The Battle of Jericho Page 2

  As Curtis got out of his truck, he heard the bone-jarring rattle of a passing train. The new building was only fifty feet from the LIRR tracks.

  Chief Krauss was in his office when there was a knock on his door.

  “Come in.”

  Curtis entered holding a letter. Krauss had known him for years — they grew up in the same neighborhood in Northwest Harbor.

  “Newman!” Krauss said under his breath, referencing the postman in Seinfeld. Curtis ignored the joke — he’d heard it countless times from the Police Chief. And not only was he not fat like Newman, but he was black.

  “Got a letter for you,” Curtis said. “It was addressed to Chief of Police, East Hampton. Whoever sent it didn’t realize you’d moved Headquarters to Wainscott. Fortunately, I caught the error.”

  “Right on.”

  Curtis rolled his eyes and handed Krauss the letter. “It’s addressed in some funky-lookin’ handwritin’.”

  The Chief opened the envelope and read the cryptic letter inside:

  ṡøṃετhïṉģ’ṡ αƒøøτ. ƒøυl ρlαÿ?

  ČŐÚĹĎ ĨŤ βĔ…МÚŔĎĔŔ؟؟؟

  сαṉ ÿøυ ƒïģυɾε øυτ ώhøḋυṉïτ?

  “Curtis,” Krauss said, “you get any more of these funky-lookin’ letters, you bring ’em straight over to me. Okay?”

  “Right on!”

  Krauss went immediately to Jericho’s office. The detective studied the letter carefully.

  “You think it’s a prank?” Krauss asked.

  “Possibly. This is a strange font. Kinda makes you yearn for the good old days — anonymous letters with words cut out of magazines and pasted on wrapping paper. You have the envelope?”

  “It’s handwritten,” Krauss said, giving it to him. “Obviously disguised handwriting.”

  “Yeah,” Jericho said. “Probably written in the sender’s nondominant hand.”

  Jericho looked at the letter again. “It could be a prank, or else whoever’s responsible for that detached foot is taunting us, challenging us to solve the crime.”

  “You’re talking about a homicide?”

  “That’s what the letter suggests, but it’s hard to know at this point. Usually, this kind of note is sent by a serial killer. If another foot turns up and we get another letter, we’ve got big problems.”

  “Jeez. We’ve never had a serial killer out here.”

  “There’s a first time for everything,” Jericho quipped. “Meanwhile, we’ve got to find out who this foot belongs to. The medical examiner says she’s probably Mexican.”

  “Well, get on it. You’re a detective. Start detecting.”

  “Right, Chief.”

  “If nobody comes forward, we’ll have to reach out to the Hispanic community. How’s your Spanish?”

  “Corazón. I remembered that from high school Spanish class.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “Taco. Enchilada. Burrito.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Officer Maria Salazar sat at her desk in the muster room.

  She was a short, curvy Latina in her early twenties, with light brown skin, almond-shaped, dark brown eyes, and a prominent, gracefully hooked nose. Her father called her his Aztec princess.

  But as a cop, Maria definitely didn’t want to be seen as a princess. She made sure her uniform was bulky and unflattering, and she projected an attitude that was all business.

  Maria had grown up in nearby Sag Harbor and attended the Ross School, a progressive institution which gave tuition assistance to promising minority students. In her final two years Maria became a summertime traffic control officer in East Hampton, wearing a glowing orange vest and writing tickets for double-parked luxury vehicles and cars at expired meters. The most fun she had was when wealthy arrogant summer residents, returning to their cars, tried to intimidate her. She always had the same response. “Rules are for everybody!”

  After high school, Maria attended John Jay College of Criminal Justice in Manhattan, then enrolled in the Suffolk County Police Academy, where she graduated in the top tenth of her class. She was very proud of being ranked first in women’s fitness training, having excelled in “speed strength,” the ability to produce force in a brief amount of time. And she even scored higher than many of the men at the shooting range. After graduation, she returned to East Hampton to become a cop. She’d been a police officer for about six months and was the only Latina on the force.

  The previous night she was driving home after her shift when she stopped at the 7-Eleven in Sag Harbor to pick up bread and milk for her parents. She noticed some movement in a car parked at the far end of the parking lot. As she crossed to the car she heard a sobbing sound, so she pulled out her flashlight and shone it into the vehicle. Some guy was on top of a young female, bare ass pumping. He stopped as Maria’s flashlight lit up the scene. She drew her gun and ordered him to exit the vehicle. Pulling up his pants, he complied. He was a fortyish Latino man.

  The girl kept crying. She was not more than fourteen years old.

  “On your belly, asshole!” Maria shouted. “Legs crossed, arms behind your back.” As he lay down she knelt and pushed her knee forcefully into the perp’s back. In a smooth, practiced movement, she holstered her gun, whipped out her handcuffs, and cuffed the creep. “Face on the ground. Move and I’ll put a bullet in your cojones!”

  She called for an ambulance and backup.

  “You okay, honey?” she asked the girl. “Tu estás bien?”

  Between sobs the victim replied in Spanish. “Él es mi tío. Él vive con mi madre y yo. Cada noche él me saca para un helado y me hace cosas. Él dice que él me matará si digo algo.”

  The man was her uncle and constantly did this to her when he took her out for ice cream at night. If she said anything, he’d kill her.

  “No se preocupe,” Maria said, reassuring the trembling victim. “Él no le molestará más.”

  The ambulance came right away. But it took a while for backup to arrive because of a quirk in the geography of Sag Harbor. The area east of Division Street is in East Hampton township. The area to the west is in Southampton township. The 7-Eleven was in the Southampton jurisdiction, so Maria’s own dispatcher had to call Southampton police for backup.

  Maria was plowing through the paperwork on this incident when she was interrupted by Chief Krauss.

  “Salazar,” he said. “Good work busting that rapist last night.”

  “No problem.”

  “I see in your file you list Spanish as a language skill. I’d like you to come with me. We need someone to help on an investigation.”

  Maria smiled as she got up. “Esto sería mi placer, Jefe.”

  Krauss spoke sternly. “I’ll take that as a ‘yes, sir.’”

  CHAPTER 7

  Jericho made photocopies of the envelope and cryptic letter and brought the originals to Sgt. Sean Anderson, the EHTPD fingerprint technician. Jericho knew the Haddonite black fingerprint dusting powder he usually used was ineffective on porous surfaces like paper.

  “Sean,” he said, “you got ninhydrin?”

  “Sure” he said. “You want me to fume those letters?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, but you’ll have to wait awhile,” Sean said. “You know I’ve gotta put on a shitload of protective gear for fuming, and I’m right in the middle of other stuff.”

  “Well, soon as you can,” Jericho said. “The envelope won’t be useful — too many people handled it. But the letter should have three sets of latents — the Chief’s, mine, and the sender’s. We need you to isolate the sender’s.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  As police officers, Jericho and the Chief had their prints already on file, so Jericho knew the remaining prints would be the sender’s. Scanned photos of them would be added via computer to the more than one hundred million prints in IAFIS, the FBI’s worldwide biometric database.

  “I’ll keep the samples handy in case you need them later for compariso
n,” Sean said. “I’ll get back to you on this.”

  “Thanks. You’re the best!”

  “I know.”

  When Jericho returned to his office, Krauss was there with a woman. “Jericho, this is Officer Maria Salazar,” he said. “Salazar, this is Detective Jericho.”

  “Like in the battle,” Jericho said, as was his custom when he introduced himself.

  “Nice to meet you, Detective.”

  “She speaks Spanish,” Krauss said.

  Jericho looked her over. She was dressed like all the women on the force, wearing a uniform that seemed designed for a guy — wide, saggy pants, overly blousy shirt, clunky black shoes. Makeup was not permitted on female cops, except for pale pink lip gloss. But Officer Salazar had eschewed even that, clearly opting for as plain a look as possible.

  “Why don’t you fill Salazar in on this case?” Krauss said. “I’m gonna assign her to assist you, if you don’t mind.”

  Jericho preferred to work alone, but he could certainly use her language skills.

  He described the case to her in detail. She was totally focused on every word. Then he showed her the pictures of the foot and a photocopy of the cryptic letter.

  “I know this font,” Maria said, smiling. “In high school lots of us used to fool around e-mailing each other in funny fonts.”

  “How did you do that?” Jericho asked.

  “Using a site called Weirdmaker,” she said. “You type something into it, hit enter, and versions in strange fonts appear in the fields below. Then you copy and paste what you wrote into any document. I’d guess this was written by a young person.”

  “It also could have been created by a tech-savvy adult,” Jericho said.

  “Yes,” Maria said. “But I recognize this font. It’s called Symbiosis WOW.”

  “Wow?” Krauss said.

  “Stands for World of Warcraft, a video game popular with teenagers. That’s why I thought a kid wrote it.”

  Jericho nodded and said nothing. Immediately Maria wondered if she’d been too assertive. “Of course…I could be wrong,” she said nervously. “It’s only a guess.”

  The detective looked at her intensely. His expression was hard to read.

  “Makes sense,” Jericho finally said.

  “So, Salazar,” Krauss said. “We need to reach out to the Mexican community, find out if there’s anyone missing.”

  “How…how do you know the woman’s Mexican?” she asked.

  “Her toenails were painted with OPO Fabuloso nail polish,” Jericho said. “Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Sure. I’m a Chicana,” she said. “I doubt anyone who isn’t Mexican would even know about OPO.”

  “So we’ll go on that assumption, at least for now,” Jericho said. “If we get nowhere with the Mexican folks, we’ll reach out to others in the Latino community.”

  “Okay,” Maria said. “But first let me explain something. There really is no unified Latino community. Right now it’s broken up into different groups. Mexicans came here first, then Columbians and Costa Ricans. Now we’ve also got Guatemalans, Venezuelans, Ecuadorans, you name it. And there’s a lot of tension — Mexicans and Costa Ricans don’t get along, Columbians and Ecuadorans can’t stand each other. I’ve just joined a group called Organización Latino Americana, OLA — which means ‘wave’ in Spanish. They’re trying to pull everybody together, so they can speak with one voice and be a political force.”

  “Fine,” said Krauss, clearly disinterested in her Sociology and Political Science lesson. “But right now we want to concentrate on Mexicans.”

  “One other thing,” Jericho said to Maria. “I know the note suggests this is a murder, but we have no real evidence of that. So for now we’ll treat it as a missing persons case.”

  “I understand.”

  “So,” Krauss said to her. “You got any ideas?”

  Maria thought it over. “Well, we could talk to Father Bednarik over at Most Holy Trinity church — where most Mexicanos worship. He can e-mail notices to his parishioners, talk to them before services. Oh, and I can contact OLA and ask them to spread the word. Then maybe we should take a drive around and ask questions in some of the areas where these folks live.”

  “Sounds good,” Jericho said. “Why don’t we start this afternoon?”

  “Sir,” Maria said to the Chief, “does this mean you’re taking me off patrol?”

  “Temporarily, yes.”

  “Thank you, Chief.”

  “Remember I said temporarily.”

  CHAPTER 8

  Jericho submitted notices by e-mail to The Star; East Hampton Patch, the area’s daily newspaper; 27East.com, the online East End newsletter; and Noticias, the Spanish language weekly, requesting information on any missing woman from the Latino community. He wrote the e-mails in English and Maria duplicated them in Spanish. Maria also sent an e-mail to OLA, to be forwarded to their members.

  They paid a visit to Most Holy Trinity Catholic church, where the Rev. Msgr. Ronald Bednarik said he’d reach out to his Hispanic parishioners and help any way he could.

  It was getting dark when Jericho and Maria drove to a group of filthy, run-down cabins — housing for poor Mexican immigrant workers. It was located right off Three Mile Harbor Road on Fanyon Way. Opposite the cabins was a building with a sign: “Crackenbush Poultry Farm.” They heard the raucous crowing of a rooster.

  “Doesn’t that rooster know it’s not sunrise?” Maria said.

  “I guess taking care of all those hens, he’s lost track of time.”

  They grinned at each other.

  There was a sign outside the cabins, reading “Residencia de los Pinos.” This was also the name of the grandiose mansion where the president of Mexico resided. But the only thing the two places had in common was that both were surrounded by pine trees.

  This Residencia used to be called Pinewoods Haven and was a popular tourist establishment back in the ’80s. But after it spent years in foreclosure, the bank sold it to Ernesto Pérez, a Venezuelan. Maria knew him because he once owned a small bodega near her house in Sag Harbor.

  Ernesto managed the cabin property from an old motor home with a sign on it: “Oficina/Office.” As they approached the door, Jericho whispered to Maria, “Remember, we don’t have a warrant, so to get inside we have to ask permission.”

  Maria knocked on the door. Ernesto answered and recognized her. He smiled, revealing brown teeth.

  “Maria! ¡Ay, mi Dios. Tu ves bueno en ese uniforme de la policía!”

  “Speak English, Nesto. This is Detective Jericho.”

  “Oh, sorry. I say she look good in police outfit!”

  “Sir,” Jericho said, “any woman missing from these cabins? You heard anything?”

  “I ain’t hear nothin’.”

  “We’ve gotta check the units.”

  “Be my gues’.”

  There were eight cabins in all. It was dark now and the area was dimly lit by strings of white Christmas lights with missing bulbs—lights that had hung there for years, Ghosts of Christmas Past. In the shadows they could make out clothes hanging on lines, a few rusty bikes, pieces of unrecognizable junk, and a giant pile of bulging plastic garbage bags, waiting in vain for pick-up.

  They knocked on the first cabin and a woman in a shabby housedress answered the door.

  “Policía,” Maria said, showing her badge. “¿Podemos entrar?” The woman looked scared.

  Maria gave her a friendly smile. “No estamos aquí causar problemas. Prometo.”

  “Pues…okay.”

  They went in. While Maria questioned the woman, Jericho looked around. There were three children and a couple of women watching cartoons on an ’80s Zenith TV, and four men lounging on sofas and mattresses, drinking beer and smoking. Everyone avoided eye contact with him. Thick cigarette smoke filled the air. Jericho was shocked by the bunk beds — four levels built into the far wall. They were made of cheap pine lumber and reminded him of the photos he’d se
en of Nazi concentration camps. He shuddered and looked away.

  Maria learned nothing in Cabin 1 and suggested they try the others. Jericho said he’d wait in the car. “I think you’ll get more info on your own.”

  As he sat in the driver’s seat, Jericho thought about the case. Jesus, surely somebody close to the victim — a parent, a family member, a friend — would be concerned enough to ask the police for help.

  He almost hoped a body would turn up. At least we’d have something to go on.

  He saw Maria approaching the car. She gave him a thumbs-down sign.

  Maria got into the car. “Detective Jericho…”

  “Yes?”

  “We struck out here, but there are plenty more places. If we keep going…”

  “Let’s call it a day. We’ll start fresh in the morning.”

  Maria nodded.

  “Detective,” she said quietly, “I studied Criminal Investigation in school, but being out in the field, it’s a whole different deal. I just want to say — I’m really honored to work with an experienced person like yourself. If you feel like, y’know, giving me any tips, I’d really appreciate it. I’m hoping…I’m hoping one day I can be a detective too.”

  “Well, I’d hardly consider myself a role model,” Jericho said diffidently.

  Maria nodded and smiled.

  CHAPTER 9

  It was nine PM New York time, six o’clock in Tacoma, Washington. Jericho was at his home in Montauk — a dilapidated ’50s A-frame house in the woods. He booted up his computer and launched Skype. He took a deep breath, preparing to have his weekly video chat with his daughter, Katie.

  Jericho had left the NYPD and taken a job as a cop in Montauk to be with his daughter. But a year ago, his ex-wife, Sarah, now remarried, moved with her husband from Montauk to Tacoma. Jericho had visitation rights, but the three thousand miles between them made things difficult. Katie was in first grade now, so she was only free to visit him during the summer and Christmas holidays. But summer was Jericho’s busy time, and Katie liked spending Christmas in Tacoma, to be with her new schoolmates and get lots of presents. Jericho had made a few quick trips to see her, but he felt out of place there, and the visits were rushed and unsatisfying.