Birds of a Feather

Birds of a Feather

A Jack Taggart Mystery

Don Easton

In memory of Jose Refugio Rubalcava

It was three o'clock in the morning when Special Agent Greg Patton of the United States Customs Service in El Paso, Texas, dropped off his partner at his house. Forty-five minutes later, he arrived home to his own bed.

Even then, Patton couldn't fall asleep right away. His adrenalin hadn't settled from the night's activities. He and his partner had crawled over a fence into a backyard to peer through a window to catch a glimpse of some drug traffickers, only to discover a vicious dog sleeping under a back porch, which awoke and chased them back over the fence.

Would the drug traffickers suspect it was law enforcement agents whose shadows disappeared into the night? Perhaps they would think it was only a couple of the many countless thieves who preferred the cover of darkness.…
Another hour passed before Patton fell into a restless sleep.

Patton's neighbours in the quiet suburb of El Paso, Texas, considered him to be a good neighbour. He was quick to lend a hand and was a man who always had a smile on his face. They knew he worked for customs, but he never wore a uniform. By his ever-changing appearance, from beards to short hair and back to long, they knew his work was likely dangerous.

El Paso is situated directly across the border from Ciudad Juarez, Mexico. Ciudad Juarez, or simply Juarez, as the locals refer to it, is renowned as a hotbed of illegal activity. Drug smuggling by warring drug cartels vying for supremacy over the narco dollar have resulted in a daily body count comprised of criminals and non-criminals alike.

El Paso had become a major point of entry for cocaine smuggled into the United States. Originating in South America, the cocaine was turned over to Mexican drug lords for continued distribution north, including Canada. Along with the drug smuggling came a host of other criminal ventures, such as contract murders of law enforcement officers, gun-running, and human smuggling, to name but a few.

The fact was that Patton's work was more than dangerous. It was dangerous to the extreme. He worked out of a secret office on a joint task force that included agents from the Federal Bureau of Investigation; the U.S. Drug Enforcement Administration; Alcohol, Tobacco Firearms, and Explosives; as well as special agents from the U.S. Customs Service.

There was a good reason why their office location was secret, as were their frequent excursions across the border into Mexico. One U.S. DEA investigator, Special Agent Enrique S. Camarena
[1]
, who had been assigned to work in Mexico, was kidnapped and tortured for two days before his eventual murder. A Mexican pilot who had helped him locate a large marijuana grow operation was also murdered.

The subsequent DEA investigation discovered that the murders were orchestrated with the complicity of the brother to the then Mexican president. It was also learned a doctor had been utilized to keep Camarena alive and conscious to endure his torture for as long as possible before dying.

Corruption of the Mexican government, military, judiciary, and law enforcement agencies had reached a new high. One poll estimated 97 percent of policemen in Mexico were corrupt. Despite the high risk, Greg Patton and his partner, Special Agent John Adams, made frequent trips across the border. Today would be Patton's last trip.

It was noon when Patton awoke, showered, put on his jockey shorts, and padded barefoot into the kitchen to the smell of fresh coffee and bacon. Becky smiled affectionately and he kissed her and gave her a warm embrace.

Stepping back, he gestured to Billy and Samantha, who were yelling and chasing each other in the backyard with a garden hose. “Isn't today Friday?” he asked.

“Yes, but school is out this week. They only have to go in if they are writing exams.”

“I see.”

“Sorry, I knew you were late coming in. I tried to keep them quiet for as long as I could, but —”

“It's okay,” he smiled, while giving Becky a pat on her backside. “It was time to get up, anyway. I have to go back to work in an hour. Have they had lunch yet? It would be nice to eat together before I go.”

It was an hour later when Patton started the Honda Civic and backed out of his driveway, pausing only to wave at his family before heading off. His car, which was dented and scraped, did not look like it belonged to a law enforcement agency. In fact, it used to belong to a drug trafficker, but U.S. law allowed forfeiture of seizures by authorities to be used by the law enforcement agencies who seized them. It allowed for a large assortment of covert vehicles to be used by the investigators. The only downside was there was not a budget to go along with each vehicle to keep it properly maintained and repaired.

Normally Patton would have been required to drop the car off at the office for the night, but due to the late circumstances … and the fact the Honda Civic wasn't exactly a prized car in the office, he had driven it home.

He realized he was slightly ahead of schedule to pick up Adams and decided to take a slight detour and drive past the house with the dog. There was little doubt it was being used by drug runners. Intermittent surveillance had shown up to a dozen different muscle cars with jacked-up rear ends and custom-built hood exhausts parked in the driveway.
Low-life punks, but who controls them?

Most of the cars had Mexican plates, which made it difficult to identify who was driving. Any inquiries to Mexican authorities would either return as being plates owned by someone else, or, if the dealers were connected to a drug cartel, then the cartel would be notified of the investigator's interest. Often it was only through the use of surveillance, photographs, and facial recognition that the framework of the drug cartels was identified.

Patton's excitement grew as he drove past the house. Parked in the driveway was a new Mercedes. It was painted emerald green with dark tinted windows. Tinted windows were common in the area to help keep the heat out, but it also made it difficult to identify who was driving. Patton slowed as he went past. It had a Mexican plate, but it was still worth copying down.

He then drove to the end of the block and parked where he could still see the Mercedes, but wondered if he should risk leaving to go get Adams. Would it still be there when they returned? The decision was made for him when the car backed out of the driveway and headed off in the opposite direction.

Patton followed, trying to keep his distance. Unlike in Hollywood movies, a one-car surveillance seldom went undetected. Today, however, the Mercedes ventured out onto a well-travelled road where the presence of other cars gave him cover. Soon he found himself on the Bridge of the Americas, crossing over into Juarez. His was the second car behind the Mercedes and he was glad the Mexican customs agent treated him like the others, with a lackadaisical wave of his hand to allow him entry.

The afternoon traffic in Juarez was heavy. It slowed the Mercedes while continuing to provide other cars for cover. The only disadvantage was the possibility of being left behind at a red light.

When the Mercedes stopped at a red light, three car lengths in front of him, Patton took the opportunity to call Adams. Unfortunately, like most people on surveillance, his attention was focused on who he was following … and not on who might be following him.

Adams picked up when Patton rang and he quickly updated his partner on the situation. Adams wasn't overly concerned his partner was in Juarez. They were short-staffed and often ventured into Mexico alone. Sometimes it was even safer. One man in a car looked a lot less like a police officer than two men did. Especially two men who were in their thirties, physically fit, and not looking or acting like gawking tourists who had left their brains at home.

There was something else that marked them as law enforcement officers, although neither was aware of it. They both dressed casually and believed their infrequent shaving routine made them less conspicuous. Perhaps it did, but neither man was a trained undercover operative. Like most officers with police training, they portrayed a degree of self-confidence. Coupled with a strong Alpha-male attitude, it tended to make them stand out for who they really were.

It was one of the first lessons Adams would later learn when he worked with such an operative. There are times to act aggressive and times not to. Instinctively knowing when to do which could be a matter of life or death.

“Okay, we're moving again and he's turned down a side street,” said Patton. “I'll call you back when I'm done and let you know when I can pick you up.”

“Sounds good. Don't take any —”

“Shit, looks like I got company,” said Patton, his voice going up an octave. “A black-and-white tucked in behind me and one of their crew cab pickups is coming up alongside. The cop driving is really giving me the hairy eyeball.”

“Forget the Mercedes and get the hell out of there!” urged Adams.

“You don't have to tell — fuck!”

Adams heard the sound of crunching metal and Patton's high-pitched yell. “I got rammed into a row of parked cars! I … I —”

“Don't stop!” screamed Adams. “Step on it! Get outta there and run for the border!”

“Can't! I'm blocked in!” came the frantic reply. “Fuck, here they come. They got their automatics out!”

“Don't hang up! Can you get one of their plates?”

In response, all Adams heard was the sounds of men shouting, followed by breaking glass and Patton screaming in pain before the phone went dead.

On Friday afternoon in Chilliwack, British Columbia, Jack Taggart rose from his chair in the front row of the high school auditorium and clapped when Marcie finished giving her valedictorian speech. Beside him, Natasha, holding their seven-month-old baby, Michael, also rose. On his other side, Jack's sister, Liz, and his brother-in-law, Ben, also stood, clapping loudly.

Jack was proud of Marcie. She was still only seventeen years old, but was graduating from grade twelve with top honours.

Marcie had not had an easy life. Jack was a trained undercover operative for the Royal Canadian Mounted Police who was assigned to an Intelligence Unit targeting organized crime. Marcie was twelve years old when Jack rescued her from a life of drugs and prostitution. Half the credit to her success, he believed, went to Liz and Ben, who officially adopted her at that time.

The other half went to Marcie. She was intuitive, intelligent, and a hard worker. Her plans were to go to university and become a child-protection worker. Not an easy job, but one she had her heart set on. She was a caring person and, given her challenging background, he knew she would make a good one.

Jack thought she gave an excellent speech, but could see there was something else on her mind. Part way through her delivery, some late arrivals came into the gymnasium. He saw the optimistic look on her face, followed by disappointment as she continued to talk.

She's worried and it's not stage fright.
Someone didn't show up
…

As the audience sat back down, he locked eyes with Marcie. She was smiling, but he could tell it was not sincere. Jack quit smiling at her and raised one eyebrow.
What's up?

Marcie's smile disappeared. She gave him a slight nod.

During a break in the ceremonies, Marcie took him aside and the words spilled out of her.

“My friend … Lily, she's not here tonight!” said Marcie.

“Who is Lily?”

“I told you. She's my friend. Lily Rae. She should have been here! We were supposed to graduate together!”

“Maybe her car broke down or something.”

“No! You don't understand. I haven't seen her for over two weeks.”

“Have you called her home? What about her parents or family?” asked Jack.

“She only has her mom. She never knew her father and doesn't have any brothers or sisters. Her mom called me this morning. She hasn't seen her, either. Lily told her she was going away with her boyfriend for a couple of days, but that was a week ago. Her mom tried to call her on her cell, but turns out Lily had left it at home.”

“Intentionally?”

“I don't think so. Since meeting this guy she is always forgetting stuff. I mentioned it to her once and she just got all dreamy-eyed and said I would also be that way when I fell in love. Both her mom and me figured she would be back before today. She was really excited about the graduation. We had made plans to be together tonight. Well, sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“Lily and I had a fight a month ago,” confessed Marcie. “We haven't talked to each other since. Still, I thought we would make up tonight and be friends again.”

“What was the fight about?”

“It was my fault.” Marcie sighed. “I should have kept my yap shut. I told her I didn't like her new boyfriend. She said I was jealous because I don't have a boyfriend. I said no way. I don't trust the guy. There's somethin' not right about him. I think he's a player.”

“A player? As in dealing dope or into gangs?”

“Well … I'm not sure. She only met him about three months ago. His name is Earl Porter. He's like, thirty years old. She told me they're in love. I met him a couple of times when he picked her up at school. He drives a black Mustang convertible and comes across as a real charmer. Real slick. Lily mentioned he likes to gamble and throw money around. That's when I told her I didn't trust him.”

“Sounds like Lily should know better.”

“She said he's rich because his parents died in a car accident and he got a lot of insurance money. Maybe he did. I don't know.”

“Is Lily into the dope scene or hanging out with gangsters?”

“No way.” Marcie shook her head vehemently. “She wouldn't have been my friend if she was. She's really straight. Doesn't even smoke pot.”

“What? Do you?”

“Hell no! Come on, Uncle Jack! Are you kidding? After what I've been through I won't even take a sip of wine because I'm scared I'll end up back on the spike. I like to be in control of my body and my mind.”

“So why is Lily hanging around some guy who is a dozen years older? He sounds like a loser.”

“The thing is, Lily will believe anything a guy tells her if he gives her a little attention.”

“A lot of teenage girls are like that,” Jack remarked.

“Yeah, but I think she's more needy than most. The only real family she has is her mom. Even that is not good. Her mom was in a car accident four years ago and has been in a wheelchair ever since.”

“Sounds like Lily has had to grow up fast.”

“Yeah, it hasn't been easy on either of them. Her mom is in chronic pain. Lily told me she thinks her mom is addicted to prescription drugs. Since the accident, Lily has been more of a mother to her mom than her mom has been to her. Don't get me wrong, her mom's a real nice lady, but, well, you know, sometimes life sucks.” Marcie shrugged.

“Does Lily have any history of running away from home?”

Marcie frowned. “Yeah, about two years ago, but even then she came back after a couple of days.”

“Where did she go then?” Jack asked.

“She spent two nights sleeping in someone's barn. I didn't know her then, but I think she was stressed out over looking after her mom all the time and going to school. The two of them had a fight over what she wanted to wear to school. Lily told me she was really embarrassed about it and would never do it again.”

“Maybe she did run away again,” mused Jack.

“No way. This is different.” Marcie shook her head again, her mouth set in a grim line. “There's something wrong. She should have been here tonight. Even if she is still angry with me, this grad was a big deal for her. She talked a lot about it.”

“What's her mom doing about it?”

“She was upset when she called me and said she was going to report her missing. But I'm worried. The police will hear she ran away before … you know how that goes. I bet they don't exactly bust their asses looking for her. I was hoping you could check out her boyfriend or something.”

Jack nodded. “I'll look into it. Does she have her own car?”

“No. I was always giving her a ride until she met Earl.”

“Is there anything else?”

Marcie took a picture out of her purse and handed it to Jack. “This is her. I scanned it and printed it on my computer so I don't need it back. Thought maybe you might need it if … if … like if there was an unidentified body in a morgue or —”

“You're jumping to conclusions,” said Jack, looking at the picture of a pretty girl with long red hair. “Does she always wear that gold stud earring?”

“The earrings change, but she always wears a pendant. You can't see it in the picture because of her blouse, but she never takes it off. It's a little silver frog with ruby-red eyes to match her hair.” A small smile crossed Marcie's face and she added, “Sometimes I would tease her and call her froggy …” Marcie looked at Jack and quickly added, “But not in front of anyone! It wasn't being mean. I just —”

“It's okay. Sounds to me like you're still her friend … and friends sometimes have arguments,” said Jack reassuringly. “Bet she gets over it. In the meantime, I'll check out Porter and see what he has to say.”

“I don't even have his number. Neither does Lily's mom.”

“Don't worry. I'll find him. I bet she shows up, too. Maybe they eloped or something.”

“Yeah, I hope so.”

“Give me a couple of days and I'll get back to you, but if you hear from her, let me know right away.”

“I will.”

“Now … I want you to enjoy yourself,” said Jack with mock sternness. “Go out tonight and have fun. You've earned it.”

Greg Patton lay with his face mashed into the floor mat behind the driver's seat of the Mexican police crew-cab truck. His gun, badge, and wallet had been taken from him before he was propelled into the vehicle. One policeman pinned him to the floor with a knee on his back. Patton felt the muzzle of a pistol digging into the base of his skull. He remained still and hoped the gun wasn't cocked to prevent an accidental discharge as the truck sped through the streets.

When they arrived at their destination, Patton was dragged out of the truck and brought into a small police station. For a moment, being in a station gave him some hope.
Better than being made to kneel before a shallow grave in the desert …

Even when six officers shoved and manhandled him into an empty cellblock in the rear of the station, he was still hopeful.
Perhaps they plan to lock me up for a while. Put the fear of god into me before letting me go …

Patton was more concerned when he was forced to strip completely naked.
Okay, guys, you've humiliated me. Yeah I've got a small dick. Everyone have a good laugh and then let me go …

What followed wasn't laughter. It was the faces of determined, angry men as they handcuffed him spread-eagled to the bars of a cell. Next, a pail of water doused his naked body.

Patton looked at the face of a man who approached him with an electric cattle prod and closed his eyes. Briefly, he thought of Enrique Camarena and the horror he endured before he died.

“Special Agent Patton of the big American customs, how are you?” asked a voice with a heavy Spanish accent.

Patton opened his eyes and saw a man in a police captain's uniform smiling at him.

“What do you want?” asked Patton.

The captain gave a curt nod and the man with the cattle prod stepped forward. For a moment, Patton felt like someone had used a sledge hammer to drive his nuts up into his stomach. His head jerked back, hitting the bars and his jaw snapped shut, biting his tongue, before emitting a bloody scream.

“What I want, Special American Agent Patton, is to kill you in the most painful way possible. But … before you die, there are some things we want to know. Things like what are the names of the people you work with? Their addresses … what cars they drive. The names of their wives and children. The names of your wife and children. What schools they attend.”