I gave my statement to the Ensenada police investigator in charge, a Detective Hermenio.
I told Hermenio that I was a private investigator working on a murder case. I told him everything I knew, or thought he needed to know, and told him that my investigation had led me here to Mexico. Detective Hermenio, an older guy who spoke fluent English, asked if the guy on the boat was a suspect. I told him it was still early in the investigation.
Meaning, no.
He let it drop, maybe because Sanchez was an investigator with the LAPD. Or maybe because he recognized a low-life scumbag when he saw one. Truth was, I had no business being on the shark hunter’s boat, who had every right to protect himself. Basically, I had assaulted a man defending his own property.
A man who had caged and tortured a dog on his property.
Sometimes cops look the other way. Sometimes laws fly out the window when something heinous has been committed. In Mexico, animal cruelty laws were vague. But they were in place, and the language of the law was simple: “no unnecessary suffering.” A bleeding and caged dog with hooks in its muzzles and paws certainly qualified.
Not to mention, one didn’t need a law to see the extent of the cruelty.
Right is right. Wrong is wrong.
Sure, I had overstepped my bounds, and had Sanchez not been here, I could have very easily ended up in a Mexican jail. But I wasn’t in a jail.
Instead, I was in a brightly-lit veterinarian’s waiting room in Ensenada, a twenty-four hour emergency clinic. After the police had cited Juan Trinidad for animal cruelty, he was taken away in an ambulance to treat his broken face. Next, they had carefully loaded the caged and terrified animal, and delivered it to the local vet.
Which is where Sanchez and I were waiting now.
My big, Latino friend was sitting back on the wooden bench, eyes closed, long legs stretched straight, crossed at the ankles. He looked asleep, but I knew he wasn’t. My friend had an uncanny ability to rest and be alert at the same time. We were alone in the small waiting room, which wasn’t much of a surprise since it was just a little past three in the morning.
“ You got lucky,” said Sanchez without opening his eyes.
“ I’ve been told that before.”
“ I saved your ass.”
“ That’s why I keep you around,” I said.
We were silent some more. I heard someone talking urgently behind a closed door that led deeper into the facility. A plump woman with round cheeks sat behind a desk. She wore a powder blue uniform that seemed to be the mandatory uniform of vet assistants everywhere.
“ Detective Hermenio says he’ll come down on the bastard as much as he can, but something like this only carries about a $30 fine.”
“ So he’ll keep the boat?”
“ No doubt.”
“ And still hunt sharks.”
“ I’m guessing yes.”
“ So what did we accomplish?”
“ You broke his face,” said Sanchez.
“ That felt good,” I said.
“ And saved a dog.”
“ Yes,” I said. “I did.”