The Mamacita Murders (4 page)
“Who are you trying to kid? Did you see what I just saw?”
“Yes, Dylan,” I reply. “I was here holding her while you were on your phone. I saw everything.”
“I’m taking it that this will be your case now. You’re the on-call homicide prosecutor, right?” Dylan asks.
“It’s not a homicide yet. Stop saying she’s dead.”
“She couldn’t even talk. I’ve seen these cases before. She had a huge gash to her head. That’s where all the blood was coming from. It’s just a matter of time. She was comatose. It was like she was barely even responding to us.”
“You weren’t doing anything to talk to her,” I counter.
“You looked like you had everything under control. I was making all the calls to get help out here,” Dylan replies.
“Like I said earlier. You work your cases the way you want. I’ll work them my way. Let’s go get the canvass interviews done so we can get outta here.”
The motel check-in desk is no longer than five feet wide. Dylan stands on one end while I stand on the opposite end. A sign saying “Be back at” with a clock fixed at 11:40 will give Dylan eight minutes to take notes on the canvass interviews we just did. The window air cooler hums into the small space.
Dylan starts scribbling in a small notepad. An hour of interviews with the esteemed Motel Leafwood residents, mostly who were missing teeth or fingers, produced the typical “I don’t know,” “I didn’t hear anything,” or “I was sleeping” responses.
But Mr. Barry in room 331, right next door to Laura’s room, heard about five thumps against the wall at five o’clock in the morning. He didn’t think much of it because earlier in the night, he heard what he thought was rough sex a couple different times and saw men coming and going. He suspected room 333 was being used as a flop house for prostitution.
Around midnight, Mr. Thomas in room 221 saw Laura with a young man, with light skin, spiky hair, and tattoos including a letter L on his right bicep. I’m almost certain that had to be Clown. His tattoo is a dead giveaway. Plus, one of the cell phones left in the room belonged to him.
Around six o’clock in the morning, the housekeeper heard a car leaving at a high rate of speed. She remembered a strange rattling sound coming from the engine. I don’t think the housekeeper Blanca would have given us this information if it wasn’t for Laura’s blood on my clothes. I told her we all had a role in helping to solve this crime. I love the instruction judges read to juries, how flight is evidence of guilt. We should have this case wrapped up once we get DNA results back from the hotel room.
I turn to Dylan. “I think we’re wasting our time waiting around here. The person we’re waiting for is the motel owner. He’s not going to give us any information about who checked into Room 333. He’s gonna want a search warrant. People in this motel know that room was being used as a flop house. The last thing he’ll want to do is help us figure out how he could be responsible for what happened to Laura,” I say.
“You’re probably right, but we need to find out exactly what I need to write a search warrant for. I need to know how they keep information on check-ins, if there’s surveillance cameras, do they take credit cards, stuff like that,” says Dylan.
Sometimes policemen get into a routine and investigate their cases strictly based on habit. Some seem to have a set pattern of how they solve a case and rarely will they change it up. Most of the time they get it right. But sometimes, there’s a better way like my way.
“Do you see that notepad on the other side of the desk up there?” I ask.
“Yeah, this one with a bunch of writing on it next to the bell?” Dylan asks.
“Is that what you’re talking about? The check-in roster?”
“Looks like it,” says Dylan, looking up from the notepad he’s been scribbling in.
“Why can’t we just look at it?” I ask.
“I don’t want it to become a problem for us later. I already crossed the line in getting Laura’s phone traced. Plus, there may be surveillance watching us in here right now.”
“Do you really think there’s surveillance cameras in this motel? They can’t even update their bedspreads,” I say.
“Who knows?”
“Why do you think the owner’s gone right now? He saw us walking down here and I don’t think he wants anything to do with us. He didn’t come up one time to 333 to see what was going on,” I say.
I move closer to the notepad sitting on the other side of the desk. A large log with a leather cover sits on the desk with a pen resting on an open page covered with lines and writing.
“Don’t do that. Let’s just wait. It says he’ll be back at 11:40. That’s just a couple minutes away,” says Dylan.
I reach over the desk and turn the book around so I can read it. There’s room numbers, dates, times, and names. Room 333. 9:40 p.m., check in. +1 guest. $45.00. July 6. Paid.
That was easy.
“What does it say?” says Dylan.
“Remember, you do things your way. I’ll do them my way,” I say.
The door opens as a jingle bell hanging from the knob rings the sound of Christmas. A man’s voice yells out. “Can I help you with something?”
“Hi. I’m Gaby Ruiz. I’m from the Prosecutor’s Office and this is Investigator Mack with the Special Homicide Team.”
“Hello there. I’m Bob, the motel manager. Sounds like you had quite an army out there this morning.”
“We did. You run quite a motel here. How long have you owned this place?” I say.
“Oh, I just run the place. I’m not the owner.”
The first sign of someone lying to me is always a bad sign. It makes me wonder what else they are hiding. Our canvass interviews already informed me that Bob is the owner of this motel.
“How long have you run this place?” I ask.
“Oh, twenty years now,” Bob replies.
“Wow, you could have paid off the mortgage on a place like this if you bought it way back then. That’s too bad. It would have been a nice chunk of retirement you could’ve been sitting on,” I say.
Bob is probably sitting on this motel as a piece of retirement. He pays no maintenance, which is obvious from the pool scum and unattended flowerbeds and lawn areas around the parking lot. The rooms are outdated and he hasn’t put any work into it other than patching things up to make it habitable. The spackle on some of the walls is not even painted over. The rent he charges is so low and every room is occupied. And he’s willing to rent to pimps and drug addicts.
“Yeah, too bad I don’t own the place. What can I do for you guys?” Bob asks.
“Well, do you want the good news or the bad news first?” I ask.
“I don’t want any news from the police,” says Bob.
“That’s fair. Most people don’t. Let me help you then. I’ll start with the bad. The bad news is that we found a corpse, almost dead, in one of your rooms. It was a girl, seventeen years old. She was supposed to be testifying in one of my cases this morning and she didn’t show up. That’s why I’m here. Can you tell me who was occupying Room 333 this morning?” I ask.
“Well, I’d have to search the registration logs. We keep all the information on the motel guests in that log.”
“No problem. I can wait right here while you check.”
“It would take some time to research. I’ll have to call my corporate headquarters and get permission to release the information.”
“We can wait.”
“It’s not that easy. Maybe you don’t understand.”
“Maybe
you
don’t understand, Bob. I’m asking a simple question. And my common sense tells me you probably have some sort of registration log you keep right here, like a notebook, with the names of people who checked in. What do you do when people want to check out of your motel or you need to contact them in their rooms for something? Do you have to call corporate headquarters?”
“Well, that depends.”
“Depends on what?” I ask. “How high on drugs they are? What room they’re in? Whether they’re a regular guest? Whether they’re using your facility to pimp out and turn tricks?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Bob says.
“Where are your headquarters, anyway?”
“They’re in Old Town.”
“Is that your house in Old Town you’re talking about? Is your wife at home who you call your headquarter?” I ask.
“Look, you’re going to need a warrant to get any records from this motel,” Bob replies. “It’s just standard procedure.”
“We will be getting a warrant,” I assure him. “And let me tell you what my standard procedure is. Once I review those records, if there are any convicted pimps on that register that you’ve been warned not to rent rooms to, I will take the personal pleasure in filing charges against you for aiding and abetting prostitution.
“You and I both know that you’re the owner of this motel. And I bet if I look into it, you’ve been told not to rent your rooms to certain people including the one you rented 333 to last night. Do you know what a blacklist is, Bob?” I ask aggressively.
“Yes, it’s people we’re not supposed to be renting to,” he replies.
“Exactly,” I say. “I’ll put twenty dollars on whoever you rented Room 333 to last night is on that blacklist.”
Bob is silent, staring at me wondering what’s going to come out of my mouth next.
“Ma’am, like I said, you’ll need a search warrant for the motel records,” he says.
“Very well,” I reply. “Now that was the bad news. Let’s talk about the good news. The good news is that we are done processing Room 333 and it’s all yours. Our forensic team is finishing up, as we speak. You may have a bit of a clean-up to do in there. And I don’t think you’ll want to send in your housekeeper. She’s rather distraught. She found the girl’s body.
“You should think about hiring a crime scene clean-up crew. They have these great steam cleaners and heavy duty equipment and cleaners. They’ll be able to get out the blood that soaked into your bed and carpet with just one steam clean. My grandmother had to hire one,” I say, walking myself out with Dylan.
“Did your grandmother really hire one of those companies?” asks Dylan.
“No, we cleaned it ourselves. I don’t think those companies existed back then,” I reply, holding back my tears and regretting that I mentioned this.
“What did that roster say?” Dylan asks.
“Clown checked them in last night. Let’s head to the hospital. I’ll need an update on Laura to give Judge Hoffman.”
There’s nothing glamorous about the hills of Mason Valley on our ride to the hospital. If it had its own TV show, it would star some trailer trash hillbilly actress. Dylan turns down the country music playing in his truck so I can answer my ringing cell phone.
“Gaby Ruiz,” I say. It’s Maribel, the front lobby receptionist at my office.
“Hi, Ms. Ruiz. A man by the name of Rodrigo Garcia just walked into our office. He’s asking to speak to you on a case you’re investigating,” says Maribel.
“Thank you, can you transfer me to the O.D.?” I ask hurriedly.
The O.D. is the officer of the day. Every day there’s an investigator assigned to the front desk. He watches the front lobby, monitors surveillance throughout the building, and is in charge of helping prosecutors with last minute favors.
“O.D.,” says a man on the phone after a minute of symphony music.
“Who is this?” I ask quickly.
“Investigator Chuck Van Dyke. Who’s this?”
“Hey, Chuck. This is Gaby Ruiz. I need your help,” I say. “There’s a man that’s waiting in the lobby. He looks like a hardcore gang-banger. His name is Rodrigo Garcia and he goes by the nickname Clown. You can’t miss him. He has this big joker smile with big jowls. He just walked into the office asking to speak to me.
“Hold him there. Well, don’t hold him, but keep an eye on him and make sure he doesn’t leave. If he starts to leave, assure him I’m on my way. If you need to, put him in an interview room and offer him some coffee. He’s a suspect in a serious assault that I’m investigating right now.”
“Can I hook him up?” asks Chuck.
“No, don’t hook him up. I don’t think we have enough on him yet. Plus, I want him at ease as much as possible when we talk to him. He won’t talk if he’s in custody. He came to the office for a reason. I don’t know what that is. But I don’t wanna spook him. I should be there in about half hour if there’s no traffic,” I say.
“All right, see you in a bit,” says Chuck as I hang up the phone.
“Are you kidding me? You don’t want him arrested? You don’t think we have enough!” says Dylan sarcastically as he redirects our route to head towards my office.
“I just want something more. We don’t even have the DNA,” I say.
“What more do you want? A confession? A videotape?”
“The moment we make an arrest, the clock starts ticking. I don’t want the forty-eight hour pressure with a case like this. The DNA will take at least a week to get back,” I say.
“A week? That will give him just enough time to leave the country,” Dylan replies.
“Assuming he could afford that. The only things we have right now is that he checked into the motel, his phone is in the room, he’s seen with Laura hours before she’s found, and he leaves in his car shortly after the crime. We have no cause of injury, no time of assault, no DNA,” I say.