Bloody Basin Page 3

  Soon I saw that the addresses spanned across the country. There were storage units in Arizona, Nevada, New Mexico, Texas, and even as far away as Tennessee. After going through the book for an hour or two, I that I had had enough for today. I took the notebook and put it in one of my toolboxes out in the garage. I locked the toolbox just in case someone went looking for a screwdriver to use.

  On Tuesday, I took Carolyn to lunch. She was still stressed out over work. I paid for lunch with a crisp hundred-dollar bill.

  “Where did you get that?” she asked.

  “It’s from my secret stash,” I told her, giving her a wink.

  She shook her head. “You’re just full of secrets, aren’t you?”

  Back home after lunch, I was looking at the book again and noticed that stuck inside the back cover was a small, dirty, translucent pouch. It was more like a change purse that a child would put coins or stickers in for safekeeping.

  Then I got the road atlas and marked all the cities that were on the business cards. It looked like he had something stashed all along the I-40 freeway. The only item in the pouch was a tarnished key.

  This could turn out to be remarkably interesting, I thought.

  I took the book and went into my home office. There I once again went through the business cards and listed the cities and states where the storage units were located.

  There were two in Arizona: one was in Flagstaff, the other in Phoenix. The storage facility in Phoenix was in a nicer area just north of downtown. The Flagstaff location was not far from the Northern Arizona University campus. I also checked the New Mexico locations. One was in Gallup, and the other in Albuquerque. There was only one in Texas—that was in Amarillo. There were several other storage units, but they were all east of the Mississippi River and too far for me to think about going to.

  Going back to the business cards, I saw that on the back of each card was a series of numbers. It all made sense to me now. The first set of numbers together must be the access code to get into the storage facility. The other numbers must be the storage unit number—at least, that was what I hoped it meant.

  I wanted to test my theory, so I drove over to the Phoenix storage unit. The storage facility was in a nicer business area. I pulled into the visitor parking and went into the office.

  Behind the counter was an elderly man. It looked like he was trying to play solitaire on his new computer. “What can I do for you?” he said.

  “Hello,” I said. “I’m just wondering if you have any units for rent.”

  “Yep, I have several what size are you looking for?”

  “Nothing too big,” I told him. “Just need to store some furniture for a month or so.”

  The old guy was fumbling around the keyboard of his computer, trying to figure out what units were available, when a woman—I assumed his wife—came out of the back with a cup of iced tea that she handed to him.

  “Here, honey. I’ll bring you some cookies in a minute.” The old woman looked at me and smiled. I returned the smile and said, “Good afternoon.”

  The old guy was getting frustrated. “This darn thing will be the death of me, and I can’t figure out why they paid good money for this thing. Whatever happened to index cards?”

  His wife and I both laughed at his comment. The old woman came to his rescue, and then produced a piece of paper out of her pocket, listing all the available units and their sizes.

  “Thank God you’re here, sweetheart,” the old guy said. “Let’s see what we have.”

  While he was busy looking at the list, I pulled their business card out of my pocket. It looked like the unit I was interested in was number twenty-seven.

  “All right let’s see what we have,” said the old gentleman. “If you have time, I can show you several units.”

  “That would be great,” I replied, and we left the office and went out into the storage facility.

  While we walked around, I had my eyes open, looking for Unit 27. There it was, and right across from the vacant unit, I was looking at!

  “Well, let’s see how this one looks.” And with that, my host opened the door to a ten-foot-by-twelve-foot storage unit.

  I walked into the unit, looking around as if I was interested. “So how much is this?” I asked.

  “Let’s see…. This unit is seventy-nine dollars a month with one-month deposit and a twenty-five-dollar cleanup fee.”

  “Well, that sounds good to me, but you know that us married guys need to check with the boss before we spend any money,” I said.

  “That’s for sure,” the old man replied.

  As we walked back to his office, I asked him questions about access to the unit.

  “Well, you can get in here twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week,” he said. “If you end up renting this unit, you will make your own access code to the gate.”

  “That sounds great,” I told him, and then I asked about security. “Do you have many break-ins?”

  “The wife and I have been here two years, and we have never had a problem. As far as security, the owners spent good money on a new-fangled computer machine, but we do not have any cameras that work. Can you figure that?” he said. “If you get the unit, when do you think you would be moving in?” he asked.

  “Probably this Saturday,” I told him.

  “It seems like Saturday is our busiest day of the week. People coming and going. Thank goodness for that automated access. It saves me and the wife a whole lot of time checking people in and out.”

  We got back to his office, where he gave me some more information on the storage unit, the cost, renter’s insurance and even security, which meant that he and his wife were the security. Before I left, I looked around for security cameras and exterior lighting but did not see anything out of the ordinary.

  I guess I will be coming back here Saturday, I thought.

  After getting back to the house, I made dinner and turned on the television. There it was again, another newscast talking about the shooting about seventy miles north of Phoenix. The newscaster said that the local sheriff’s department had to bring in the FBI because both victims could be involved with drugs.

  Just as I thought, two less damn drug dealers.

  Over the next few days, I spent most of my time putting together a plan that would help conceal my identity when I went to the storage facility. Everything that I had seen there told me that it was not a high-security area. The old man had said that Saturday was the busiest time of the week, with people coming and going. That would be a good thing. People moving in and out, opening and closing lockers—it would be just another busy Saturday with customers going to their storage units.

  I went into the garage and found an old pair of work gloves. I would wear gloves, not wanting to leave fingerprints even on the keypad of the access panel, and then I found an old pair of shoes that I had not worn in years. I would wear those Saturday. I also found an old baseball cap that I had picked up at a Goodwill store. It had the San Diego “SD” on the front.

  The plan was simple. I just hoped everything worked out. Anyway, I decided I was not going to take any more chances than I needed to. So that was the plan: Saturday, I would see if I were correct about the access code in the storage unit and attempt entry into the facility just as if I had done it a hundred times before.

  Chapter 3

  The Old Days

  The underpass was full of emergency service vehicles and police; even fire trucks were on the scene. Special Agent Lank Tygard of the FBI had just arrived at the crime scene. The pouring rain was hindering the investigation not to mention testing the patience of all involved. Agent Tygard parked on the muddy roadside. He stopped to observe all the activity taking place.

  “Can I help you, sir?” asked one of the DPS officers.

  “I’m Special Agent Lank Tygard with the FBI,” he said as he show
ed the officer his identification.

  The officer checked agent Tygard’s ID and let him through the barricade.

  What a mess, he thought. With all this rain, we will be lucky to find any evidence at all.

  As was his practice, Agent Tygard used a small handheld recorder and camera to document the crime scene. He knew the CSI team was good, but he wanted his own pictures for the investigation.

  “You must be that old son of a bitch Tygard with the FBI,” a voice called.

  Agent Tygard turned around, and a familiar face approached him out of the rain. “What the hell happened here?” asked Tygard.

  “Good to see you too, Lank. Sorry it’s under such crappy circumstances.” Detective Adam Gore shook hands with Tygard, then both men turned their attention back to the crime scene.

  Detective Gore had known Tygard for many years, and not only did they respect each other’s work, but they were also friends. Detective Gore started the conversation, giving Tygard an overview of what they had found so far.

  “Well, we have two Hispanic males. One victim is lying on the ground next to the Chevrolet, and the other is inside the BMW. Both appear to have died from gunshot wounds. The victim inside the car was hit just once in the left rear side of his head. Our victim on the ground took two shots to the chest, both just missing his heart—at least, that’s what it looks like initially,” said Detective Gore.

  “It could be he was the one that started the shooting. We found two spent casings inside the BMW, fired from a 9mm-caliber weapon, and we found a custom semiautomatic pistol on the front seat of the BMW that would be consistent with the two-shots-fired scenario.

  “It looks like the victim lying on the ground may have shot first. Probably put the first round into the ground or into the side of the overpass. Another hit the victim in the head. Either way, one shot to the head would be fatal. The victim on the ground was clutching a silver .45-caliber 1911. The magazine, if filled to capacity with one in the chamber, is missing two rounds. The crime scene specialists are looking for bullet fragments in the BMW, and with all this rain, we may never find the spent cartridges.

  “As you know, lots of people come out here and fire their weapons, and the .45 caliber is extremely popular. That is all I have so far, and we are trying to track where the vehicles come from. It may take a day or two before the medical examiner can do the autopsy, and a toxicology report will take more time before we know anything for sure.” Detective Gore cleared his throat and handed the identification that had been found on both victims.

  “Here you go Lank,” said Detective Gore. “If these guys are who I think they are, then this is a major event. According to the identification, our two victims are none other than Mateo Mondaca and Nicolas Salazar.”

  Agent Tygard had to do a double take. Two of the biggest drug dealers in the country had been found dead in his jurisdiction. Agent Tygard looked around and quietly asked Detective Gore, “Who else knows about this?”

  “Just the investigating officer, you, and I, Lank,” said the detective.

  Agent Tygard shook his head and looked at Detective Gore.

  “These two guys just saved the taxpayers a lot of money in court costs. I think we need to keep their identities unknown for the time being,” said Agent Tygard. “With these two guys out of the way, we might be able to shake out some useful information from the rest of their drug cohorts, not to mention their friends south of the border will be getting nervous and wondering what happened to any money that was owed them. And speaking of money: Did you guys find any?”

  “Except for what was in the victims’ wallets, not one dollar,” said Detective Gore. “This must have been some type of business meeting gone wrong.”

  “I think the longer we keep their names out of the media, the more of a chance we have of figuring out how their operation works,” said Agent Tygard. “We have been after these guys for a long time.” Detective Gore nodded.

  “Just one drawback to all of this,” added Tygard. “I need to let Washington know what’s going on.”

  And with that, Agent Tygard and Detective Gore both made a long-wet journey back to Phoenix. Back at the crime scene, the vehicles were loaded onto flatbed trailers, the area was checked for evidence, and the bodies were taken to the morgue for the medical examiner. The story given to the news media was that the shooting was probably drug-related, but they were not sure at this time and that further investigation would be needed before any conclusions were made.

  During his ride back to Phoenix, Special Agent Tygard thought of ways to exploit the situation. He thought that if they were to keep the identities of the victims quiet, they might be able to create a situation in the drug world that would help identify other people involved in the trafficking of narcotics.

  Detective Gore had his own set of worries. He had to deal with the local law enforcement agencies, not to mention he did not entirely trust some of his coworkers to keep their mouths shut about what they had seen this morning. Both lawmen knew that drug dealers made huge sums of money that was used to buy police protection and pay off informants across the country.

  When the bodies arrived at the medical examiner’s office, they were isolated from the rest of the deceased and marked John Doe number one and number two. This was a normal practice used when the victims of violent crime had not been identified yet. Over the next few days, John Doe number one and number two would be examined, x-rayed, fingerprinted, and photographed. Toxicology tests would be performed, and of course so would an autopsy.

  Early the next morning, Special Agent Tygard gathered his team together and filled them in on yesterday morning’s events. He also told them his idea to keep the names of the victims quiet until a plan was devised that would help flush out their friends. Everyone in the meeting agreed to the strategy and got to work. Detective Gore had a different situation to deal with. He had no team; he was by himself, and that made it easier, but he was not able to keep the information from his superiors for more than twelve hours.

  Back at the police impound yard, both vehicles were unloaded and taken into an inspection station, where they would be photographed, fingerprinted, and gone over with a fine-tooth comb by the crime scene team. The team started on the vehicles, looking at bloodstains, retrieving fibers and hair from the trunk and throughout the car, dusting for fingerprints, and retrieving anything and everything that might be of value to the investigation.

  Detective Gore met with the lead investigator, who had examined the two vehicles at the impound station.

  “Well, did you find anything?” he asked.

  “Nothing out of the ordinary,” said the technician. “Bloodstains, your standard dirt and debris on the floors of both vehicles. The trunks were locked and had no visible signs of forced entry. Suitcases with clothing were found in the trunks, containing everyday items—shirts, shorts, pairs of pants, toiletries. Exactly what you would expect to find in the suitcase of a person that was on a trip.

  Detective Gore just shook his head, acknowledging the facts that were given to him. “Any indication that there were drugs in the vehicle?”

  “Nothing that we have found yet, Detective. There are some unusual stains in the backseat of the BMW. Looks like they are just from fried food that was tossed into the backseat, maybe french fries or chicken. We don’t know yet—will have to run the chemistry and see what that tells us.”

  “Okay,” replied Detective Gore. “If you find anything out of the ordinary, please let me know as soon as possible.”

  “Will do. You have a good day, now,” said the technician.

  Next Detective Gore went to the morgue to check with the medical examiner. The detective entered the offices of the county morgue and made his way to the medical examiner’s section. Meeting with the medical examiner, Detective Gore was told that so far, nothing out of the ordinary had been discovered, and just as he had seen a
t the scene of the crime, both victims had been killed by gunshot. He was also informed that blood had been taken from both the bodies and sent to a laboratory for analysis. There were no signs of a flight or struggle, no bruises on the bodies, and what they had seen so far was consistent with the shooting hypothesis.

  Special Agent Tygard was required to contact his superiors in Washington, and he did, but he took his time doing it. Just before five o’clock Washington, D.C., time, he made a call to his bosses. To his surprise, his superiors approved his idea of keeping the victims’ identities quiet, at least for a while.

  “Okay, the balls in your court. You can keep the names of these people unknown for the next seventy-two hours then we will reevaluate the plan. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir, I understand completely, and I’ll keep you informed daily.”

  “Good. Let’s hope we can catch some more big fish. Good work, Lank, keeping me informed.”

  That was a big relief to Agent Tygard, but at the same time, he was worried how Washington had gone along with his idea with no objections. He didn’t trust anyone, but for now, he was going to make the most of the situation.

  Agent Tygard’s experience told him most of his bosses were looking for ways to enhance their careers, both within the bureau and politically. Any number of them were out to make a name for themselves and perhaps work their way into a federal prosecutor’s position or higher. Agent Tygard could not care less about their political ambitions. All he wanted to do was solve the case and get as many bad guys off the streets as he could. He knew that he could count on Detective Gore. They had seen more than their share of action working in the Southwest.

  Even more on his mind, Agent Tygard was looking forward to his upcoming retirement. Seven more months, and he would have twenty-six years with the agency. He and his wife were looking forward to their time together and getting the hell away from the job. Tygard had been hoping for a quiet new year, but as always, his hopes were in vain. Agent Tygard knew in the back of his mind that this situation could get out of control not only here in Arizona but also across the country. The people involved were animals and would do anything and everything necessary to stay in control and rise through the ranks of the drug world.