Chapter Six

Inibbled on potato chips as I watched the security video in Andy’s office. He was right. There was nothing on the tape that condemned Sergio or helped him. The shooter could be any average-looking male in his mid to late teens.

I watched the video for a third time and then said, “Two things. First, the killer came in with the purpose of killing the clerk.”

“You’re saying it’s premeditated.”

“Yep.”

Andy obviously didn’t agree with me, so I started the recording yet again.

“Look at the way he enters. The two younger accomplices enter first, no masks, heads down, ball caps so we can’t see their faces. They know there’s security. They put on the masks after they enter, when they’re out of view of the camera—see how they go to the back of the store?”

Andy nodded slowly. “Okay, that makes sense. Why do you say they’re younger?”

“The way they move. They don’t seem mature to me. Teens, definitely. Maybe young teens.” I fast-forwarded then played it at normal speed. “See how the shooter comes in? No hesitation. He swaggers in, hyperalert. Possibly hyped on something. A little jittery, but not nervous. He walks in, up and down the aisles; the clerk is wary—customer is wearing a face mask, a hoodie, acts suspicious. It’s not clear that he’s with the other two kids—see?”

“I see your point, but does that matter? They left together, coordinated the theft.”

I shrugged. I didn’t know, I was just trying to get a sense of what these three were up to. “Look at the whole picture. I think the first two knew they were going to rob the place—that’s why they put on their masks later so they won’t be caught on camera when they grab the cigarettes and alcohol. Your shooter? He comes in with purpose. He wants to intimidate the clerk.”

Andy nodded. “Okay. I see that.”

“And then watch.” I replayed the end, where the three are walking away and the clerk is yelling at them. The shooter turns, fires. “This isn’t the first time your killer shot someone, Andy. It might not even be the first time he killed a man.”

I watched the two police interviews with Sergio next. They had sound and were in color. Sergio behaved exactly as Andy said. In the first interview Sergio was concerned, but forthcoming, polite, worried about the crime.

At one point, Sergio said, “This isn’t the first time. Since Christmas, there’s been half a dozen robberies in the area. Do you have any idea what’s going on? All the businesses are worried. Especially those of us who work at night.”

It seemed like a genuine question about a situation Sergio was aware of because of his job. If the police had leads or suspects, they didn’t tell Sergio.

The second interview was, as Andy had said, markedly different. Sergio was pale, head down, had his hands clasped and appeared defeated, worried, scared. He hadn’t asked for a lawyer, even though Detective Barrios had arrested him. She laid out to him the details about the robbery, showed him the video of the unidentified shooter wearing the sweatshirt Sergio had worn the day before. She showed Sergio the forensic report where his sweatshirt tested positive for GSR.

“Is this you, Sergio?” she asked, pointing to the shooter on the grainy tape.

Sergio looked from the video to the GSR report, then he nodded.

“I need you to speak.”

“Yes.”

“You robbed the Cactus Stop and shot and killed Mr. Rodriguez?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Sergio, why did you kill Greg Rodriguez?” Barrios repeated.

He shrugged. “He said something that made me mad and I snapped. I shot him for no reason and I feel awful about it. I didn’t mean to. I really didn’t mean to—it just happened.”

“Where is the gun?”

“I tossed it in the canal.”

Tina asked more questions, Sergio avoided direct answers. He refused to identify the other two perpetrators, then said, “I think I need to talk to a lawyer now.”

Andy got me on the visitor list for Sergio Diaz at three that afternoon. After moving through an electric door where a guard was posted on the other side of a glass wall, I entered a visiting room that felt more like a high school cafeteria without food. I sat at the far end of a long row of identical tables with chairs bolted to the floor. Less than half of the forty tables were occupied by prisoners meeting with friends or family. Maybe some were lawyers; I didn’t know if those meetings would be in private. Each corner housed a camera, and multiple signs proclaimed that all visitors were photographed and video recorded.

Sergio came in through a guarded door on the opposite side of the hall. Two other corrections officers were stationed at points around the room, watching. He wasn’t cuffed; there were different security levels at the MCSO Durango Jail. Sergio, though a confessed killer, was still awaiting sentencing and had no prior convictions or arrests as an adult. According to Andy, he had been a model prisoner for the four days he’d been in the jail.

Sergio looked at me with a combination of confusion and suspicion. He was a slim young man with short dark hair and no visible tats. I knew from his sheet that he had one tattoo on his upper right shoulder with the name Maria in script and a small dove. Possibly an in memoriam tat or a reference to a girl he loved. Tats were all too common. My parents disapproved, so none of us had gotten any—until I enlisted in the Army and decided to get angel wings on my left breast. Yes, a little too on the nose—Angelhart—but they were beautiful and intricate, drawn in fine black ink and only an inch and a half wide. Classy, I thought.

I also thought no one would ever find out. I don’t show my breasts to just anyone.

However, my bikini didn’t quite cover the tat. A year after I’d gotten the ink, I was on leave for a month at home and swimming in the backyard. I climbed out to my mother standing there on the edge of the pool in her classy black one-piece swimsuit, mouth in a thin, disapproving line.

She said something to the effect of when I had kids the wings would turn into a black blob. My dad was disappointed. Then later, in private, he said, “While I would prefer you didn’t mar your beautiful skin with ink, I’m glad you chose the wings. Nothing is more important than family, and I’m proud of you and the woman you’ve grown into.”

Then he smiled and said, “If you get another tattoo, put it on your ass so your mother never sees it.”

My dad was the best.

I watched as Sergio crossed the room and sat across from me. He was clean-cut, no scars, no attitude, just wary with a hint of confusion in his expression.

“Hi, Sergio. I’m Margo Angelhart, a private investigator.”

He shrugged. “Okay.”

I’d thought of a lot of ways I could handle this conversation, but didn’t know which would be the most productive. I didn’t think putting on my stern military police persona would work, nor did I think playing the softie would get me anywhere. Besides, I didn’t do “softie” well. Even before the Army, I was a bit of a hard-ass.

I wanted to rattle Sergio but wasn’t quite sure what would work best. I sensed his family was important—maybe the most important thing in his life—but didn’t want to push too hard for fear he’d clam up.

“I talked to Antonio Perez. He’s friends with my family.” Mostly the truth. “He’s upset and confused by your confession. Said he would never have believed that you would rob and kill anyone and surprised you confessed to such a violent crime.”

“I did it,” he said, slightly defiant. “Did you see the video? That’s my hoodie. I did it.”

“He had nothing but good things to say about you and your ethics. How responsible you are. He entrusted you with his business.”

Sergio frowned, looked at his hands. “What do you want? I said I was sorry. I didn’t mean to do it, and I’m willing to take my punishment.”

“Maybe if you explain to me why, I can explain it to him.”

Sergio shrugged. “I made a mistake. It just happened. I snapped.”

All three sounded like weak excuses.

“I watched the security video from the store. The shooter doesn’t look like you.”

He snorted. “They played the video for me. I told you I did it. Why would I say I killed a man if I didn’t?”

Why indeed.

“Did you tell Sophia and Henry you killed a man? Do they even know you’ve been arrested?”

Anger flashed across his face and he glared at me, his muscles tense and ready to pounce. “Do not talk about my family,” he said through gritted teeth, his fists clenched as he leaned forward.

I didn’t react. “Relax, Sergio. I don’t want you to get in trouble with the guards. You’ve been a model prisoner, and that will help you if you keep up this lie.”

“What lie? I’m not lying.” He sounded defensive.

“You care about your family. You’ve been working to get custody of your brother and sister. I don’t think that someone who has been fighting so hard to be guardian of two teenagers would kill a man for a hundred bucks and cigarettes.”

He stayed silent.

“I watched your police interviews. You said you didn’t kick over a display the week before the murder. I believe you. So why did the clerk lie and say you did something you didn’t? And that wasn’t the employee who was killed. I think a lot more is going on than you told the police.”

“I lied,” Sergio said. “I did it. I kicked the display.”

“What was in the display?”

His brows furrowed. “What?”

“What display did you kick over because you were two dollars short?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. I was just mad. Why do you even care? Tell Mr. Perez I’m sorry, I didn’t want any of this to come back on him. Okay? Is that it?”

“Who’s Maria?”

He seemed surprised that I asked.

“You have a tattoo with the name Maria. I’m curious.”

He looked at me like I was weird for asking. Maybe I was, asking about Maria out of the blue.

“My aunt, not that it’s any of your business.”

No one got a tattoo for someone they didn’t care about.

“Why’d you confess, Sergio?”

He stared at me, more tired and defeated than when he first entered the room.

“If you’re guilty,” I continued, “you should be in prison. But if you’re innocent? The person who killed Greg Rodriguez will kill again. I know it. I watched him pull the trigger. He did not hesitate. My guess? This wasn’t his first rodeo. It won’t be his last. If you’re pleading guilty out of some sense of loyalty to someone, you are guilty of helping him get away with it.” I leaned forward, waited until he looked me in the eye. “If you know who killed Rodriguez, tell me. I can help you.”

He looked me straight in the eye and for a second, I thought he was going to admit he lied. That he was there but innocent. That he knew who’d done it—a friend, a neighbor, someone he wanted to protect. Or someone who scared him.

Then he said, “I killed him. Don’t come here again.”

He got up and walked over to the guard, who checked his wrist band, then unlocked the door, and Sergio exited without looking back.

I left the jail ninety-percent positive that Sergio Diaz was innocent of the crime he’d confessed to.

But why did he confess? Who was he protecting? Was he guilty of other crimes?

Who could have been wearing his hoodie? Because gun residue was pretty conclusive that a recently fired gun had been in his pocket.

I had my work cut out for me, and I wasn’t sure I was up to the task.