La Miserias was located about an hour south of Culiacán.
They took two vehicles—Ramon and Carlos in the pickup, the PFM agents trailing them in a rental car. Ramon drove while Carlos sat in the passenger seat, his window down so he could smoke. It was early evening, the sun having just set, and they both should have been gone for the day. Carlos at home with his big screen TV and dog, Ramon at home with his wife and baby.
As if sensing Ramon’s thoughts, Carlos asked, “How is your daughter?”
“She’s good.”
“Talking yet?”
“Just babbling.”
Carlos took a final drag on his cigarette and flicked the butt out the window.
“Just wait until she says ‘mama’ and ‘dada’ for the first time. You’ll never forget it.”
Ramon smiled and checked the rearview mirror to make sure the PFM agents were still behind them.
He and Carlos had taken them to the motel earlier, then to Miguel Dominguez’s apartment, and that was about it. Besides those two places and the building in which the bodies were found, they didn’t have much else to go on. They had found a recent photo of Miguel and sent it around for officers to keep an eye out. The PFM agents made their notes and said they were going to check into their hotel (they’d be staying for at least a couple days), when news had come across about the mass shooting in La Miserias. When they learned rumor had it Fernando Sanchez Morales had approved the shooting, the agents wanted to investigate the scene as well.
When they arrived at La Miserias, several police cars were already there, as were a number of ambulances.
There were crowds near the center of town where the shooting took place. As they stepped out of the car they heard women crying.
Bodies were splayed in the town square. Men and women, even some children. Ramon had heard at least twenty dead, but judging by the carnage, the number looked to be larger.
Carlos lit another cigarette, shaking his head as he muttered, “Jesus Christ.”
The PFM agents stepped up next to them. Just like Ramon, both wore masks. Serrano nodded at the nearby buildings.
“We’re going to look around.”
The two agents walked away.
Ramon and Carlos watched them for a couple seconds before turning their attention back to the bodies.
Carlos said again, “Jesus Christ.”
He pointed.
“Do you see her over there? They killed the bride.”
Her wedding dress was stained with so much blood it had almost become black.
One of the officers noticed them and hurried over. Before he could even open his mouth, Carlos raised a finger.
“Let me guess. The people who did this wore masks so nobody knows who they were and nobody in town is ready to speculate.”
The officer’s shoulders dropped as he nodded solemnly.
“Yes.”
Carlos said, “Can anybody at least say how many shooters there were?”
The officer shrugged.
“One person said six. Another said eight. Two pickup trucks tore into town while everybody was dancing in the square. The whole town was here.”
The officer trailed off, shaking his head. He looked sick to his stomach even relating the events.
Ramon asked, “Does anybody remember from which direction the pickup trucks came?”
“I heard they came from both directions. One came down the street, the other came up. They stopped and men jumped down from the truck beds and opened fire. It lasted only a minute, and then the men jumped back into the truck beds and the trucks drove away.”
Carlos glanced at Ramon to see if he had any further questions. Ramon shook his head. Carlos dismissed the officer saying that they would check the bodies soon. The officer nodded and returned to help the other officers as they attempted to keep everyone back. A few of the crying women kept trying to break past the officers to cling to their dead loved ones.
Carlos said, “There’s no rhyme or reason here.”
“What do you mean?”
“The people of this town aren’t connected. They have no ties to the cartel. Most of them are farmers.”
Carlos sighed, shaking his head.
“We both know who’s responsible. Everybody in this town knows who’s responsible.”
He left it at that. He didn’t need to say the rest. Fernando Sanchez Morales was part of the Sinaloa Cartel. Not quite a drug lord yet—that would be a few more years off if he played his cards right—but he was powerful enough to pay off the right people to stay out of trouble. What happened here this evening was just what they’d been told when the call first came in: retribution for what had happened to Ernesto Diaz last night. And it wasn’t because anybody in this town had any connection to what happened to Diaz, but because Morales no doubt decided there needed to be a consequence for what happened, so why not kill some innocent townspeople?
Ramon turned and stared off at the hill a mile away and the large house on top of the hill.
“He’s probably watching us right now.”
Carlos lit another cigarette, nodding.
“Probably.”
“And there’s not a goddamned thing we can do about it.”
“No, there is not.”
“Sometimes I hate my job.”
“Sometimes?”
Carlos snorted smoke through his nose.
“Wait until you get to be my age. You’ll hate every goddamned minute.”
Ramon shook his head and turned his attention back to the town square and the crowd and the dead bodies. He started to say something else but froze.
Carlos said, “What’s wrong?”
Ramon didn’t blink as he stared ahead, not wanting to lose sight of her.
“Samantha Lu is here.”