Read Online The Juan Doe Murders: A Smokey Brandon Thriller by Noreen Ayres - Free Book Online
Authors: Noreen Ayres
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Twelve thousand on public dole, sooner or later. Your tax dollars and mine.”
Will’s gray eyes slid in their sockets like bubbles in a level to gaze at me then settle on Boyd. “More Russian immigrants collect welfare than Mexicans.”
I said, “Trying to get by in a tough world.”
“Yeah, well, let ’em get by in
your
back yard,” Boyd said, and slipped off his jacket. “You want to talk to some of those people live around San Diego sometime? Wetbacks creeping through their yards at night. Shitting on lawns, stealing whatever’s not nailed down. A whole farm family was killed a couple years back east of San Diego.”
I told him I didn’t think that case was proven to be from migrants. But it did seem the program called “Operation Gatekeeper” the INS put in place, to be enforced by Border Patrol, only strung migrants out more along the 1,800-mile border between Mexico and the United States, driving them to more perilous routes. They died in deserts and the unpredictable currents of the Rio Grande. Sometimes they fell into the hands of human coyotes more wanting of conscience than their animal counterparts. And sometimes they fell victim to American citizens tanked on twelve-packs and carrying .45’s who picked them off like target practice.
“Go where you ain’t supposed to, take the consequences,” Boyd said. “I bet you vote Democrat, too.”
Will said, “Can we get back to the business at hand, please? This first one in Irvine…”
“He worked at a place called Tri-Cycle, recycles copier cartridges. But that doesn’t mean Doe no mo’,” Boyd said.
Will said, “This one in Laguna Hills? Witnesses?”
“Aa-a, them rich people never get outta their limousines,” Boyd said. “That’s up in Nellie Gail. You been there?”
Will was new to the county. He ignored the question and asked me, “What do we have for prints on these?”
“Nothing for a couple of days. They’re not even rolled off these two first victims, just the Turtle Rock.”
He shifted in his chair. So far he wasn’t impressed. “Okay, a weapon was recovered on the second one, right?”
I answered, “There’s no blood or tissue on it but it definitely has been fired. I can tell you this: If it was the victim’s, he didn’t fire it the day he died. There’s no gunshot residue on his hands. No prints on the magazine, none on the remaining rounds. Plus, no casings. I took a slug out of the tree behind him—”
“Firearms put it as a thirty-eight,” Boyd said.
“It’s awfully hard to tell from a deformed blob of lead without a barrel to connect it to,” I said. “There’s not that much difference between a .357 non-mag, a 9 millimeter, or a .38 Special—as I’m sure you know.”
Boyd shrugged and said, “Talk to Firearms, then. It’s what they told me. Turtle Rock’s a bigger problem, looks like.”
Will raised his eyes to me. “You didn’t find a slug, a casing, a weapon on this Turtle Rock.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“How hard did you look?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“How thorough a search did you do?” I wondered what kind of Adam Henry this guy was going to be, A-H for a certain hidden part of the anatomy.
He
had been the investigating officer there, gone by the time Joe and I arrived. He waggled his pen. “You use a metal detector? You need to use a standard ten-inch searchcoil capable of detecting a slug tunneled to several feet.”
“Wal, out here in the sticks, we don’t have nuttin’ near like that so new-fangled and all,” I said. We did, but I wasn’t going to go into details, not with this guy.
Bright put his pen down and raked his eyebrow with a finger. I expected the worst. But he said, “I’ve had a tough two weeks. Shouldn’t take it out on you. I apologize.”
I gave that brief thought, then said, “Welcome to Orange County Crimebusters.”
Boyd winked at me, and we went back to the chart. He said, “These could be gang pops, but I tend to think
Will’s gray eyes slid in their sockets like bubbles in a level to gaze at me then settle on Boyd. “More Russian immigrants collect welfare than Mexicans.”
I said, “Trying to get by in a tough world.”
“Yeah, well, let ’em get by in
your
back yard,” Boyd said, and slipped off his jacket. “You want to talk to some of those people live around San Diego sometime? Wetbacks creeping through their yards at night. Shitting on lawns, stealing whatever’s not nailed down. A whole farm family was killed a couple years back east of San Diego.”
I told him I didn’t think that case was proven to be from migrants. But it did seem the program called “Operation Gatekeeper” the INS put in place, to be enforced by Border Patrol, only strung migrants out more along the 1,800-mile border between Mexico and the United States, driving them to more perilous routes. They died in deserts and the unpredictable currents of the Rio Grande. Sometimes they fell into the hands of human coyotes more wanting of conscience than their animal counterparts. And sometimes they fell victim to American citizens tanked on twelve-packs and carrying .45’s who picked them off like target practice.
“Go where you ain’t supposed to, take the consequences,” Boyd said. “I bet you vote Democrat, too.”
Will said, “Can we get back to the business at hand, please? This first one in Irvine…”
“He worked at a place called Tri-Cycle, recycles copier cartridges. But that doesn’t mean Doe no mo’,” Boyd said.
Will said, “This one in Laguna Hills? Witnesses?”
“Aa-a, them rich people never get outta their limousines,” Boyd said. “That’s up in Nellie Gail. You been there?”
Will was new to the county. He ignored the question and asked me, “What do we have for prints on these?”
“Nothing for a couple of days. They’re not even rolled off these two first victims, just the Turtle Rock.”
He shifted in his chair. So far he wasn’t impressed. “Okay, a weapon was recovered on the second one, right?”
I answered, “There’s no blood or tissue on it but it definitely has been fired. I can tell you this: If it was the victim’s, he didn’t fire it the day he died. There’s no gunshot residue on his hands. No prints on the magazine, none on the remaining rounds. Plus, no casings. I took a slug out of the tree behind him—”
“Firearms put it as a thirty-eight,” Boyd said.
“It’s awfully hard to tell from a deformed blob of lead without a barrel to connect it to,” I said. “There’s not that much difference between a .357 non-mag, a 9 millimeter, or a .38 Special—as I’m sure you know.”
Boyd shrugged and said, “Talk to Firearms, then. It’s what they told me. Turtle Rock’s a bigger problem, looks like.”
Will raised his eyes to me. “You didn’t find a slug, a casing, a weapon on this Turtle Rock.”
“That’s right,” I said.
“How hard did you look?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“How thorough a search did you do?” I wondered what kind of Adam Henry this guy was going to be, A-H for a certain hidden part of the anatomy.
He
had been the investigating officer there, gone by the time Joe and I arrived. He waggled his pen. “You use a metal detector? You need to use a standard ten-inch searchcoil capable of detecting a slug tunneled to several feet.”
“Wal, out here in the sticks, we don’t have nuttin’ near like that so new-fangled and all,” I said. We did, but I wasn’t going to go into details, not with this guy.
Bright put his pen down and raked his eyebrow with a finger. I expected the worst. But he said, “I’ve had a tough two weeks. Shouldn’t take it out on you. I apologize.”
I gave that brief thought, then said, “Welcome to Orange County Crimebusters.”
Boyd winked at me, and we went back to the chart. He said, “These could be gang pops, but I tend to think
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