Chapter 8: Carmody & Estaban

Pilar Paloma was arrested by two ICE agents — a man and a woman — around 3:30 on a Monday afternoon. She was across the street from the school that had just let out. Sitting on a bench on Brookside Boulevard, waiting for the Main Street Max to take her to the Crossroads. To the Wrigley, to Walker.

In March, 2017 the Kansas City School Board had approved a policy that prevented ICE agents from being on school properties without a warrant. We don’t know whether Pilar had been targeted specifically or had just been spotted at random. Her cinnamon-colored skin, her coal-black hair marked her as ‘other’.

We do know that the local agents, like their counterparts all over the country, are under increasing pressure from DC to raise their quotas, to arrest more and more folks.

Pilar had remained calm. She called me rather than her mother. Lina understood. I would know the quickest way to get her out of the system. But I would also do more than that.

With the iPad and dick pictures stowed in my case, I headed west on I-90. I had a flight out of Helena in the morning. If I got sleepy, I’d grab a room in Livingston or Bozeman. Both towns had decent motels — I’d noted that on the drive to Billings.

I’ll make time in Helena to overnight my contraband — BlingSting, lock pick, booty from under Wexler’s mattress — to KC. Especially those Polaroids — I wouldn’t want airport security to think someone as hot as I am ... never mind.

Leaving, even this late at night, was prudent on my part. It might be days before Wexler discovers the missing stash. Or, it might be hours. I was traveling — airline ticket and hotel registration — under a false flag. An alternative ID set that I’d used in the past. Rachael Adams.

The credit card bills go to a mail service in Omaha. A certain clerk forwards my mail to a different name at a Chicago service. Then it’s overnighted, using a third fictitious name, to a KC PO Box. Not impossible to trace, but it would take some work. In fact, a lot of work.

In any case, I didn’t plan to wait for the Butler Brothers Security team to tear Billings apart looking for me. There was a chance Wexler would make the connection. But any regular digital search wouldn’t show a trace of Winter Jennings anywhere near the state of Montana.

Okay, I know they aren’t technically dick pictures because they show all of Wexler, tip to toe. Pilar and a couple of her girlfriends are sent dick pics every once in a while. Walker receives a boobs shot sometimes. They both know to delete them immediately. Pretty sure.

When Pilar called me from the ICE office, she was calm. She would be, that’s her nature. And really, there was nothing to be all that nervous about — she and her mother, thanks to Bulldog Bannerman, are gold-plated US citizens.

I called Lina from my office and she met me at the Wrigley. With the citizenship papers for Pilar and herself. As requested, she also brought the FBI Civilian Shield of Bravery that had been awarded to Pilar. To Walker too, but he wasn’t ICE-involved.

Lina and I drove downtown to the ICE building. The Enforcement and Removal team (ERO) was on loan to Kansas City from the Chicago field office.

I flashed my FBI potsy, thumb cleverly over the word ‘Temporary’. That got me instant attention. Not respect, but an immediate visit from a woman, title not offered, named Mrs. Holman. Who said, “Holy crap,” when Lina and I explained the situation, showed the paperwork.

Mrs. Holman stood, said, “Wait here,” and returned with Pilar. “You’re free to go.”

She told me, “We hadn’t even started to process her. So there’s no official record.” Like she wanted credit for bureaucratic inefficiency or something.

Legally, systemically, I couldn’t do anything to the US Immigration and Customs Enforcement department. Not here in Kansas City, and certainly not in DC. ICE is part of the Homeland Security apparatus and is currently in favor. In White House favor.

However being petty, vindictive, and ... just fucking furious, I wasn’t about to let it go. First I found out who the two arresting agents were — dizzyingly easy with my FBI database access.

Wallace Carmody, age 26. Frances Estaban, 24. Both from Texas — Carmody from Houston, Estaban, Del Rio. Sullivan & Sullivan Research couldn’t turn up anything hinky on them. And they dove down pretty deeply.

Just because they were Texans, I didn’t assume they were racist A-holes. Okay, I did assume that. Fuckers. Snatching a little kid from a bus bench. Cocksuckers.

It turned out that it had been just a random grab. They’d been driving north on Brookside Boulevard and spotted a dark-skinned kid. Talked it over, decided she was probably the daughter of a probably undocumented housekeeper probably working in one of the larger homes in the neighborhood. They drove around the block and snatched her up.

Well, fuck them.

The two agents had gone rogue — violated several administration guidelines as well as the law. But as in most organizations, promotions rely on results. From government to corporations to NGOs, supervisors look the other way when positive numbers exceed the quotas.


Both agents had graduated from community colleges, both were fairly new at ICE — not quite five years. Carmody had been part of ERO for just under two. Estaban, barely one. From Texas to Chicago to Kansas City to Brookside Boulevard. To ... in my crosshairs.

The first thing I’ll do is public shaming. Them, not me. Although I’ve had a few embarrassing events in my day. That nude after-lunch dip in the J. C. Nichols Memorial Fountain on the Plaza ... never mind.

For the interview with the Kansas City Star, Lina and I dressed Pilar in a chic Ralph Lauren outfit. White silk blouse, Navy blazer with gold buttons, ivory skirt that reached just below her knees. Subtle makeup that emphasized those luminous round eyes.

We didn’t coach her on what to say — no need for that. We did alert the reporter about the FBI award. Pilar wouldn’t bring it up — modesty forbids. But she would shyly answer a direct question.

The headline, below the fold but still on the front page of the Star, read: “Your Tax Dollars at Work. Hero Schoolgirl Snatched, Handcuffed.”

I debated with myself, for half a second, about putting Pilar in bracelets for the photo. Overkill.

The digital media were freer, more creative. Video always trumps print, narrative-wise. And Pilar aced it — low-key, quiet, articulate. Her self-composure shone through. “No, I didn’t have a nightmare. Not last night.”

“Of course I worry now when school lets out. Our home is two blocks away. Daddy’s an attorney downtown. MaMA works at Euforia.” Nice plug.

Small-minded as I am, I most enjoyed turning the publicity screws on Carmody and Estaban. Keeping them in front of the public. I’d made sure their names and photos were in every PR release we orchestrated.

They were transferred a week after the Brookside snatch. Carmody to Reno, Nevada; Estaban to Sioux Falls, South Dakota.

Pilar was mostly interested in her next soccer game.

Vanessa discovered the Netflix-noir links to a man the FBI now agrees is a serial killer. Once the third murder surfaced — the third murder connected to a TV show — well, there was no question we had a repeater on our hands. And of course the rumors seeped out into the public arena.

He was crowned Mr. Television by the Star. And the name stuck. As did the gender — odds are stacked strongly that it’s a man.

Having made the original connection, Vanessa became ... um, ‘fixated’ isn’t the right word. Dedicated. Very dedicated. She created crime-show spreadsheets. A chronicle of every European detective show she’d watched. Then another set for those she hadn’t yet viewed.

The spreadsheets included an episode-by-episode summary of each despicable act. And so far there are three shows — “Bordertown” and “Hinterlands” and “Peaky Blinders” — that tie fairly closely to three Kansas City murders.

Of course I’m Vanessa-prejudiced, but I’ll agree with Daddy’s reaction to her next move — “Genius.”

Vanessa studied the plot summaries; she didn’t need to watch the actual shows. Unless something caught her eye. Something did.

The kids held dinner that night until I arrived home from the Exchange Building. It was around 9 on a Monday evening. I was about halfway through a Pilar creation — warm corn tortillas filled with spicy beef stroganoff — when I realized something was off.

The feeling had been niggling away in a distant corner of my mind. I looked at Walker. Nope, business as usual. He was trying to maintain his game face while Pilar was feeling him up under the table.

And Pilar was her usual calm, self-assured ... um, self.

Vanessa.

She looked away from me. But I know her so well. So intimately. She was suppressing something. Was pleased about something.

I said, “Okay, toots. Spit it out.”

Walker and Pilar turned to her too.

“Winter, I have a thought. An idea about Mr. Television.”

Hey, I’m the fucking detective at this fucking table! “What is it, baby?”

Vanessa was eager, she’d been holding it in. “There’s this show, “Wallander.” It’s about a Swedish detective, Kurt Wallander. But the BBC did its own version.”

“So it’s in English.”

“It’s in English. Now Wallander travels to Africa on a case and discovers a killing ring. Poor people. I mean that’s who’s being killed. For body parts. Vital organs. The episode is in the second season — “The Man Who Smiled” is the name of this one.”

I’m not sure what it says about the fifth floor residents of the Wrigley, but the four of us continued eating tacos and drinking Beck’s Dark. Murder. Body parts. Pass the salsa. Hobo didn’t seem upset either, but he’s good at masking. The PV was asleep.

Vanessa smiled, “I looked it up. We could get over $100,000 for Walker’s organs.”

Pilar and I looked at him speculatively. Hobo gave him a supportive head-bump. Walker shifted in his chair; Pilar’s handiwork was taking a toll.

I said, “That’s interesting, good to know he’s worth something. But...”

“It may sound crazy, Winter, but think about this. Those cut-lines around the Lady in Red’s eyes.”

Could it be? I don’t know anything about eyeball ... what? Transplants? Is that even possible?

Vanessa said, “The difference between that crime in Africa and the other three is that...”

“It’s ongoing! That fucker could be selling organs on the blackmarket on a regular basis. Or planning to.” That would mean, maybe, maybe, he could turn out to be predictable. The FBI and the cops could plan ahead, anticipate.

Mr. Television.

We invited sad-faced Cathal Conway to our Wrigley loft for a lazy Saturday lunch. His daughter Riley of course. And Cathal’s now significant other, Juanita Garcia. Along with her boys, Jorge and Javier.

Pilar volunteered to cook — Colombian and Mexico are somewhat culturally connected. Plus, Pilar has the time. Vanessa and I don’t. Not usually.