John Cabrera's Arc

Chapter 3 of 6

Cabrera stood at the records counter in the basement of City Hall, waiting for the clerk to return. He'd requested every permit filed for the boarding house in the past five years—plumbing, electrical, anything that required digging. The clerk appeared with a thin folder and slid it across the counter. Cabrera flipped it open. One permit, eighteen months ago, for a new drainage system in the backyard. Right when the disappearances started. He photographed every page, then headed back to the station. Sacramento kept everything on file, every pipe and wire that ran under the city. That's what he needed—proof that Puente had access to disturbed ground, places where bodies could be hidden without leaving obvious signs. The city's infrastructure gave him the map. Now he just had to match it to the bodies. He drove past the courthouse on his way back, then slowed when he spotted the statue. A metal figure of Lady Justice stood in the plaza, but something was different about this one. She was lifting her blindfold with one hand, looking down at names engraved on the base. Cabrera pulled over and got out. He walked closer and read the inscription—victims whose killers had been brought to justice after years of investigation. The names stretched around all four sides. He counted twenty-three. Each one represented someone who'd refused to let the truth stay buried. That's what separated good cases from closed cases—someone who wouldn't quit digging. Cabrera touched the cold metal base, then walked back to his car. The boarding house had bodies somewhere. The permit proved Puente had dug up that yard right when tenants started vanishing. Tomorrow he'd pull the infrastructure maps and mark every access point, every soft spot where ground had been disturbed. Then he'd get his warrant. Those seven missing tenants would get their names on a list too—not as victims who disappeared, but as proof that someone finally exposed the truth. Cabrera needed more than permits and paperwork. He needed voices. People who'd seen things, noticed changes at the boarding house. The community center sat three blocks from the station, brick walls with wide windows facing the street. He parked and went inside. The place smelled like coffee and old wood. A bulletin board covered one wall, stuffed with notices and flyers. Tables filled the main room, some occupied by residents eating lunch and talking. Cabrera grabbed coffee and sat near two older women discussing neighborhood news. One mentioned the boarding house—said tenants used to visit the center every week, then stopped coming. The other nodded and said Puente always had an excuse. Cabrera listened, memorizing details. This was where he'd find the gaps in Puente's stories. He finished his coffee and stood. The community center would be his second office now—a place where the truth leaked out in small talk and gossip, where people remembered what they'd seen before they forgot it mattered. Back at the station, Cabrera made calls for the rest of the afternoon. He needed more eyes on this case, more people willing to step forward. By evening, he'd arranged for a billboard to go up on the main highway. Large photos of the missing tenants would cover the display, with a metal hotline number bolted across the bottom. Anyone who'd seen something could call in. The department resisted at first—said it would draw attention before they had solid evidence. Cabrera pushed back. Attention was exactly what he needed. Someone out there knew something, saw Puente digging at odd hours, noticed tenants who stopped coming to the community center. The billboard would shake those memories loose. He hung up the phone and looked at his timeline again. The pieces were coming together—permits, witnesses, financial records. Sacramento had given him everything he needed to build this case. The infrastructure maps would arrive tomorrow. Then he'd mark every disturbed section of ground on that property and get his warrant. The truth was close now. He could feel it.