Power and Empire

“Yes, you will,” Callahan muttered. She leaned in closer with her cell phone, snapping a photo of an entry wound in the dead woman’s neck. A sizable chunk of flesh was missing in what was likely the exit wound, exposing the glistening white of her trachea. Callahan ignored the gore and bent even closer. “Looks like a contact shot,” she said.

Anderson stepped back, making sure he didn’t block their view with his shadow. “See that burn signature?”

“Yep,” Caruso said, feeling his gut tighten.

“Either of you two Feds think that looks like the business end of a suppressor?” Anderson asked. “Because I sure as hell think it does.”

Callahan held up the phone. “Why do you think I took the photo?” She looked at Caruso. “This mean anything to you?”

Shouts came from the back field before Caruso had a chance to answer.

Anderson’s phone rang. He fished it from the pocket of his Wranglers, listened for a moment, then dropped it back in.

“Johnson County says they’ve got at least three bodies buried under the three we already knew about. From the looks of it, one of Lupita’s guys was out with his tractor, dumping bodies in a grave among the sorghum plants when some unknown person capped his worthless ass.”

“Do they recognize the dead male?” Callahan asked.

Anderson nodded. “Fat guy named Salazar, they said. His brain’s half toasted up from huffing gasoline when he was a kid. Anyway, unless you guys intend to take over the case, I’m going to have the sheriff’s office order up some construction lights and ground-penetrating radar. Looks like we’re gonna be here awhile.”

“Knock yourself out.” Callahan pushed to her feet. “No sign of a guy who calls himself Matarife?”

“Nope,” Anderson said. “That name has come up in a couple of different interviews lately, but we didn’t have an ID. Anonymous caller said Matarife’s real name is Ernie Pacheco. This is Pacheco’s place, but he’s not here.”

“What about a girl named Magdalena?” Callahan asked. “She should speak some English.”

“Sorry, Kelsey,” Anderson said, more tender now. He’d obviously been around Callahan long enough to read that this was something extra-sensitive. “We haven’t identified the bodies out back, but neither of the girls inside call themselves Magdalena.”

“Tell me about what’s inside the house,” Caruso said.

Anderson turned. “Follow me. But I gotta warn you. It is some gruesome shit.” He nodded to the Johnson County deputy at the door, as if FBI badges weren’t enough to gain Caruso and Callahan entry.

• • •

The living area of the house looked normal enough, if a little on the tattered side for such a large home. Wood paneling and oak furniture gave the place an early-1970s feel and added to the oppressive darkness of the situation. Caruso imagined this would be what Jeffrey Dahmer’s place would have felt like if he could have afforded a big house. There was a big-screen television fixed to the wall above a gas fireplace. A half-bowl of salsa and the remnants of tortilla chips occupied the coffee table along with a half-dozen empty bottles of Corona. The place could have easily belonged to an upper-middle-class Texas family who had gone to bed without cleaning up after watching a ball game — except for the smell.

Caruso had never been one for incense. The sweet smell of patchouli was overpowering — but not quite strong enough to hide the outhouse odors coming from the next room.

Anderson pushed open a door off the kitchen and motioned for them to come inside.

“We found the two girls in here. They were chained to eyebolts set in five-gallon buckets of concrete. Six more buckets had no girls attached. We’ll swab those for DNA.” Anderson shook his head, pointing to the far side of the room with his notebook. “Sick bastards made the poor kids use those buckets there to go to the restroom.” He nodded to a tall door painted bright fire-engine red at the far end of the room. “The worst part is on through there.” He stopped. “I wouldn’t blame you if you don’t go in, Kelsey.”

She glared daggers at him. “What?”

“I’m just saying, I wouldn’t go back in there if I didn’t have to.”

“Come on,” Callahan said.

Caruso felt himself holding his breath as he followed the others into what had once been a deep three-car garage but was now bricked off from the outside. Soundproof foam and old mattresses covered the walls. In one corner, a high-back leather chair sat atop a rough plywood podium. A leg iron and chain were affixed to the base of the chair. There was a small HD camera mounted to a tripod set up out front, with a cable running from the camera to an open laptop computer. In the farthest corner from the chair, three cameras and three pole-mounted lights surrounded a timber bed. Clear plastic sheeting took the place of regular bed linens. Blue plastic hospital restraints hung from each post of the heavy bedframe. A stainless-steel table behind the cameras held an assortment of whips and gags.

“I’ve seen a lot of crazy shit in my day,” Anderson whispered. “But I never seen anything like this.”