Chapter 6
Maxim Dwyer took the steps down two at a time on his way to the morgue. Waiting was a big part of the job. Sitting in a car, expecting a phone call, getting a hold of the judge—the wheels of investigation turned slowly but steadily. Maxim was accustomed to it. But for some reason, waiting on autopsies always got the better of him.
Working a body was an urgent affair. Fresh murders needed big breaks in the first day or two to show promise of being solved. Luckily, Sanctuary was a small town. The marshal's office was rarely overloaded. Maxim would have weeks to work the case before anybody batted an eye. It was an atmosphere that allowed the detective to really get involved with the background players and make sure all loose ends were tied off. But none of that meant that he didn't need that big break first.
Although the ME had only gotten the body a few hours ago, he was already finished with the preliminary examination.
That was another great thing about small towns. The facilities and funds were limited, but they didn't need a lot of manpower for immediate results. Large cities had morgues with waiting lists, pathologists that needed to examine several bodies a day. Not so in Sanctuary. They didn't even need a full-time medical examiner.
Dr. Medina was fairly young, not yet in his forties. A short man with a clean appearance and a strong hairline, he was well liked in town. Not strictly a pathologist, he primarily worked as a general practice physician. Out of necessity he had garnered a background in forensics, and now, whenever the marshal's office needed an autopsy, they contacted him.
The detective glanced at the sign above the doorway to the morgue: "
Hic locus est ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitae
." Below the Latin inscription was the English translation: "This is the place where death rejoices to help life." Maxim entered the tiled room and pulled a paper mask from a dispenser box hanging on the wall. He nodded to the doctor as he approached his workstation. The skinned body rested on a stainless steel table that was slanted to allow blood to run into a drain. The ME had cabinets and a counter with a sink running alongside him, giving him easy access to his tools. Above the table was a large light in a metal housing that could be adjusted to ensure that every nook in the deceased could be carefully scrutinized. The white tile floor beneath them resembled a walk-in shower, with its own slope and drain, reminding Maxim that the entire workstation was meant to be sprayed down and sanitized between jobs.
Once he fit the mask to his face, Maxim spoke. "What do you have?"
Dr. Medina was wearing scrubs and a paper hat in addition to the same mask. It was obvious the examination was over, but his latex gloves were clean, indicating he had put on a fresh pair.
"The victim is a male. Thirty-five to forty-five. I'll know more after we send the DNA out. Since you are light on identifying factors, I tried examining the skull for any indicators of race."
"You can do that? Based on the shape of the skull?"
"Yes and no. Geography plays a much larger part in biological imprints than the familiar concepts of race. Various traits can be indicative but not conclusive. X-rays of the skull gave me some clues, but direct examination of the teeth was more valuable. They are well spaced. The incisors are scooped in the back. Additionally, they exhibit minor sclerosed dentition. I see some thinning of the root canal but nothing that would cause damage to the teeth. Combined with the long strand of black hair you found, I think it's fairly safe to say this man is of Native American ancestry."
Maxim nodded. He was more concerned with the "when" than the "who" right now. Identifying this body was going to take time. If his DNA was in the criminal database, it would be about a week before that came back to them. Maybe less if they could rush it.
"Have you narrowed down time of death?"
Dr. Medina nodded. "I'm getting to that. Lividity can be difficult when a body is skinned, but certainly not impossible. Blood vessels get congested either way. The draining of the blood, however, is trickier. Depending on how much has exited the body, the aftereffects can vary. Take a look at the shoulders."
Maxim examined the body more closely but it turned his stomach. The paper mask did nothing to soften the stench. The detective had seen plenty of corpses, bloated and discolored, in his career. What they had before them, however, was something out of a horror movie. The body's chest cavity was still open, its ribcage spread apart. Usually corpses were sewed up pretty quickly. It was surreal.
"That bluish color?" asked Maxim.
"Yes, it is very slight. This wouldn't often be the case with dead bodies suspended upside down. But then you have this," he said, pointing to the neck. "Both carotid arteries have been cleanly severed."
Maxim hadn't noticed before. Picking out details on a corpse of bloody muscle and fat was hard. "Sliced through the neck and drained."
"Exactly," affirmed the doctor. "Once the heart stops, the only pressure on the blood comes from gravity. Blood that would have settled in the shoulders found an outlet. Now look at this."
Dr. Medina motioned the detective over to his side of the table. Maxim stepped around and saw the man holding his finger to the hole in the skull, tilted upward. "This is a rough trajectory of the bullet. The shooter was below the head. Or, in the case of the body being suspended upside down, standing above him. The lack of skin has prevented any recovery of powder burns, but this angle suggests the gun was held close. This man was executed before the skinning happened."
Maxim nodded. "No sign of torture then?"
The doctor bit his lip and adjusted his wire glasses with his forearm. His gloves were no longer clean. "There's no hard evidence of torture. It's impossible to tell with the missing left thumb, for instance, but the muscle tearing indicates animal tampering more than anything else. The actual kill and postmortem skinning show a skillful hand. Nothing sloppy about it." Maxim wanted to ask about the chest wound, but he suspected he was drawing the ME off subject and annoying him. He let Dr. Medina finish.
"We got lucky with the gunshot wound. First, it was a .22 caliber bullet. It bored through the skull and shattered, bouncing around the brain. Sudden death. No exit wound. That itself is not too uncommon. But the entry wound nearly sealed up as the skull caved in on itself." Maxim thought he knew where the medical examiner was headed. "Surprisingly, the skull fracture didn't result in massive blood loss."
"The blood didn't drain from the head," said the detective.
"Exactly. There's enough congealment in the capillaries of the head to gauge lividity. Judging from what I've seen, this man was killed between 12 and 1 a.m. this morning."
That was exactly what Maxim was looking for. If the body was discovered between 5 and 6 a.m. then the window for its drop-off was still wide.
"Last year I saw an elk drained in three hours. Is that about what we're looking at here?"
"Maybe four hours," said the doctor, "including skinning."
Maxim nodded. That meant that the man could have been murdered anywhere. An hour, maybe two, away. Not in Sanctuary. But, with the hunting background of the kill, likely somewhere in Sycamore.
"What about identifying markers? Are we lucky on that end?"
Dr. Medina quickly shook his head. "Not quite. DNA will be our best bet. There's no skin for tattoos or fingerprints. No sign of dental work. I can give you the X-rays but there's no guarantee a dentist has these on file. It's safe to say that John Doe never got braces. The teeth are crooked, but strong. The gums are healthy. In fact..." said the ME, moving back to the counter to check his notes, "the man was exceptionally healthy, discounting his murder. I sectioned his coronary arteries and saw no signs of heart disease. His lungs were pink. Usually, a man his age will show some signs of wear."
That last fact struck Maxim as strange. While an anomaly to the medical examiner, the detective knew of another reason this man may have been free from degenerative disease: it was possible he was a werewolf. If that were true, then maybe the Seventh Sons were involved with the murder after all.
"What material was the bullet?" he asked. The doctor gave Maxim a strange glance. "I mean, was there anything special about it?"
Dr. Medina took another step and pointed to a clear bag on his desk. Maxim picked it up and saw four bullet fragments inside. Lead.
"I'll have those sent for ballistics," said the doctor. "The largest fragment looks promising, considering."
Maxim nodded and put the bag down. Would a single bullet to the brain be enough to kill a wolf? He remembered needing to fire into Deborah's heart multiple times. The old Seventh Sons president had been especially powerful, though. She couldn't be put down without silver. For his theory about this man being a wolf to hold up, there needed to be additional explanation.
"Did you test against the blood on the skinning knife?"
Maxim had tried to dust the knife for prints but it was clean. He recalled how close it was to the body when he found it. Not immediately obvious, but it would have been sloppy to miss it. Almost as if the killer wanted the knife to be found.
"It's the same blood type as the John Doe. It looks to be a match, but we haven't confirmed that yet."
The detective nodded. The only clue they would garner from the knife was the one he already knew: the owner. Clint was still in the interrogation room. The lawyer had come and gone, but she was due for a formal interview soon. Maxim needed stronger leverage against the man than his father's knife.
"So what else do you have?"
"Unfortunately, Detective Dwyer, that completes my solid findings from the initial examination. We'll need to wait for Coconino for the lab results." The Sanctuary morgue was limited. It could only hold six bodies on ice. Autopsy one at a time. All DNA and fiber testing had to be outsourced. It was standard procedure and Maxim expected that, but he had hoped to get something more from the exam. "However," said the ME, interrupting Maxim's thoughts, "there is something else. I can't draw any conclusions from it. It's puzzling. I need to get in touch with some colleagues to identify it."
"What is it, Doctor?"
"The chest wound. There's a deep slice penetrating John Doe's lung. It was immediately obvious, but I haven't been able to conclude when it occurred. It's clear that it happened before this incident."
Maxim remembered the blackened area on the outside of the ribcage. Now, with the chest cavity opened up, the wound was not visible. "Why is that?"
"The infection. The abscess. The puss surrounding the area was not postmortem. The blackened muscle showed atrophy. Even the lung had some milky fluid around the wound."
"So our vic suffered a stab wound in the chest at some point."
"Yes. It was a serious wound, too. He would have needed immediate medical attention."
"What would that have involved?" asked Maxim.
"Well, the lung would have needed repair. The muscle and flesh stitched. I don't see any signs of that."
A picture was forming in Maxim's head. This man could have been a missing person. A prisoner. He may have survived his initial attack only to be killed some time later.
"How long could this man have survived in that condition?" he asked.
Dr. Medina shook his head. "A week, maybe. This man should have drowned in his own blood. But there's no sign of that. In fact, gauging from the deterioration and the advanced infection, I would conclude that the wound was much older than that."
Something tugged at Maxim. "How long?" Dr. Medina seemed averse to answer. "How long, Doctor?"
The man raised his eyebrows in exasperation. "It defies logic, Detective, but I would have to say months. At least. Only..."
"That's impossible," finished Maxim.
The ME nodded. "I've never seen anything like it. An exterior infection, a gangrene, sure. But a pierced lung like this would have been life threatening. Extremely painful. For this man to have been stabbed so near the heart and survived more than two weeks is a miracle."
The heart. The healthy heart. It clicked in Maxim then. This man
was
a werewolf. And he was struck with silver, which is why it hadn't healed. It just wasn't a bullet.
Nine months ago, Maxim and Diego had fought off Deborah and two Yavapai werewolves. Diego had stabbed one of the wolves between the ribs. It scampered off to a sure death. Except they never found the body. Diego never recovered his weapon. If the wolf had survived all that time in hiding, that would explain the lack of closure.
"Shit," said Maxim. "I have an ID."
The doctor regarded him expectantly.
"Carlos Doka. The Yavapai Indian."
Dr. Medina's eyes widened in recognition. "One of the Paradise Killers? The man that tried to kill you when you worked the case?"
Maxim couldn't tell if he nodded because he was fighting back a fierce rush of adrenaline. The Yavapai mercenaries had been working with the old Seventh Sons president. They were abducting and killing vagrants and dumping them in Paradise Tank. The case could have torn the motorcycle club apart, but Maxim had isolated the guilty parties and limited the blowback. The Seventh Sons were saved. And if anybody wouldn't want Doka to return and draw the spotlight, it was them.
Chapter 7
The Colorado River, to the north of Sanctuary, ran through the Grand Canyon. Following it west, past the vast mountain ranges and forests, the body of water persevered in the driest of climates. It cut south and formed the western border of Arizona, first lining Nevada, then California.
The river was a beautiful respite from the surrounding desert. The blues and greens were the lifeblood in the middle of sand. Many communities sprouted along the water. Where Interstate 40 met the border, the highway weaved past several trailer parks full of residents who would rather be somewhere serene than convenient. It was the type of area where people minded their own business, and the perfect spot for the Seventh Sons to meet the Pistolas.
Diego rode with the others into a clearing off the highway. They circled around an old, broken-down storage structure and saw the Mexican gang waiting by the river. Five guys sat on bikes next to a black van. West indicated others on the perimeter. Diego counted five of them standing at a distance. They each wore a black jacket with their colors on the back.
Diego wanted to slow down. To confer with Gaston quickly about the lay of the land. But it would have shown weakness to appear nervous. West and the others had already drawn their ACRs. They were ready, so Gaston and the Seventh Sons rode to the central group without hesitation.
The lower land was surrounded, thought Diego, but they weren't outnumbered by as many as he had expected. Maybe the Pistolas did mean to do business.
The bikes came to a stop at a figure with his back to them. The white patch on his back stood out against the black leather: a skull with two pistols as crossbones. The man slowly turned. His bare torso was exposed beneath the open jacket. He wasn't especially large, but his chest and arm muscles were oversized. To Diego, it was the look of a convict who had spent all his incarceration working out. Prison tattoos on his hands. He had faded words printed on his stomach and a handprint on his chest. Thick eyebrows and a mustache complemented his black hair, and he wore brown sunglasses that looked straight from the nineteen-eighties.
Despite never personally meeting any of the Sons before, the man immediately picked out Gaston and approached him.
"You the prez, huh?" he asked.
Gaston remained casually seated on his bike. He was a big guy, but his muscles were not as well-defined as the Mexican's. The Seventh Sons all knew that his strength, however, was much greater. "Gaston," he announced, loud enough for the others to hear.
One of the Pistolas leaning on the van spoke up. "Hector. He's the one."
Diego recognized the speaker as the man who'd driven the money van they had intercepted. When Diego had notified the rest of the MC, Gaston had been front and center when pulling the vehicle over.
Hector, the shirtless man, nodded to his friend and turned back to Gaston. "I hear you put a gun on my homie." It wasn't a question. The man was a veteran, well into his forties, and had probably seen as much as there was to see on the street. He wasn't afraid of strangers.
Gaston dismounted his bike and approached Hector. He towered over the shorter man and smiled. "If your guys make moves without telling us, how are we supposed to know not to?"
The man smiled back, cold eyes barely visible behind the brown lenses. He pulled in a deep breath that sounding like a boat engine turning, as if he were about to spit.
"
Suave
, Hector." A skinny guy behind the convict neared and patted him on the back. "We're here to do business, not front."
Diego hadn't taken note of the kid before, but he now recognized he was important. He was young, maybe nineteen or twenty. He had a bald head and a thin mustache and goatee worn in a more modern style. He wore a loose, white wifebeater under his open jacket, and his entire torso was covered in tattoos that ran up to his neck and abruptly stopped at his chin. The only tattoo on his head was a small teardrop outside his left eye. And his eyes, they were deep and dark and striking. They showed intelligence. And something else. Ruthlessness.
"Sergio Lima," he said, extending his hand to Gaston. They did a quick shake and capped it off by bumping their fists together. Hector spat in the dirt and Sergio chuckled. "This is my Sergeant-at-Arms, Hector Cruz. He's a little rough around the edges. Spent more of his life in a cage than on the outside. He doesn't know how to act in social situations. Thinks everything is about fronting and showing strength. Isn't that right, Hector?"
The man looked to be a stone statue, menacing and determined.
"You see?" joked Sergio. "It cracks me up.
Calmate
," he said to Hector, grinning from ear to ear. As Sergio turned, Diego noticed the president patch on his jacket. This young kid was the gang's leader. No wonder they made reckless moves. "So you
éses
hijacked our money?"
Gaston's face showed annoyance already. "We finished the delivery for you. I hope you don't mind, but we took a small fee."
"I've heard. Had to explain myself to
La Eme
. You can't blame a brother for trying to save some scratch."
"You've got plenty of choices. You can run up in Vegas if you want—deal with Chicago—but they're greedy. Or you can roll south of Phoenix and take your chances with Border Patrol. You know, they strip search Mexicans over there for not using turn signals. Now, if you want the easiest route, I'd suggest you run through the Sons."
Sergio Lima nodded. "I understand your position, holmes. We didn't know each other before. You can't blame me for moving money."
Gaston was firm. "You knew this was our highway."
Sergio's face tilted to the side and he pinched an eye closed, as if he considered it an open point. "Let's just say I know that now. But, I need you to understand something. I know El Paso puts up with you guys, but don't think they have love for you. We can work together, but I don't want you drawing on my boys again."
Hector Cruz stepped forward. "Or you might get some lead in your back,
ése
."
Next to Diego, West Wind laughed. "Better men have tried."
Sergio put his hand up to Hector and nodded at the Apache's assault rifle. A glimmer struck his eyes. "That's some serious hardware, holmes."
The sound of a bike approached them from behind. It was Omar, just arriving after watching their tail. Some of the Pistolas reached for their weapons.
"It's okay," said Diego as Omar pulled up. "It's one of our guys."
Sergio raised his eyebrows and signaled for his men to relax. "Look at this! You got a cholo riding with you!
Como te llamas?
"
The kid looked to Gaston, then Sergio. "Omar." He tried to sound tough. Even though he was the same age as the Pistolas president, he didn't have any of the confidence or swagger.
"
Entonces
, Omar.
Tú eres Mexicano
. You should be riding with your blood."
Omar glanced at Gaston again, then shook his head.
Sergio laughed and turned to Diego. "
Y tú?
You really wanna ride with these white boys and Tonto?" Besides remarking on West, Sergio was ignoring that Curtis was black. It must have been shocking for the gang to see a club of mixed race. "Why don't you come over to
las Pistolas
?"
Diego reached down and patted the holster on his Scrambler. "I'm more of a shotgun guy, myself."
Sergio smiled, an insincere expression that attempted to express levity. But he knew the seriousness of the meet. He was just testing their members. Getting a feel for how they reacted.
"Oh, that's right," said the Pistolas president. "
Los hombres lobos
. That's your blood." The Seventh Sons didn't respond. "Well, I don't care what stories you have your hood believing about you. You bleed. Just like us."
"This is bullshit," exclaimed West. The Apache wasn't much on patience, and Diego was personally surprised he had behaved this long, especially after the Tonto slur. "We're not getting paid to trade war stories. Let's get the van and get out of here." The Indian hopped off his bike and brushed past the Mexicans, towards the vehicle. West didn't wait for anyone to follow. He just went off without concern for the danger.
That's when Diego's eyes shifted to the van parked by the river. He thought this was supposed to be a meet and greet. Apparently, more was going on.
Sergio raised his eyebrows and opened his mouth into a sideways smirk. "Homie's too tough for small talk, huh?"
Gaston stared down Hector. "Every club has one."
The men moved to the rear of the van. The Pistolas opened up the back. From his bike, Diego could only imagine the contraband within. The biker observed the area to make sure it was clear. Some of the Pistolas watching from the fringes had moved in a bit. Diego glanced across the river and saw an old trailer standing alone. It was run down and appeared unoccupied. Thinking this was Arizona and that was California was strange. No indication of a border existed.
"That's it?" asked Gaston.
Sergio put his arm around his fellow president. "Call it a get-to-know-you load. Manolo will drive again. This time he stays with you. He wants to see you all the way to the hand-off in Albuquerque. If he reports back that everything went smoothly, we'll be in business."
Diego grimaced. Gaston hadn't mentioned the run to him. He had known that Diego wanted no part of a drug deal. Now it was too late.
After some more words were exchanged, Gaston shook Sergio's hand again and headed back to his bike. West stared down Hector as he followed. Both men were muscle and knew it. Somehow, they had to outdo the other. Hector continued his stoic appearance, his eyes hidden behind his sunglasses.
"Let's roll out, brothers," said Gaston. "We've got a ride ahead of us."