The Corpse with the Emerald Thumb Read online

  Al’s introductions were over, and he was about to begin his explanation of why Bud was the Rose Killer. For his own sake, as much as for Bud and myself, I decided to try to stop him.

  Before Al could begin, I shouted, “Al, please don’t. Don’t do this. You’ve really got it all wrong, and I can prove it!”

  All eyes turned to me. The Federales didn’t know the story yet; they just saw me and Bud in handcuffs and presumably assumed that we were the Rose Killer. Why would they be there unless Al had promised them their man? Captain Soto ran his beady eyes over me, and I clearly heard his right-hand man say in Spanish, “She’ll be able to live off her waistline for a while in prison,” as he smiled conspiratorially at his boss.

  “I’m not listening to you anymore, Professor Morgan,” replied Al. As he used my professional title I saw a look of surprise cross Captain Soto’s face. Not expecting me to be a professor, were you?

  I looked directly at Captain Soto and spoke to him in English. “Please Captain Soto. Captain Torres has misunderstood some facts, and I am sure I can explain everything to your satisfaction.”

  Now everyone turned their attention to Captain Soto, a situation with which the man seemed perfectly comfortable. He didn’t stand; he didn’t need to. We were all waiting for him to speak. When he did, it was in a surprisingly deep voice for a man of his stature, and, even more surprisingly for some there, it was in very good, if heavily accented, English.

  “I have been invited here by Captain Torres of the municipality of Punta de las Rocas with the promise that he can reveal the identity of the Rose Killer, as well as the person who killed a florist in this area and poisoned a local chef. I have set out early and have traveled many miles to listen to his evidence and to take charge of his prisoners. This is not a court of law. This is simply one officer being courteous to another, and allowing him some latitude to tell us how he arrived at his conclusions. I have been told that Captain Torres is interested in a career with the Federales. Let’s see if he’s up to it. You, Professor Morgan, will have your chance to tell your side of the case in a courtroom. Captain Torres, please continue. You may do so in English; as you can see, I speak it very well. I am sure that Professor Morgan will not interrupt you again.” His look told me it would be unwise of me to respond.

  As motes of dust danced in the sunlight, and old wooden chairs creaked in the tense atmosphere, Al cleared his throat again and spoke. It quickly became clear that Al wasn’t just bright, he was observant, logical, and ruthless. Just what you want in a cop—but not one who’s trying to put you in prison.

  “This man,” Al waved toward Bud as he spoke, “was found with his hands around the throat of Margarita García Martinez on Sunday morning. I took him into custody, and he has remained here since, refusing to say one word. I have been able to use informal resources, without breaking any laws, sir,” he nodded at Captain Soto, “to discover that this man has entered Mexico on numerous occasions during the last year, using different names and passports. I have been able to find thirteen visits where he flew into Puerto Vallarta airport. Here are the dates, his aliases, and the countries of origin of the passports he used.” He approached Captain Soto, who motioned for his aide to take the paper Al was holding, which he did, passing it to his boss, who ran his eyes over it, his eyebrows rising by the second.

  Al moved back to his original spot. “As you can see, sir, he has represented himself as Canadian, Swedish, and American. He has used various names. I found this passport in his accomplice’s purse,” he held up Bud’s passport, “which names him as Bud Anderson of New Westminster, British Columbia. I suspect it’s a fake, as are all the others he’s used.”

  Captain Soto motioned to Al, who handed Bud’s passport to the slimy sidekick. The captain whispered some instructions to the man. He took Bud’s passport and the list and left the municipal hall. I saw Bud’s shoulders sink and I could see him shaking his head ever so slightly. I knew that having his passport in the hands of the Mexican police was breaking protocol for him—I’d gathered that much from Jack before he’d upped and had a heart attack. I’d really dropped Bud in it. I hoped I’d have a chance to get him out of this mess.

  Captain Soto motioned for Al to continue, which he did. “Once I’d established that this man had been making illegal entries into Mexico, I, of course, began to wonder why that might be. I also wondered if the reason for his trips here was what had led to him kill Margarita Martinez.” I noted that Al kept things formal when talking about the woman for whom he’d had feelings—obviously wanting to look professional in front of a man who would probably be able to greatly influence any future career advancement Al might hope for.

  Captain Soto was nodding as he listened. Al pushed on. “Once he was arrested, I knew I had to try to find out who he was, but I was sidetracked from that endeavor by the arrival of Professor Morgan.” Al waved toward me. I nodded and smiled at Captain Soto. He didn’t smile back. “I knew Professor Morgan by reputation. She is a criminologist, of sorts, from Vancouver.” You cheeky so-and-so! “I was suspicious of her immediately, so I courted her company, to keep an eye on her.” It is true that he’d tried to make sure that either he or Miguel had been with me at all times, when possible. “As I said, I knew of Professor Morgan by reputation, and I have read what she’s written about observation techniques when building a picture of a victim. I have also studied such techniques as part of my advanced interrogation training, which I have already completed at the police training facility in Guadalajara.” Now you’re really sucking up to Soto.

  Soto’s body language told me that he was curious, but not impressed. If Al’s skills were as good as he claimed, he, too, would have noticed this. It seemed that he did, because he went in for the kill. “When I first met Professor Morgan, at a local bar and restaurant—in fact, the site where the killing of Tony Booth took place—she had a sunburned nose and had clearly been in the sun for some time. I knew immediately that she could not have arrived in Puerto Vallarta only an hour before I met her, the day of Margarita Martinez’s murder. Also, when I helped her with her luggage I noted she had two suitcases, which, even for a woman, is a lot for a week’s vacation. Furthermore, one suitcase, battered and ugly, was hardly filled, whereas the other, better cared for and more elegant, was stuffed. That is not how one person packs luggage—in two very different bags and with such variances in weight distribution.” He had me on both those points, and I saw Bud glance around at me.

  “As I said, I tried to be with the suspect at all times. I knew that something wasn’t right, but, at that time, I didn’t know what. I didn’t connect her to the slaying at the seafront, nor, at that point, did I connect the death of Margarita Martinez with the Rose Killer at all. As a good detective must, I persevered. I took Professor Morgan into my ‘confidence’ and invited her to work the case with me. She accepted eagerly. Too eagerly for someone trying to take a break from work. I could tell from her approach to the case that her agenda differed from mine. I wanted to discover the identity of the man in my cells—she was trying to hide it, throwing up a smokescreen of useless lines of questioning about the locations of different people at the time of the slaying, about the crime scene, about many things that were not relevant. She was transparent and foolish to think she was leading me astray. When she saw the man I had in my cells, she was shocked. Immediately I saw the way they looked at each other. I knew she knew him. With that lead, all I had to do was follow through.” Way to go Cait—you’re obviously hopeless at hiding your reactions and emotions.

  There was a general rustling around the room at this observation, and folks shifted on their chairs. I suspected they were running through their interactions with me in their heads, thinking back on how I’d spoken to them, what I’d asked, and how I’d used them in my ruse to lead Al away from learning Bud’s true identity.

  Al looked pleased with himself. “As someone trained in these matters, and as a student of criminal psychology at Guadalajara University,
I decided that I needed to find out what Professor Morgan was really up to. So, when I left Tony Booth at Amigos del Tequila that evening, I entered the house in which Professor Morgan was staying, and searched the premises.”

  Captain Soto held up his hand. “You broke into the place where she was staying to gather evidence?” He sounded annoyed. I wondered what the Mexican rules of evidence were, or whether search warrants weren’t needed at all.

  Al sounded proud as he replied, “The owner, Henry Douglas, is known to me. I had telephoned him to explain that I was deeply concerned that the tenant he had at his house was not quite what they claimed to be, and asked his permission to use the key that we hold at the police station to gain entry to his home to check that all was well. He agreed. I have his number for the records, sir.” Soto nodded, and Al preened just a little. You sly old dog, it was you who crept around me as I slept. I bet you never knew you’d put my shoes back in the wrong place!

  “Upon searching the premises, the only thing I could find amiss was that Professor Morgan’s second suitcase did, in fact, contain male clothing. I couldn’t find her purse, so I was unable to learn anything else about who the clothes belonged to, but, having witnessed their meeting, I was in no doubt that it was the man in my cells. The man who had ruthlessly killed Margarita Martinez.” Al paused for effect, and he got what he wanted, because all eyes followed his to Bud, who sat with no emotion on his face, looking at the floor. Even though your secret’s out, you’re keeping quiet, Bud?

  “Yes, Professor Morgan was in her bed, asleep, when I searched her temporary accommodation, but I believe she left later that night to carry out various nefarious tasks, to cover the tracks of her murderous partner. I believe she returned to Amigos del Tequila, using some excuse, and talked Tony Booth into drinking a beer she had dosed with a sedative. Once he had succumbed, having gone to bed not knowing he was drugged, I believe she roused Callie Booth from her already drugged state and made her drink from a glass laced with a sedative, on top of the one already given to her by Dorothea Simmonds. It wouldn’t have been difficult for Professor Morgan to gain entry to the premises as the Booths were not good at remembering to lock up, and she knew this. Also, Tony Booth was a good man; he was very hospitable. She would then have had access to the keys to Tony Booth’s truck, which I believe she drove to the scene of the morning’s murder, where she ransacked the flower shop and stole all of Margarita Martinez’s photographic equipment—things she had noted and remarked upon to me when we had visited the flower shop together earlier that night. I saw her eyeing up the equipment, but she tried to sidetrack me with a pathetic story about her mother’s wedding bouquet—a lot of rubbish designed to mislead my thinking. I saw what she saw, and she returned later that night to steal it, which made me wonder what it was she thought Margarita Martinez might have captured on her cameras. Professor Morgan had been asking everyone about Margarita’s interest in photography, and I began to put the pieces together. If Professor Morgan had arrived with the man who’d killed Margarita, was Margarita’s death, and the theft of her photographic equipment, all because she had seen something she shouldn’t have? Was she dead because she knew something so damning, so bad, that she couldn’t be trusted to not tell anyone? What could be that bad? Nothing bad happens around here. Nothing except the Rose Killings. I put those facts together and worked out what had happened. Margarita had, somehow, spotted that this man was the Rose Killer, and she’d had to be silenced for knowing that.”

  A wave of “Oh no!” and “How awful!” swept through the audience. Heads were shaken at Bud. I noted that Dorothea was clearly desperate to speak, but everyone could see that Al was not yet done.

  “I decided to apply Professor Morgan’s investigating techniques back to the woman herself: I knew she’d drugged the Booths, and I knew she’d raided the flower shop, but no one had seen her, and she had good reason for her fingerprints or DNA to be at both sites. I turned to her background. I checked out her university’s website, and I found a photograph showing the man in my cell standing right behind her. I had proof they knew each other. It was the break I needed. When I asked for the help of a friend, the one who discovered the information about Bud Anderson’s aliases and passports, I was able to match several of his trips to times when a murder had been committed by the Rose Killer. I am sure that when you get involved, sir, and have full access to all our immigration data, you will find that he was here on every occasion.”

  Captain Soto waved an imperious arm as if to say, “Maybe,” but didn’t strain himself by actually speaking.

  “To be fair to Professor Morgan, I think I know why she has done what she has done. She is a criminal psychologist. She studies deviant psychological behavior. I am sure she has studied many cases about serial killers, and I believe that she met this man as part of her studies, or that he targeted her as someone he could bend to his will, and he has brought her under his power.” I found it hard to imagine Bud as a Svengali-figure, but I understood what Al was trying to say. “I do not believe that she meant to kill Tony Booth, only to drug both him and his wife so that she could gain access to their truck to be able to do what she needed to do at the flower shop, and then dispose of the photographic equipment, which she has clearly done. In fact, Captain Soto, I have to admit that maybe if I had not stayed for a few drinks with Tony Booth that evening, he might have survived the drugs she gave him. I will always feel guilty about this. But I have brought you the Rose Killer, who is also the man who killed Margarita Martinez, and I have brought you his accomplice—at least on this visit to Mexico—who has, albeit unintentionally, killed Tony Booth.” He saluted and bowed.

  That’s it? That’s nothing! You don’t know the half of it, Captain Alfredo Jesus Beselleu Torres.

  “Very convincing,” said Captain Soto, tapping his chin—a clear sign the man was thinking. He spied his right-hand man hovering at the entry to the hall, and called him over. He waved a hand to dismiss Al, who took a seat, and we all waited patiently—well, I wasn’t feeling patient at all—while Soto listened to what seemed like a very long speech, whispered in his ear. I couldn’t hear what was being said, but Captain Soto’s face, and body, spoke volumes: his eyes gradually hooded over, his breathing became labored, his fingers began to drum on his armrest, his blinking increased. He didn’t like what he was hearing, and the way he was looking at Al, who was glowing with pride and happily acknowledging the silent nods, grins, thumbs up, and attaboys from the locals, wasn’t good . . . for Al. I hope it’s good for Bud, and me.

  Eventually, Captain Soto gave a couple of instructions to his slimy sidekick, who retreated outside again. Then the small, powerful man looked right at me and indicated I should rise. I did. Sharpish.

  “You have heard what Captain Torres has to say. I think I am right in believing you would welcome a chance to put forward your version of events.”

  I nodded. “Very much so, sir,” I replied in perfect Spanish. “Would you like me to address you in Spanish or English?” There were surprised glances all around.

  Soto smiled. Again, he tapped his chin. He smacked his hand on his leg and said, “Very well. Speak. I will listen. English, please.” I suspected that my Spanish accent was terrible.

  I turned to Al and said, in English this time, “Al, I’m sorry about this. You are a good policeman, and I tried, several times, to warn you that you had all this wrong, but you wouldn’t listen. Now that you’ve made these accusations against Bud and me, I’m sure that everyone in this room understands that I am fighting for our lives.” Then I turned to Bud. “Before I begin, Bud, I have one question for you. Is there a name you can give Captain Soto, so he can get you checked out? There’s no point sticking to protocol now. You know that.”

  Bud nodded. He cleared his throat—it had been a long time since he’d spoken. “Captain Soto, sir. If you contact Fernando Ramirez at the Ministry of the Interior, he will know me. Use the name Bud Anderson. It’s the one he knows me by.”

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sp; Soto nodded, held up his hand to indicate I should wait, pulled out his cell phone, spoke rapidly, put it away again, and then nodded at Bud as he spoke. “I know of Señor Ramirez, of course, though we have not met. His role in government is such that he does not mix with a mere captain of the Federales. Thank you, Mr. Anderson. Continue Professor Morgan.” As he nodded at me, quite graciously, I caught a look of total confusion cross Al’s face.

  Oh boy—you ain’t seen nothing yet, Captain Al!

  Time for the Full Story

  “WOULD YOU MIND IF SOMEONE took these off?” I asked, indicating my handcuffs. Soto nodded and Al did as he was told. I didn’t dare ask them to do the same for Bud. “Captain Torres has examined the facts and come up with a plausible hypothesis,” I began. I nodded toward Al. “But I’m afraid he gets an F when it comes to proving it. He has no proof that I drugged the Booths, stole their truck, burgled the flower shop, and disposed of the photographic equipment, or that Bud Anderson is the Rose Killer. None of it is true.”

  Meaningful glances were exchanged, though the messages were mixed.

  “Here’s the truth. Bud and I arrived to stay at an apartment at the Rocas Hermosas Resort on Sunday morning. Bud popped out to get some beers, and the next thing I knew, I was looking out of our apartment window to see him covered in blood and hauled off by the cops. That’s the short version. The fact of the matter is I saw the whole thing, pretty much from the moment Bud left our apartment, until he was driven away to this very building. As I explain, I’ll have a few questions to ask—is that alright with you, Captain Soto? I don’t want to cross any lines.”