The Witness, page 3
part #1 of Felipe Santos Series
She hesitated before she went into her bedroom, but she could see no light shining through the crack at the bottom of the door, feeling relief at once.
Their double bed had not been disturbed. The sheets remained untouched just as she had left them. No, she thought, Godfredo had not been back here in her absence.
Checking her phone, Constanza knew that she would soon receive a call from her sister. She could hardly bring herself to speak to her, knowing the disappointment and concern that would follow when she told her that she was back at home, that she had not gone through with her plan.
She tried not to think about how close she had come to escaping, knowing that the very thought of it would bring her to tears. She had finally plucked up the courage to pack a bag, to form a plan, had even made it as far as the metro station, and then everything had gone wrong.
Shivering at the memory of the fight, the echoes of the gunshot, the look on the boy’s face as the back of his head had exploded outwards, Constanza swallowed down her fear, knowing that she could not let her mind linger on what she had witnessed. She had to pretend that she had never seen it, that she knew nothing, that tonight had never taken place. She had stayed at home, tidied the flat, and gone to bed. That was what she wanted her husband to believe, and so she would have to believe it herself.
It was with a heavy heart and growing exhaustion that Constanza unpacked her suitcase, carefully putting everything back in the exact same place. She put the suitcase back in the cupboard and peeled herself out of her wet clothes. She hung her coat up on the back of her bedroom door, hoping it would have dried by the time her husband returned home. If not, she would tell him she had gone to the store in the evening for cooking supplies or a magazine, if he even noticed. She dropped the rest of her clothes into the laundry basket, knowing her husband would not check it.
She showered, her eyelids getting heavy as she washed. The excitement of getting away, followed by the abrupt fear of what she had seen, and the grief of returning home had worn her out, both mentally and physically.
Minutes later she slid under the duvet on her side of the bed, looking up at the dark ceiling, unable to stop her mind from going to places she did not want to revisit. She said a silent prayer for the poor boy on the platform.
In her panic to leave the station and return home before her husband had found her missing, she had pushed the thought of the boy from her mind. She knew that she should have waited for the police to arrive, told them what she had seen, but she could not let Godfredo find out.
He was a dangerous man, her husband. A sicario, a hitman, for a notorious cartel, and if she spoke with the police he would know. If Godfredo did not kill her, one of the men he worked with would. Her husband had already made her life so unbearable, that she could hardly imagine that it could get any worse, though she was sure Godfredo would find a way.
He would kill her. She had no doubt about that.
No, she decided, she could not go to the police, as much as she might want to help.
As her eyelids flickered, and sleep beckoned, Constanza whispered a prayer for herself. She had come so close to escape, had pinned all her hopes on tonight, and now she wondered if she would be brave enough to get a second chance.
CHAPTER SIX
The basement of the Hospital Angeles Santa Monica was a sombre location, housing the mortuary and coroner’s office alongside the morgue. The deco was subdued, to match the setting, and the furniture was plain and functional, in cream and beige colours that sought not to impose on the senses. The hospital was the closest to the metro station that Teo Silva had died at, and as such was where his body had been brought.
Felipe waited at the end of the corridor, his hands in his pockets, trying to look appropriately respectful despite having been on duty for most of the night. He was certain that Teo’s parents would hardly pay any attention to whether his shirt collar was straight, or his hair was a mess, with much more pressing matters on their minds, but he made the effort anyway, trying to flatten his dark hair with the palm of his hand.
His thoughts remained on Constanza, the image of her fleeing from the scene still playing on loop in his head. It had been a long time since he had seen her, but he had recognised her at once. He had resigned himself to never seeing her again, so to see her at such a time, and under such circumstances, had come as a shock.
In high school, she had been his sweetheart. She had been beautiful and sweet, her kind, gentle nature as appealing to him as her smile and her appearance, and he had undoubtedly made a fool of himself in his efforts to impress her. Luckily for him, she had seen through all his awkward bravado and rebellious ways to the real him. She had helped him navigate puberty and the confusion that had come with it. She had been a lifeline to him, and he had clung to her as his rock, in a stormy ocean of testosterone and self-discovery. Their love had been deep, passionate and tender, and he had thought he had found the love of his life, the girl he wished to spend the rest of his life with. With her, he had been certain that he had found the person he could be himself with. He had shared with her, and her alone, that he had desires for both girls and boys, and she had comforted him, had not turned her back on him, and Felipe had hoped that he would be satisfied with just her in his life, had been convinced that he would need to be with no other, man or woman. She had been the only person he had been with at high school. It was love, and back then, he had been under no illusion that she had felt the same as him.
For a few years, it seemed that they would grow together from high school sweethearts to man and wife, but it was not meant to be. They had broken each other’s hearts and there had been no recovering from that.
He had moved on, had other relationships since her, explored other aspects of his sexuality as she had once encouraged him to back in high school. He knew that Constanza had moved on too. Through a mutual friend, he had learnt that she had married.
Now that he had seen her again, his old feelings, the scars he still carried from his love for her, began to ache once more. He wondered over the circumstances that had led her to the platform tonight. Part of him wondered whether she was still with her husband.
His phone beeped and he saw another message from Luisa. He felt guilty at the thought of her, his mind so consumed with the thought of Constanza, though he had no reason to feel such things, he reminded himself. His relationship with Luisa had been over for months, and his relationship with Constanza had been over for years, and she was not even aware that his thoughts had suddenly returned to her after all this time.
For all he knew, she had forgotten about his existence completely.
The doors at the end of the corridor opened and the Silvas arrived. Hugo Silva, Teo’s father, was a burly construction worker, though as he approached, his eyes were wide and afraid like a child’s. His physical strength was no defence from the events of tonight. Teo’s mother, Rita, was petite, especially beside her husband. They both looked tired and anxious, dragged out of their bed and brought to the morgue. A parent’s worst nightmare, Felipe imagined.
A policía walked a few steps behind them, his face weary. Felipe knew it must have been hard. Nobody wanted to be the one to knock on the front door and tell the parents of a fifteen-year-old that there had been an incident and to ask them to accompany them to the morgue to confirm whether it was their son that lay on the metal table.
Felipe shook Hugo’s hand and offered his sympathies for the night’s events. Hugo looked anxious but determined, as if he did not believe that his son could possibly be dead. Rita’s eyes were already red and watery, her expression one of barely controlled desperation. She chewed her fingernail and she could not even look at Felipe. The coroner joined them, introducing himself, and then led them into the observation room.
Teo’s body lay on the table, covered head to toe in a white sheet. Felipe heard Rita take in a loud, rattling breath of surprise, before the policía closed the door behind them. Felipe remained in the corridor, not wanting to intrude upon their grief.
It was less than a minute before he heard the cries from under the door. Rita gave a wail of despair and then her steady sobbing seemed to echo even out in the corridor. Felipe braced himself as the door opened, but she was silent when she emerged from the room, crying silently into a tissue, her husband’s arm around her, supporting her weight, half-carrying her.
His eyes were red too, blinking hard as if he could stop the tears that were sure to come. He glanced at Felipe, opened his mouth as if to speak, but then turned and guided his wife back down the corridor. The policía went after them, his face devoid of emotion. When his shift was over, Felipe was sure the façade would crack, but for now he was doing his job.
The coroner joined him and handed Felipe the signed declaration form.
“As I’m sure you could tell, they identified the body as Teo Silva,” the coroner sighed.
Felipe looked down at Mr Silva’s signature and thanked the coroner. He said he would send over the autopsy reports when he had finished them.
“Thank you,” Felipe said, shaking the coroner’s hand. The coroner went back into his office as Felipe’s phone rang. He gave an inward groan, fearing for a moment that it would be Luisa, demanding an explanation as to why he was not answering her messages. He was relieved to see Henrique’s name flash up on the screen.
“The two boys who killed Teo Silva,” Henrique said at once. “We’ve arrested them.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Felipe parked outside the police station and rushed up to the office he shared with Henrique. His partner was sat at his desk, a file open in front of him, looking up without surprise when he entered.
“You were quick,” Henrique remarked. “Let’s hope you don’t get a speeding fine.”
“I hope that if I do, it’ll be worth it,” Felipe said. He looked down at the file expectantly.
Henrique sighed.
“The two boys are downstairs in holding cells,” he told him. He held up a hand to stop him as Felipe half-turned to head to the door. Felipe realised that there was something his partner had not told him over the phone. “A traffic cop pulled over a car that was reported stolen a few hours ago. It was stolen a few streets from the Metro Polanco station. The cop recognised them from the description we put out over the radios and called it in, and they were arrested at the scene.”
“What’s the catch?” Felipe asked. “It all sounds too easy so far.”
“Not easy,” Henrique said. “The boys panicked, tried to take off. The traffic cop pursued, and a back-up squad car was nearby and joined the chase. They crashed the stolen car into a lamppost, and the officers arrested them before they could take off. It was a short chase, and nobody was injured.”
“At least we have them now,” Felipe said, clapping his hands together. “Did they find the gun?”
Henrique shook his head.
“They must have dumped it,” he replied.
“We should get some policías to check the route they took between the Metro Polanco and where they were arrested. If they were panicking, they might have been careless and just thrown it out the window,” Felipe said. Henrique murmured in agreement. Felipe looked at him. “Have they been interviewed or were you waiting for me to arrive?”
“Waiting for you,” Henrique said. “And for their files to come down. They both had IDs so we could put a name to the faces.”
Felipe nodded, picking up the file. He looked down at a young man’s face. He recognised him as one of the men on the security camera footage. He could get the best lawyer in the country and he would still have a tough job arguing he had not killed Teo Silva.
He looked down at the name.
Leon Herrera.
“Recognise the surname?” Henrique asked. Felipe glanced at him, a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.
“Should I?” he asked, though the name was beginning to ring alarm bells. “Surely not.”
“Leon, nephew of Carlos Herrera,” Henrique said. He did not sound amused, and Felipe’s earlier excitement began to evaporate. Carlos Herrera was affiliated with the Sanguinito cartel. The root of the word came from bloody and the gang was renowned for its violence as well as its ties to drug trafficking and rising violence in the capital. He was alleged to be a high-ranking figure in the outfit.
“Has he lawyered-up yet?” Felipe asked.
“He hasn’t had his phone call yet,” Henrique replied. “But I’ll take a bet on who his one call will be to. Uncle Carlos to the rescue.”
“I want to speak to him before then,” Felipe said at once. He knew that the interview would be difficult, if not impossible, once Carlos had sent the lawyers in for his nephew and they objected to every question and advised him not to say anything.
“I thought you’d say that,” he said wearily. “It’s worth a shot.”
Felipe nodded. He wanted to speak to Leon one-on-one. He just hoped that his prisoner, the boy who he had seen with his own eyes on the security footage murder Teo Silva, was in a talkative mood.
“What about the accomplice?” Felipe asked.
“Martin Fonseca. No criminal record. He’s not known to the police. No affiliations, as far as we know.”
“He might be the weak link then,” Felipe suggested.
He wondered if Martin Fonseca was out of his depth. He hoped that he would talk, fear of prison outweighing whatever reprisals he feared from the Herrera family and the Sanguinitos.
The interview room was sparse, furnished only with a wooden table and four chairs, two on either side of the table. A tape recorder stood at the end of the table, and a security camera captured the entire room from the ceiling above the door.
Felipe sat down and waited for Leon to be brought up from his cell. He hoped that the charges he was facing would be enough to scare the seventeen-year-old into confessing before his lawyer or his family swooped in to help him. They had him on CCTV, and they had witness statements, but Felipe wanted his confession to ensure that everything went smoothly. He knew that evidence could go missing, or witnesses could be scared off, especially when the Sanguinito cartel was involved, but if he had a confession then he was sure he could secure a conviction.
There was a knock on the door and a policía led Leon Herrera into the room and over to his seat across the table from Felipe. Leon was tall and pale. His dark hair was shaved, and a silver chain hung at his neck, a crucifix glistening against the black t-shirt he wore. His physique was lean muscle and tattoos ran up his arms, dragons and phoenixes and the cup of blood that signified he had been initiated into the Sanguinitos cartel.
Leon sat down and looked him up and down, examining Felipe as he had done him. The uniform retreated to the door and Leon placed his hands carefully on the table, handcuffs on his wrists. He met Felipe’s eyes and did not look away. Felipe was used to the tactic. A lot of gangbangers tried to intimidate, assert their dominance in an interview. Felipe ignored the display of bravado.
“Leon, I’m Subinspector Santos,” Felipe introduced himself. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about what happened tonight.”
Leon was silent, staring at him for a long moment. He spoke without looking away.
“I want my phone call,” he said firmly. “I ain’t got nothing to say to you.”
“You’re entitled to your call,” Felipe acknowledged, trying to hide his disappointment. He had hoped to at least talk to him, establish a rapport beyond a name. “I just wanted to talk -”
“Did I stutter?” Leon asked, his voice unnervingly calm for a boy in his position. He leant forward, folding his arms. His arm muscles flexed, stretching his tattoos. The dragon on his bicep seemed to swell. He narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t say I wanted to talk. I said I want my phone call.”
Felipe sighed.
“I’ll arrange your phone call,” he said. He rose to his feet, gesturing for the policía to take him back to his cell.
Leon leant backwards, relaxing, his arms still folded across his chest. He smiled at Felipe. He was smug at this small victory.
Leon knew he had won this round and Felipe had no choice but to concede defeat.
At least for now anyway, he reminded himself.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Martin Fonseca was short but had an athletic build. His hair was short, and his skin was dark and clear. Felipe thought he probably played soccer at high school and had no trouble with the girls. He wondered what a boy like him was doing hanging around with Leon Herrera. He did not have the tell-tale tattoos of a Sanguinito but looks could be deceiving.
The interview room was much the same as the one he had just left Leon in, but Martin’s nerves were almost palpable as he sat across the table from Felipe and Henrique. A thin bead of sweat had appeared on his hairline, and he tried to casually wipe it away with a shaking hand.
Felipe introduced himself and his partner. Martin nodded to each of them, opened his mouth to speak, but closed it quickly. Felipe slid a plastic cup of water across the table to him, and Martin snatched it up and gulped it gratefully.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and put down the cup. His hands still quivered, but he managed to look at Felipe now, his eyes wide with apprehension. He was a far cry from Leon, Felipe thought,
“Martin, you know why you’re here?” Felipe began, keeping his voice light. Martin was scared enough, and if he went hard on him then the boy would clam up with fear.
Martin nodded, his hands fidgeting on the table in front of him. He looked uncertain.
“The car was stolen,” he said, his voice cracking. His mouth must have been dry, and he swallowed hard, reaching for the cup of water again. He took a smaller sip this time and met Felipe’s eyes. “The traffic cop pulled us over, but then we took off and -”
“We’re not here to talk to you about the stolen car or the chase you took that cop on,” Felipe told him, his voice firm but calm. Realisation dawned on Martin and his mouth flapped open and closed, unable to speak. Felipe smiled at him, hoping to coax out some answers. “Martin, we want you to tell us about what happened at Metro Polanco a few hours ago.”
