Murder With A Splash Of Rum: A Puerto Rican Thriller Page 4

  “The Van Dusen murder, which is why I assume I am here, since my review is not up for another six months, was not investigated properly.” Vargas made the bold statement, fully realizing that by phrasing it in this manner she was unmistakably pointing the finger at Colonel Garcia. Weeks of shuffling papers using the bottom side of a trash can as chair had sufficiently angered Alexandra. Now that she knew she was seconds away from being fired, nothing held her back. It was either her or Colonel Garcia. She was not going down without a fight.

  “First, no sweep of the area was conducted. I noticed a white piece of cloth a few feet away from the body on the day of the investigation. I brought the cloth to the Colonel's attention, but he dismissed its relevance. After the crime scene unit left with the body, I examined the cloth and found it to be a men's white handkerchief.

  “So...?” interrupted the impatient Commissioner, who was tapping his desk lightly.

  Undissuaded, Vargas proceeded to her second point. “Additionally, I identified the deceased as probably a tourist and brought that to the Colonel's attention.”

  This revelation caused the Commissioner to immediately cease his impatient tapping. “I thought Garcia identified....”

  Vargas refused to be interrupted. “It was obvious from the comments made by other investigating officers that due to the location and circumstances, the deceased most probably was a homosexual and that he had been engaged in some type of tryst immediately prior to his murder.”

  The Commissioner allowed her to continue. Garcia’s hatred of gays had always been a source of tension between the Commissioner and the Colonel. Padilla had buried several allegations of anti-gay police brutality over the years, and Garcia’s name had been far too frequently involved. As Colonel, then Lt. Colonel, and then Police Commissioner, he had been able to cover over Garcia’s multitude of infractions over the years.

  However, Alexandra Vargas had already revealed new evidence about the murder that Garcia had failed to mention, and she had initially and correctly identified the decedent as a tourist. He was curious where she was going with this. The Commissioner was a political survivor. He couldn’t fire Alexandra if she possessed knowledge about the murder that he didn’t. All it would take was one interview by a disgruntled ex-employee to shine more light on how badly the case had been handled thus far.

  “Next, the juxtaposition of the body to the banyan tree struck me as odd. It was as if the body had been propped there post-mortem. It would be highly unusual for someone to seat themselves inside the curvature of a banyan tree in the manner we found the body. It was almost like the body was being....embraced by the tree.”

  “Embraced?” prompted a quizzical Commissioner.

  “Finally, the victims were strangled by a white polyester cord. This setting has occurred in other unsolved murders. Three that I have identified thus far.” With that last statement, Vargas separated the packets of paper she had removed from her leather briefcase.

  “Five months ago in Piñones” stated Vargas as she placed the first small ream of papers in front of the Commissioner.

  “Three months ago in Luquillo”, she continued adding a second ream of papers to the first.

  “Two months ago in Piñones”, adding the third ream of paper to the other two.

  “Each murder victim was male. Each is suspected of being homosexual, either due to the way body was discovered or because it was found in an area known for homosexual activity. Each victim was strangled by a white polyester cord. Each body was found propped inside the roots of a banyan tree, although one report is inconclusive and doesn't specify the type of tree. And finally, in two of the three murders, a white handkerchief was found placed over the victim's face or nearby the body. The third murder makes no mention of a handkerchief, but as evidenced by the manner in which Mr. Dusen's murder was investigated, there may have well been a handkerchief at the scene which was simply overlooked or blew away.”

  The Commissioner shuffled through the papers on his desk. He could see that the investigation packet had been assembled in textbook manner, the way police academies in the north trained all young recruits. Few Puerto Rico reports were actually assembled with this precision or completeness.

  “You're saying that these murders are somehow connected?” Padilla stated matter of factly.

  “I think they were committed by the same individual. I think you are looking at a serial killer” responded Alexandra. “This may not be all of the victims. I have not had to time to review files from San Juan, the western and central part of the island, and still have a few left to review from the northeast. There is a definite possibility that there are more victims out there.”

  The last comment silenced Padilla. Under ordinary circumstances, such a charge would be strange, if not comedic. Serial murders were extremely rare in the north, and were non-existent in Puerto Rico. However, the points made by Alexandra Vargas would have driven Padilla to the same conclusion if presented by a male officer. Vargas' professional appearance and calm demeanor made her conclusions even more believable, even if she was a woman.

  Padilla spent six or seven minutes reviewing the paperwork, comparing documents side by side, flipping through the packets. He managed to follow the badly written reports, grimacing at the poor quality of the documentation. The inadequacy of the investigating officers was apparent. Even Padilla had to begrudgingly admit to himself that the investigating officers may have already compromised those cases.

  He also became increasingly impressed by Vargas' perception and ability to extrapolate data from the embarrassing documentation in front of him. He had never before met Vargas. He only knew of her through crude comments from fellow officers who loathed having a female officer in their midst.

  Alexandra Vargas' work on this case, regardless of whether there was serial killer on the loose, was not good police work. It was exceptional police work, some of the best he had seen in his many years with the police force.

  Padilla leaned back into his high back chair and looked out of his window. After a few seconds, he returned his gaze to Vargas. The Commissioner was a political survivor.

  “You are to keep this strictly between us. Tell no one. I am reassigning you to the investigative division. You are to continue your current duties of case file management, but I want you to look into this further. See if there are any other murders that have happened which could be related. Talk to the other officers, see if there is anything else to tie these murders together. I want a report within one week You are dismissed.”

  Padilla didn't give a rat's ass about a handful of dead fags. However, the specter of Puerto Rico's first serial murder struck fear in him. His survival instincts kicked in. If he came out on top, it would completely wipe away any negative press about the Van Dusen murder, and would cement him as a police superstar. The press would go wild, and where the press goes, politicians follow. And in Puerto Rico, politicians are the doorway to money and power.

  He escorted Alexandra out of his office door, and closed it.

  “This was turning out to be a good day”, thought Padilla. “I might just have to bust a hooker and fuck her before I go home for dinner.”

  True to form, three hours later Padilla was enjoying a blow job in the cruiser he had commandeered. He had found her working the streets outside of a known hooker bar in Loiza. She’d been given the choice of jail or a blowjob. Of course, she chose the blowjob. They always did. It was one was his favorite perks. If she was rough with her teeth or didn’t do a good job, he might still arrest the bitch anyway.

  -----О-----

  As Padilla was reaching his climax and making up his mind whether to arrest the whore, eighteen miles away a figure was wrapping a bolt of white chord tightly into a small bundle. After tying off the bundle and securing the loose end through the loops, the figure quietly unpackaged a bright white new handkerchief from its plastic casing, folding it again in half, and then tucked it neatly into a shirt pocket.

  The white h
andkerchief and glossy polyester rope were blinding white in the late afternoon tropical sun, sparkling with glistening purity. But that purity would be short-lived.

  ‹8›

  The thumping music emanating from two huge speakers to Fernando's right blared onto the small dance floor at Lila’s. Tonight, he was so happy that even if his heart were to stop beating, blood would continue to course through his body. But he doubted his blood could stop flowing. His heartbeat seemed to synchronize with the loud percussion of the two speakers, forcing blood through his veins and down into his groin.

  He and Phillip had danced for an hour without stopping, alternating between slower grinding movements and high energy gyrations. As the music changed again, Fernando grabbed Phillip into his arms and dragged him by the neck to the bar.

  Lila’s wasn't the biggest dance club in San Juan, nor the most popular, but it was where Phillip preferred to go since its clientele was a mixture. It contained American tourists with whom Philip could communicate and well-dressed locals around whom Fernando felt comfortable. Fernando winked at Danny the bartender, who promptly served them a vodka cranberry and vodka OJ. The two retreated to table adjoining the small dance floor. Phillip always like to be at the center of the action, Fernando preferred the more private tables recessed at the perimeter of the crowd. Tonight, he would give Phillip anything he wanted.

  It had been a rough night. Phillip had informed Fernando earlier that his father had cut him off. There would be no more money. His father had been told by someone that his son was living a gay lifestyle in Puerto Rico. He didn’t reveal who had told his father or if he even knew who it was. Regardless, Phillip was now all alone. He had no income and had never worked a real job.

  The two had met up at Stopngo in Condado, an outdoor bar next to Phillip’s condo, where Phillip had cried into Fernando's shoulder until Fernando suggested they go to Lila’s. Phillip happily agreed. Fernando had worked all night on lifting Phillip’s spirits, reminding him that he still had the palatial condominium in Condado. Fernando reminded Phillip that his warehouse job provided enough money for a decent lifestyle for both of them, particularly since Fernando lived and ate for free at is parent's house. That seemed to make Phillip very happy. Fernando was elated. He once again secretly harbored dreams of moving into Phillip’s condo, and the two of them formalizing their relationship with a shared bank account and a life together.

  “Let's do a shot”, suggested Phillip. Fernando was already wobbly. He didn't like the idea of driving home along dark mountain roads while he was drunk. However, he acquiesced. Phillip had suffered bad news so he would insure tonight was as happy for Phillip as it was for him.

  “I’m staying at your place tonight, right?” asked Fernando eagerly, hoping to both avoid the drive home and enjoy another night together.

  “We'll see”, winked Phillip.

  With that, Fernando rushed to the bar, nearly tripping in his haste.

  After several minutes waiting at the busy bar, repeating his order to Danny three times so that he could be heard over the music, Fernando grabbed two chichaitos, Puerto Rico's signature shot of rum with anise. He turned and headed back to the table to find it vacant.

  “Probably in the bathroom”, he thought as he placed the shots on the table, carefully balancing them on the wobbly surface.

  The light system flickered and the music changed. The DJ switched from salsa to American music and the sound activated dance lights reacted. This time the DJ began playing one of Fernando's favorites. He turned his head and strained to peer through the crowd to find his dance partner. Phillip was still lost in the crowd somewhere, leaving Fernando to dance alone in his chair, careful to avoid bumping the table and spilling their drinks.

  Fernando loved dancing more than any other pastime. Dancing is the national past-time of Puerto Rico. Fernando had learned basic salsa moves by age 5, and by age 10 could gracefully lead even the clumsiest partner. In a nation where dancing is part of every celebration, it is generally the role of the men to take the lead and dance with family members of all ages. Fernando, like all males in his family, had been regularly expected to entertain his very young cousins and female relatives by dancing with them at family events. The frequent holidays in Puerto Rico inevitably resulted in hours and hours of dancing each month over the course of several years. His burgeoning good looks made Fernando a family and neighborhood favorite. Fernando almost never sat at family functions. As soon as he did, he was grabbed by a cousin or neighbor. His early years were filled with warm smiles from his mother and approving glances from his father as he feted young female neighbors and generously complimented the appearance of his many female relatives.

  As Fernando gyrated in his chair, he recalled overhearing his mom say once to his father “He is a heartbreaker, Ernesto. He is going to be a handful when he comes of age.” That promise of unfulfilled motherly aspiration went unfulfilled as Fernando passed through his teenage years. That promise was gradually replaced by approving boasts from his mother to her friends. Unlike many neighborhood teenagers, Fernando was never caught up in drugs, unwanted pregnancy, guns, or fistfights.

  Fernando had been a good teenager – possibly too good. He also had never stayed out past midnight with a high school sweetheart, never been to a prom, and except for his friend Maria, had never taken a girl on a date to dinner and the movies. His teenage years had been spent building the perfect façade. Behind that mask of the perfect teenager was the other face, the hidden face which dared not reveal itself, particularly to those he loved most in the world. Fernando’s life was perfect. Perfectly empty.

  Fernando smiled at Danny and ordered another cocktail for himself. It had been twenty minutes since he had returned to the table, and still no Phillip. He downed both chichaitos and begin searching the small club for a sign of Phillip.

  After searching the club and then the rest of La Placita, Fernando’s emotions rose and slid from depression to anger then concern. He made his way up to the municipal parking lot. The lot was packed with cars, and Fernando’s car was just where he had left it, with no sign of Phillip.

  After a while, Fernando decided that he was sufficiently concerned to drive to Phillip’s house and check. He passed by the bar one more time. There he noticed Phillip seated at the table the two had vacated nearly an hour ago.

  “Phillip!” shouted Fernando, his concerns and anger giving way to joy. Phillip was counting off a roll of twenty-dollar bills. He rolled the bundle and placed it in his front right pocket, a trick he had taught Fernando last week. The front pockets are very difficult to pick-pocket, even for the most agile of hands. It was a trick Phillip said was common for international travelers.

  “Hey”, replied Phillip, as he noticed Fernando and cast a closed lipped smile in his direction.

  “Where have you been”, Fernando asked barely able to maintain equilibrium in his voice.

  “Oh, I met a family friend”, replied Phillip. “He knows about my dad and so he gave me a little cash to help me through until my father sees the light. See?” He pulled the wad of money again from his pocket and flashed it at Fernando.

  Fernando pressed Phillip’s hand under the table to hide the cash from anyone looking in their direction. “Don’t flash that around, you’re begging to get mugged.” Then Fernando hugged him tightly, nearly breaking into tears. “Let's go home” suggested Fernando. After tonight's drama, he wanted nothing more than to hold Phillip until the morning hours.

  “Not tonight” replied Phillip. “I’m tired, I want to be alone.”

  Fernando was stunned. He had been planning on tonight all week, and had called Phillip at least twice a day. He had reminded Phillip with each call that they were spending the evening dancing, and if Phillip was lucky Fernando “might let him do something to him later”. Phillip had laughed these comments off each time, ending the conversation with “ok, see you then buddy”.

  “But your friend gave you money, and besides, you have me” pleaded
Fernando. He felt his stomach churning in disappointment, the former anxiety he had endured for nearly two hours returning.

  “C’mon dude, let’s go to your house and snuggle.”

  Phillip’s face darkened. “I said no! Jesus you are one needy son of a bitch. We’re not married, okay dude? Lay the fuck off me”. Phillip turned back around and stormed out of the bar, leaving a stunned and silent Fernando standing at the table.

  Fernando collapsed back into his seat and stared blankly at the table where his hands lay clasped and resting. He remained there, motionless for several seconds, and the floodgates opened.

  Fifteen years of holding things back, fifteen years repressing his feelings, hiding his thoughts, feeling that he had betrayed his mother and father, all coalesced into one deep audible gulp followed by streams of tears and pain. He had no control and couldn't have held back the sobbing and gushing tears if he had wanted. He hid his face in his arms and buried his face on the table, hoping no one would see him, but not really caring.

  It was at that moment that a calloused hand clutched the back of his neck in a firm but gentle hold. Fernando lifted his head in sudden surprise, expecting to see Phillip standing behind him.

  Instead, he saw a complete stranger. A muscular, bearded man with a pock-marked face.

  ‹9›

  “My name is Esteban” the bearded man announced as he seated himself at Fernando's table. “Need a friend?”

  Fernando forgot his tears for a moment and stared at the muscled mass before him. His visitor was humbly dressed in Dickie jeans and a work shirt, obviously a laborer or construction worker of some type. He was definitely Puerto Rican. The sudden change from Phillip’s English to his native Spanish made the sudden appearance of this man even more jarring. Esteban’s biceps stretched and pulled the sleeves of his work shirt tight. His chest protruded from the khaki colored buttoned shirt, which was held up securely by a belt fastening his orange work pants. The belt was unnecessary. Esteban’s twenty-eight inch waist was balanced on two equally muscled legs that flexed underneath the dance floor lights as he sat down. The pants were stretched to their limit by his large rounded buttocks.