girls molested by their mothers’ boyfriends. Every one of the defendants had a reason to hate Nina. She exposed the worst things they’d ever done, ruined their reputations, sent them to jail, broke up their families. But the police handled thousands of these cases a year. Anna herself had dozens of cases like these in various stages of investigation.
Three cases stood out because they involved known MS-13 members. The first was an MS-13 member who impregnated his twelve-year-old stepdaughter. The girl refused to testify, but DNA testing and birth certificates made the case. He was serving a ten-year sentence in a federal penitentiary in Kansas.
The second was a human-trafficking case: two men accused of transporting fourteen-year-old girls around the region and selling them for sex. The men took them to construction sites and offered them to the laborers. Anna couldn’t tell from the database what had ultimately come of the investigation, if anything.
The third was a gang-rape of a fifteen-year-old girl at a “skip party”—a party held by kids skipping school. The database reported that the girl had been lured to the party, where a bunch of MS-13 members had taken turns raping her. She was badly injured as a result. There were several “John Does” listed as defendants. The investigation had been transferred after Nina’s death, and eventually “declined” by the next detective, who wrote that the victim was uncooperative and recanting. Anna sighed. A good detective might’ve been able to get the girl on board again. But some detectives took the easy “decline,” and a detective who inherited a case from someone else didn’t have the same investment or incentive to put forth the often Herculean effort to keep witnesses cooperating.
She e-mailed the Closed Files unit and asked for all three of Nina’s MS-13 cases to be pulled from storage and sent to her. She also asked for the file on Nina’s death.
As she walked home that night, pepper spray in hand, she considered whether to tell Jack what Hector had said, and that she was looking at Nina’s old cases. He’d always been reluctant to talk about his wife’s death. She wasn’t sure anything would come of the old cases, and she didn’t want to upset Jack any further. She decided not to tell him.
When she got home, Jack showed her how to use the new security system. The only recognizable prints on the photo album had been his and Luisa’s. The background checks McGee ran turned up nothing concerning.
“Although a juvenile arrest wouldn’t necessarily show up,” Jack said.
“Are you thinking of Benicio?” she asked softly.
He shrugged, looking embarrassed. “My mind’s been conjuring all sorts of stupid ideas today. Suspecting everyone and everything. Hell, I almost fingerprinted your cat.”
She smiled and put her arms around him.
When Anna went to Olivia’s bedroom that night—with a new night-light—the girl cheerfully told her the house was now monster-proof. But she still asked Anna to look under her bed.
15
Gato held the cook’s face three inches from the grill. The old man stared in terror at the flat metal surface, where beads of oil popped and sizzled. Sweat streamed down the pupusa maker’s neck, making Gato’s hands slimy. But the man had stopped struggling. At this point, any movement, any slip of the hand, could end with the cook’s cheek being charred on the grill like a pork chop in a frying pan.
Gato glanced out the window of the food truck. There was no one in the gas station parking lot. On a typical evening, a constant stream of pedestrians crossed the busy road to get the warm thick pancakes of dough, stuffed with meat or cheese. But not today. The small crowd walked off when Gato and Rooster boarded the truck. No one wanted to mess with MS-13.
The cook’s wife whimpered and struggled with Rooster. He had her in a corner, and his hands were traveling up and down her clothes. The pudgy woman had gray hair
Three cases stood out because they involved known MS-13 members. The first was an MS-13 member who impregnated his twelve-year-old stepdaughter. The girl refused to testify, but DNA testing and birth certificates made the case. He was serving a ten-year sentence in a federal penitentiary in Kansas.
The second was a human-trafficking case: two men accused of transporting fourteen-year-old girls around the region and selling them for sex. The men took them to construction sites and offered them to the laborers. Anna couldn’t tell from the database what had ultimately come of the investigation, if anything.
The third was a gang-rape of a fifteen-year-old girl at a “skip party”—a party held by kids skipping school. The database reported that the girl had been lured to the party, where a bunch of MS-13 members had taken turns raping her. She was badly injured as a result. There were several “John Does” listed as defendants. The investigation had been transferred after Nina’s death, and eventually “declined” by the next detective, who wrote that the victim was uncooperative and recanting. Anna sighed. A good detective might’ve been able to get the girl on board again. But some detectives took the easy “decline,” and a detective who inherited a case from someone else didn’t have the same investment or incentive to put forth the often Herculean effort to keep witnesses cooperating.
She e-mailed the Closed Files unit and asked for all three of Nina’s MS-13 cases to be pulled from storage and sent to her. She also asked for the file on Nina’s death.
As she walked home that night, pepper spray in hand, she considered whether to tell Jack what Hector had said, and that she was looking at Nina’s old cases. He’d always been reluctant to talk about his wife’s death. She wasn’t sure anything would come of the old cases, and she didn’t want to upset Jack any further. She decided not to tell him.
When she got home, Jack showed her how to use the new security system. The only recognizable prints on the photo album had been his and Luisa’s. The background checks McGee ran turned up nothing concerning.
“Although a juvenile arrest wouldn’t necessarily show up,” Jack said.
“Are you thinking of Benicio?” she asked softly.
He shrugged, looking embarrassed. “My mind’s been conjuring all sorts of stupid ideas today. Suspecting everyone and everything. Hell, I almost fingerprinted your cat.”
She smiled and put her arms around him.
When Anna went to Olivia’s bedroom that night—with a new night-light—the girl cheerfully told her the house was now monster-proof. But she still asked Anna to look under her bed.
15
Gato held the cook’s face three inches from the grill. The old man stared in terror at the flat metal surface, where beads of oil popped and sizzled. Sweat streamed down the pupusa maker’s neck, making Gato’s hands slimy. But the man had stopped struggling. At this point, any movement, any slip of the hand, could end with the cook’s cheek being charred on the grill like a pork chop in a frying pan.
Gato glanced out the window of the food truck. There was no one in the gas station parking lot. On a typical evening, a constant stream of pedestrians crossed the busy road to get the warm thick pancakes of dough, stuffed with meat or cheese. But not today. The small crowd walked off when Gato and Rooster boarded the truck. No one wanted to mess with MS-13.
The cook’s wife whimpered and struggled with Rooster. He had her in a corner, and his hands were traveling up and down her clothes. The pudgy woman had gray hair
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