavily armed tactical squad members lining the hallway to the surgical theater. Cruz walked purposefully to the officers guarding the doors of the OR.
“What are they doing in there?” he demanded.
“Some kind of procedure for his brain,” the officer replied.
“His brain? What’s wrong with it? Did they tell you anything?” Cruz asked.
“No, they just said that his pupils had a problem, so something was wrong with his brain. He never regained consciousness; that’s all we know right now.”
Cruz stalked the hallway, mind racing. A few minutes later, a green-gowned doctor emerged from the room, blood splattered down his front, and removed his surgical mask to speak with Cruz.
“I’m Dr. Consera. I presume you’re running this show?” he asked Cruz.
“Captain Cruz. Yes, this is my prisoner. He shot four of my men this morning and was taken after a considerable struggle,” Cruz informed him, for the record.
“Well, that explains the contusions and bruising…”
“Why are you operating on him? Was he hurt by the blows he sustained?” Cruz asked.
“Not really. We did a CT and an MRI, and this man has an abnormal heart. An area is enlarged, which is typical of victims of chronic atrial fibrillation.” The doctor flexed his hand, trying to get the muscles to relax. “No, what happened is that something, probably the morning’s events, caused a bout of fibrillation, and a clot formed in his heart and then traveled to his brain. Your man had a massive stroke. We went in through his leg and removed as much of it as we could so blood flow could return to the affected area of the brain, but it’s anyone’s guess how much permanent damage he’s experienced. In these cases, you just don’t know,” Dr. Consera explained.
“So he’s in a coma?”
“Precisely. His brain has been deprived of blood for at least an hour and a half, maybe more. Blood carries oxygen. Human tissue requires oxygen to live. If it was totally deprived of blood for that long, or longer, it doesn’t look good for him.”
“Then what’s the prognosis, as we speak?” Cruz asked.
“Poor. It would be a miracle if he ever regained consciousness. But in the end, we’ll just have to wait and see. I’d normally do a positron emission tomography scan of his brain to see what level of activity the area the clot-affected portion retains, if any, but it would be a waste of time at present. Maybe in a few days, but right now, he’s in God’s hands,” the doctor concluded.
“Or the devil’s. The man is a major narcotraficante, Doctor, and probably snorted kilos of cocaine every week.”
“That would make the chronic heart condition much worse, of course. It would explain a lot.”
“One thing I don’t understand. How does the clot form — from his heart beating, what, faster?” Cruz asked, genuinely curious.
“Atrial fibrillation isn’t necessarily tachycardia — a racing heartbeat. It can also be where the heart skips a beat, sometimes a lot of beats, which has a tendency to allow blood to pool in the enlarged heart chamber instead of pumping through. A little sticks to the valve, and then a little more, and pretty soon you have a clot the size of a pencil eraser headed for your brain, and, game over. Once it lodges, more blood begins to clot behind and in front of it, so it’s a downward spiral from there. We went in through the femoral artery into the brain and sucked out as much as we could get, and pumped blood thinners through him to get the remaining clotting to dissolve, but the damage already done after such a long period without oxygen…well…”