“Can’t say yet. If it is, it adds a new urgency.”
“Doctor Wilkens will handle the autopsy since I seem to be living here. And to that end, we have another complete body extraction.”
I saw a body on her side on a reinforced table, almost fetal, legs drawn up, one hand floating in the air, the other below, the spine and rib cage compressed by huge force. Her preserved face projected forward, mouth wide below a straight nose, the empty eye sockets like twin screams.
It was the woman who had called to me from the stone, the one trying to swim free. I knew it was an illusion, that her lifeless body had pressed against the wall of the cistern, her face and hand wedging between stones lining the cistern, eluding the concrete and appearing frozen while swimming.
Morningstar turned to me. “The big reason I called you here? I’m wondering about the serial-killer line Delmara is pushing.”
“Why’s that?”
“So far we’ve pulled nine skulls, seven females and two males. Several skulls provided a look at dentition. A lot of decay, but the teeth display the kind of contemporary dentistry done by first-world dentists on charity missions.”
“Meaning?”
“I’m getting there. BELT!”
A tech sprinted over and set a brown leather belt in Morningstar’s outstretched palm. The belt was crusted with cement, but a section near the corroded buckle had been cleaned.
“You can’t see the words with the naked eye, but under a microscope we’ve made out HECHO EN HONDURAS – made in Honduras. BRACELET!” Morningstar barked and the belt became a silver-colored ID bracelet, the opening heartbreakingly small. She handed me a magnifying glass and pointed to a cleaned area of the bracelet. I squinted at faint letters etched into cheap potmetal.
“T-e-g-u …”
“Tegucigalpa,” Morningstar said. “A souvenir from the capital of Honduras. And for the frosting on the cake …” Morningstar snapped her long fingers and the bracelet became a three-centimeter-square piece of jewelry.
“There’s this, a tin medallion stamped with the Nuestra Señora de Supaya, the patroness of Honduras.”
“A serial psycho who targets Hispanics?” I said, my mind racing. “Mainly women? That’s what you’re saying we have here?” I was springing to conclusions: a killer from the same culture moving in areas he knew, using the native language … But Morningstar had other experience and shook her head.
“How much human trafficking did you see in Mobile, Detective?”
“Almost zero.”
“South Florida is the entry point for a fair amount of human cargo from the Caribbean and the Southern Hemisphere. Europe, even. I think we’re seeing a delivery that went wrong.”
“This trafficking …” I said, suddenly feeling like the last runner in the Boston Marathon. “Where can I find out more?”
17
Morningstar made me an appointment with an expert. The next morning I threaded through lunchtime traffic up to the University of Miami, parking outside the Sociology department. I jogged the steps to the third floor and found an empty reception office. Classes, I figured.
“Hello?” I called down a short hall with several doors. “Professor Johnson?”
A woman rolled out a door in a wheelchair. That was the first thing I noticed, the second was the eye patch. She was of African heritage and looked to be in her mid forties, moon faced. Her hair was long and braided with bright beads and she beckoned me to her office. “You must be Carson Ryder,” Victoree Johnson said in a voice infused with Caribbean rhythms.
“We were handling a case initially thought to be a serial killer, but Dr Morningstar—”
“She told me the details. Have a seat.”
I sat in a chair, she rolled around to face me. The office was small and jammed with books and bound reports.
“Was that your opinion, Professor?” I asked. “Human trafficking?”
“Hondurans, mostly female and too poor for regular dental work … add that to the quantity of bodies and I’d say it’s probable these people died together rather than being murdered by a maniac, though whoever trafficks in humans is as cold-blooded as any serial killer.”
“It looks like sixteen or seventeen people died. This has happened before?”
“In the Southwest it’s becoming common. As the borders tighten, the coyotes – human smugglers – turn to more desolate crossings, like the deserts. Remember the old westerns, Detective? The man on horseback in the desert looks down and sees a bleached cattle skull in the sand? Today he’s more likely to find a human skull.”