bridge.
She glanced at Daryl Garcia who returned her look. She was sure Daryl was thinking the same thing: whoever dumped Rick's body was either damned lucky that he had gotten into this area undetected, or he knew the area and the people who inhabited it very well. And if that was the case, he would have known that between the hours of two and eight a.m. would have been the best times to dump a body.
No wonder they think a rival gang member was responsible , she thought. While the idea was tantalizing, theoretically it was impossible. After all, with one exception, all the victims were from different gangs. She brought this up to Victor.
The gang member appeared to think this over. “Yeah, but that doesn't mean anything. Whoever killed Rick wasn't the same dude that killed those other hotos ."
“But the murders are all the work of the same person,” Rachael said, reading from her list of notes. “The FBI determined that they're not separate random acts. One person is responsible for them all."
“So?” Victor eyed her, full of macho bravado.
“So what that means is that it's impossible that another gang killed Rick,” Rachael said.
“Why couldn't it be somebody from like Boyle Heights or Tortilla Flats if one of theirs was killed?” Midget asked, defiantly. “Maybe they killed Rick because they thought we killed one of their hotos . Since Rick was from Eighteenth Street, maybe Tortilla Flats killed him and dumped him here on our turf to make it look bad on us. Shit, we wouldn't kill a hoto from another gang and leave him in somebody else's turf."
“You wouldn't?” The question was out of her mouth before she could stop it.
Victor glowered at her menacingly. The other gang members took a step forward.
Rachael felt herself taking two big steps back as Victor bore down on her. “You accusing us of killing the putos from those other gangs that way? Cutting them up and shit?"
Rachael searched for a quick solution to the misunderstanding. “No, I'm not. I'm just trying to make you see a point. You see, if you didn't kill one of their homeboys in that manner-which I know nobody from Los Compadres is responsible for-than how could one of them have taken Rick out that way?"
This seemed to calm them down. They relaxed. Victor backed down, his face still darkened with the anger that any of his homies could have killed rivals in that fashion.
She smiled at them, hoping that would break the ice, trying to make eye contact with them. Only Joker, who seemed to see himself as the gangster Don Juan, would return her glance and smile.
“The bottom line to all this I suppose is that shit goes down here all the time, right?” Rachael asked.
Gordo nodded. “Shit goes down here all the time. Rick ain't the first dude to die down here."
“And he won't be the last,” Midget said, his scowl still etched on his little face.
Rachael glanced at Daryl, who nodded twice. Time to go. She turned back to Victor and held out her hand. “Thank you for your help. All of you. I really appreciate it."
She shook hands with all of them as they asked if she was going to use their names in the newspaper. She said that she would if they wanted her to. They laughed about their new-found fame, whooping it up. Lance stepped up, his cue to begin his work.
Rachael took the lead. “Now if we could maybe get some pictures of you guys just sort of hanging out."
The gang members were only too happy to comply. They pulled red and blue bandanas over their noses and mouths like bandits of the old west, squatted on their haunches, flashed gang signs amid the backdrop of graffiti covered walls and columns while Lance snapped away. During the quick photo session she managed a few words with Daryl. “That went over better than I thought it would,” she whispered.
“Yes, it did,” he said softly, looking on as Lance directed Victor, Gordo, Joker, and Midget for another shot. “Thank God for Danny Hernandez. He was really instrumental in
She glanced at Daryl Garcia who returned her look. She was sure Daryl was thinking the same thing: whoever dumped Rick's body was either damned lucky that he had gotten into this area undetected, or he knew the area and the people who inhabited it very well. And if that was the case, he would have known that between the hours of two and eight a.m. would have been the best times to dump a body.
No wonder they think a rival gang member was responsible , she thought. While the idea was tantalizing, theoretically it was impossible. After all, with one exception, all the victims were from different gangs. She brought this up to Victor.
The gang member appeared to think this over. “Yeah, but that doesn't mean anything. Whoever killed Rick wasn't the same dude that killed those other hotos ."
“But the murders are all the work of the same person,” Rachael said, reading from her list of notes. “The FBI determined that they're not separate random acts. One person is responsible for them all."
“So?” Victor eyed her, full of macho bravado.
“So what that means is that it's impossible that another gang killed Rick,” Rachael said.
“Why couldn't it be somebody from like Boyle Heights or Tortilla Flats if one of theirs was killed?” Midget asked, defiantly. “Maybe they killed Rick because they thought we killed one of their hotos . Since Rick was from Eighteenth Street, maybe Tortilla Flats killed him and dumped him here on our turf to make it look bad on us. Shit, we wouldn't kill a hoto from another gang and leave him in somebody else's turf."
“You wouldn't?” The question was out of her mouth before she could stop it.
Victor glowered at her menacingly. The other gang members took a step forward.
Rachael felt herself taking two big steps back as Victor bore down on her. “You accusing us of killing the putos from those other gangs that way? Cutting them up and shit?"
Rachael searched for a quick solution to the misunderstanding. “No, I'm not. I'm just trying to make you see a point. You see, if you didn't kill one of their homeboys in that manner-which I know nobody from Los Compadres is responsible for-than how could one of them have taken Rick out that way?"
This seemed to calm them down. They relaxed. Victor backed down, his face still darkened with the anger that any of his homies could have killed rivals in that fashion.
She smiled at them, hoping that would break the ice, trying to make eye contact with them. Only Joker, who seemed to see himself as the gangster Don Juan, would return her glance and smile.
“The bottom line to all this I suppose is that shit goes down here all the time, right?” Rachael asked.
Gordo nodded. “Shit goes down here all the time. Rick ain't the first dude to die down here."
“And he won't be the last,” Midget said, his scowl still etched on his little face.
Rachael glanced at Daryl, who nodded twice. Time to go. She turned back to Victor and held out her hand. “Thank you for your help. All of you. I really appreciate it."
She shook hands with all of them as they asked if she was going to use their names in the newspaper. She said that she would if they wanted her to. They laughed about their new-found fame, whooping it up. Lance stepped up, his cue to begin his work.
Rachael took the lead. “Now if we could maybe get some pictures of you guys just sort of hanging out."
The gang members were only too happy to comply. They pulled red and blue bandanas over their noses and mouths like bandits of the old west, squatted on their haunches, flashed gang signs amid the backdrop of graffiti covered walls and columns while Lance snapped away. During the quick photo session she managed a few words with Daryl. “That went over better than I thought it would,” she whispered.
“Yes, it did,” he said softly, looking on as Lance directed Victor, Gordo, Joker, and Midget for another shot. “Thank God for Danny Hernandez. He was really instrumental in
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