“And, of course, you would like to know what information this dying man might share.”

“The crime did occur in my jurisdiction, Comandante.”

Garza frowned. Still, Chief Ramos was a source of potential communication with the Zetas. If she did learn something, it might be fruitful to let them know she was onto them.

He continued, “There are things I know. Connections I can make. Just let me help you.”

Garza shrugged, as though the point didn’t matter to her. “All right, Chief. But you will remain silent. Not one word. If you speak, I’ll arrest you on federal charges of witness intimidation. Understood?”

The chief made like he was locking his lips, then tossing away the key.

“Lead on, O Comandante,” he said.

THE WITNESS LAY ON THE BED, pale and looking weak. His upper chest and shoulder were now covered with a thick gauze bandage. Tubes connected him to the monitors. He had received two blood transfusions, but it would not be enough. Nor was surgery an option. He had lain out in the plaza too long.

The young farmhand looked up at Garza. His faraway eyes sparked to something, perhaps her appearance. Her beauty was a useful tool. And this young man had been on his way to America: perhaps he was a born dreamer.

“What is your name?” she said.

“Manuel,” he whispered. “Manuel Pastor.”

“Where are you from, Manuel?”

“El Salvador.” His breathing was slow and labored and he winced each time he drew in air.

“They have given you medicine for the pain?” she said.

The young man—barely more than a boy—nodded. She studied his eyes. He appeared coherent enough for questioning.

“Do you know why these people did this to you?” she said.

The boy shook his head. “I paid a coyote to take me to the United States. We were in a truck. The truck stopped. Then some men burst in, dragged us out. I was hit on the head. Next thing I know, I’m lying on a pile of dead bodies in the back of this open truck. I tried to get out, but . . .” He raised his left hand, showing where the zip ties had left their mark on his wrist.

“Who ran the coyotes? Were they Sinaloa?”

The boy shrugged. “I don’t know nothing about that. I just paid a man.”

“So you don’t work for the Zetas or the Sinaloas?”

The boy looked at her without any apparent comprehension. If the boy was faking, he was doing a hell of a job of it.

A nurse tried to enter, but Garza asked for another minute. Once they gave this man morphine, his intelligence would be lost, perhaps forever.

She leaned closer to the young man. “More medication is on the way, but I have just a few more important questions. Can you respond?”

He blinked his assent, rather than nodding.

“Thank you, Manuel. So you were in the back of this truck. Then you arrived at the plaza. What happened next?”

“There were two others . . . also alive. They were both with me all the way from El Salvador. I don’t know their names or nothing . . .” His eyes clouded. “Then they dragged everybody off the truck. There was a fat man. I did not know what the sound was at first. I thought it was a machine. But no. This man was chopping heads off.”

“With what? A machete?”

He frowned. “I don’t know. I never seen nothing like it. It was like . . . one of those things you dig holes with. For fence posts. Except there was just this one big heavy blade on the bottom.” He pantomimed lifting something in the air with his left arm, but didn’t get it very high before wincing in pain.

“Any other information you can give me? I want to catch these men. Who was in charge? Did you see the man in charge, Manuel? Was it this fat man?”

The young man’s eyes were full of tears now. He shook his head.

“You saw the man in charge,” said Garza, pushing.

“Dark eyes.”

“Was he tall? Short?”

“Baseball. A hat.”

“A baseball cap? But he was Mexican. Yes?”

“There was another. A boy.”

“A boy?”

Manuel pointed to his wound.

“A boy did this? A teenager?”

“The one in charge . . . he made him do it.”

Garza nodded. Manuel was fading fast. “Is that why he failed? With the tool?”

Manuel blinked several times, loosening the tears in his eyes. It meant yes.

Garza had seen enough. She turned back to Chief Ramos. “Get the nurse.”

Garza looked back at Manuel, leaning even closer. She wanted Manuel to feel her presence here at the end. “Anything else you can tell me? Anything else you want to say?”

“They . . . they call him something. The man in the cap. Chupa . . .”

Garza could have finished the word for him, but she wanted to hear it herself. She leaned even closer, the name coming on Manuel’s foul breath.

“Chuparosa.”

Garza heard stirring behind her. Despite her order, Chief Ramos had not left the room yet.

Garza said, “You’re certain?”

“Chuparosa . . .” said Manuel, closing his eyes, his head sinking further back into the pillow.

Chief Ramos said, “I will get the nurse.” He left the room quickly, and Garza could hear him shouting, “Nurse! Nurse!”

Alone for a moment, Garza laid her hand atop Manuel’s hot forehead. She stroked his hair until the nurse entered.

“Thank you,” Garza whispered into Manuel’s ear. She stood, watching the nurse’s ministrations for a few moments, said a little prayer for the young man from El Salvador, then opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

Chief Ramos was nowhere to be seen. Apparently the health crisis was too much for him to bear.

GARZA WALKED THE HALL OF THE HOSPITAL, thinking about Manuel’s ride in that truck.

All those men. Beheaded and set in the town plaza. It was an obscenity, and yet one the Mexican people were tragically growing used to. And like all obscenities, the more times it was used, the more it lost some of its power to shock and offend. How would they top this? What was the next disgraceful step?

And how could she head it off?

Down a stairwell, she strode out the rear entrance of the hospital. She did not go to her vehicle, continuing on to a blue panel truck parked at the back of the lot, its side emblazoned with a logo that read CERVEZA DOS EQUIS.

The rear door opened as she reached it. She stepped inside, and it closed.

Two technicians sat on opposite sides of the truck, facing matching computer screens. The cargo space was crammed full of modern communications gear, much of it provided to the PF by United States Immigrations and Customs Enforcement.

“You get it?” she said.

By way of reply, the technician pressed the play button on the screen. A voice came out of a pair of speakers. She immediately recognized it as that of the police chief of Nuevo Laredo, Juan Ramos.

“The witness knew nothing.” Ramos’s voice was flattened by the poor cell phone reception. “Your man failed to finish the job in the plaza. That is dangerous.”

“That is being addressed.” To Garza’s ears, the voice was soft, calm, almost pleasant. “But of course he knew nothing. Did you think anything would have been discussed in his presence? He was in the back of a truck.”

Ramos said, “No, I thought you would want assurance . . . and that is what I am calling to offer you.”

“And where are you calling from?”

“I am still at the hospital—”

There was a beep. Interruption of signal.

Ramos said, “Hello? Hello?”

The line was dead. The technician turned off the playback.

“The call went to a cell phone, Comandante,” the tech said. “Probably a burner. But we traced it to the cell tower. Telmex tower T-421.” He pulled up a map, zoomed in on a tiny village. “Nacimiento de los Negros. That is where the other phone’s signal was captured.”

As she had for Manuel, Garza said a brief prayer for Chief Ramos. He would need it.

In the three long years she had been tracking this killer, this was the first time she had heard his voice.