“It is terror. I believe that is his motive. He is striking at his homeland, our country. He seeks to destabilize and disgrace. Like a . . . a bad seed, an evil son. He wants to destroy.”
“So killing him, or attempting to, in the United States is easier . . . ?”
“No, but it is more profound. It is more unsettling. It shows his reach, his power.”
Fisk remembered the file on Comandante Garza. “So he is certainly aware of you then.”
Garza nodded. “He is.”
“What if you had left the hotel last night?”
She dismissed this outright. “Virgilio left in a state of distraction. The shame of the beheadings had soured him. I believe it was a momentary lapse of attention.”
Fisk frowned. “You’ve never had a momentary lapse of attention?”
“Not when it comes to Chuparosa.”
Fisk said, “It is not a good sign when the Mexican president’s protection needs protections herself.”
“I need no such thing,” she said, indignant. “I need cooperation. I need to see the dead bodies. It is connected, I promise you.”
Fisk said, “What you need is to go to the Secret Service with this information. You need to tell them there is an active plot to assassinate President Vargas in New York City.”
“Yes,” said Garza. “Led by a man who no one can prove actually exists.”
Fisk conceded that.
Garza went on, “Based upon a drawing in blood made over a photograph in a newspaper. See, Detective, there is a difference between what I know and what I can prove.”
Fisk said, “You’re right. If we go to the Secret Service with this, they’ll assign you another agent, maybe two. There’s too many people to watch in New York this week. And when I spoke to the head agent, asking him about the brief on Vargas, he mentioned nothing about a ‘Hummingbird’ or any active threat.”
Garza was quiet a moment, and Fisk realized she was looking at him.
“So you did follow up, after all. After dismissing me yesterday.”
Fisk shrugged. “Maybe I did.”
She said, “You feel it, too. You sense it.”
“Whether I do or not, the problem is getting you the support you need. A threat to your president is one thing. It’s serious, and it’s actionable. But a threat that might involve our president? That brings out all the big hunting dogs. That’s what you want.”
She crossed her arms. “So take me to Rockaway. As I asked you to do in the first place.”
“You demanded it, actually,” said Fisk. “And besides, the bodies are long gone from Rockaway.”
Fisk slid his phone out of its dashboard mount and found Detective Kiser’s number.
CHAPTER 32
Detective Kiser shed his suit coat and his tie, his white shirt soaked with sweat. He looked exhausted.
Fisk said, “Appreciate you taking the time.”
“Are you kidding?” said Kiser. “I welcome the professional help.”
Fisk nodded. “If we’re right—and I’m not saying we are—but if we’re right, this has got an international dimension. And she supposedly knows more about the doer than anybody on the planet.”
Cecilia Garza returned from her phone call. “Nothing still.”
Fisk nodded. He understood her drive to keep moving ahead, to not dwell on the unknowns regarding her disappeared comrade, but to look for answers wherever she could find them.
Even if it was in the Queens Office of the Chief Medical Examiner.
Morgue floors were always shiny. They cleaned them every other night. A morgue attendant wearing a mask and gloves—dressed almost like a hazmat worker—pulled the wheeled tables out of the walk-in cooler. Each one held a zipped body bag.
Kiser offered Garza his three-ring binder. “We have everything photographed if you’d prefer.”
She shook her head, stretching latex gloves over her hands.
“I’d very much prefer . . .” said Kiser, his voice fading to nothing.
The attendant went about opening all the black rubber bags. Kiser pinched his nose.
“Everything’s been bagged and tagged,” Kiser said, nasally. “One guy’s got no feet. Where do you put a toe tag on a guy with no toes?”
If the attendant was aware the question was directed at him, he did not answer.
Fisk pulled on his own gloves. He waited while Garza made a careful inspection of all the bodies, helping the attendant flip them over so she could see their backs, too.
When she had looked at every single corpse she said, “Help me move these stretchers in order.”
Fisk said, “Order?”
“For narrative clarity,” she said. “These eight, here . . . this one here . . . this one down here . . .” When she was satisfied, she stood back. “There are three major drug cartels in Mexico at the moment. The Zetas are at war with the Gulf Cartel and Sinaloas. The Sinaloas are primarily a West Coast operation, while the Gulf is on the East Coast. The Gulf Cartel has been almost eliminated now, absorbed by the Zetas. So what’s left, mainly, is the Sinaloas, the largest and strongest.”
“Okay,” said Kiser.
Garza pointed at the first eight bodies. “Let us call these corpses one through eight. Fairly pedestrian tattoos, in my opinion. These are men with perhaps Mexican heritage, but so far as we can see, no evident gang affiliation.”
She moved to the next three bodies. “Here, I’m guessing these are all Mexican gang members or affiliates. Their tattoos include Santa Muerte—the Lord of Death—which is often believed to be derived from the Aztec god Mictlantecuhtli.” She pointed to a large tattoo of a robed figure with a skull for a face. “There, this one actually says ‘Sinaloa’ here, but there are various other symbolic references to the cartel which are a good deal more cryptic. Bottom line, though, these three are all almost certainly Sinaloa Cartel members, ex-members, or affiliates. As you can see, all of these men have all been tortured or mutilated or abused in one way or another.”
She went to the second-to-last body.
“Here we have a man covered with tattoos . . . but tattoos of a very different character. First, you will note from his skin tone and body hair color that he appears to be a Caucasian. Also, all of the words tattooed on his body are in English rather than Spanish. But more importantly, you will note that these are well-executed tattoos, composed in rich color, with complex and varied detail. I would go so far as to classify these as highly artistic, wouldn’t you?”
“If you say so,” said Kiser, still plugging his nose.
Fisk was impressed with her review of the bodies: crisp, well reasoned, and unflinching.
She continued, “And other than the head and fingertips being removed, there is no evidence of torture or desecration on this last body.”
“Other than the decapitation,” said Kiser.
“Yes—setting that aside for the moment.” She pointed at the last man. “Finally, we have this last body. Again, head and fingertips removed. His skin was apparently quite pale, even before death. And there is only one tattoo on his body.”
Fisk saw it. A black hummingbird.
“It’s him,” said Fisk.
“Taken together, these bodies constitute a sentence, a phrase, a grammar, a message. This message announces that an assassin is here, someone of substance, someone whose work must be taken seriously. Someone capable of sophisticated, ruthless, extreme violence. Moreover, the manner in which they were killed draws a connection to other killings in Mexico.
“Now, we turn to these two. Let us focus on this man with all the tattoos. These are of a higher artistic quality than the others. None of them are gang related in the least. No flaming skeletons, no broken chains, no skulls or AK-47s, no Blessed Virgins. Now, if you examine the orientation, several of them appear to be turned at peculiar angles.”