Somos en escrito The Latino Literary Online Magazine
Excerpt from The Water of Life Remains in the Dead
A novel by Maria Nieto
September 1971
Chapter 1
Hell did not encircle a wretched pit beneath layers of molten earth. No, from where I stood, it was located in East Los Angeles at the southern edge of Belvedere Park. There I could see the outline of the devil’s playground; five murdered men whose bodies showed the signs of Detective Ashworth’s sadistic handiwork. How was it possible? I had seen Ashworth writhe in pain and take his last breath. He had confessed to everything before swallowing the cyanide capsule, and from all accounts these latest murders occurred after his death.
I felt a tug at my arm. “This is a restricted area, Miss. You’ll need to leave.”
“My name is Alejandra Marisol. I’m a reporter for the Los Angeles Times.”
“Leave her be, Deputy.” I turned to find Lieutenant Smitz towering over me. He no longer intimidated me unlike the first time we met. I had gone to see the high ranked sheriff to inquire about two unsolved murders. Days later I learned the victims died at the hands of John Ashworth. “Miss Marisol, I didn’t think you’d want to see me again,” he said with a sarcastic tone.
“Seems that bourbon, or is it the Scotch you drink each night is pickling your brain.”
“What gave you the idea I might have a drink from time to time?”
“It’s all over your face. And the liquor lines tell me from time to time, really means all of the time with you.”
“Ah, a little spitfire. What’s it been, a week since we first met? You’ve grown some backbone.”
“One doesn’t almost get killed, not once but several times, witness unspeakable horrors, and not get affected by it.”
“Seems you’d understand my indulgences then, which by the way, favor the taste of Tennessee Whiskey, straight up, no rocks.”
“Drinking, okay, I get it. You have a tough job. But I’ll never understand your penchant to hurt me, and others like me, all out of pure contempt. You’re a racist bigot, plain and simple.”
“What makes you think you can talk to me like that and still get what you want, a closer look at the crime scene for your story?”
I took a breath. I had never felt so strong and in control. “Look, I’m tied to this hell, which I thought ended when Detective Ashworth died and his Los Angeles Police Department accomplices were arrested. But now there’s a truck with five bodies, and it’s going to catch headlines. People will want answers.”
“Ashworth was LAPD, my department wasn’t involved.”
“Right. Your Sheriff’s Department is above the fray for now. If the investigation determines these murders are tied to a child sex trade operation and that one of your kind orchestrated it, the public won’t care if it’s a Sheriff or an LAPD cop who’s to blame.”
Smitz turned away. He drew his right hand up to his forehead and slowly pulled his hand across and down his crew cut hairline. He turned back toward me and I could see the look of surrender in his face. He motioned for me to follow as he led the way toward a bloodstained white pickup truck.
There was no sanity in what I saw. Each man had been butchered. Slaughtered was the right word. Their eyes stared at me, begging me to know their slow and painful death.
In a voice wrenched with defeat Smitz spoke, “It’s a horror show.”
Smitz’s words didn’t even begin to tell the story. Some say the moment we die our soul is unchained and the pain of life that dug its claws into our flesh ceases. Suffering ends, furrows fade, and the face of youth reappears. I saw no such face among these men. I saw a fate no one should come to know. I focused on one man; he was young. Like the other victims he had been skinned with an arm torn off. His eyes bulged. His mouth locked open. I could imagine his screams; a relentless torment that raged until he was freed from this world. I kept my eyes on him, hoping my stare could change the scene or make it go away. The pungent odor of oxidized iron from the pools and spatter of blood covering the truck’s bed confirmed I couldn’t change a thing.
I turned away from the grisly scene. “Who will be the detective on the case?”
“Leighton Carr. I’ll introduce you.”
Smitz called out to Carr who stood at the front end of the truck jotting notes. “Detective Carr.”
Carr was short and stout, and the grey suit jacket reaching down to his knees made him appear compressed. “Smitz, you old man. Why the formality?”
“There’s someone I want you to meet. This is Alejandra Marisol. I think you’ll find her a good resource for your case.”
Detective Carr gave me a sideways glance and directed his attention to Smitz. “So tell me how this woman is going to help?”
“There’s a good chance these bodies are tied to Detective Ashworth out of LAPD, the one who took his life the other night. Alejandra was working with him, investigating a sex ring. She didn’t know Ashworth ran the sick operation, but in the end she was the one who brought him down.”
“So you’re telling me Miss Marisol was duped by Ashworth and happened to be lucky enough to get out of a pretty dangerous spot. There’s no way she’s going to be part of this investigation, no way in hell. Anyway, I’m steps ahead of her. Just saw Ashworth’s body at the morgue and after I leave here I’m heading to his house.”
“I know what you’re thinking, Carr, I thought the same thing, but the girl’s got fire in her belly. Why limit your resources? She may have insights into Ashworth that can help with the case.”
I cut in, “Ashworth wasn’t just operating a sex ring; it was a child sex trade and I was deep into the investigation.”
Carr questioned, “Investigation? Where do you work?”
“I’m a reporter with the Times.”
“Oh no, Smitz. You can’t be serious. You want me to work with a reporter?”
“She’s got info on this case that hasn’t even been penned to a report. She knows stuff.”
“But I can’t officially let her take part in this investigation. You know that.”
I answered for Smitz. “Unofficially, you can. Look, you’re going to Ashworth’s home, let me go with you.”
An exasperated Carr responded. “Damn it, woman, you’re not going.”
Smitz complied, “Okay, Carr has the final word on this. I won’t pull rank. Homicide detectives call the shots on the murders.”
Carr smirked in my direction. He turned and walked away.
My jaw clamped and I could feel the heat rise in my face, but I stayed calm. One way or another I’d get inside Ashworth’s house.
Maria Nieto, a Professor in the Department of Biological Sciences at California State University, East Bay, has for over 27 years advocated for underrepresented minority recruitment, teaching, and research. A researcher on cancer cell detection and destruction and more recently on the subject of sex and gender, she’s also written an award-winning novel, Pig behind the Bear, which she has adapted for the stage. This sequel, The Water of Life Remains in the Dead, is available from the publisher, Floricanto Press, amazon.com, or your favorite bookstore.
