“I saw a dismembered body once. A man butchered his wife after a fight. He gutted her and pieced her like he would an elk, then wrapped the pieces in butcher paper and put them in his garage freezer. He doubled up two garbage bags and ran her guts out into the desert in his pickup and dumped them. Told us he aimed to dispose of the rest slowly. That’s as close as I’ve been to something like this. The victim here, even his ears and genitals are gone. They aimed to erase his identity. Is there any reason you can think of to take it that far with Juan Menderes?”
When I didn’t answer quick enough, she pointed at the dark stain then a boot print, a heel dug in, the shooter trying to balance between what he was trying to achieve and keeping blowback off himself and the shotgun.
“I think the shotgunner is a little bit of an artist or thinks he is,” she said. “He’s got a way of doing things. This wasn’t his first time. He’s too good with the gun. He’s got a feel for the spread rate of the pellets. That’s not easy, and I know. I grew up with a shotgun in my hands.” She paused then said, “I may have heard the name Rosamar Largo before. What does she say about who picked him up?”
“She says she doesn’t know who he was getting the ride from.”
“Do you believe her?”
“No.”
“A sister would ask.” She thought about that another several seconds, then repeated. “A sister would ask unless she already knew what was going down. Is she claiming they were close?”
“She said they were coming from different places, but he was her only sibling.”
Which made me think of Melissa. I pushed that away to get back to this conversation.
“Rosamar Largo said she grew up in LA, Juan in Mexico. They had the same father,” I said.
“And you don’t believe her?”
“I need to see proof.”
“We found a cap the wind had carried. Don’t know if it was the victim’s. It was new, not even sweat-stained on the brow. A new cap doesn’t wander out here by itself. Blue jeans and a T-shirt that was white at some point.”
“Shoes?”
“Black Nike sneakers, also new. Nothing else. No wallet, nothing.”
“The sneakers fit. Describe the cap.”
“It’s a blue baseball-style cap with a black Nike emblem.”
“That fits. What about a small black backpack?”
“No other clothes, nothing else.” She turned. “A blue baseball-style cap with a black Nike emblem fits?”
“It does.”
I took in the sandy white, the mesquite, and hills once more before we left. When we reached the paved road, Perth pushed the air-conditioning fan up but left her window down and we were both quiet on the drive. I looked down the valley and out at the bright, hot, windy day and couldn’t stand it that Melissa, Jim, and Nate were gone.
“Let’s start by finding out if it was Juan Menderes,” I said after we pulled into the Shell station. “Get a DNA test sample together, and I’ll get it out today.”
“Get it out today?” She smiled at that and said, “I liked your voice as soon as I heard it. Now I know why.”
20
Julia looked younger and frailer and withdrawn into grief tonight. A stack of used Kleenex was on the nightstand near her. I pulled a chair over and was talking to her when hospital administrator Dr. Lena Schechter stopped by.
“You’re her uncle?”
“Yes. Paul Grale.”
“Can I have a few minutes of your time?” Outside the room and down the wide corridor, she asked, “Are you close to Julia?”
“We’re good friends. I’m very fond of her. I’ve watched her grow up. Why do you ask?”
“There’s a couple who are neighbors of the Kern family who have told me they’d like to adopt her. They’ve spent much of the last several days here. Do you know them?”
“I’ve met them. Julia will live with me unless she wants to do something different.”
“Do you live alone?”
“I do.”
“Is your lifestyle compatible with raising a teenage girl?”
“Not really, I’ll have to make changes.”
I reached slowly for my wallet to give her my card. I didn’t doubt the responsibility I was taking on, to see Julia through high school and college and the years it would take to get over the loss of her family, if ever.
“Again, I have to apologize for invasive questions, and you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”
“It’s not a problem. I have a house. There’s a bedroom for Julia. My wife died in a car accident a decade ago, and I live alone. I know I haven’t been at the hospital enough and people are wondering. I understand.”
I pulled one of my cards out and handed it to her. She read it and looked puzzled.
“FBI?”
“Almost nineteen years. I’m on the Domestic Terrorism Squad in the Vegas field office. It’s why you haven’t seen more of me in here.”
“I had no idea. The neighbors . . .”