Chapter Twenty-One
Eagle Pass, TX.
The Eagle Pass bank is close to the river, not far from Eric Kessler's place. The top floor room is bare, featureless white walls, gray carpet—all attention focused on a row of computer screens.
A senior clerk waits at a desk to one side. Whicher scans the entries on the Creagan account.
Transactions are sporadic. A few hundred here, couple of thousand there—checks paid in, cash deposits. Creagan takes money out from time to time—small amounts, the kind a guy takes to the store.
There's nothing that stands out. No large sums, nothing that looks like it could be connected with Merrill Johnson. The balance on the account is less than three thousand dollars.
Whicher turns to the clerk. “We print off a bunch of this? Without violating the fourth?”
“I don't suppose the account holder will be complaining about an expectation to privacy.”
“Considering he's dead,” Whicher says.
“How far back do you want to run? I can check when the account was opened?”
Whicher pushes back the chair, making space for the clerk. He watches the screen switch to a list showing accounts opened, beginning with the most recent.
The clerk types Creagan into a search field. Another list comes up—checking accounts beginning the same fiscal quarter.
“February, last year,” the clerk says.
He clicks onto the Creagan account. The screen shows a list of transactions, beginning with the opening balance.
“There's really not much here, I can print this whole thing it probably won't run to more than fifteen to twenty pages.”
Whicher nods. “I’d be obliged.”
The clerk hits a key. “Print room's downstairs, I'll go get it for you.” He hits another key, the screen returns to the list of checking accounts. He steps out.
Whicher gazes around the room, thankful not to spend his days there. His eye comes to rest on the computer monitor.
Half way down the list for the February quarter is a name he recognizes. He sits forward. Kessler, K.
He reads the line over on the screen.
Karen Kessler. It's in Karen's name only. No Eric. It's not a joint-account.
He sits, immobile a moment. Then glances at the door, pushing it closed with a boot.
He clicks onto the account. Transactions listed are mainly sums of money paid in. Three to four hundred at a time. There are outgoing transactions, one regular every month since the account was opened. He looks at the name of the payee. An insurance company, Moreland Life.
Sixteen payments. Every month since the previous February.
He finds the close command, clicks it. The screen returns to the prior display.
He pushes back the chair from the monitor. Stands, looks out the window across the river.
The city of Piedras Negras stretches out before him. City of black stones.
Carrizo Springs, TX.
It's close to five o' clock as Whicher returns to the courthouse square, afternoon light harsh. Wind is picking up, sweeping dust through the town. He thinks of Karen Kessler. Working double-shifts, selling realty. While her husband drank himself senseless.
Palm fronds bend and turn in the wind, shadows dancing on the Chevy hood.
Did Eric know about the account?
Whicher looks at Sheriff Barnhart's office, the window open. No sign of the man himself.
Marshal Lassiter was due in. Whicher picks a large envelope from the passenger seat, steps from the truck, locks it. Around the square he checks for San Antonio plates, any sign Lassiter's arrived.
He enters the courthouse, clips down the corridor to the rear of the building. Benita Alvarenga's in the office.
He dumps the envelope. “Print out of Creagan's account,” he says. “Southern Surety Bank.”
She reaches over.
“I didn't check every detail, but so far there's nothing ties him to Johnson nor anybody else.”
“Let me look.”
“Is Lassiter here yet?”
She nods. “With the sheriff. And Marshal Scruggs.”
“Did Scruggs talk to Lindy?”
“He and I attempted to question her. She's claiming the fifth amendment, she needs a lawyer if she's going to keep this up.”
The phone rings.
Deputy Alvarenga answers it. She lets the print-out from the bank rest in her lap. Listens a moment. Then replaces the receiver. “Looks like we're wanted,” she says. “Upstairs.”
Sheriff Barnhart is in his customary position at the window, cigar in hand. Marshal Lassiter sits wide-legged in a Tattersall shirt, fine gray Cattleman hat on the desk.
“We know where Todd Williams was killed,” Scruggs says. “We know how, we know when.”
Doctor Elaine Schulz reads from the autopsy summary. “Cranial gunshot. Soft-nosed, nine millimeter round. Fired at close range.”
“The problem with Williams is finding sufficient background,” Scruggs says.
“I thought this guy was local?” Lassiter cups an elbow, one hand at his tan face.
“Local, but pretty much a loner,” says Scruggs. “Marshal Whicher here's spoken with the mother. We have a girlfriend in for questioning...”
Lassiter looks at the younger marshal. “This the bird that don't sing, army?” He shoots a grin.
“She's giving us the run around,” Scruggs says. “Looks like somebody might've gotten to her. A trafficker, maybe.” He glances at Benita Alvarenga.
The deputy nods.
Sheriff Barnhart blinks slowly, beneath the palm straw hat.
“We know for sure Todd Williams was a hunting guide—expert on the local terrain. Working coyote would be a fit...”
Whicher raises a hand. “There's the friend—Zach Tutton, guy I tracked down yesterday at the farm.”
Sheriff Barnhart looks at Scruggs. “This the place up in Zavala County?”
“Yes, sir.”
The sheriff taps his ash out the open window.
Scruggs checks his notes. “Coming to Randell Creagan, we got the opposite situation—we got a bunch of background, we still don't have place of death.”
“We know he was killed with a different weapon,” Doctor Schulz says. “Forty caliber Smith & Wesson.”
“Creagan was found thirty-six hours after Williams,” Scruggs says, looking at Doctor Schulz. “But time of death would be a step forward.”
The doctor crosses her arms on her chest. “I'd put TOD almost certainly the night Todd Williams was murdered. Early next day at the latest.”
“If we're questioning people for their whereabouts,” Whicher says, “that night's legit for both murders? Potentially?”
“Something on your mind, army?” Lassiter says.
“Merrill M. Johnson.”
“He’s a customs broker,” Scruggs says. “Admits to knowing Creagan. Laredo Border Patrol know the pair of them.”
“Sheriff said you had another suspect, name of Boyd Harris?”
“Jug Line Harris. Known-associate of Creagan and Williams. Hunting, fishing type.”
“Y'all interview him?” Lassiter says.
“Marshal Whicher arrested him on a misdemeanor,” Sheriff Barnhart says. “He made bail. Didn't say squat.”
“I left a message for Jim Gale to pick him up,” Scruggs says.
Lassiter leans his head on one side, eyes coming to rest on Benita Alvarenga's shirt front. “I'll tell you, Jim's kind of ticked off. Getting stepped over an' all.” He runs a hand through his silvered hair. “What’re you thinking on this guy Harris?”
“One of the non-US victims was killed with a hunting rifle,” Whicher says.
“This the thing you saw with that night scope an' all?”
“I think Harris knows something about it.”
“Think he might've been the shooter?”
“I questioned him over rifles, he was evasive.”
Lassiter nods. “Webb County Coroner have the body in Laredo?”
Doctor Schulz cuts in, “I spoke with the Coroner's Office—they have nothing at all for ballistics.”
“Then we're not about to get a damn thing to tie him in,” Lassiter says.
“We could take another look out there?” Whicher says. “Search for evidence.”
Sheriff Barnhart sits forward at the window. “Y'all have Todd Williams, Randell Creagan and maybe Jug Line Harris as coyotes?”
“They have the background,” Scruggs says.
“This Creagan feller's a known car thief and fence?”
“FBI were looking at him,” Scruggs says. “Somebody in the bureau thinks he was running stolen cars across the border. Returning with aliens on false papers.”
“Somebody?”
“They're not saying.”
“Where does Merrill Johnson fit with this?” Lassiter says.
“Trains,” Whicher says. “Johnson could be bringing up illegals; the likes of Williams and Creagan and Harris getting them over the border. Through the brush.”
Lassiter looks at him. “You have evidence for that, army?”
Deputy Alvarenga lifts up a folder. “Johnson has a lot of transactions with US Customs.”
“The guy's in freight.”
“There's something else,” Whicher says. “I talked with INS in Eagle Pass—Miguel Carrasco. He thinks the Hispanic victims were likely Central American. Not Mexican.”
The room's silent. Whicher aware of Benita Alvarenga looking at him.
“There was no ID on any of those victims,” Sheriff Barnhart says. “Proving that is going to be impossible.”
“Johnson could have been bringing up people from way south in Mexico,” Whicher says. “Laredo rail yard and Eagle Pass both handle imports of bulk chemicals...”
“We have some of the manifests from US Customs here,” Deputy Alvarenga says. “Three with Merrill Johnson as broker.”
Sheriff Barnhart plugs the stub of cigar into his mouth.
“I found evidence of chemical residue on discarded clothing at a hunting concession leased by Randell Creagan. A bunch of trailers out in the brush.”
Doctor Schulz frowns. “There were no traces of any chemicals on the Hispanic victims.”
“Illegal crossers change clothes,” Alvarenga says. “Soon as they get on US soil. Border Patrol go for people that look a mess. They all know that.”
“If we could show the Hispanic victims traveled up from the south,” Whicher says, “if they traveled on freight trains, shipments brokered by Johnson, we'd have a heck of a lever.”
“I told you,” Doctor Schulz said. “There was no evidence for that.”
“We weren't looking for it.”
She gives him a cold-eyed stare.
“Say those people traveled in freight loads twelve hours straight. They would've breathed dust that entire time.”
“I'm not sure exactly where you're going with this,” the doctor says.
“Toxicology would show it—if their lungs bore any trace of chemicals from a shipment.” Whicher points at the folder Deputy Alvarenga's holding.
“These people are already in the ground,” Sheriff Barnhart says.
The doctor's face is tight. “Are you asking that an exhumation take place?”
Scruggs steps in. “No. We're not asking for anything of the sort.”
“Seriously?” she says. “A disinterment?”
Scruggs cuts an angry glance in Whicher's direction.
“Damn if I want to be digging up folk we just buried,” the sheriff says.
Marshal Lassiter picks at a snap on the cuff of his shirt. “It's your county,” he says to the sheriff. “But I'll tell you one thing. I reckon army might just have something there. A bunch of people getting shot up? Dammit, Central American sounds about right.”
“Y'all want me signing for a disinterment?” the sheriff says.
“It’s your call,” Lassiter says. “If it was mine, I figure that's what I'd be looking to do.”