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Speak for the Dead (A John Santana Novel)

The brutal murders of two young women in the caves along the Mississippi River pull St. Paul Homicide Detective John Santana into a case with all the telltale signs of a serial killer. Except that one of the victims doesn’t fit. 

Santana’s search for answers unearths connections between the first victim, an NTSB accident investigator, and the crash of an airliner off the California coast. He soon finds himself embroiled in a complex investigation that takes him from St. Paul, Minnesota to Washington DC and ultimately to Colombia in a race to thwart a dangerous technology that could cause a global economic meltdown.

In a case fraught with internal and external politics, Santana must speak for the dead, while trying to finally make peace with the past.

When St. Paul Homicide Detective John Santana is assigned a cold case involving the murder of an environmental engineer, he begins to see connections to another case he once investigated—the murder of a young Native American woman.

But in seeking justice for the victims, it soon becomes clear that someone wants to keep their deaths buried, someone very cunning . . . and very deadly. In his quest to hunt down the killer before he strikes again, Santana must confront his own inner darkness and a conspiracy that threatens his life and the life of the woman he loves.

 

Praise for Speak for the Dead

"In Valen's solid seventh novel featuring St. Paul homicide detective John Santana (after 2015's The Darkness Hunter), Santana looks into the stabbing murder of Kim Austin, an accident investigator for the National Transportation Board, whose body was found buried in a cave along the Mississippi River . . . She had been part of a team examining the crash of an airliner off the coast of California that killed 217 people two months before the conference . . . The trail eventually takes the dogged detective to Colombia, where he confronts el Lobo, a contract killer, in a dramatic showdown . . . "
—Publisher's Weekly 

". . . Christopher Valen has clearly done his research into police investigations, corporate espionage, vehicular and phone hacking and other complex subjects . . . Side characters were well-drawn; Reyna Tran in particular was absolutely fascinating . . . Likewise, the plot was thoroughly engrossing . . . I genuinely had no idea who the killer was right up until the reveal . . . I would highly recommend Speak For The Dead to fans of James Patterson, John Grisham, and other top legal and crime thrillers; readers who enjoy these great authors will not be disappointed."
—Caitlyn Lynch, Reader's Favorite

" . . . Valen slips in a lot of red herrings that keep the reader guessing. In the middle of the plot is beautiful, flirty, Reyna Tran, one of the most intriguing characters to walk onto a page in awhile. Is she friend or foe, would-be lover or killer? She's unreadable and that makes a lot of fun for readers. Almost as chilling as the murders in Speak For The Dead is what Santana learns about the terrors of spoofing, a way for bad guys to hack into and take over phones, airplane navigation systems and other devices. You'll start to look at your cellphone in a new way. As usual, Valen conveys a sense of place, from the damp chill of the river caves to the beauty of nature along the St. Croix River."
—MaryAnn Grossmann, St. Paul Pioneer Press

 

Speak for the Dead: Excerpt

CHAPTER 1

The skeletal hand reached out of the soil inside the cave as though clawing for life.
A foot-long, black-handled dagger through its palm pinned it to the ground. The dagger had a seven-inch blade, a cast metal pommel, and a sculpted outstretched dragon talon guard.

St. Paul Homicide Detective John Santana dropped to his knees and brushed away the winged seeds lying cold around him. The air smelled of wet stone and was damp and cool, despite the sunlight streaming through the cave entrance.

The bony hand triggered a flashback. A sharp pain knifed through Santana’s heart. He shook his head, trying to erase the dark memory, forcing himself to concentrate on this crime scene and not on the scene that would forever haunt him.

The ground had been overturned, as if an animal had been rooting around in the soil. Santana could see fire remains near the cave entrance.

Two young men had gone into this cave earlier in the day, entering through a narrow passage, where they had spotted the hand and alerted police.

Along the Mississippi River bluffs, there were nearly fifty manmade sandstone caves that had once been used for growing mushrooms. Many others had been naturally carved out of sandstone or limestone and were wide and high enough for anyone to stand in easily.

This cave was approximately twenty feet high and thirty feet wide, narrowing like a cone as it tunneled deeper into the sandstone. It was part of a larger network that lay across the Mississippi River from downtown St. Paul and extended for miles. Most of the entrances had been sealed off from the public due to the deaths of two teenage girls years ago. But with so many entrances, it was impossible to completely seal off all of them or to know where they were all located.

The teenage girls had died from carbon monoxide poisoning from burning campfires, the most common cause of death in the caves. A “NO TRESPASSING” sign had been posted warning of the dangers. Beside it was a memorial plaque commemorating the girls’ deaths.

A well-worn path led past numerous entrances, many showing evidence of the city’s attempt to seal them with plywood and piles of sand. But as the young men had demonstrated this morning, a determined person could find a way in.

Santana had gotten call-outs about bones before, especially during Halloween and in spring when the snow melted and animal bones appeared. But this was different. This hand was human. He used a small Maglite to study it. Then he gently ran a latex-gloved hand over the bones.

A young patrol officer named Rick Paukert squatted beside him. “Thought the hand was a fake at first. Like maybe some- one stuck it in the soil as a practical joke.”

“Greasy feel,” Santana said. “Green bone.”

“What’s that mean?”

“Freshly skeletonized. It’s no joke.”

The officer’s face reddened. He nodded in agreement. Santana could see a slight depression where the body was buried. He knew that as time passes the soil in a grave compacts and lowers, especially over the torso when the organs decompose and the rib cage collapses. He wondered how much of the rest of the body would be found beneath the topsoil.

Given the slim size of the hand, he figured it belonged to an adult female, possibly a homeless person who had sought shelter in the cave. But this wasn’t a person who had built a fire and then died from carbon monoxide poisoning or through natural means. And even with the wind whistling through the cave entrance, it would have taken years for the soil to cover the body.

Someone had driven the dagger through her hand and murdered whoever was buried here.

Santana made a quick sketch of the scene. Then he took out his department cell phone and snapped a photo of the dagger. He tried to frame the picture so that the hand didn’t show, but he couldn’t completely hide it and still get a good shot of the dagger.

As both men stood, he asked Paukert, “What about the two young men who called it in? Are they still here?”

Paukert lowered his gaze. “I let them go.”

Santana released a frustrated sigh. “Did you get their names?”

The young officer looked at Santana again and smiled. “Sure did.” He held up his notebook. “Names and phone numbers.”

“Okay.” Santana handed Paukert his car keys. “Get some crime scene tape out of the trunk. Wrap it around a series of trees to cordon off the area. There’s a clipboard with a crime scene log in the trunk. Make sure everyone signs the log before passing under the tape.”

“You got it, Detective.”

According to SPPD protocol, all personnel entering a crime scene had to also prepare a written report detailing why they were there, what they did, and what they observed. Santana felt that oftentimes, despite advances in technology, he could spend most of his days typing reports and filling out forms.

Paukert hesitated.

“Something else, Officer?”

“Uh . . . I’d like to become a homicide detective one day. Any advice?”

Find another career, Santana thought. But instead of crushing the young cop’s aspirations, he said, “Listen and learn.”

Paukert smiled again.

“The crime scene tape?” Santana reminded him.

“Oh, right,” he said. “And I’ll make sure everyone signs the log.”

Santana watched Paukert hurry off and remembered when he was a young officer. Eager. Excited. Wanting to please. Hoping that one day he would have a gold shield. Never figuring how much it would cost him.

Gina Luttrell, the SPPD district supervisor, nodded at Paukert as they passed each other. Her short dark hair complemented her narrow face and slim body. She wore a black pants suit and light leather jacket. Her gold shield hung from a lanyard around her neck.

“Never seen anything quite like this before, John.”

She took out her cell phone, dialed, and gave him a thumbs-up, indicating she could get a signal inside the cave. Once she’d notified the SPPD’s watch commander of the situation, she disconnected and looked at Santana.

“FSU will be here soon,” she said, referring to the SPPD’s Forensic Services Unit. “I’ll check the perimeter. It’s your scene now, Detective. Buena suerte.”

Though Luttrell’s mother was Puerto Rican, she wasn’t fluent in Spanish, but she knew enough to carry on a basic conversation and to wish him “good luck.”

Moments later, Santana’s cell phone rang. It was Reiko Tanabe. He recognized the Ramsey County medical examiner’s number. Santana detailed the crime scene. Then she asked, “You’re sure this isn’t a BLR or a BLS?”

Santana understood that the anthropological acronyms stood for bonelike rocks and bonelike sticks. “I’m sure.”

“Okay. I’ll contact the bone detective. He should be there to supervise the disinterment.”

Tanabe was referring to anthropology professor Rob Wallace, the state’s only board-certified forensic anthropologist. He was qualified to conduct or participate in the recovery of human remains and perform osteological analysis, which meant he had the ability to determine such things as age, sex, height, and stature, and provide any information that might explain the death based on bones alone.

“I have to bring him in on this, John,” Tanabe said.

“I know. But I don’t have to like it.”

“I’ll gather my team and be there shortly.”

It was a forty-minute drive from Rob Wallace’s lab located in the Midwest Medical Examiner’s Office in Anoka, Minnesota.

Santana disconnected and called his partner, Kacie Hawkins. While he waited for her to arrive, he flicked on his Maglite and walked to the back of the cave, where he entered an eight-foot-by-five-foot tunnel that burrowed into the wall. He could see footprint impressions in the sandstone floor leading into and out of the tunnel. Forensics would need to take dental stone castings of the footprint impressions.

Did the footprints belong to the two young men who had discovered the skeletonized remains or to someone else? And where did the tunnel lead? Was there another entrance to and from the cave?

Santana kept going, following the beam of light, making sure he didn’t step on the other footprints, and noting how the tunnel narrowed and shrunk as it wound deeper into the darkness, forcing him to duck his head.

Just as he thought it would come to a dead end, the tunnel split into two larger branching tunnels, one to his left and the other to his right. He focused the Maglite beam in the one to the right. Twenty yards ahead he saw a pile of rough debris, where the footprints appeared to stop. The remaining space between the pile and tunnel wall was quite narrow, making passage difficult, if not impossible.

He turned into the left tunnel, following it and a set of footprints as it curved to the right and then dead-ended. He retraced his steps back to the body.

Kacie Hawkins was waiting when he returned. Staring down at the bony hand and then at Santana, she asked, “How you doing, John?”

“Fine. Why?” His response had sounded confrontational. He immediately regretted it.

Hawkins placed her hands on her slim hips and cocked her head. “Just asking.”

Santana imagined his partner was remembering the same scene in her mind now as he’d pictured the moment he saw the bony hand in the soil.

He hadn’t slept well for weeks and considered offering it as an excuse for his attitude, but then thought better of it. He knew what the real cause was.

“Interesting-looking knife,” she said, shifting the conversation, letting him off the hook.

“I’ll check and see who sells this type of dagger,” Santana said. “Maybe we can get lucky and trace the buyer.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Divide the secondary area into smaller quadrants and assign officers and canine units to carefully search each section.”

Santana believed the recovery of human remains was no different from any other investigation. He still had a possible crime scene that needed to be examined for physical and testimonial evidence and a possible victim. In processing a crime scene, he was just as concerned with the secondary areas or avenues leading to the victim as he was with the primary area, where the victim was located.

“Will do,” Hawkins said.

“And get the names and phone numbers of the two kids who found the remains from Officer Paukert.”

“The cute guy with the crime scene log?”

Santana saw the sparkle in his partner’s brown eyes. “Yeah, that one. I’ll wait for Tanabe and Wallace.”

“Wallace?”

“We’re dealing with bones here.”

As Hawkins strode away she said, “Have fun with Hollywood.” She used the disparaging nickname Wallace had acquired among homicide personnel since becoming a consultant for one of the numerous CSI shows on network television.

Wallace’s moniker wasn’t simply a result of jealousy, Santana thought, a feeling he understood but didn’t share with his colleagues. Rather, it was emblematic of Wallace’s insufferable ego that seemed to inflate like a balloon the more trips he made to Hollywood.

By the time the forensic anthropologist arrived, the scene looked like a bivouac. Media vans filled a nearby parking lot. Helicopters from local television stations circled overhead. Forensic techs and dig team members dressed in white jumpsuits photographed and mapped the scene on a grid, took impressions of the footprints in the cave, and screened the soil in the burial site, looking for something that might help ID the body. Using soft brushes, they gradually exposed the skeletal remains and remnants of clothing.

Santana acknowledged Wallace with a nod.

“Detective,” Wallace replied, dipping his double chin. He placed his hands on his ever-expanding hips and surveyed the scene, like a director appraising his actors before calling “Action.”

He crossed his arms and gazed at the skeleton, tapping an index finger against his lips, a mannerism he’d adopted after watching the actor who played the forensic anthropologist in the TV series. “Appears to be the skeleton of a female, based on the size of the pelvis.” Wallace fixed his gray eyes on Reiko Tanabe, the ME, and offered an encouraging smile.

Tanabe looked at Santana. “The pelvis itself is larger in males, as is the coccyx and the angle in front of the hips. The opening between the hips is larger in the female for birthing.”

“The chin is squarer in the skull of a man than that of a woman,” Wallace added, looking at Tanabe as if she was unaware of that fact. “Women tend to have a slightly more pointed chin. The forehead of the male slants backwards. The female is slightly more rounded. Males seem to have brow ridges, whereas females don’t.”

In all the years Santana had worked with Tanabe, he’d never seen her lose her cool. But he saw her cheeks darken, and behind her wire-rimmed glasses, he saw her eyes flash with anger. She touched the café au lait mark on her neck with the fingers of her right hand, a habit she had when under stress.

“We’ll get some photographs,” Wallace said. “No soft tissue left to examine. I’ll X-ray the bones and set aside a femur, rib, and tooth for DNA testing for the BCA.”

BCA stood for the state Bureau of Criminal Apprehension, which investigated both criminal and civil cases and provided lab and record services to local agencies.

Tanabe squatted beside the remains and gently turned the head slightly to the left. Santana immediately saw the damage to the skull.

“Blunt force skull injuries to green bone sometimes leave some identifying marks of the weapon used to inflict the trauma,” she said. “In this case, I’d say a blunt, oval-shaped club.”

“I concur,” Wallace said.

“Something just under the body,” Tanabe said. She leaned forward and, using a forefinger and thumb, picked up what appeared to be a jagged piece of paper approximately 3 1⁄2" by 3 1⁄2" that was wedged beneath the edge of the pelvis and the dirt. She peered at the paper a moment, then handed it to Santana.

“Looks like part of a pawn ticket,” he said. “Given the smooth edge on the top and right side, I’d say it was the top half of the form.” Santana held it up in his gloved hand so that Tanabe and Wallace could see it. “The item number is listed in the right corner. See the maturity date and amount here?” He pointed to a partial red box. “Six months ago.”

“There’s a ‘LUX’ showing near the torn edge,” Wallace said.

Santana nodded. “Probably a partial name of the company.”

“The ticket could’ve belonged to the vic,” Tanabe said.

“Or to the perp,” Santana said.

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