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Life is hard, said the mayor of
Santa Teresa. We have three clear-cut cases, said Inspector Angel Fernandez.
Everything has to be examined with a magnifying glass, said the man from the
chamber of commerce. I do examine everything with a magnifying glass, over and
over, until I can't see straight, said Pedro Negrete. The important thing is
not to stir up any shit, said the mayor. We have to do what it takes, said
Pedro Negrete. We have a serial killer, like in the gringo movies, said
Inspector Ernesto Ortiz Rebolledo. We have to watch our step, said the man from
the chamber of commerce. What's the difference between a serial killer and an
ordinary killer? asked Inspector Angel Fernandez. Very simple: the serial
killer has a signature, you see? he doesn't have a motive but he does have a
signature, said Inspector Ernesto Ortiz Rebolledo. What do you mean he doesn't
have a motive? Is he moved by electrical charges? asked the mayor. In this kind
of business you have to be careful what you say, or else you end up somewhere
you don't want to be, said the man from the chamber of commerce. There are
three dead women, said Inspector Angel Fernandez, holding up his thumb, index
finger, and middle finger. If only it were just three, said Pedro Negrete.
Three dead women whose right breasts were cut off and whose left nipples were
bitten off, said Inspector Ernesto Ortiz Rebolledo. What does that sound like
to all of you? asked Inspector Angel Fernandez. A serial killer? asked the
mayor. Well, of course, said Inspector Angel Fernandez. It would be too much of
a coincidence if three bastards chose the same way to carve up their victims,
said Inspector Ernesto Ortiz Rebolledo. Sounds logical, said the mayor. But
that might not be the whole story, said Inspector Angel Fernandez. If we let
our imaginations run wild there's no knowing where it'll lead us, said the man
from the chamber of commerce. I know what you're trying to get at, said Pedro
Negrete. And do you think we're right? asked the mayor. If the three women with
their right breasts sliced off were killed by the same person, wouldn't that
person have killed other women too? asked Inspector Angel Fernandez. It's only
scientific, said Inspector Ernesto Ortiz Rebolledo. The killer is a scientist?
asked the man from the chamber of commerce. No, I'm talking about the modus
operandi, the way this son of a bitch is warming up to his work, said Inspector
Ernesto Ortiz Rebolledo. Let me explain: he began by raping and strangling,
which is what you might call a normal way to kill. When he wasn't caught, his
murders became more personalized. The monster was unleashed. Now each crime
bears his personal signature, said Inspector Angel Fernandez. What do you
think, Judge? asked the mayor. Anything is possible, said the judge. Anything
is possible, but there's no need to descend into chaos, no need to lose our
bearings, said the man from the chamber of commerce. What does seem clear is
that the person who killed and mutilated those three poor women is the same
person, said Pedro Negrete. Well, find him and put an end to this goddamn
business, said the mayor. But discreetly, if I may make one request, without
sending anyone into a panic, said the man from the chamber of commerce.

Juan de Dios
Martinez
wasn't invited to the meeting. He
knew it was being held, he knew Ortiz Rebolledo and Angel Fernandez would be
there, and he knew he was being left out. But when Juan de Dios
Martinez
closed his eyes,
all he saw was Elvira Campos's body in the half-light of her apartment in
Colonia Michoacan. Sometimes he saw her in bed, naked, leaning toward him.
Other times he saw her on the terrace, surrounded by metallic objects, phallic
objects, that turned out to be all kinds of telescopes (there were really only
three), through which she scanned the starry sky of Santa Teresa and then took
notes in pencil. When he came up behind her and looked at the notebook, all he
saw were telephone numbers, most of them Santa Teresa numbers. The pencil was
an ordinary pencil. The notebook was a school notebook. Both objects struck him
as nothing like the kind of thing the director would own. That night, after he
heard about the meeting from which he'd been excluded, he called her and said
he needed to see her. A moment of weakness. She replied that she couldn't and
hung up. Sometimes the doctor treated him like a patient, he thought. He
remembered that once she had talked to him about age, her age and his. I'm
fifty-one, she'd told him, and you're thirty-four. Before long, no matter how
well I take care of myself, I'll be a lonely old hag and you'll still be young.
Do you really want to sleep with someone like your mother? It was the first time
Juan de Dios had heard her talk like that. An old hag? Honestly it had never
crossed his mind to think of her as old. Because I kill myself exercising, she
said. Because I take care of myself. Because I keep thin and I buy the most
expensive antiwrinkle products on the market. Antiwrinkle products? Lotions,
moisturizing creams, woman things, she said in a neutral voice that frightened
him. I like you the way you are, he said. His voice didn't sound convincing to
him. If he opened his eyes, though, and gazed at the real world and tried to
control his own jitters, everything stayed more or less in place.

So Pedro Rengifo is a
narco?
asked Lalo Cura. That's right,
said Epifanio. I can hardly believe it, said Lalo Cura. Because you're still a
fledgling, said Epifanio. A fat old Indian woman brought them each a dish of
posole. It was five in the morning. Lalo Cura had worked all night on traffic
duty. While he and his partner were stopped at a corner, someone knocked on the
window. Neither Lalo Cura nor the other cop had seen anyone coming. It was
Epifanio, up late and looking drunk, although he wasn't. I'm taking the kid, he
told the other patrolman. The patrolman shrugged and was left alone on the
corner, under some oaks with white-painted trunks. Epifanio was on foot. The
night was cool and all the stars were out in the desert breeze. They walked
downtown, without talking, until Epifanio asked if he was hungry. Lalo Cura
said he was. Then let's get something to eat, said Epifanio. When the fat old
Indian woman served them the posole, Epifanio sat looking at the earthenware
dish as if he'd seen someone else's face reflected in its surface. Do you know
where posole comes from, Lalito? he asked. No idea, said Lalo Cura. It's from
the middle of the country, not the north. It's a
Mexico City
specialty. The Aztecs invented
it, he said. The Aztecs? well, it's good, said Lalo Cura. Did you eat posole in
Villaviciosa? asked Epifanio. Lalo Cura thought about it, as if Villaviciosa
were very far away, and then he said no, in fact he hadn't, although now it
seemed strange to him that he hadn't tried it before he came to live in Santa
Teresa. Maybe I did try it and now I don't remember, he said. Well, this posole
isn't quite the same as the original posole, said Epifanio. It's missing an
ingredient. What ingredient is that? asked Lalo Cura. Human flesh, said
Epifanio. Don't fuck with me, said Lalo Cura. It's true, the Aztecs cooked
posole with pieces of human flesh, said Epifanio. I don't believe it, said Lalo
Cura. Well, it doesn't matter, maybe I'm wrong or the guy who told me was
wrong, although he knew all kinds of shit, said Epifanio. Then they talked
about Pedro Rengifo, and Lalo Cura asked how it was possible he hadn't realized
Don Pedro was a
narco.
Because you're
still an infant, said Epifanio. And then he said: why did you think he had so
many bodyguards? Because he's rich, said Lalo Cura. Epifanio laughed. Come on,
he said, let's get to bed, you're half asleep already.

In October no dead women turned
up in Santa Teresa, in the city or the desert, and work to get rid of the
illegal dump El
Chile
was permanently halted. A reporter for
La
Tribuna de Santa Teresa
who was covering the relocation or demolition of
the dump said he'd never seen so much chaos in his life. Asked whether the
chaos was caused by the city workers involved in the futile effort, he answered
that it wasn't, it came from the inertia of the festering place itself. In
October five judicial police inspectors were sent from
Hermosillo
to supplement the team of
inspectors already in the city. One of them came from Caborca, another from
Ciudad Obregon
, and the remaining three from
Hermosillo
. They seemed to
be up to the task. In October, Florita Almada made another appearance on
An Hour with Reinaldo
and said she had
consulted with her friends (sometimes she called them friends and other times
protectors) and they had told her the crimes would continue. They had also told
her to be careful, there were people who wished her ill. But I'm not worried,
she said, why should I be, when I'm already an old woman. Then, in front of the
cameras, she tried to talk to the spirit of one of the victims, but she
couldn't and she fainted. Reinaldo thought the faint was faked and tried to
rouse her himself, patting her cheeks and giving her
sips of water to drink, but
it wasn't faked at all (it was a real blackout) and Florita ended up in the
hospital.

Blond and very tall. Owner or
possibly trusted employee at a computer store. Downtown. It didn't take
Epifanio long to find the place. The man's name was Klaus Haas. He was six foot
three and he had canary-yellow hair, as if he dyed it once a week. The first
time Epifanio visited the store, Klaus Haas was sitting at his desk talking to
a customer. A short, very dark boy came up to him and asked if he needed help.
Epifanio pointed to Haas and asked who he was. The boss, said the boy. I want
to talk to him, he said. He's busy now, said the boy, if you tell me what you
want maybe I can find it for you. No, said Epifanio. He sat down, lit a
cigarette, and prepared to wait. Two other customers came in. Then a man in
blue overalls came in and left some cardboard boxes in a corner. Haas waved to
him from his desk. His arms are long and strong, thought Epifanio. The boy went
over and left him an ashtray. At the back of the store there was a girl typing.
When the customers left, a woman who looked like a secretary came in and began
to look at the laptops. As she looked she noted down prices and features. She
was wearing a skirt and high heels, and Epifanio thought she must definitely be
fucking her boss. Then two other customers came in and the boy left the woman
and went to wait on them. Haas, removed from it all, kept talking to the man
Epifanio could see only from behind. Haas's eyebrows were almost white and
sometimes he laughed or smiled at something the other man said and his teeth
gleamed like a movie actor's. Epifanio put out his cigarette and lit another.
The woman turned and glanced at the street, as if someone was waiting for her outside.
Her face seemed familiar, as if a long time ago he had arrested her.
 
How long ago? he wondered. Years and years.
But the woman didn't look older than twenty-five, so she couldn't have been
more than seventeen at the time. Might be, thought Epifanio. And then he
thought that business wasn't bad for
the
güero.
He had steady customers and he could permit himself the luxury of
sitting behind his desk, carrying on a leisurely conversation. Then Epifanio
thought about Rosa Maria Medina and her credibility. It isn't worth shit, he
said to himself. Half an hour later there was no one in the store. When the
woman left she glanced at him as if she recognized him too. Haas and his friend
weren't laughing anymore. Behind the counter, which was horseshoe shaped, the
güero
was waiting for him with a smile.
Epifanio took the picture of Estrella Ruiz Sandoval out of his pocket and
showed it to him. The
güero
looked at
it without touching it and then made a strange face, jutting his lower lip over
his upper lip, and glanced at him as if to ask what this was all about. Do you
know her? I don't think so, said Haas, but lots of people come through the
store. Then Epifanio introduced himself: Epifanio Galindo, of the Santa Teresa
police. Haas held out his hand and when Epifanio shook it he got the feeling
the blond man's bones were made of steel. He would have liked to tell him not
to lie, that he had witnesses, but instead he smiled. Behind Haas, sitting at
the other desk, the boy pretended to go through some papers, but he hadn't
missed a word.

After he locked up the store,
the boy got on a Japanese motorcycle and took a slow spin around the city
center, as if he expected to see someone. When he came to Calle Universidad he
accelerated and headed off in the direction of Colonia
Veracruz
. He stopped in front of a two-story
house and locked the motorcycle again. His mother had been waiting for him for
ten minutes with dinner ready. The boy gave her a kiss and turned on the
television. His mother went into the kitchen. She took off her apron and picked
up an imitation-leather purse. She gave the boy a kiss and left. I'll be right
back, she said. The boy thought about asking where she was going but he didn't
say anything. From one of the bedrooms came the wail of a child. At first the
boy ignored it and kept watching television, but when the wailing got louder he
got up, went into the bedroom, and came out with a little baby in his arms. The
baby was white and pudgy, the complete opposite of his brother. The boy sat him
on his knee and kept eating. There was a news program on TV. He saw a group of
blacks running along the streets of an American city, a man talking about Mars,
a group of women who strode out of the ocean and burst into laughter in front
of the cameras. He changed the channel with the remote. A couple of kids
boxing. He changed the channel again, because he didn't like boxing. His mother
seemed to have vanished, but the baby had stopped crying and the boy didn't
mind holding him. The doorbell rang. The boy had time to change the channel—a
soap opera—and then he got up with the baby in his arms and opened the door. So
this is where you live, said Epifanio. Yes, said the boy. Behind Epifanio was a
cop, a short cop, though he was taller than the boy, and he sat in the armchair
without asking permission. Were you having dinner? asked Epifanio. Yes, said
the boy. Keep eating, keep eating, said Epifanio as he popped in and out of the
other rooms, as if with a single glance he could search every corner of the
house. What's your name? asked Epifanio. Juan Pablo Castanon, said the boy.
Well, Juan Pablo, first sit down and keep eating, said Epifanio. Yes, sir, said
the boy. And don't be nervous or you'll drop the baby, said Epifanio. The other
policeman smiled.