FOR THE RECORD:
Kidnapping capital: A photo caption in Thursday's Section A with an article on ransom kidnappings in Phoenix gave the incorrect name of Jose Perez-Torres for victim Juan Francisco Perez-Torres. —
Two men with a gun grabbed the 34-year-old from his van and dragged him 50 yards to a waiting SUV. His wife threw rocks at the car, then gave chase in her own SUV. Neighbors in northwest Phoenix called police. Yet when police found her later, she at first denied there was a problem.
On the phone later, as detectives listened in, kidnappers said Perez-Torres had stolen someone's marijuana.
But police were used to conflicting story lines by now. It was Phoenix, after all: More ransom kidnappings happen here than in any other town in America, according to local and federal law enforcement authorities. Most every victim and suspect is connected to the drug-smuggling world, usually tracing back to the western Mexican state of Sinaloa, Phoenix police report.
Arizona has become the new drug gateway into the United States. Roughly half of all marijuana seized along the U.S.-Mexico border was taken on the state's 370-mile border with Mexico.
One result is an epidemic of kidnapping that many residents are barely aware of. Indeed, most every other crime here is down. But police received 366 kidnapping-for-ransom reports last year, and 359 in 2007. Police estimate twice that number go unreported.
In September, police spun off a separate detective unit to handle only these smuggling-related kidnappings and home-invasion robberies. Its detectives are now considered among the country's most expert in those crimes.
That Thursday afternoon last month, Perez-Torres' abduction fell to the unit's two most seasoned detectives, Gina Garcia and Arnulfo "Sal" Salgado, as they were about to leave work. Over the next 42 hours, the kidnapping would consume their every waking moment.
"You never know which way it's going to go," Garcia said. "Sometimes you hear the victim screaming, pleading for help, pleading for their life. You have to stay calm. Talk is huge in this business."
Talk got serious that night, about seven hours after Perez-Torres was abducted.
Over the phone, the kidnapper sounded drunk.
"Get moving," he told Andres, a partner with Perez-Torres in a small-scale auto sales business, who pretended to be the victim's brother. "Start selling things."
He demanded $150,000.
Standing with Andres in the department's "kidnap room" -- a small office with a window, television and tape recorder -- Garcia mouthed responses. "Tell him you want to talk to the victim," she said. "Don't agree to anything."
Garcia was a child when she crossed the Mexico-Arizona border illegally with her parents and eight siblings. She grew up in a tough Phoenix barrio, obtained legal status and was steered to police work by a youth activities program. Five years ago, she joined the kidnapping unit, and has worked hundreds of cases since then.
Her job is to steady the nerves of victims' relatives as they take calls from kidnappers, who often torture their victims while talking to the families. Sometimes she steps in and, in a bit of life-or-death theater, pretends to be the victim's cousin or friend. That's when her native norteño accent pays off.
Andres, who asked that his surname not be used for this article, didn't need much calming. He pleaded well -- not too whiny, not too insistent.