“None.”
“Is he from the island?”
“I heard he came here about the time he applied for the tour license.”
“From where?”
“The mainland. He’s got a tattoo on his arm. Six-six-one. That’s the area code for Bakersfield.”
Juarez was quiet as she thought about how to handle the situation. Stilwell looked at his watch. It was getting late and he wanted to go back to the sub to check on Gaston before he went home for dinner.
“What do you think?” he prompted. “You want to talk to Gaston? I have to pick up some food to take him and another guy I have in lockup. That other one you’ll deal with tomorrow. Assault on a law enforcement officer with GBI.”
“Well…” Juarez began. “Sure, we can go talk to him, but this is really something I should bring to the public integrity unit. All corruption-of-government-officials cases go there. They would have to make the call.”
Stilwell nodded. He knew this but was disappointed because taking the case to the PIU would slow things down considerably. An investigation of an elected official was always fraught with consequences for any misstep by prosecutors or their investigators.
“Why don’t we go talk to him so you can get a sense of him and the situation,” he said. “If you want to kick it over to the public corruption team after that, that’s your call. We can meet up with Tash afterward and grab dinner.”
“Okay,” Juarez said. “Sounds like a plan.”
31
STILWELL IMMEDIATELY KNEWsomething was wrong. The main door to the substation was locked, and it shouldn’t have been. He had two deputies on duty for the evening shift, Esquivel and a man named Porter whom he had pulled off the midnight shift. He had told Esquivel to stay in the sub while Porter handled patrol duties. If Porter needed backup on a call, Esquivel was to alert Stilwell. The bottom line was that he wanted one man in the sub at all times as protection for Gaston.
But locking the front door was not part of the plan. The substation was supposed to be open to the public 24/7 and locked only when all personnel were in the field.
“This isn’t right,” Stilwell said.
“What do you mean?” Juarez asked.
“Esquivel’s supposed to be in there and the door shouldn’t be locked.”
“Is he a deputy? Maybe he got a callout or something?”
“Then he would have called me.”
Stilwell put the bag containing the meals they had picked up for Gaston and Spivak on the ground and pulled out his keys.
“You stay out here until I check it out,” he said.
He unlocked the door and entered. He moved through the waiting area and into the bullpen. There was no sign of Esquivel, and the first thing Stilwell noticed was that the door to the tech closet was standing open. He looked in and saw that the middle shelf of the equipment rack was empty. The external hard drive was missing.
Stilwell drew his weapon and moved toward the jail section. The first cell he came to was where Spivak was supposed to be. But he was gone. Instead, he saw Esquivel lying face down on the concrete floor, his hands cuffed behind his back, an orange scrub shirt wrapped around his head and soaked with blood.
Stilwell quickly unlocked the door, slid it open, and went to Esquivel. He pulled the shirt away from his head and used two fingers to check for a carotid pulse. Esquivel was alive but unconscious. Stilwell used his cuff key to release his arms and then turned him onto his back. There was a deep gash across Esquivel’s forehead, and blood was flowing back into his hairline. Stilwell reached over to the bed, pulled the pillow and blanket off, propped the pillow under Esquivel’s head, and used the edge of the blanket to try to stanch the bleeding.
Esquivel started to groan.
“Eddie, you’re all right,” Stilwell said. “I’m going to get you help. Just hang in there.”
He grabbed the two-way off Esquivel’s belt, called Porter on it, and ordered him back to the sub. He then put the radio down on the floor and gently started to pat Esquivel’s cheek. This produced another groan.
“Eddie, wake up. What happened here? How did—”
“Oh my God!”
Stilwell turned. Juarez had come into the jail section.