Not Forgotten Read online

  I broke out a new spiral notebook and a Bic pen and took a seat behind my desk. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

  Araceli Luna recited her story while I took occasional notes of times and places. There wasn’t anything unusual, except for the fact that Marissa was the first in her family to go to college and she had gotten a scholarship to Texas Tech. She seemed like a typical young woman with big ambitions for the future. Mrs. Luna showed me the newspaper clipping. There was a photo of a man with a scruffy salt-and-pepper beard standing by the River Walk. He had a toothless smile and wore an Army cap and camo jacket. The article described him as being on site when Marissa was found.

  The police had found no evidence of a struggle or foul play. An autopsy revealed Marissa had alcohol in her system. A friend said she left a dance club alone around midnight and was never seen alive again. I wrote down the friend’s name. I also made a note of the night club near the River Walk. Without any evidence to the contrary, the medical examiner ruled it an accidental death by drowning. Case closed. I took a closer look at the autopsy report.

  “Is this all the police gave you?” I asked.

  Mrs. Luna nodded. The ME usually listed additional findings at the end of the report. What she gave me had nothing.

  “My Marissa never drank, Mr. Fischer. That’s how I know the police are wrong.” She said this last part with particular conviction.

  “She was a young woman out partying with her friends. You said she liked to dance. Are you sure she never drank? Not even a little? She was over twenty-one. It wasn’t illegal.”

  “She was very health conscious. She was studying to be a nurse. One more year and she would have graduated from Texas Tech. She always took care of herself.”

  “Did she have any enemies? Maybe her friends were jealous?”

  “Absolutely not, Mr. Fischer. Everyone loved her.”

  I tapped on my notebook. “This is a cold case, Mrs. Luna. Chances are I won’t be able to find anything.”

  Disappointment tugged at the corner of her lips. “But Mrs. Davis said you helped her son,” she insisted.

  “Sometimes, there’s nothing anyone can do. It’s hard to take, but accidents do happen. There’s no one to blame. It’s better to forget the tragedy and remember the joy they brought to you.” It was the hard truth that most people couldn’t accept. I didn’t want to give Mrs. Luna any false hope. Despite what Skeeter’s mother told her, my chances of finding her daughter’s killer were very slim at best.

  Mrs. Luna folded her hands in her lap. Her look told me I couldn’t budge her with a front-end loader unless I agreed to take her case.

  “Have you discussed your case with anyone else besides Mrs. Davis?” I asked.

  “No,” she said abruptly. “Absolutely not.” Her quick response suggested otherwise, but I would deal with that later.

  I tapped on my notebook. “I know this is painful, but I will need to do some checking and make a few phone calls before I will commit to your case.”

  “Mrs. Davis said you were skeptical of everything.”

  “I don’t take money unless I know I can help. If I do take your case, I will get to the truth. Are you willing to accept that?” I always asked this last question before a case. Some people who came to me only wanted me to find their version of the truth.

  “Please, find out who killed my daughter.”

  “If I can help, I’ll let you know.”

  She leaped from the chair and grabbed both my arms. “Thank you. Thank you. I knew you would help. Mrs. Davis was right. You are an angel,” she gushed.

  “I’m far from an angel,” I said, extracting myself from her grasp. “Give me twenty-four hours. I’ll make some phone calls and do a little digging.”

  “Yes, of course. I understand,” she said. From the smile on her face, all she heard me say was that I would take the case. “I knew today would be a special day.”

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  “Today is Marissa’s birthday. She would have been twenty-three.”

  I walked her to the door and saw Sam on his back getting his belly rubbed. He had made a new friend. He didn’t bother to look at me. Shameless.

  “One more question. Who was the officer in charge of the investigation?”

  “Detective Peterson,” she said.

  Chapter Nine

  It was close to ten o’clock Saturday morning when I left Sam in his backyard pool, cooling off from his play-date with Marissa’s younger sister and sulking because he held me responsible for cutting it short. I had done my preliminary research by checking the public records available for Marissa Luna. She didn’t leave much of a paper trail in her short life. I found a Facebook tribute and a few pictures on Instagram, along with her police report courtesy of the Texas Public Information Act. For the nitty-gritty details, I would call Skeeter. That was his specialty. When he wasn’t working for me, he installed security systems for big businesses around San Antonio and Austin and did background checks for an insurance company. He worked for me to pay off the three months and countless hours I’d spent finding the thug who set him up. I had thrown the dice when I took on his case free of charge hoping my success would spin into positive publicity and more referrals to boost my fledgling business. If I took the Luna case, it might finally pay off.

  I drove my pickup to the SAPD headquarters on Santa Rosa Avenue hoping to catch Detective Peterson. Any other detective I would have called in advance to set up a meeting, but I knew Peterson would tell me to piss up a rope before answering any questions about the Luna case.

  I was going to use the casing Sam found to work a trade for information. The pressure on Peterson to show results or turn over the investigation to the FBI would be immense. Javier Sosa was a Mexican citizen. Mexico didn’t seem to mind if their citizens were assassinated in their own country, but they took exception to attempts on US soil.

  Knowing Peterson was a prick, I would have to handle the negotiations as delicately as possible. Not one of my stronger points. That was why I waited fifteen minutes for a bag of taquitos at the Las Tapatias drive-through when I usually made my own breakfast. I was going to offer San Antonio’s finest a peace offering.

  I parked in the parking garage and wondered if Peterson would validate my ticket. The building looked like a prison with its white limestone blocks and small windows. The public art on display out front consisted of what looked like leftover metal beams painted white and standing on end like unstable teepee poles in a gale force wind. Nothing says “public safety” like a precarious stack of thirty-foot-tall metal poles.

  I recognized the sergeant working the front desk. His name was Hugo Vera, an old-timer who had retired once but came back to work part-time because he said his wife got tired of seeing him around the house all day long. He had also known my father and had a vacation home in Fredericksburg, where I’d met him when I was a kid.

  “How’s the PI business?” he asked.

  “Maybe I should have opened a barbecue joint. At least I’d know where my next meal was coming from.”

  “Hang in there. It takes a while to get established.” It was always nice to hear a bit of encouragement. “What brings you down here, Nick?” Vera asked.

  “I need to talk to Detective Peterson,” I said.

  When he heard the detective’s name, his grizzled face looked like he’d bit a lemon. “I would advise against it. Tomahawk’s been here all night talking to the Feds about your late-night shootout.”

  “Is he ever in a good mood?” I asked.

  Vera grinned. “He was happier when he worked SWAT.”

  “Peterson was on the SWAT team?” I asked. “When was that?” I couldn’t picture the guy having any tactical skills.

  “Fifteen years ago,” he said. “Before your time.”

  “Why’d he switch to homicide?”

  “He was asked to leave. Too many bodies were piling up. Nothing official, but he had
a reputation for shooting first.”

  “This can’t wait,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, kid,” he said and buzzed me through to the upstairs offices.

  I found Peterson in his cubicle looking like he’d spent the night there. He wore the same shirt, minus the tie, and there was a stack of paper cups from the coffee machine threatening to stage a rebellion against the file folders on his desk.

  I perched three large coffees and a white bag of taquitos in the mix. He looked at me like I had just stepped out of a stale Saturday Night Live skit.

  “Who let you in here?” he asked.

  I ignored the question. “There’s eggs and chorizo, eggs and barbacoa, or eggs and brisket. Help yourself.” I took the lid off one of the coffees and took a sip like we did this every day. There was a desk next to his sporting a picture of Ochoa and a five- or six-year-old boy with an angelic smile and hair that was colored dark purple. “Where’s Ochoa?” I asked.

  “Busy. What the fuck’re you doin’ here?”

  “Nice to see you again, too, Detective. How’s the Sosa investigation going?”

  “You’re still the number one suspect.”

  “So, you got nothin’?”

  “It’s my case. I told you to stay the fuck away from it.”

  “It’s all yours. I’m here about the Luna case. Apparent drowning victim. Marissa Luna. Found in the river by Davy Crockett.”

  “Come on, Fischer. I was up all night babysitting the forensics team. I spent two hours briefing the FBI, and an hour getting chewed out by the captain for not giving them enough information.” He peeled away the foil wrapper on the taquito and took a big bite. “Thanks for breakfast,” he said around a mouthful of egg and brisket. “Now, get the fuck out.”

  I took out Sam’s poop bag and dangled it in the air.

  Peterson took one look and spit out his mouthful of breakfast. “This some kind of a joke?”

  “Relax, it’s evidence from the parking garage. I was in the area walking my dog and couldn’t resist taking a look.”

  “You interfered with a crime scene?”

  “I waited till your guys were gone. This is something they missed.”

  “A stool sample from the shooter?”

  “Maybe I scared the shit out of him,” I said. It was easy to forget people skills talking to this guy.

  “Take a hike, Fischer.” He stood and pointed at the cubicle opening.

  I didn’t move. “Relax, it’s not shit. I was fresh out of evidence bags. It’s a .308 shell casing.”

  “How do I know that came from the scene?”

  “I thought you’d say that.” I took out my cell phone and showed him the pictures of Sam and the parking garage. “Actually, Sam found it. Don’t worry, I didn’t touch it. If I did, my prints are on file anyway.”

  “Let’s have it.” He held his hand out for the baggie.

  I held it just out of his reach. “How about we trade?”

  “You know that’s withholding evidence.”

  “Oh, you’re gonna get it. I just thought you’d like to have it first. I could take it downstairs and ask Sergeant Vera to run it through the system. He could run it for fingerprints and ballistics and take the credit. You could keep the poop bag.”

  Peterson sat back down and took another bite of taquito, then washed it down with a swallow of coffee. He was thinking. I expected him to come up with another reason not to share any information with me. I took a step toward the door to prove I was willing to take the evidence downstairs.

  “All right,” he blurted out, before I could take another step. “What d’you wanna know?”

  “The autopsy for one,” I said. “Why did you leave out the additional findings?”

  He took another swallow of coffee. “Because they showed elevated HCG.”

  “She was pregnant?”

  He wiped his mouth with a paper napkin. His facial expression didn’t change. I waited for more explanation. None came.

  “You didn’t want her mother to know, or you didn’t think it was important?”

  “Look, the girl was careless. You follow? Her kind usually are. It was a judgment call.”

  “Her kind?”

  “You some kind of bleeding heart?”

  “She was a college student in Lubbock,” I said.

  “Doesn’t change where she came from.” The guy was waving red flags in my face.

  “You don’t think the father is a suspect? Isn’t it odd he didn’t come forward?”

  “A suspect in what? There’s no foul play. We can’t prove the father knew about the baby.”

  “You have fetal DNA. You could ask him,” I said.

  “The girl had two boyfriends since high school that we could find. They were Facebook friends, whatever that means. They both volunteered DNA. Both came up negative. Like I said, she was careless. The bottom line here is the girl went out dancing, got wasted, and fell in the river. It’s tragic. It’s random. It happens. You can tell Mrs. Luna the same thing I told her—her daughter’s death was an accident. I thought you were a Boy Scout. I didn’t figure you were the kind to take a woman’s money and yank her chain.” He stood up, ending our conversation.

  “A Boy Scout?” I asked. No one had ever called me that.

  “Yeah, you act like you’re working on a merit badge—helping out the underprivileged.”

  “Who said I was working for Mrs. Luna?”

  “She calls me once a week. I figured somebody might have slipped her your number.”

  “I’m just curious by nature. I ran across the pint-sized Davy Crockett picture.”

  He gave me a strange look and waited for me to tell him more. I stayed quiet. I didn’t owe him an explanation. His ears turned red. It was time to go.

  “Go find some skirt-chaser to photograph. You’re good at that.”

  I smiled. “Thanks. Good advice. I’ll call your wife.” I slipped out the hall door before he could respond. I’d heard all I needed to hear. Halfway down the hall, I realized I’d forgotten to ask him to validate my parking ticket.

  Before I could turn around, I ran into Detective Ochoa. She had an armload of files and an up-all-night look on her face. Seeing me didn’t cheer her up.

  “Busy night?” I said, trying to be nice and hoping to win her over to my side.

  “You have no idea,” she said.

  “I left a coffee and a taquito on your desk, if your partner didn’t take them.”

  “You talked to him?” She sounded exasperated.

  “Tried to get some information on another case.”

  “Thanks a lot,” she said with a big dose of sarcasm. “He’s already pissed because he’s missing church.” She actually seemed nice when her partner wasn’t around.

  “Church? It’s Saturday,” I said.

  “On the seventh day He rested,” she said. “He’s Seventh-day Adventist.”

  “Doesn’t strike me as the religious type,” I said.

  She shrugged. “Just do us both a favor and stay away from Peterson.”

  Chapter Ten

  By the time I hit the parking garage, the rubber soles on my Justin boots were sticking to the superheated asphalt. A haze had settled over the city that was a mixture of heat rising off the pavement and a cloud of dust the local meteorologist claimed blew in from North Africa. My eyes and nose started dripping before I could climb into my eight-year-old F-150 and crank the air conditioning. For the last ten thousand miles it had only worked at one speed. I was glad that speed was high. While I waited for the air vents to dry the moisture on my face and shirt, I searched the glovebox for an antihistamine. I found the empty package and remembered I’d taken the last one during a recent wave of cedar pollen. I wouldn’t get far without them.

  I thought about Marissa Luna. The picture Peterson painted was of a party girl who had one too many and did a swan dive into the river, quite differen
t than what her mother described. His story about withholding the news of Marissa being pregnant because he was being sensitive didn’t hold water. He didn’t strike me as the altruistic type. On the other hand, he wouldn’t have anything to gain by covering up a murder unless he was involved, and that didn’t seem likely. He worked homicide and cleared murder cases for a living. He’d made mistakes before, as I proved in Skeeter’s case, but that was partly the DA’s fault. Peterson seemed like the kind of guy that if he sniffed foul play, he would have kept the case open. According to Sergeant Vera, he was transferred to homicide for being too gung ho, not lazy. I couldn’t really hold that against him. There was nothing in his report that screamed murder. There was no evidence of assault or rape, and there were no witnesses. If Marissa Luna was murdered, the killer had covered his tracks. Picking up the cold trail wasn’t going to be easy.

  I turned north on Market Street and admired the red sandstone exterior of the courthouse complex. It looked like something you’d see in Arizona, and much better designed than the SAPD building. I was going to track down the place where the police report said Marissa Luna had fallen in the river. I didn’t expect to find anything at a two-month-old crime scene, but Peterson’s revelation about Marissa being pregnant had left me wondering what else he might have overlooked or withheld. It was a place to start.

  I found a rare open downtown parking spot, locked my pickup, and took the steps down to the River Walk. I walked across the Commerce Street footbridge and found myself staring at the huge bald cypress tree named for Ben Milam, a veteran of the War of 1812 and the Texas Revolution. He had survived war, encounters with Comanches, and prison in Mexico, only to be shot in the head by a Mexican sniper while he stopped at this tree to relieve himself. That extra pint of beer made him one of the first casualties of the battle for the Alamo three months later. The tree was only a little over three hundred yards from where a sniper put a bullet in my client and Marissa Luna had taken her last breath.