Disclaimer: While MS-13 is a real gang, the characters and actions depicted here are fictional. As to our boys: if we owned them, there would be hella more shirtless crime solving.
SPOILERS/Timeline: Takes place during season 6 between 'A Bullet Runs Through It' and 'Daddy's Little Girl'
UNDYING GRATITUDE: To Cristina who supplies all our Spanish translation with amazing insight and skill.
CHAPTER FOUR - Cosecha
"I've got blood," Gil announces to no one in particular. He holds a machete in one hand, the rust-pitted steel stained with spots of brown along its broad blade. His other hand holds a swab with the telltale color soaked into the cotton.
"I was here when the buses took all the vics away," Jim says as he walks closer. "Mom had a single GSW, old guy had a mouse forming on his one eye. Kid was clean. And the decedent was killed with a different kind of metal," he adds, making a gun out of his thumb and index finger. "Lead."
"It could be old," Catherine offers, rising from a crouch behind the register counter.
Gil wipes a latex covered finger through the brown, raising the digit to show the blood is still tacky.
"Not old enough," Gil says with a sigh, bending stiffly to rifle through his kit. After watching him consider and dismiss several items Catherine grabs up something from behind the counter and walks over. Gil looks up to see her approaching with a large brown paper grocery bag.
"Couldn't find anything big enough," he says, confirming her assessment of his need. "Thanks." He shakes open the bag, dropping in the machete across the diagonal. The weapon still takes up the entire space but after some fancy folding he manages to get the entire thing ensconced in brown paper.
Catherine takes the bag from his hand gently. "I'll make sure Wendy gets this. I've got that uni, Abramowitz, waiting with a cruiser full of evidence to take back."
"Why don't you go back with him, Cath?" Gil sighs out as he takes in the mercado around them. Every surface is covered in black dusting powder and they have boxes already filled with potential clues. Shoe print lifts, swabs, and roll upon roll of film.
They had started on the outer fringes of the store and wound their way in a circle to the middle. Some of the prints could have been there from the time the store opened, the counter alone yielding hundreds of potentials, all smearing and clouding the glass case holding lottery tickets, phone cards, and smoke paraphernalia.
Catherine shakes her head. "No, we still have the back of the store to check out. Unis swept it pretty good, no sign of our guys or any other vics, but if they left, and Jim didn't see them come out the front…"
Gil nods tiredly. "I think we've beat this dead horse into the ground."
Catherine steps outside to get her courier packing up his cruiser and Gil picks up his leather satchel and heads to the back of the store.
To his left there's a small back office with a rolling chair snugged up against a metal desk holding several dirty Styrofoam coffee cups, a stack of paperwork, and an adding machine. There are a few state mandated licenses stuck to the tobacco stained walls with colored tacks along with posters from OSHA, INS, IRS and a few other alphabet government agencies.
He's about to enter the dingy space when he sees a doorway to his right. A brown smear about hip high mars the doorframe, almost hidden in shadows cast by a single bare bulb overhead.
His swab is automatically soaked in a solution of phenolphthalein and hydrogen peroxide, and he dabs gently at the stain. Another small squirt from the dropper and the tip changes to bright magenta. Blood.
Gil squints, then shakes his head angrily at the inadequate light and his absent-mindedness. He pulls his Maglite free from his hip and shines it on the brown smear, the new illumination picking up the outline that at first appeared an amorphous stain. It is clearly four fingers dragging from inside the store to disappear around the corner behind the closed door. He gives the door a push on the bar and it swings open, out to the alleyway.
Dumpsters - overflowing with rotting vegetables and fruits, empty wooden boxes piled head high - run alongside the mercado's outside wall.
A strong breeze stirs a mixture of newspaper, snack wrappers, and girl-for-hire flyers into a mini-cyclone in one corner of the alley. A sheet of paper showing a vacuous blonde - mouth in a highly sexualized 'oh' , legs spread wide, a red heart barely covering the money shot - blows by him and stays pinned to the street while others continue to drift lazily.
Curious as to the reason, Gil places one bag in the doorway, holding the steel door open, and approaches the flyer. Squats down with another crack of tired knees, and plucks it up with Latex-covered fingers. Red liquid is already making a quarter sized stain when he lifts it from the ground, pulling as something sticky releases.
On the ground is a glob of blood, mucous and spittle. Gil doesn't hesitate. He pokes a gloved finger at the blob. It's still wet. Fresher than the blood he's found previously, but also kept moistened by the jellyfish of mucous.
Pulling out an index card from his vest pocket he scrapes up the find into a plastic baggie, then stays squatting, staring at the location of the evidence. A set of fresh tire tracks has disturbed the dusty alley.
He holds the baggie up closer, marveling at the discovery of something so innocuous. He has no idea who left it, but he has a sneaking suspicion only one of two men he's interested in finding would know to leave this. He smiles softly to himself in mixed concern, admiration, and the small joy he allows himself when figuring out a puzzle. "They're leaving bloody breadcrumbs."
Warrick's favorite new player by far is Alex. Man is definitely in charge. And smart. Which makes him just as much a threat, if not more so, than Jeff. Only good thing so far is, Alex isn't thrilled to have a couple of shanghai'd CSIs in his shop. And would probably be less pleased with two dead CSIs. So maybe odds are lookin' a little brighter.
Warrick can sense Rabbit's nervous jittering behind him and is eternally grateful when Alex sends away the wiry banger, suggests he get lost for a bit. Rick catalogs the way Jeff stiffens at the dismissal; he obviously doesn't like losing an ally.
"Jeff, why don't you go to the office. Call Freddy and Joker and see how the truck dump is going."
Jeff doesn't move for a second. Neither does Alex.
"Hablamos después," Alex calls as Jeff storms across the room. "I definitely want to hear your side of the story."
Whatever Jeff's response, it's in Spanish and quiet. But Warrick can tell by the look on Alex's face; it's a smartass remark and doesn't sit well with the man.
Alex stands before them silently for a full minute. Like he's deciphering, thinking; working out the moves before he makes them. He steps behind Nick, and Warrick watches him work the knot of the bandanna, removing it from his partner's mouth.
Nick's tongue darts forward, wetting his dry lips, and then his cheeks draw in, jaw working up and down. He leans to the side, away from Alex and Warrick, and spits a glob of red-tinged saliva onto the floor.
Rick's anger flares momentarily, and then the gag is falling away from his mouth, as well.
Alex comes round in front of them again and rights the chair Jeff had occupied before. The gang leader sits down, feet planted shoulder-width apart, and rests his forearms on his knees. His fingers knit together; slender, tattooed digits - like spider's legs - tapping a beat on the backs of his hands. He looks up at Nick. "What's your name?"
"Nick Stokes."
"And you?" Alex asks, turning to Warrick.
"Warrick Brown."
Alex nods, filing the information. "You probably won't believe me, but I'm as unhappy about this situation as you are."
Warrick and Nick exchange a quick look and decide to stay quiet.
"I'm not really interested in having the Las Vegas Police Department breathing down my neck." Alex straightens in the chair, motioning at Nick's face with his hand. "Jeff do that to you?"
Nick nods, and Warrick holds his breath, hoping his partner can hold his tongue and his anger. Nick's quicker to light up than he used to be, and Warrick doesn't want his friend buying anymore trouble. For either of them.
"Jeff uses his fists a lot better than he uses his brain," sighs Alex, wiping a hand over his mouth. "I've been trying to teach him to control his temper. But I can't always be there, you know? Hard to be everywhere at once. As cops, I'm sure you can understand that."
"We're actually CSIs. Crime scene investigators, not cops," says Nick.
"Fingerprint guys? Like on TV?"
Nick chuffs bitter laughter. "Yeah. Fingerprint guys."
"But you still work for the cops."
"We were processing a crime scene a couple of streets over when we heard the gunshots," says Nick. "We only got involved because the detective we were with got caught in the crossfire. Just trying to protect one of our own. I'm sure you can understand that."
Warrick winces lightly when his partner tosses the gang leader's words back at him. Nick's walking that fine line between making nice and making more enemies. So Rick's relieved and surprised when Alex's smile plays kind, even if it is just sham and show.
"I understand being in the wrong place at the wrong time, believe me, I do. But that doesn't change where we both are right now, does it?" asks the young man.
"Just sayin', there's gotta be a solution to this. One that ends with me and my partner, here, walkin' away." Warrick grimaces at his own choice of words. Maybe I oughtta be the one shuttin' the hell up, stop worryin' about Nick…
"The crime scene you were…processing. What was it?"
Warrick glances at his partner. Alex probably already knows, so how much do they share? How much do they cooperate without blowing the case? How much do they hold back without making things worse for themselves?
"It was a murder," says Nick.
A'ight, bro. How much more?
"What kind of murder?" Alex asks.
The kind where somebody almost gets beheaded, he nearly says out loud. But Nick beats him to the verbal punch.
"A young woman was killed."
"How?"
But Nick doesn't follow it up. Warrick keeps quiet, too.
Alex laughs and shakes his head, smile more genuine this time. "Mr. Stokes, Mr. Brown…I've been very nice up to this point."
It unsettles Warrick that this man – this KID, really – is likely only separated by degrees from Graciela Flores's murder. And here he is, grinning like a depraved senior photo.
"So, I'm going to ask again. How was this young woman killed?"
He and his partner are both done with the interrogation. Enough's been said. And it ain't likely we're gettin' lawyers any time soon. So Warrick has to pinch his eyes closed and bite down on his own cheek when he hears Nick, drawl thick as dirt.
"To give you details of the crime scene would compromise a murder investigation."
Alex gives Nick a smile; tight and sharp and shiny as a blade. "You know? All the things that I can tell Jeff hates in you: pride, honor, bravery? These are the same things I like about you. They're…admirable."
When Alex leans closer to Nick, Warrick watches carefully; doesn't miss the jumping muscles in his partner's arm from the clenching and unclenching of his fists.
"But these qualities…they make business difficult for me. Which is why I have people like Jeff." Alex hangs the threat in the air between them and then locks up still. Doesn't blink. Just holds Nick's eyes for a good five seconds.
Shit, Nick…Keep it together.
"You know where I'm from, Mr. Stokes? El Salvador. Salvadoreño. I learned early on the…effectiveness of violence."
Nick's eyebrows pull up a fraction.
Aw, come on, boss…
"S been my experience violence never really pays off in the long run," Nick drawls.
Warrick watches as Nick's tongue slides from his mouth to touch lightly against his split upper lip. The action acts as an ellipses to the statement, implying a model for the situation.
Alex chuckles lightly and shakes his head. "Well, Mr. Stokes; there's your long run and my long run."
Nick's head pulls back a centimeter when Alex brings his face down level.
Alex's arms are tugged across his chest, a silver milagro pendant – the flaming heart - swings back and forth from a black cord around his neck. "At age eleven, guerilla soldiers slaughtered my parents, put a machete in my hand, and taught me how to be a sprinter."
Nick flinches a hair's breadth.
Alex reads it as a shiver of horror, but Warrick knows his partner. And he knows that flinch; Nick just latched on to a good piece of evidence. Like a hound on a fox.
"I'm sorry, sir," the nurse says for the third time, but her voice says she's really not. "The patient is still in recovery and cannot be disturbed." She smoothes a hand over a hanging badge that reads Virginia Pulaski, her stern face captured 2x2 below it.
"Well the patient," Jim says, impatiently, "Is a possible witness to the kidnapping of two LVPD officers. He's currently enjoying a morphine high courtesy of my tax dollars. Unless he had a Blue Cross card on him?" He nods at the evil glare he receives. "Yeah, didn't think so. Maybe a library card? No?"
"A patient's ability or inability to pay is not a bearing on the care he rec--"
Jim holds up a pissed off hand. "Yeah, I know, I can read the signs in the ER. I'm sure Señor Baggy Pants is getting world-class care. If he's outta surgery then he's mine. I'll wait at his bedside. Hold his hand even, if you like. Just to make sure he has a friendly face to wake up to," he adds, forcing an innocent smile onto his cherubic face.
Another nurse, this one twenty years younger looking, emerges from the recovery room behind them, a dark wet stain on her light pink scrubs, and an angry scowl on her face. As she nears them, Jim catches a whiff of urine, and the nurse's voice muttering obscenities.
"He's awake, Ginny," the young nurse spits out. "First thing the little shit does is pull his Foley."
The older nurse sighs and shakes her head. "You get a new one in?"
"He's still prone, after the surgery. Gonna hafta wait 'til we get him flipped, I think. I'll have Luke gimme a hand rolling him later."
Ginny accepts this with another sharp nod. "You want help cleaning up?"
"Nope," the younger nurse says as she passes. "He can lay in his own piss for a while. At least 'til I get some clean scrubs on."
"I'd be glad to help if you have a… recalcitrant patient," Jim says with as sincere a look as he can muster. "I have a forceful personality."
Ginny eyes him up and down, then wrinkles her nose at the lingering odor of urine left in the young nurse's wake. "Sure, why the hell not?"
Jim does the gentlemanly 'after you' gesture with his hand and Ginny snorts. "Chicken."
"Hey, I like this suit," is all Jim responds.
"What, Sears won't have another in stock?" Ginny bites back.
Ooh, he likes her.
They enter the room and the smell of piss hits him full force, mixed with alcohol, bleach, and the unmistakable scent of fear.
Baggy lays on his stomach, clambering feebly at the bed rails. His hospital gown is barely on and one bare, pimply ass cheek sticks out next to its heavily bandaged neighbor. He sees them enter the room and strains upward on his elbows.
"Yo, bitch," seems to be the extent of his English mastery. The rest is a litany of slurred Spanish but Jim gets the gist. He's pissed, sick, and hurting. And petrified. His eyes are bloodshot saucers, brown irises darting between Jim and Ginny, determining who's the greater threat. He figures out pretty quickly that it's Jim.
And somehow, as he sizes them up, he knows immediately, instinctively, that Jim's a cop. And he'd always really likedthis suit. Baggy tries to work up a mouthful of spit in his anesthesia dry mouth, fails miserably, and collapses back onto the bed, crying and cursing in Spanish.
"Don't suppose you know any Español?" Jim asks sideways of the nurse.
She snorts again. "Barely enough to say stick out yer tongue or roll over, depending on my mood."
Oh, he REALLY likes her.
"You have any translators on staff handy?" he sighs. He should have brought Abramowitz with him.
A knock on the door behind him brings an angel in an ugly brown suit. Actually…it kind of looks like his. Damn. He's giving the suit to Goodwill when he gets home.
"Sam, you are a welcome sight, my friend," he says with a broad grin and an extended hand. Sam sticks his equally meaty paw into Jim's grasp and pumps it amiably.
"Heard you snagged a baddy from my neck of the woods," Sam says with a nod at the injured banger. "Not many of my brethren come equipped with much beyond the mother tongue, so I figured you could use a hand."
He stops and cocks his head, staring at the kid in the bed. "Nice ink. Think you got yourself a real nasty one here, Jim."
"He's not so tough, Sam." He turns and grins ferally at the injured thug. "I'm the one that popped a cap in his ass."
"Good aim, Jim. Not much of a target," Sam says with a smile and a nod at the scrawny butt on display in the bed.
He bends slightly and pulls the gown open further, exposing more of the heavily tattooed back. A stylized sun in dark blue surrounding the roman letters XIII covers one shoulder. The other acne-speckled blade carries a beetle, similar to a scarab. It's in dark blue as well, but more care was taken with it, filling in its boundaries with a golden green color. Underneath it scrawls the word "Bichito".
The banger in the bed seems not to care about the scrutiny. In fact, a small sickly smile forms on his face, the silver foil of third-world dentistry framing his front teeth.
"¿Así te llamas? Bichito? Little Bug, huh? Te queda. Para una peste enana y ñanga como tú," Sam says, leaning back with his arms folded comfortably.
"Bichito puede hacer mucho daño," Bichito says with a broader, icier grin.
Sam smirks at the banger, rolls his eyes at Jim. "Says a little bug can do a lot of damage."
"Is that right?" asks the detective, not impressed at all.
Bichito's bravado is stolen from him as he suddenly winces and writhes in the bed, the smile twisting into a grimace. He cranes his head a few inches off the pillow and glares at Ginny. "C'mon, bitch. Me tienes que dar algo, bitch. Me siento mal, me dispararon, bitch!"
Jim shoots out a hand and whumps the kid on the top of his head. Bichito whips his head around and makes an admirable attempt to rise up from the bed before collapsing again. "¿Por qué puta hiciste eso, cerdo?"
"The nurse's name is Ginny. You can call her Nurse, or ma'am. She's the one with any pain meds and dry sheets in your future, so I suggest you comport yourself accordingly." He doesn't break his gaze with Bichito's surly look as Sam patiently translates Jim's instructions.
When Sam's done, Bichito sullenly lowers his eyes, shifting on the urine-soaked sheets beneath him.
"That's better," Jim mutters, then takes out his small leather casebook and a pencil nub. "Now that we have that straightened out, we have some questions for you."
Sam relaxes further, searching for and finding a dry spot on the bed. He lowers himself onto the mattress and gets comfortable. He nods at Jim; more than willing to provide translation while the Captain takes the reins for a bit.
"What the hell's goin' on, bro?"
Warrick glances quickly between Nick and the small group of men talking in low voices at the far side of the room.
Nick's face is a grimace, and he curses quietly around an exhaled breath. "Sonuvuhbitch."
"You wanna clue me in, here?"
"You're not gonna like it."
"'Cause there's so much about this situation that's good."
Nick winces at the thick-tongued staccato rebuke, and an apologetic shadow crawls over his face. "Remember I said Sam and me were talkin' gang stuff a while back?"
"Yeah."
"He kept referin' to a specific gang. One of the MS-13 sets that rolls in the neighborhood right about where our esteemed hosts picked us up."
"So you think you know these guys?"
"Yeah."
"And why is that makin' my gut sink, Stokes?"
The corners of Nick's mouth curl up in frustration. "Vega said this particular clan – call themselves the Sol Set--"
"Puesta del Sol?" Warrick verifies.
"Yeah. Guess their leader is a no-name. Head of the fastest growing clique in Las Vegas. Gang squad figures them in eleven murders in the past two years, maybe three mil' in drug money in the past year alone, and our boys can't put a finger on the mastermind."
Warrick's eyes travel from Nick to where Alex, Jeff, and two other others talk heatedly in Spanish. The words are meaningless to him, but the inflection and finger-pointing makes the fiery emotions plain. "You figure Alex as the mystery man?"
Nick's head dips toward his shoulder. "You heard 'im yourself, Rick. Up here from El Salvador, smart and careful enough to stay below the radar. Not get his hands or fingerprints on anything that'll leave a trail…"
Voices carry across the room and Nick cocks his head; strains to listen.
"No sólo secuestraron a dos policías de Las Vegas, sino que además los trajeron para acá. Y encima uno es ese policía que enterraron vivo el año pasado."
Red rises in Nick's cheeks. They know who he is. Never gonna be able to let it go…
"No se te ocurrió que iba a atraer a los periodistas. Que va a hacer que los policías aparezcan como moscas. ¿No pensaste en la cantidad de pisto y problemas que tu estupidez me va a costar?"
Alex is bitching about all the problems and money Jeff's move is going to cost them, but Nick's more amazed – like he has been every single time – when all his senses conspire to put him back in that box. Back at that desperation. His breathing speeds up a fraction and he fights to even it out. "Rick, man. They know who I am…"
"I'm not gettin' you."
"The Gordon thing."
Warrick's face flashes momentary doom before he can pull it back, and Nick winces inwardly.
"Averigua qué saben y cómo, pelón. Ahora." Alex and the other two men storm off leaving Jeff to quietly seethe.
"A'ight, boss. It's all good. They don't know we know that, right?"
"I think Jeff just got the okay to go medieval on our asses." Nick hates the mix of fear and protectiveness that makes camp on Warrick's face.
"Just keep it together, bro. Keep playin' it cool."
"Right," Nick agrees, nodding more times than he needs to; tight ups and downs as if he's trying to assure them both.
To be continued...