It didn’t work. Not even a little bit. “It’s not funny when you have a snitch letting out the clues in an important case, Jamaica. That is not something I can laugh about.”
“Okay, sorry. Look, you remember when we did the cattle mutilations cases? You know I can be trusted.”
She put one hand up to her hairline and pushed her fingers into her thick hair, pulling it back and holding it off of her face, as if this helped her to focus. “Okay. The body was probably wearing a breechcloth, typically worn by a figure playing Christ in the Penitentes’ rituals. There was no evidence of flagellation, no blood on the back or on the shoulders, but there were marks on the wrists, ankles, and chest from where the body had been tied to the cross. But the body had not hung on the cross-we know that from the nature of the marks the ropes made on the body. There was also a black bag tied over the head, as is done in Penitente rituals. That rope also left marks on the victim’s neck. But all these marks were made after the victim had died.”
My mouth opened in surprise and confusion. “Father Ignacio was already dead, and then someone put a bag over his head and tied him to the cross?”
“Apparently so.”
“How can you know that?” I was incredulous.
“Well, ordinarily after the trauma to a body from the fall to the bottom alone, we wouldn’t. And the trip downriver did even more to destroy forensic evidence and deteriorate the body. But oddly enough, being tied to that cross left the torso more intact than most we see in these gorge rescue incidents. And we know the body was tied to the cross after death because of the way blood pools and congeals at the time of death. That affects the bruising and the related marks from any postdeath trauma to the body.”
“So do you know what he died from?”
Christine Salazar nodded. “Again, Jamaica, I have to be absolutely certain that this is going to stay in this room until the task force is ready to release the details to the media.”
“Hey, I’m the only witness. That puts me in jeopardy. I’m not even talking about what I saw to anyone. I won’t say a word.”
“They had to do an autopsy to confirm. He died of an incised wound of the spleen. The wound you remembered on his left side? It was really an unusual one. There was bruising and slicing, as if the tip of the weapon was bent but the side of the blade must have been sharp. The knife, or whatever it was, lacerated the diaphragm and incised the spleen. Death had to have been within a matter of thirty minutes after that, probably sooner.”
“But why… why would anyone… I mean… Someone murdered him with a knife or something and then they tied him to a cross and took him to the gorge? Why not just throw his body over and hope it gets carried downriver and lost in the reeds like that guy I found?”
“Someone is trying to send a message, either to make it look like it was done by the Penitentes or maybe it was done by the Penitentes. I don’t know. This is a tough one. It was really difficult identifying the body. Since we couldn’t commence the raft rescue until the next day, the deceased was in the water for so long that the remains went decom and had begun to turn green. The outer layer of skin had separated, and the forensic pathologist down at OMI had to do a glove to get prints. That’s when they use a scalpel to cut the skin off the hand or the fingers, and it just folds over on itself and drops off, like a glove turned inside out. The pathologist picks it up, turns it back inside out, and there it is.
“But this priest’s fingerprints weren’t in any databases. He didn’t have any tattoos or identifying marks we could make out. Bloat from the water had skewed the weight, but we had his height and hair color-his hair hadn’t fallen out yet, but his eyes had clouded up so we couldn’t tell what color they were.”
“Dark,” I said, almost too quietly. “They were very dark brown, almost black.”
She looked at me for a few moments. “Enough of this gruesome stuff. You don’t need to know all the details. His mother finally filed a missing persons report when the school where he taught contacted her, looking for Father Medina. When questioned, Mrs. Medina told the OMI about a childhood break in her son’s arm. That matched the forensic evidence, and we went from there.”
“I still can’t imagine why anyone would want to kill Father Ignacio. And to make such a spectacle of it!”
“They are still keeping a tight lid on the details of this case. They had to release the name to the media, once they had identified the body and the family had been notified. And it’s officially a murder. But they haven’t revealed any details about how he died or any other information about the case.”
“Well, will you keep me posted if you learn of any new developments? I don’t have a phone out where I live, but you can leave a message at the BLM, and I’ll call you back.”
“Sure.” She stood and took her coat from the hook on the wall. “I’ve got to get back to work. It’s Holy Week, and there are going to be a thousand claims of miraculous healing up at the Sanctuario in Chimayo. The pilgrimage has already begun. There was a story on the news today about a one-legged man who’s walking there on crutches from Albuquerque and a ninety-year-old woman who’s rolling down the highway from Gallup in a wheelchair. Our phones have been ringing off the hook for comments, opinions, interviews.”
I stood and pulled my coat on. “It’s crazy for us, too. I’m working a temporary team assignment up in the area along the High Road.”
“Hey, I heard a rumor about you being in some lingerie fashion show,” Christine said, turning her head inquisitively and smiling as we walked out of the room and headed down the hall. “A fashion show with a lot of excitement.”
“Oh, that.” I tried to act nonchalant. “Let’s just say I was working undercover.” I forced a little laugh. “Maybe I’ll tell you about that some other time, but I’ve got to get to the BLM now.” I headed out of the sheriff’s office at a quick pace.
Damn that Jerry Padilla. I should tell Christine who her leak is.
I was almost to the BLM when I spotted Santiago Suazo’s truck parked in the dirt lot in front of El Toro. I pulled in and went inside. Suazo was sitting at the counter eating a hot roast beef sandwich and flirting with the waitress. There were two empty beer bottles on the counter, and he was working on a third. I sat on the stool beside him. “Rob-bie Sua-zo,” I said.
“What do you want?” His voice was loud and thick, his breath boozy. “Hey, man, why did you go talking to my old lady the other day?” He might have been stocky once; he had broad shoulders still, but his fondness for speed and crank had eaten away at his muscle base and left him looking like a puppet: a large head, long in the torso, short-legged, and listing a little, almost off balance. His face was pocked with deep holes left by acne, and his skin was sallow and grayish. His thin mustache and beard made him look dirty, unkempt, and his wavy dark hair was tied at his neck in a pathetic attempt at a ponytail. He looked like he hadn’t changed his clothes in a few days.
“I want to know what you were doing on BLM land up by Boscaje.”
“You can go to hell, puta.” He pulled hard on the beer bottle, draining it. He set it down, got up, drew a twenty-dollar bill from a thick roll, and threw it on the counter. “We were all better over here before you people came and fenced off our land.” He spoke so loud, he was nearly shouting. “I don’t need a coño like you coming in here when I’m trying to eat! And I don’t like you coming to my house, talking to my old lady, man! You got no business with my old lady, you hear me? Someday, somebody’s going to do something about you sticking your pretty little cola blanca in other people’s business. Your pucha stinks so bad, I have to get out of here. It’s making me sick.” He turned and swaggered away, one shoulder tilted slightly backward, the arm and hand dragging just a little.