The Black Minutes (10 page)

“I’d like to talk to that person,” Cabrera said.

“I’ll do what I can. In the meantime”—he unlocked a drawer and took out a notebook that had a blue cover with psychedelic drawings all over it—“It’s my account of what happened twenty years ago. Bernardo read it, too.”

He called the attendant and asked her to make a copy, and while they waited, they stared out the window. In the distance, the bulldozers worked incessantly. Then the secretary came in, handed back the original and the copy, and Cabrera left. He had a lot to do and only three days off.

The prison in Paracuán is on the road headed into the city, on a hill looking down on the river. Originally, the building belonged to a Spanish hacendado. Now its towers are used by eight armed gendarmes to watch over the inside of the penitentiary.

To go in, all personal items must be left in an envelope; belts, shoelaces, and anything that can cut or be melted down must be removed. A sign written on a cardboard box warns that alcohol, food, sharp objects, bananas, mangos, or soursops are not allowed, since the inmates will ferment the fruit to make alcohol. At the entrance they ask you for an ID, they ask your relationship with the inmate, and then they let you in.

René Luz de Dios López was not called the Jackal by many people anymore. Everybody just used his first and last name. When Cabrera asked for him, one of the guards said, “He’s the one over there with the guitar. Hurry up, they have to go eat dinner; it’s time for mess hall.”

The man known as the Jackal was playing the guitar and singing a religious song with some other inmates. Cabrera didn’t want to attract any attention from the guards so he interrupted him discreetly. “René Luz de Dios?” And he explained why he was there.

López wasn’t surprised. “Two interviews in two weeks. I’m getting famous.”

And Cabrera knew he was getting closer.

The story of René Luz de Dios López is the story of a scapegoat. In 1975 he was a delivery driver for a processing plant that made cold cuts. When the first three girls were murdered, he was in Matamoros, a full day’s drive away. Every fifteen days, his boss sent him to the northern part of the state to supply the clients in that area. He even had a receipt from the hotel where he stayed, stamped and signed by the cashier, who remembered him well. Unluckily for him, the morning one of the little girls was found, he was in Paracuán. A random chain of events led the police, who were actively looking for someone to blame, to the conclusion that René Luz de Dios López was their ideal candidate. For the last twenty-five years, he’s been locked up for four murders he didn’t commit.

When the State sets out to hurt somebody, nothing can be done to stop it. Eighty Jehovah’s witnesses—who by religious law cannot lie—were willing to declare with the vehemence of the converted that the day the second girl was murdered René Luz de Dios had been with them from ten in the morning until at least six. There was no way he could have left without their noticing, but the judge ignored their testimony. He didn’t take stamped and dated receipts into consideration either; these were provided by the owner of the plant and showed that René Luz de Dios was delivering merchandise in Matamoros and Reynosa
on the days when the first three girls were murdered. The day the first victim disappeared, for example, he was on the border from the night before. When the second girl disappeared, he was working in Reynosa, and the day the third girl was killed he was shopping in McAllen for his wife’s birthday present, as his stamped passport showed. And yet the prosecutor suggested that the receipts were forgeries and that, if he had wanted to, the defendant could have traveled round-trip from the port to the other end of the state, just to murder the three girls without provoking any suspicion.

The photos of the day his sentence was read show him to have been depressed and inconsolable. He was about to turn twenty-five when he went in. If he managed to get out alive, he would be a seventy-year-old man by the time he finished his sentence. He left behind two baby girls and, above all, his wife, to whom he’d been married almost three years. His public defender, a lawyer who was an activist in the opposition, appealed to the higher State courts and called a press conference to decry the handling of the case. A month later he published a book with his own funds, in which he laid out the injustices the driver suffered. The public defender kept making public statements until he had a car accident on the highway. He died five years later from his injuries.

Inside the cellblock reserved for murderers, the ceiling was made of a thick metal mesh, on which the guards paraded, ready to shoot rubber bullets or throw tear-gas grenades; the inmates’ cells were concrete boxes, many of them with plastic curtains instead of doors. Ever since they sent him to the murderers’ block, the guards had warned René Luz to be careful. When a guy who murdered a woman, or a child rapist, arrived, the inmates would
normally get together to kill him, while the guards pretended not to notice. Everything the guards said was dripping with cynicism, since if they did attack him, nobody would come to his rescue. The inmates could tolerate anyone, except for a rapist.

René Luz wasn’t planning to sleep the first night. When he noticed how his neighbors were looking at him, he started to get worried, and when he saw his cell door was just a simple piece of fabric, he thought he was going to pass out. Even though he tried to convince the guard, pathetically appealing to him for help, the man who was in charge of keeping watch over the block from the ceiling not only didn’t answer him, but also moved away to a corner on the far side of the roof to sleep more comfortably. The guard watching the door at the end of the hall told him to go away. At nine, they turned the lights off.

As soon as the moon was hidden, they went to see him. There were only three: one stayed by the door and never went in; the other two were thin, dark-skinned, and barefoot.
Buenas
, the thinner one said to him. He was a mulatto with a scar on his neck and a hard stare. René Luz de Dios López must have thought they were the eyes of the man who would kill him. So, you’re René Luz? The one who killed those three girls? About to pass out, the scapegoat, knowing he was on the verge of being sacrificed, tried to tell the inmates about the injustices committed against him. But it was useless. If the civilized people didn’t want to hear him out when he had all the evidence in hand, what was the point of telling the same story to three convicted murderers?

As best as he could, with a voice as thin as a thread, he recounted the story of his trial. His account didn’t seem plausible to him. Compared with his testimony before the court and his
family, this sounded terse and unbelievable. Occasionally, someone would stop him with a question or a monosyllable, to which René Luz would respond in his weak little voice. He could barely string two words together, and he felt his ears buzzing. When the moon shone through the metal grating, he noticed the thin guy was hiding the tip of a metal blade under his clothes.

Right then, he noticed the one at the door motioning to the others. He remembers thinking: this is as far as I get. The skinnier one stood up and took a step toward him, then another and another, pretending to check out his personal items. When he was almost on top of him, he grabbed a bag of coffee René Luz’s wife had sent him.
Ca-fé de Co-mi-tán
, he read under the moonlight. And where’s that at? In Chiapas, René Luz said. He didn’t think he was going to make it out alive. It must be good. Could you give me some? Take it all, he said, but the inmate said that would be wrong. Despite how much time his visitor was taking, René Luz expected to receive the first blow any moment now and asked himself if they’d start on his neck or his stomach. When the inmate pulled out his weapon from his shirt, he closed his eyes reverentially, like a lamb offering himself for sacrifice. He didn’t see the inmate cut the bag with the tip of his blade, and he opened his eyes when he heard something being poured softly: it was some of the coffee falling onto a handkerchief. Then he heard,
Gracias, amigo
, and all of sudden they were gone.

He didn’t know what time he fell asleep. He dreamed that a pack of dogs came around to sniff him, and then they left.

The day Cabrera visited him, he wasn’t holding out any hope. Fifteen more years till he’d get out, the sentence had already been shortened, why would he risk that? Cabrera had to push him hard to get him to speculate on who might be the real killer.

“People said it was the owner of Cola Drinks and that President Echeverría was protecting him.”

René Luz stared at the floor, as if resigned to the fact he’d never find out anything about the guy who should have been in prison instead of him. The room darkened. Cabrera noticed clouds had filled the sky.

At night, in the middle of a heavy downpour, Cabrera called Padre Fritz at the bishop’s offices.

“Why didn’t you tell me Jack Williams was the main suspect?” He sounded annoyed.

“Because it wasn’t relevant,” the priest explained. “Mr. Williams has been trying to clear his reputation for twenty years, and I wasn’t going to give any more life to those stories.”

“How are you so sure it wasn’t him?”

“Because I know him. I was friends with his father.”

That changed his perspective completely. What side was the Jesuit on? He didn’t know what to think anymore.

Cabrera called the archive director, Rodrigo Montoya, at his home and asked if he was able to locate the informant.

“He’ll be waiting for you tomorrow at eleven by the lighthouse at the beach,” and he specified the exact place to meet him. “His name is Jorge Romero, and he worked in the Secret Service.”

“His name sounds familiar. How will I recognize him?”

“Don’t worry, he’ll recognize you; he has eyes everywhere. On the other hand, you could never identify him. He’s very good at disguising himself.”

“And why would he be in diguise?”

“There are a lot of people here who don’t like him, starting with the chief of the judicial police. I already told you this was going to be complicated.”

“And how will he recognize me?”

“It won’t be hard. One more thing: If you have some extra pesos, give him some cash. He doesn’t have much money.”

“I don’t have much either.”

“Two hundred pesos would do.”

He called headquarters to check in and found he had six messages from Mr. Obregon’s son: Give me back my gun, assfuck. Damnit, he said to himself, I’d completely forgotten; I should take it in right now, I don’t want any trouble with Obregón. But he was completely exhausted and he figured a few more hours wouldn’t make a difference . . . and he was wrong again. Since he’d argued with his wife, Cabrera went back to his own apartment, which needed serious cleaning. When he collapsed into bed, he made an attempt to read Rodrigo Montoya’s testimony but it was impossible: too many things had happened in one day already. He stood up for a glass of water and saw the sunset: dusk had begun and darkness descended over the city. Near the refinery, the horizon turned the same color as the gas burn-off stacks; the clouds were lit up with that reddish, anxious color he hated so much. He needed rest. What a day off! he said to himself, and fell asleep.

With the weather like it was, there were only three crazy people at the beach: a group of kids wrapped in thick blankets trying to grill some meat on a barbecue. Following Montoya’s instructions, he took the beachfront boulevard up to the Hotel Las Gaviotas. As soon as he saw the Cola Drinks ad, he parked by the dunes and walked to the shoreline. A freezing wind rustled the empty
palapas
and rushed all the way up to the seawall. He wondered why the hell he hadn’t grabbed his jacket on the way out.

Once in a while, a hermit crab would spit a handful of sand on him. Right at the water’s edge, a tiny seagull hopped around a few feet away. Every time the waves receded, the seagull would chase the silver fish swimming in the current. They walked in the same direction for a few minutes so as not to freeze, until a second seagull arrived to pick up the first one, and he realized even seagulls had better luck than him.

Cabrera didn’t know how the
porteños
managed to have a stand selling candies all the way at the farthest end of the beach, but there was one. Before he saw him coming, a vendor had already offered him coconut and milk candies. He thought that if a vendor with a portable glass showcase could walk up without him noticing, anybody could. What kind of detective was he? He wasn’t made for this, being out in the streets; he should stay in the office, chatting up the social service girls. When he noticed the three kids get in
their cars and leave, he realized the beach was now deserted. It was like someone had taken the blindfold off his eyes: What if this little meeting was a trap? This sucks, he thought. There was no one to turn to if he got into trouble. The deserted beach was an ideal spot to hide a body. The whole thing might be a trick! The archive director was in cahoots with Chávez! He was going to end up buried up to his neck in the sand, like a victim of the Chinese mob. He was thinking about all that when he saw a bus stop on the boulevard. Just two people got off the bus, one of them, a child, looked at him, and he knew he was the one they were looking for.

It was a blind man with a cane and a little girl who was helping him along. The girl guided him toward Cabrera and, before he could say his name, the blind man said, “Yes, I know who you are. Don’t be frightened, amigo, I’m not going to kill you.”