Caged: Reclamation
Chapter 2
Llanview Police Department was noisy with a ranting drunk in the box and the general din of a Thursday afternoon. Bo Buchanan sat in his office, the windows keeping out none of the distraction. He flipped through the photographs of the now-historical Cuban bombing in Havana. Happened two months ago and it still felt fresh. Felt surreal.
Commissioner, DNA tests came back positive for Todd Manning. A wedding ring was recovered. A necklace was noted but it seems to have been lost.
Surreal.
The detailed file was provided care of the FBI, INTERPOL, and, in a rare show of cooperation, the Cuban local police. More agencies ended up stepping in due to foreign nationals being killed, namely Canada and Mexico. At first, the bombing was considered a terrorist act by political activists. But a positive identification of a known Canadian child trafficker changed everything.
BREAKING NEWS: Shocking story out of Havana, Cuba, today, two weeks after a major bombing that rocked the usually peaceful city. According to Cuban sources, the explosion is related to a major child trafficking investigation which has resulted in one of the largest busts for the FBI to date.
FBI went public. It informed the world that one of the most extensive child exploitation rings had been toppled. Tens of stolen children were found alive in three different countries, hundreds of participants arrested. It was an incredible story of international abductions, trafficking, and sex slavery. Films, pictures, dark web treasure troves, were ferreted out and ended.
It was enough to make anyone question humanity.
Where was Manning found?
In the basement.
Not with the rest of the victims?
The Havana Chief can't verify that. The record is… shifting.
What does that mean?
First the basement, then the kitchen, then upstairs. Shifting. All reports on Manning are conflicting.
He studied the 13th body, blackened beyond cheek twitched at the image. He had a hard time wrapping his mind around the bombing and all that ensued. The explosion had been so carefully and expertly executed that no other homes on the block blew up despite the connected gas lines. It was a highly organized and well-planned murder of an historically large number of people for Cuba. An American-style number of victims.
Thirteen.
What the FBI did not share publicly was that the bombed house had been targeted in a sanctioned undercover operation and that Todd Manning was the 13th body.
He was officially designated as a John Doe, his identity kept secret. So thorough was the need to keep him out of public eye that Havana PD recorded his death as accidental, cause "undetermined but probable heroin overdose." His body was cremated ahead of any choice by the U.S. and the ashes sent home. The premature cremation caused a lot of tension. The records were scrubbed of his true death. Only the savviest of agents could piece together the shifting story via cookie crumbs in the FBI system.
Jedediah Chant, Rolon Lopez, Pedro Moreno, and of course, Téa Delgado, knew the truth that not only was he a bombing victim, but also a main suspect. He had the motive to do it and the animus.
One big barrier to him being the mastermind however: he would not have had the know-how for such a killing. The bombing was considered "sophisticated," clearly carried out by an expert bomb maker. Some names had been suggested from FBI intel, but nothing concrete since the charges in the gas lines disintegrated alongside the usual signatures. Moreover, this didn't fit Manning's modus operandi. Planned murder, much less carefully and successfully executed, was not Manning's style. Never had been. He was never a great criminal. It's why he ended up in prison multiple times.
Back to the scrub.
Pretty quickly the FBI decided they did not want to expose Manning's connection to the undercover operation, that he was a confidential informant working against the victims, that he was a member of the Mambo Kings working with the FBI. They were concerned such exposure could put Téa and the kids at risk. The Cuban government had their reasons as well. See, Todd Manning had become a respected Cuban son among the locals, deeply tied to Pedro Moreno, a member of Havana's elite. To say he murdered two or three fellow Cubans, even evil ones, was a black mark. They argued that enemies probably wanted to take him out along with the rotten traffickers. His connection to the pornographers was bad luck. Coincidence. He might have been forced into that house.
And what if the forced-into-the-house story wasn't accurate? That would mean only one thing: Pedro Moreno's son was associated with a child sex ring, that Manning must have been in that house with all those child pornographers because HE was a child pornographer, meaning the Mambo Kings were also child pornographers.
Meaning Pedro Moreno was a child pornographer.
No way, no how. The Cuban government wasn't going to pursue that theory much to the chagrin of the FBI. FBI went along with one caveat: they would continue the investigation and if they found proof of Moreno's culpability with regard to the child sex ring, Cuba would fully cooperate. If no promise of cooperation, Manning was going to be announced as the 13th victim. No scrubbing. Cuba's failure to catch one of their own would be made public.
Cuba agreed.
So it stood. Todd Manning died somewhere else. No connection to the bombing. For now.
Noise broke through the Commissioner's office windows. "I'm telling you I'm innocent! My girlfriend crashed the car, I didn't!"
"You need this office soundproofed."
"Not kidding."
Across the Commissioner's desk sat FBI agent Benicio Juarez, lead detective on trafficking. He continued to work the case; he was not finished with Todd Manning or Pedro Moreno.
"Manning fucked me in one big way," he groused, their conversation rising above the drunk's misery.
"You didn't get MK, lost your big fish."
"Yup." He tossed a thumb drive on the desk.
"What's that?"
"Garbage. Manning swore the connections were on it. That Moreno could be proven to be tied to the sex ring. Thing is empty. Either it's been wiped or Manning lied."
"How did Moreno come out on this?"
"Clean."
"You don't buy it."
"Hell no."
Bo crossed his arms. Thinking on this. "So Manning covered up Moreno's involvement. Loyalty maybe, last minute loyalty."
Juarez eyed Bo. "With all due respect, Commissioner, Manning was less loyal at the end. From what we know, he deposed Moreno as king of MK. Died a king, not a soldier."
"What are you thinking then?"
"He had information that Moreno ran that child trafficking ring and it's being used against Moreno today, still."
"Blackmail. Except Manning is dead. What would be the purpose now? And who is the new blackmailer?"
"Who the fuck knows? Moreno is toeing some line we need to figure out. Gotta find the line."
"So what do you want from me?"
"Open up everything you have on MK and Manning and make it accessible to us."
"It's always been available. Mí casa es su casa."
"Good to know." He pulled the file towards him, grew thoughtful. He tapped the picture. "How's Téa Delgado doing? She aware her daughter can ask for Cuban citizenship? Be officially Cuban. Country is still a big believer in birthright citizenship."
"I heard that."
"Did you know little Esperanza has a social media following in Havana? When Havana locals learned Manning's wife had his daughter on Cuban soil, folks got excited in some circles."
"That's crazy."
"Manning was… respected. Havana adopted him, considered him Cuban; it's why he could be the Mad King of the Mambo Kings. Now his daughter really is one of them."
"Well… isn't that a hell of a thing."
Juarez laughed then didn't. Looked up, waiting for Bo to answer his original question. He was an old-school cop, rugged, willing to get dirty to catch the bad guy. Lots of years on New York City streets before hopping to federal. Puerto Rican guy who seemed to have a soft spot for Téa Delgado.
Bo shook his head, knowing the question.
"Téa won't be taking Esperanza to Havana any time soon." He sighed. "She's an angry widow, but she's getting back on her feet. Opened her legal practice back up. Saw her in court just yesterday. She's a strong lady but … she's carrying a lot of upset. Manning left five kids behind — two of them grown and feeling the full brunt of loss. Hard grief. The others are so young, and living in that confused place of a child's grief— knowing their father is dead and not understanding it."
"They're a pretty tight family—."
"Yeah and Téa has to constantly work with them. Be the strong mother all the time. A tough place to be. You ever lost anyone, Juarez? Like a parent?"
"Sure. But to be honest, the worse was losing a partner to the job. Bank robbery. Nearly quit being a cop that year. Decided to honor them instead by staying."
The two men sighed heavily in mutual understanding.
"Anyway, just have your people come by. We'll see you have space to comb over everything."
"Appreciate it. Any chance you have sway with Jedediah? I gotta suspicion on him."
Bo sat a little straighter. Despite all his fight with Manning, he was a little protective over the kid. He'd been given a raw deal to have Manning as a dad. But the kid loved him. "What do you know?"
"The hospital in Havana had surveillance tapes of the hallways. On the afternoon Téa was taken, there's video of Manning giving Jed a book of some sort. The kid said it was a sketchbook by Rico Macias."
"Macias is an artist. Did you see the book?"
"We saw a book."
"Sketchbook by Macias."
"Jed switched it out, the little shit! It was always a bullshit story. I think the Moreno evidence is in the book that Jed got from his dad, that afternoon."
Bo sat back, contemplating. Plausible theory. "I'll make inquiries but… you gotta know Manning spent five years in prison rather than have his son testify for him. So I betcha that book is long gone and deeply buried. While Manning may not have been all that loyal to Moreno, Jedediah will die for his father. THAT is loyalty that is not gonna change."
"Any sway would help. Give it a shot."
"So you think Jed knows the Moreno connection."
"I don't know. But I'm convinced that book has what we're looking for."
"Except what would Jed's motivation be for keeping it secret?"
"Don't know. Guess we have to ask what would Manning's world lose if Moreno goes to jail?"
Good question.
He got up at that and so did Bo. The men shook hands. "Have you officially closed the case, Commissioner?"
"No. The bombing is still an open matter so to speak. We'd like proof positive as to who the bomber was. Once we get that, then we'll let Manning rest in his heroin overdose, forever scrubbed."
"He could have been a recognized hero, you know. Gotten a medal even. He gave us the key to ending that trafficking ring, biggest bust in FBI history."
"82 kids saved, I heard, and counting. The list is massive and they're still being picked up."
"Without his evidence, Commissioner, that thing would still be in full operation today."
"I know. He'll never get credit for having done a truly good thing."
"Scrubbed."
Bo flashed a quizzical look at the agent's bitter tone. Juarez shoved his hands into his pants pockets. Head down a few seconds before he eyed Bo.
"I think he's our bomber, Commissioner. I think he had a guy set the thing up and he decided to stick around for the show for whatever reason."
"I don't think that's outta the realm of possibility."
"Thing is, I have mixed feelings on whether I want that to be confirmed. There's never been a better end to a set of victims. For all my dislike of the guy… he's still a hero to me. Even more if he's the one who did it. Unfortunately, the world will not agree with me on that and if he's the one, instead of a hero he'll be listed on those serial killer websites."
Bo watched the big man leave, saw him chat up some officers before heading to the elevators. Bo sat heavily and flipped to the 13th body photograph once again. He had no answers to any questions.
Why would Manning stick around to go up in smoke with the pornographers? If he wasn't the bomber, who was, and why take out Manning alongside the pornographers? Maybe Manning was the intended target and the pornographers were just good luck? And why would Manning, and now Jed, protect Moreno from being associated with that ring? Why not get full justice? Why indeed. Why… to any of this.
Scrubbed. Shifting.
Bo wished he had answers. Téa wanted answers too. Wanted to pick up the phone and ask Manning, "What the hell is going on?!"
He felt like he could just do that. Call Manning. Barge into his office at the Sun. Spy on him as he walked to an MK club, late at night. Bo sighed. They might have been at odds but… funny how hard it was to believe he was truly gone. Expected him any day to come crashing through the department's front door mad as hell that anyone thought he was dead.
Are you fuckin' kidding me? Do I look dead to you? I'm Todd Manning, you bastards, look at me! I'm fuckin' immortal!
Bo dug into the front drawer of his desk and pulled out a magnifying glass. Hundredth time he'd done it. Hunched over, he studied the blackened body on the coroner's table. Every indicator in the file promised this was a picture of Manning's body as retrieved from the bombing.
The thing that always caught Bo's eye though was what looked like a goddamn gold chain on the body's chest. He looked and looked. Again and again. Burnished yellow cord in the black. One report said Macias had given him a necklace with a Catholic saint as a pendant, and that's what the coroner said this was. The one that was coincidentally lost.
Thing was… Manning never wore gold.
Blair once commented he had an allergy to the metal. Could have been a joke. The context of the comment was long forgotten. But in all the years Bo knew him, he never saw gold chains even when it was cool for his generation. And Bo had him in lock-up plenty of times. Plenty of mug shots proved he never had gold chains around his neck. Silver sometimes, leather strap once.
And not according to Jedediah or Téa either. They swore up and down that Macias had given him a silver chain, not gold. The picture showed gold though. Goddamn gold. That's gold, not silver.
Stuck in his craw. Just did. That… was a goddamn gold chain.
He tossed the magnifying glass onto the picture, the thing slamming into Manning's inches-thick rap sheet on the corner of his desk. Bo kept it for who-knows-what reason. A big red stamp on the top said "deceased."
Jesus.
"You were supposed to be immortal, kid. Ireland didn't get you, Statesville didn't, heroin didn't, and neither did all those other tries to make you dead. You always came through. Can't believe Havana finally did it. Hell of a thing… hell of a thing."
Scrubbed. Shifting.
A knock on the door drew Bo's attention. Officer Flare was poking her head in the door. "You have another visitor. A reporter… from Cuba."
"Send him in. And bring us fresh coffee? Please? Been a day."
In minutes, a young man with curly black hair, rugged-looking clothes, and an orange backpack, stood in the doorway and said in heavily accented Spanish, "I am Ian Correa… and I think… there is a problem with the bombing investigation."
Bo laughed and looked right at the reporter and against all rules, he blurted, "No shit."
Day of the Havana Bombing
Raw instinct told Ian Correa that the dusty green van wasn't going to stay parked. At the bombing site, he'd seen that van snake its way to the rear of the destroyed house. The crowd had been pushed back hard and fast by the police.
He saw a kid hop out of the van in a rush then get back in later. Ian had heard but couldn't see those back doors slam shut. Then the van started back down the alley. He tried to get to it, and caught a wary look from the kid as he passed by before he hit the gas. In a real rush. Ian, a journalist for the underground Havana Times, jumped on his bike to chase the van.
He thought he'd lost it. His reporter's instincts were on fire though. Just as he turned around to head back to the site, he saw it parked on a side street. In a minute, another kid rolled up. Tied his own bike up on a post and jumped into the back. Slammed the doors hard. A few minutes later the van took off.
These kids had something. These kids were not taking out the trash— they were obviously doing police work. A mighty plain van to do government work so had to be unofficial or something the government did not want the people to know.
Right up Ian's alley.
He drove slowly and deliberately behind the van as it made its way through Havana. Then it hit the highway and its speed picked up. Ian had no choice. He had to speed up. And that's when the driver caught whiff of the reporter. He started weaving through the few other cars on the road. Started trying to get away from Ian.
But Ian was an expert at this. He smiled and kept on the van. He took note of the license plate — hoping to get the name of the driver from his contacts at the registration office. He looked at his gas and he was getting low, coño!
The van took a sudden exit at that, driving too fast over a pothole and almost flying. The thing landed on the road with indignity. But on it went down the road. Ian caught the exit just in time, seeing the van way down the same road. It made a turn though and when Ian got to the turn, he couldn't see the van.
He hit the brakes and stopped. He cursed loudly. He waited. He was in a small town and these guys might not know that the only entrance back on the highway was two blocks to the east.
So Ian took a chance. Drove to that single entrance. He parked by a building there. Nearly whooped when he saw dusty green noisily coming towards him. As soon as it got back on the road, Ian was right on their culo again.
The van's driver must have noticed Ian and been shook up at that because suddenly the van swerved and then sped up. Tried the weaving thing. Nothing they did was gonna lose Ian.
They didn't stop though. Ian was sweating in the misty afternoon, less at the humidity and more that he was going to run out of gas. The run continued and continued hard and fast.
Ian yanked out his cell phone and dialed his fellow journalist who stayed at the site. He yelled into the phone, "I'm still following the van! I got the license plate. Get the info on the driver from our friend at registration office!"
He rattled off the license plate and sped up again to get closer to the van.
They were speeding now, drawing attention now. Cubans loved drama so the drivers that noticed the chase yelled out their windows, laughing and whooping it up and letting Ian pass them by. Any more interest and they would start slowing the van down. Ian didn't want that though because he needed to know the destination — where these guys were headed. That end would tell Ian a little something.
He saw the gas tank gauge. Almost empty. He was going to lose them.
"Fuck!" He cursed in English.
Suddenly, the end became clear. They were in Colon, a small city that happened to have an airport. They were headed there, chances were. He slowed down. Gave them space to make them think he lost interest. He could barely see them now. He followed the dusty green dot. Sure enough he saw them enter the airport.
But instead of going to the major airline gates, they went to a private runway. It was only for government officials. He was stopped at a checkpoint. He didn't fight the guard.
From the fence, he saw the van. They couldn't hide from here. The van slammed on breaks. Stopped at a cargo plane.
He took his camera out. Clicked away as a gurney with a brown cover on top was rolled out of the van. Could have been anything except there was a saline drip attached to the gurney. Ian let out a shaky breath, stunned. That was a patient.
Someone survived the bombing.
He dialed his friend. "Joe, did you get the name of the driver?"
"This is interesting, Ian."
"Spill it."
"The driver is the nephew of the chief. And that van - it's a cover for an ambulance." He laughed. "What do you have?"
"We got a survivor. Someone lived through that bombing and the cops don't want us to know."
"Sounds like we have a story."
"That we do."
Ian watched the plane take off. He called the guard over. Handed him a rather big bill. "Come on friend. Where's the plane going?"
The guy looked uncomfortable then didn't. Smiled at the money. "Cargo plane is headed to Baracoa. Only tourists and old Cubans live there. And Americans on the base." He laughed and Ian walked back to his bike.
Baracoa.
The most remote part of Cuba, hard to reach, rarely visited by anyone … a two hour flight from Havana to a tiny airport, then a hard road on a mountain range that served as a natural barrier to the rest of the island, mere miles from Guantanamo Bay and the major American prison otherwise known as Gitmo.
Holy shit, Ian said. Who is the patient and where the hell are they going?
Yeah, there was a story.
Sister Beatrice waited at the airport for her dearest friend, Father Paolo. He would be flying a 1958 cargo plane with an unmarked package on it. Special delivery. She sniffed the sea air and raised a hand to her forehead against the setting sun's light to watch for him. There on the tarmac of the small airport, she wore her usual dark green khaki pants, a button-up shirt with stripes and a black tee-shirt beneath, her ancient combat boots, and a modern nun's habit that consisted of a white cowl neck and similar scarf-like covering for her head. The scarf ran down past her shoulders and covered her thick, very untamed gray hair.
"What time is it?" She called out to the guard nearby.
He checked his watch and said, "5:30 - is the Father late?"
"Nearly late."
The guard chuckled.
Sister Beatrice wasn't simply a nun. The convent of Las Hermanas de la Misericordia knew her as its Mother Superior as well. She ministered to the small Baracoa community as a nun, doctor, and manager of twenty nuns in residence. All that gave her significant power, authority, and respect of which she took full advantage. She had a voice that carried - when she spoke, people listened. Her voice said she was a voice of GOD. Above all, she didn't just lead any run-of-mill convent. They were survivors, a convent that survived the tumultuous years of being forbidden in Cuba.
The plane came into view. It rocked and adjusted as it got lower and lower. In a minute it taxied to a hanger. Beatrice walked, then ran, to meet the Father. Once at the entrance, he emerged from the plane. Bald head shining, he waved, smiling and lit up by boundless love of the Lord, fierce belief in redemption, salvation, and forgiveness. And he saw the most need in men the world over.
He huffed and opened the cargo door where the strapped-in gurney awaited them.
"You have the van?" They spoke English to each other over Spanish. A method for secrecy.
"Yes," she said, pointing across the hangar. "Package… survived?"
"Let's see. I'm alone as you see."
Beatrice climbed aboard to check the package. She saw immediately the gurney and the man on the stretcher had been well-secured in the hold of the plane. She saw the fluids, oxygen, and a portable monitor. She watched the numbers on the screen after a quick look at the soot-covered face. Numbers were steady. Not strong, but not weak either.
"It's been nearly eight hours since the bombing," Paolo said. "It's a miracle he's alive."
Beatrice sighed and ran a hand over the man's forehead. He was cold to the touch. His eyes were shut and he did not respond in any way to her touch.
"Any assessment?" She asked.
Paolo shook his head. "Not a lot of time. The driver secured him and had to run. I was told he was in the bombing, that the home collapsed around him. Story is, he's to be let go if he goes into cardiac arrest."
"Let's get him to hospital. No more talk of letting him go. He's cold and I don't know how well he's breathing."
Paolo had a look of concern. "Sister, the driver told me he's a very dangerous man. I know that—"
Beatrice put a hand up to silence her friend and studied the injured man. She lowered the covering. Tattoos were evident, and blood covered much of his torso and the left side of his head. She searched for and then found what the Police Chief promised her. She reached down and picked at the pendant on a chain around his neck. She rubbed the soot from the face of the saint.
Santo Pancracio looked to the heavens, the patron saint of children, mostly of teenagers. He was a martyr who died at fourteen years of age.
Beatrice glanced at Paolo. He had a conciliatory expression on his face. She said a quick prayer and made the sign of the cross on the forehead of the patient. "He is Catholic or he is loved by someone Catholic. He is deserving. Let's go. He's poorly."
There was no argument. Three long hours later, the mysterious patient was being prepped for the first of several surgeries required to save his life. The hospital records showed him as "Angel Victor."
Beatrice called her right-hand worker, Sister Maria, after she watched the nurse take the patient into surgery to address the most immediate problem of internal bleeding and a swelling of the brain. Setting bones would have to wait.
"We have a new occupant," she said. English of course. Secrecy. "Make sure the tower room is ready. I don't know what his recovery will be like but it will be a while. Let the sisters know. No judgment. He needs us."
They did not know who, other than the chief of police, was the guardian of the patient. Only time would tell. Around midnight, the surgeon sat with Beatrice in the hospital room. Only the sounds of the monitor could be heard. The Baracoa hospital was a small place. Only a single story and the tiny population did not spend a lot of time here.
"He's supposed to be awake," the surgeon said, "but he's not. Brain injury might be severe."
"A coma then."
"Yes. You have the equipment to care for him, if the coma continues?"
"Of course. You have assured me his privacy?"
"Nobody has taken note of him. Angel was injured in a construction accident."
Beatrice nodded. "Let us pray."
A week later, the man who the sisters called Angel lay peacefully in a tower room that overlooked the bay.
The former monastery had been built in the 1700s and now served as a convent to the order of Las Hermanas de la Misericordia. The Sisters of Mercy. Convents were prohibited for many years but these sisters never followed that rule. They were revolutionaries. Their mission was to serve the fighters for justice. Their newest guest was just such a fighter in Beatrice's eyes. She knew exactly who he was, and his great crime.
"He is deserving of mercy," she said whenever a sister got curious.
The convent was sprawling and had many hidden corridors and secret rooms and was built out of the stones that could be found throughout Baracoa. The city itself was alive and well with tourists, American military, and old Cuban natives. They walked the streets and kept Baracoa the beautiful place it was.
Every day, Sister Maria or Sister Barbara or whichever sister volunteered washed the patient's body and fed him through a feeding tube. He was indeed angelic in his long sleep. They moved him often to prevent bed sores. They stretched his muscles and limbs. They read scripture to him. They played classical music. A cat spent time lounging near him, on top of him, purring. The sun came up and set, lighting the tower room in the day and washing it in brilliant orange in the afternoon. At night, lamps lit the room with a gentle vanilla. The windows were opened during the day and closed at night. The rotating sisters who watched over him never saw him open his eyes or move a muscle. But everyone knew he was alive and aware and it was only a matter of time.
His only constant companion aside from the Baracoa sea air was a yellow canary that sang as it perched on a bamboo step inside an iron cage in the corner of the room.
Only that bird saw that at midnight, every midnight, Angel Victor would watch the bird sing her midnight song to the moon, a song about her cage, and that his eyes were the most beautiful color she'd ever seen… all the colors of the earth beyond the window, beyond the cage.
Blue, green, brown.
To be continued...
