The Corpse with the Emerald Thumb (25 page)

I had no idea what was coming next, but I was squirming in any case because I hate being praised in public.

Al continued, undaunted.
His
expression was complex: a mixture of determination, anger, and . . . sadness.
Odd.
“To mark this, she was invited to a luncheon, which was followed by a ceremony where she was presented with a framed commemoration of her achievement.” He pulled a roll of paper from his pocket, smoothed it out, and held it up for us to see. It was a color print of a photograph of me being presented with the item he'd just described. He turned the photograph so that everyone had a chance to look at it, which they did, most smiling at me afterwards and trying to look gracious.

“I've also made an enlargement of a figure standing behind Cait Morgan.” As he said the words, my heart sank.

He unrolled the second photograph and held it up. I didn't need my glasses. I knew what it would show. There was Bud, smiling proudly and clapping, as I beamed into the camera.

“That's
him
!” shouted Frank. “The killer. In that photograph.”

He was speaking on behalf of the entire group, and all eyes turned to me. I could feel my whole body shaking. I'd only ever felt that way once before in my life—when the cops dragged me out of my home, as the corpse of my ex-boyfriend lay on my bathroom floor.

I wanted to stand. I wanted to run away. I knew there was no point trying to hide my terror. I was rooted to the spot.

“Cait Morgan, you
know
the man in that cell, the one who killed Margarita. You have known his identity all along.” Al's voice was as deep as when he'd been speaking Spanish. He was very angry. It was clear to everyone that he was trying to control himself. “That man asked for flowers in the bodega—roses, no less. You have inserted yourself into this case with the sole purpose of preventing us from discovering the identity of your murderous partner. I accuse you of drugging Tony and Callie Booth when you were at their home with me last night and, thereby, of killing Tony Booth. I accuse
you
of stealing Margarita's photographic equipment, which you spotted when you insisted upon visiting the crime scene with me last night. And I accuse
you
of doing all this to cover up your partner's vicious slaying of Margarita Rosa García Martinez because she could identify him as the Rose Killer.” There was a table-wide gasp. “You have used me, and you have used and abused the friendship you have been shown by this community, to shield a merciless serial killer from the law. Please stand. I will now take you into custody, and you will be turned over to the Federales when they arrive tomorrow to collect your partner.”

I still couldn't move. My brain was struggling to process what he'd said. He'd made the leap from truth to untruth without effort. I could understand his reasoning, up to a point, but why would he think that Bud was the Rose Killer? Why would he think I would defend such a person?

People at the table were moving away from me so fast you'd have been forgiven for thinking I'd developed a highly contagious form of leprosy. Within a moment, I was the only person still seated.

Unfortunately, there was enough truth in what Al had said that it might be impossible for me to prove the untruths. I was trapped. Literally, and figuratively.

There was only one thing I could do. I stood, picked up my purse, and said, “All I can say is that you are wrong, Al.
Very wrong
. About
so many
things. I won't say more than that for now.”

As he led me to his car, I knew it would be a very different journey to the police station for me this time, and I wasn't at all sure what would happen when we got there.

AL DROVE US FROM RUTILIO'S
to the police station in record time. He didn't speak, nor did I. He was fuming and I was terrified. The atmosphere was strained, to say the least. The silence continued when we arrived. Upon this viewing, the floodlit building looked forbidding rather than whimsical, and I wondered where Al would put me—the only cells I'd seen were where Bud was incarcerated, so I dared to hope I might at least be close to him. This thought sustained me as Al unlocked the doors into the main part of the police station.

Bud was up on his feet as soon as he saw us. His face conveyed almost nothing when he spotted my handcuffs. One blink that lasted twice as long as it should have done betrayed his feelings to my trained eye.

“There's no way any charges will stick,” I said loudly, as Al pushed me forward. “This man is
not
the Rose Killer, and you cannot prove otherwise. He did
not
kill Margarita, and he certainly didn't kill eight innocent young women over the last eight months. I know for a fact this is the first time he's been on Mexican soil for many years.”
Since he visited Playa del Carmen with his late wife, early in their marriage. That's why we're on the west coast, not the east
, I could have added, but it didn't seem to be the time or the place.

Al stopped pushing me. He looked me up and down and did the same to Bud. “I understand that you are trying to communicate a plan of action to your partner in crime, Professor Morgan. Once we leave this room, I will make sure to put you somewhere that will not allow you to confer and develop your cover story. So stop talking
now
!” His voice was rough with anger. “You have been very clever to encourage me to work out who this man is alone, without involving the Federales, and I have achieved that. You do not realize that I have friends I can call upon. Others who, like me, are using their time to study to be able to better their careers. I have a friend who works in airport security who will one day have the qualifications that will allow him to advance. In the meantime, he's prepared to help a fellow student. I sent him this man's photograph—the one I found on your university's website. He is able to look at old information on the system, and he has found several photographs of this man. My friend has informed me that your partner has visited Mexico almost every month for the last year, using several different names and traveling on several different passports. Why would a man do this? It can't be for a good reason. I believe he's come here to kill, and kill again. He is the Rose Killer. That is why he asked about roses at the bodega. I am even beginning to wonder if poor Angélica Rosa
was
his first victim, or whether he killed in other states before he began to visit ours. So there you have it, Cait Morgan. I
know
he's been in and out of Mexico. As for what he's told
you
, or why you are with him on this trip, covering for him and committing crimes on his behalf, I do not know. You can take that information to your cell with you, and make of it what you will, while you sit and wait to be taken to Guadalajara tomorrow afternoon. That's when they'll be coming for you
both.
”

I didn't reply, because I was so shocked. Not just because of what Al had said, but because of Bud's reactions when he'd said it. Bud had dropped his shoulders. It doesn't sound like much, but it told me he was feeling defeated.
It's all true—Bud's been secretly traveling to Mexico on a regular basis!

Al sensed my moment of weakness and took his chance to push me toward the main hall. Once we were there, he slammed the door between Bud and me. It was a horrible sound.
So final
. I suspected that the next time I saw him we'd both be in shackles and being hauled off by the Federales to the dubious, and dangerous, delights of a jail in Guadalajara. Meanwhile, I was in the comparative safety, and relative pleasantness, of the municipal hall of Punta de las Rocas. Al locked me in a little room that looked more like a large confessional than a jail cell. Its wooden construction didn't suggest it would be impossible to escape, and the door had a metal grille in it, meaning I could look out into the great hall. Inside my cell, a long cushioned bench ran along the outside wall, beneath a window, which I could tell was covered outside by a decorative iron cage. A table and chair stood against another wall. There was a large plain wooden crucifix on the wall above the table. That was it. When Al had secured the door, he spoke to me through the grille. “I will bring you water later on. You'll be able to use the bathroom in my apartment, but I will accompany you and stand outside the door. There is no way to get out of my bathroom. I will treat you well while you are in my care. You're not going to have anything to complain about to the Federales. They'll be here at 2:00
PM
tomorrow. I suggest you get some sleep.” He was addressing me more formally than he had done since we'd met, and his anger was not subsiding.

“What is this place? This room I'm in?” I asked. Despite my circumstances, I couldn't help but be curious.

Al turned. “When he returned from his travels in America, when he was still quite a young man, this was the place where Juan Carlos García García lived, the eldest son of the Dubois García family, the man who granted lands to his family and made sure the community was well served. The true father of Punta de las Rocas. He was a simple man. This was all he needed.”
How strange that he's so passionate about this man, even at a time like this.

Al walked away, turning off lights as he went, until I was completely alone in the dark. I gave my eyes some time to adjust: there was no moonlight coming through the window, so it took a few minutes. I peered at my watch, but it was just a blur. I didn't have my glasses, because they were in my purse, which Al had taken from me. I told myself that it didn't really matter what the time was. I wasn't going anywhere. Not until the following afternoon.

I was wide awake, adrenalin pumping around my system, and I couldn't do a single thing to help Bud, or myself. How had this happened? I gave it some thought. I
could
understand why Al, after discovering that Bud had been entering Mexico on a regular basis using pseudonyms, would suspect him of being involved in something illegal. But why had Al decided that Bud was the Rose Killer? What was it about those cases that made him jump to that conclusion? Maybe the dates when Bud had been in the country tallied with the dates of the murders? Would that be all it would take? Not that it was an insignificant factor.

I sat myself at the little desk, held my chin in my hands, and recalled the online reading I'd done about the Rose Killer case. I closed my eyes a little and hummed. In my mind's eye I reread the newspaper articles, and I quickly realized that the times of death, as well as the dates of death in some cases, had been set within pretty wide parameters. It hadn't occurred to me when I'd first read it, but, in this day and age of advanced forensic pathology, that was odd. I didn't know much about the Mexican system of coroners, pathologists, or medical examiners,
or
about the sophistication of their techniques or equipment, but I assumed that once it had been established that they were dealing with a serial killer, they'd have put their very best people and resources on the case. Ascertaining time of death is one of the most basic requirements of most autopsies. I gave some thought to the factors that can adversely affect estimating an accurate time of death. I might not care much for forensics, but I've studied enough to know the basics. And that was the point
:
this was basic stuff!

If I'd had a pen and paper, I'd have made a list. But I didn't have those luxuries, so I made mental notes instead.

There are many ways of working out time of death. Body temperature is one. The human body cools at a constant and predictable rate after death—1.5 degrees per hour—until it reaches the temperature of its surroundings. That's why a rectal or liver temperature is taken as soon as possible after a body is found. Factors like ambient temperature will impact the calculations made. If a body is left for too long, its temperature becomes less informative because it's just the same as its surroundings. That's when the reference point of rigor mortis is used. Rigor also works in a pretty predictable manner, affecting different parts of the body at different times. Unfortunately, hot conditions, or cold ones, influence the onset of rigor, as does the amount or type of activity undertaken by the victim immediately prior to death. Also, rigor is of little use after thirty-six to forty-eight hours, because by then it's worn off. That's why they'd had to use stomach contents to work out when poor Angélica Rosa had died. It was their only reference point, and it showed that she'd died shortly after eating, which, according to her uncle Rutilio, had been about half an hour before she'd set off to walk home after work. In the case of the second victim, they'd been able to use rigor mortis to work out when she'd died, but they had come up with a very confusing result: the girl appeared to have died earlier than the last multiple sightings of her.

I paused. Why on earth was I worrying about the time of death of these girls?
Because you need to prove Bud didn't kill them, and when they died might be critical.
Unfortunately, critical or not, the newspaper articles that dealt with victims three and onward didn't reveal time of death at all, only the presumed date of death. If Bud had so much as been in the country on those dates, then Al had a point—Bud had the opportunity to kill those girls. That's why the first two were so important: they were the only murders where I had access to more detailed information.

Angélica Rosa had been killed on November 1 and found on November 4. The second victim had been killed on Friday, December 7, the day of Miguel's family's crucifix of Requiem Masses. My heart leaped! Bud and I had been at my School of Criminology Christmas party in downtown Vancouver that night. I'd taken photographs. I could prove to Al that Bud couldn't have been killing a girl in Mexico, because he'd been sipping warm beer in
BC
. I allowed myself a small internal cheer.

The dates of the other murders had all been very general, which took me back to the issue surrounding times of death. I had to concentrate on getting Al to understand that Bud hadn't killed Margarita, and that meant working out who had.