Total Victim Theory (21 page)

As of today, I've also begun my off-the-record investigation into Lisa's disappearance. The Bureau's NCIC crime database indicates that Lisa was reported missing in Mustang, Oklahoma, on January 2nd. This fact seems to imply that the killer or an accomplice somehow managed to transport a kidnapped and living person across the border without it coming to the attention of authorities.

It’s hard to remain the detached, impartial investigator when encountering facts like these. Lisa was that kidnapped and living person, and she was in Ropes' captivity from January 2nd until her death on the morning of January 16th. She was with him for fifteen days. I'll spare myself imagining all she might have suffered during that time, if only for the sake of self-preservation. One of the things I owe her now is not to unravel.

I discuss with Silva what I've learned about Lisa. I can't access the original police report or learn who the witnesses are since none of that information is available on the database. It might be advisable, I suggest, for me to do some follow-up in Mustang. There's a lot of potential for new leads, and if there were witnesses, there might even be a physical description.

As I'm talking to Silva, it crosses my mind that I'm trying to sell him on the notion that this visit is needed. Of course, the excursion will let me follow up not only Lisa’s murder, but on my more personal stake in the matter as well. I just wonder how I'm skewing the facts and embellishing the details to make it come out the way I need it to. But convincing myself of my objectivity is already low on the pecking order of priorities—not to mention, a task increasingly difficult to undertake with a straight face. The pricks of conscience are like the drumming of rain on a roof—when the storm starts, you hear it loud and clear, but as it goes on, there comes a point where you don't even notice it anymore.

But the moment's not ripe for ponderous soul searching. Silva's convinced without much convincing, and it seems as if he might have suggested it himself, had I not beaten him to it. We decide that it makes the most sense for me to leave tomorrow morning
and spend up to a week pounding the pavement in Mustang, finding out all there is to know.

It goes without saying that neither the Bureau nor the Juárez PD can know about this side excursion. But that necessity will be easily accomplished. The Feds will assume I'm in Juárez, and Juárez PD will be led to believe I'm back in El Paso tending to another case. Silva, who'll stay behind and work on the official investigation, will cover my ass on both ends.

26

El Paso, 1992

Even in the shower, Emilia was thinking about those red tail lights. The boy was right—the truck had gone the wrong way. The riddle persisted in her thoughts, testy as a hangnail. If she could have thought of even one half-convincing reason for it, she could put the matter to rest. But she couldn't explain it.

She put on her nightgown and did some ironing in her room. Every few minutes she'd wedge her fingers between the mini-blinds and peer out into the darkness. She was alone in the house. Gary had taken Tad and Luke with him. That was another odd detail. If Gary was just running the men across the border to Juárez, what was the point of taking two kids along—and late at night, for that matter? Finally, she raised the blinds all the way up so she could keep a more constant vigil for the red Ford.

Emilia had been living there for over a year. Like the other workers, Gary had smuggled her over in the Ford’s hidden compartment, but unlike the others, who always arrived in pairs, Emilia had come alone. Gary had nicknamed her “Smurfette” because she was the only female on the ranch. Her duties were strictly domestic—she cooked, cleaned, did laundry, and served as a nanny for Luke, the younger boy. And while the others were never allowed to stay on more than three months, Emilia’s employment was open ended.

But there was another important distinction between Emilia and the rest. In a word, she had feelings for Gary—though in the solitude of her thoughts she might have used a stronger word. A word that started with an “L." Because what can that term mean
other than wanting to be with someone forever? And the truth was, that’s how she felt, even if it was sometimes tough justifying it to herself.

True, Gary wasn’t the best-looking guy in the world. And true, he apparently didn’t share her feelings and insisted on treating her like a domestic servant—well, she was a domestic servant. And true, he was abrasive, sometimes even abusive. And true, he was a lot older than her. True. True. True.

And yet, what a man he was.

A type of man seldom seen south of the border. A real man who could do things with his hands—kick someone’s ass, shoot a gun, and probably wrestle an alligator if it came down to it. And those hands could be gentle too—when there was the need. Part of her feelings were based on attraction. But isn’t that always the case? There was something about the way he smelled—something dangerous and potent and animal—that had drawn her to him from the beginning. Like a moth to a flame.

They’d met at the dog races in Juárez where she was working as a cocktail waitress. She'd never wanted to sleep with a man the first time she saw him, but with Gary the thought popped up twice before she'd had time to blush. He had a kind of charm that worked almost like witchcraft. The third time he came in, he asked her out. She’d always liked gringos, and he had a way of putting things where she just couldn't think of a way to say no.

A week later, he took her to dinner. Afterwards, he’d kissed her in his truck. Then he'd driven her out deep into the desert and made love to her on the hood of his Ford beneath the stars. She’d only been with one man before that, and she couldn’t believe she let him, but when she felt him inside her, she had to admit she was damn glad she did. The next time she saw him, he asked if she wanted to get out of Juárez—to come work across the river on his ranch. In the past she’d been a pretty level-headed girl, and she was shocked when she heard herself accept. Two weeks later she'd moved into Gary's spare bedroom and was a resident of Glattmann ranch.

That was already a year ago.

Her fondness for him had only grown over time—even though he’d made it clear early on that her role was nanny and not girlfriend. Girlfriends had a way of turning into wives, he said, and
he’d had enough wives for one lifetime. But, of course, that disclaimer had done little to curb her hopes, and whenever he’d repeat the proposition that she was just an employee of the ranch—albeit one with whom he had an ongoing sexual relationship—it hurt like a knife in the heart.

But the problem with love is that it makes it hard to see the bad parts. Sure, she'd witnessed some questionable stuff on the ranch, but most of the truly bizarre things related to the kids—mostly Tad. However, tonight—when she saw the truck go the other way—she realized the extent of her blind spot. Perhaps she was in the habit of overlooking things that she shouldn’t. Dismissing as harmless events that might not have been entirely so. While she wasn’t convinced that right-hand turn meant anything, from now on she needed to keep her eyes open.

The whole train of thought left her restless and edgy. She went into the kitchen and got a glass of water. Then she turned on the TV and flipped through the channels, but this did little to calm her nerves. It was then she noticed that the light in Gary’s study had been left on and that the door was slightly open. That was unusual. Gary was very protective of that room. He’d instructed her never to clean it or go in there, and the kids were, likewise, forbidden to enter. The thing was, was that Gary was very particular, almost uptight about records and documents. He didn’t want anyone touching his papers or getting them out of order. She’d noticed he always kept one drawer of his desk locked. The bottom drawer on the right-hand side. She’d seen him unfasten the lock once or twice with one of the keys on his key ring.

Emilia looked out the living room window, but again saw nothing but darkness. Switching off the TV, she walked over to the door of the study, figuring there was no harm in turning off the light. For a moment she hesitated, as if the handle might be scalding hot and burn her. Then, she pushed the door open and stepped inside. Just as she was about to flip off the light, she noticed a dark blue object lying on the desk. It was small and rectangular—a document of some sort. A passport. That’s what it was.

Emilia thought again about Gary's admonishment to stay out of there, but her curiosity—was that the word?—was too great. She had to see whose it was and find out what it was doing there. She
stepped over and picked it up.

As she flipped it open, her heart skipped a beat. A photo of Gary Allan Glattmann was staring her in the face.

What did it mean? He would have needed his passport to cross into Mexico, and a second time to get back in.

But it was here.

As she moved to set the passport down, she noticed that Gary's wallet was also on the desk. Suspicion had relieved her of her scruples and hesitations, and the next moment the wallet was in her hand. She flipped it open. Another set of Gary's eyes glared up at her.

She shuddered and almost threw the wallet down.

But she was overreacting, wasn't she?

She told herself to calm down and think. Just think for a minute without jumping to any weird conclusions.

So he hadn't taken his passport, or his wallet, or his license. He didn't have any ID on him, so he couldn't have made it into Mexico. And if he'd left it all behind, didn't that mean he wasn't planning on going there in the first place?

She tried to think of any way to explain it. Had there been some hush-hush agreement with the two workers to deliver them someplace else? No, that wouldn't make sense. If they were headed somewhere in the US, there would have been no need to smuggle them—and she'd clearly seen the two men getting into the hidden compartment earlier. And he hadn't forgotten his ID, or else he'd have come back for it. The border was fifteen minutes away and they'd been gone two hours now.

Again, the tail lights flashed in her mind.

Jesus, were they still in the corner of the ranch?

*

Every time Raul felt his eyelids drooping, he'd give himself a pinch. He'd made up his mind to stay awake. As long as it took till the truck came back. His father was awake too. Blue moonlight from the window framed his restless silhouette. Sometimes he'd cough or shift about, but he didn't speak a word to Raul, as though not wanting to acknowledge being part of this uneasy vigil.

The other eight hands were fast asleep. Except for a soft chorus of snores, the bunkhouse was silent. Eventually, his father too was
nodding off, as his chin sunk inch by inch toward his chest. Raul, however, kept his gaze fixed on the hills to the west—at the spot where the truck had dipped out of sight two hours before. With no exits on that side of the ranch and no other routes to follow, it stood to reason that it had to reappear at some point.

What Raul would gain by glimpsing the truck's return was unclear. Certainly, it would tell him nothing about what had been going on in the back corner of the property. Nor would it tell him if the two men were safe. And yet sleep was clearly not an option.

Just then Raul became aware of a faint and far-off sound. The high-pitched hum of an engine that was gradually growing louder. He rose and crept to the window, scanning the darkness—his heart was beating hard. Expecting the Ford's headlights would come into view any instant.

He waited, but still no headlights appeared.

And yet the hum of the engine grew steadily louder.

Raul turned and squatted down next to his father's bunk. “
Papi
,” he whispered. “
Papi
, wake up.”

His father gave a grunt and opened his eyes. “
Qué pasa
?”

“Over there,” Raul said, pointing out the window, “it's them.”

His father peered out and seemed to study the darkness. “I don't see anything.”

“But can you hear it?”

His father cocked his head. “The engine. But where's it coming from?”

“Somewhere to the left,” Raul whispered. “Maybe they're over by the main house.”

“But why can't we see them?”

Raul hesitated. “I think they’re driving with the lights off.”

A moment later, his father rose and joined him at the open window. The motor grew louder still, then finally cut out altogether.

“It sounds like they just parked in front of the house,” Raul said.

His father said nothing, but he turned away from the window and started putting on his blue jeans.

“
Qué pasa, Papi
?” Raul asked.

“Get dressed,” his father said.

“What are we going to do?”

For a moment his father didn't answer, as if lost in thought. Finally, he spoke. “We're gonna go find out what's so damn interesting in that back corner.”

27

Mustang, OK

I leave Juárez around noon and cross the border back into Texas. In El Paso, I rent a Honda Accord and leave the Explorer behind, figuring the black Bureau vehicle might attract unwanted attention to this clandestine excursion. I drive all day and get into Mustang around 10 p.m.

The first thing I notice is how steeped the town is in Indian references and memorabilia. On this block alone there's the Squaw Motel, the Dakota Diner, and the Sitting Bull Laundromat. The gas station where I stop sells moccasin boots and papoose key rings. There's also a quaint antiquatedness to the town. Like everything's fifteen or twenty years out of date. The gas pump has plastic numbers that scroll by as you fill up. Inside, they sell twelve-ounce cans of Coke for fifty-five cents. And I keep seeing short metal garbage cans in people's yards, just like the kind my foster family back in Baltimore had when I was sixteen years old.

I eventually check into the cozy and unassuming Comanche Motel, just east of town, not far from Lisa's apartment. I register under an assumed name, Arturo Espinoza, pay in cash, and turn in for the night.

The next morning, I get up and pay a visit to the Mustang Police Station to see the file on Lisa’s disappearance. I have to flash my badge to the cop on duty, which I'm not thrilled about, but there's no way around it. Consistent with the NCIC database, the file has Lisa reported missing on Tuesday, January 2—sixteen days ago. She went to work that morning at the Bethesda Women’s Shelter in Oklahoma City—her nine-to-five. Then, at eight o’clock,
she arrived on time for her shift at the Cadillac Bar and Grill in Mustang, where she worked three nights a week.