The Black Minutes (35 page)

Even though I considered myself more prepared than most to take advantage of this course, above all because I was already an undercover agent in the service of New Journalism, I was willing to keep my mouth shut, and I went. I had hardly sat down when Rangel stuck his head in and called for me. He said that I
could not attend the meeting, because my presence would bother the agents. He explained to me that none of the police officers had finished middle school, and they would be inhibited if a young man like me, with such advanced education and of such obvious cultural stature, were to ask intelligent and elaborate questions. If you want to meet the doctor, I’ll introduce you later. In the meantime, he wanted me to go with the Blind Man to patrol the tourist area on the docks to help him to look for a supposed drug dealer, but since I had already made that trip in reverse when I was looking for stuff to smoke in my pipe, I refused: I was risking the chance that one of my hookups would say hi to me or, even worse, that he’d think I was ratting on him. Besides, this guy trying to keep me from entering the course was violating my fundamental human rights. Obviously, a Super Agent like me couldn’t be duped that easily, so I told him sure and I asked the Blind Man to wait for me in the street, but as soon as I could, I went right back and went into the meeting. Of course, before I did, I took not one but two tokes off my pipe, just to be ready for whatever.

Listening to Dr. Quiroz Cuarón’s talk in that condition was an amazing experience. At first, for obvious reasons, it was hard for me to understand what he was saying on a syntactical level, but I did something better: spurred on by the initial effect of the pipe, I was able to meander between the doctor’s words, in the space that he left between one word and another, and begin to dive down deep into their meaning. The detective seemed like an ancient Oriental musician who had come to delight us with his lute. Each time the doctor spoke, his words were like the strumming of its strings. Those interwoven sounds glided through the air, like wisps of smoke filling up the room. My consciousness dove through the spaces, literally submerging itself in different
spots, in order to discover hidden associations. It was a good talk: refined, fluid, with the consistency of water.

To begin, the doctor drew an incomprehensible equation on the board. Gentlemen, he said, you all know that in order to solve a murder you have to answer the seven golden questions of the criminal equation: what happened, where, when, how, who, why, and with what instrument? In the case of the two girls, we are faced with a crime with no apparent motive, with no witnesses or leads, and that after a certain period of time was repeated with identical violence on another individual. I had read in some magazine that the doctor was attempting to develop a formula to study serial murderers and, if possible, to catch them: a mathematical equation. So I took note of it.

I had to try really hard, but for a long time I could only latch onto incomplete ideas: “We are facing a creature who lives in the borderlands between insanity and sanity. . . . Despite erasing his tracks impeccably, the butchering of the bodies had an obviously offensive meaning and he carried it out irrationally....

“Despite having been able to hide successfully, every killer leaves almost imperceptible evidence behind, which can lead us to him. Even the most impeccable killer commits unconscious mistakes that expose him, small oversights that reveal his identity. These combine to form the killer’s
signature
and they are the first variable of my equation.

“Imagine a solitary being that appears to lead a normal life. He is normally quiet and shuns the spotlight. He prefers to stay away from the world and avoids talking about himself, because, what could he say? That he has fantasies in which he tortures his acquaintances to get revenge on them? He lives alone or with some relative who takes care of the practical things.

“He only studied through middle school, if that. He has never had any kind of relationship as a couple and is sexually frustrated.

“He can’t bear people humiliating him. Generally, he has brain damage in the frontal lobe, which is where moral feelings are located, as is our capacity for recognizing other people as individuals. That damage could have been inflicted at birth or as a child, causing him never to be able to identify his victims as people, but rather as animated dolls he can manipulate at will.

“Psychopaths like the one we are looking for begin with their fantasies, then they commit sadistic acts against animals, and finally they attack people. When they assault, they feel neither mercy nor pity. For the killer, his victims are less than human, with no right to live. As he attacks them, he considers himself the master of the other person’s body. Before killing, he normally feels very anxious. He kills in order to avoid that uneasiness. Afterward he relaxes, his mood improves and he can even sleep without remorse.

“In order to resolve these cases, you must put yourself in the shoes of the guilty person and reason like him. You must think like the murderer, this is the right way, but it’s also the riskiest. Unfortunately, not everyone can do it.”

When I noticed it, the doctor’s face was a few inches from my own. I had to make a huge effort to understand his questions; those sentences came from so far away that they produced a kind of echo.

“Let’s see, Mr.—”

“Montoya.”

“Mr. Montoya, very well. Tell me, what do these faces have in common?”

He paused and showed the girls’ pictures, Karla Cevallos and Julia Concepción González, taken in front of their respective
classrooms. One was dressed like a rich girl; the other was wearing a modest public school uniform.

“What do you see here? At first glance, there would seem to be no connection between the two of them: they live in two different parts of the city.”

He took the pictures of the two girls and covered the background so that only their faces were visible. Then he covered their uniforms and the González girl’s braids. The result was alarming: they looked alike, the two girls looked the same!

“Impressive,” said Dr. Ridaura, who was in the room.

“There is a logic to all this. This subject chooses his victims; the Tacubaya Strangler acted the same way. He chooses girls who seem to be around ten years old, no more than about three feet high, white skin, black hair, a straight nose, and braids. This is the type of victim he prefers. In his strange way of thinking, he wants to punish them. He deceives them as he attracts them and then kills them with a serrated knife.”

I agreed with him: Right on, I said, and I gave him the thumbs-up sign. He was quite the expert.

Then the doctor looked at his watch and picked up the pictures. “When a homicide like this occurs, it affects us all. Society clamors for quick justice. Justice in a case like this must be backed up by a responsible and scientific investigation. Men, go and do your duty.”

When the session ended, the lackey signaled to me and then came over. “Rangel had to leave,” he said. “He ordered us to take the doctor wherever he wants.”

“Right on,” I said, “that’s awesome! Spending time with one of the best detectives in the world is a huge privilege.”

The Blind Man drove toward the richest neighborhoods in the city and passed in front of a mansion that occupied the longest block, a mansion with incredibly white walls.

“What are we doing here?” asked the doctor.

“I thought you’d be interested to know where the main suspect lives,” said the Blind Man.

“Look,” answered the detective, “I have asked for no such thing. The only thing I want is to be returned to my hotel.”

It was obvious that he couldn’t stand talking to the Blind Man, who you could tell from a mile away was a fan of his.

So we took the old man back, and on the way the Blind Man was so angry that I decided to keep quiet. We dropped the doctor off and before I realized it, the Blind Man had returned to the main suspect’s house. There were a lot of cars parked on the nearby blocks.

“It looks like there’s a party,” he said. “A lot of security, too.” There were two bodyguards at each entrance. “Just think,” he said, “while the people are scared to death, the guy inside there is having a party.”

“What’s his name?” I asked.

“Who, the suspect? Williams, John Williams, some people call him Jack.”

As the Blind Man drove, I said to myself: Williams, John Williams, I know that name. “Hey, Romero,” I asked, “is John Williams a tall guy, Jewish, like twenty years old? Because I know him. Is that who you’re talking about?” Romero looked at me, shocked by the news, and I explained to him that the summer before I had met Jack at boarding school in New York, and the two of us had gone partying. We were drunk for three days, but who knows if he remembered me; they were some hectic days, if you know what I mean.

At that moment, our patrol car stopped in front of the main entrance. “What’s up, Romero, why are you stopping?”

“I have no idea,” said the Blind Man, “the engine stopped.”

“Well, start it up, idiot.”

“I’m trying,” he said, “but the engine isn’t starting.” An incredibly tall bodyguard was watching us distrustfully. He elbowed his buddies and they stared at us, too, just watching to see what would happen. A minute later, they came up to us, accompanied by a gringo more than six feet tall, who looked like a soldier.

“Damn,” said the Blind Man, “now we’re fucked, first they’re gonna beat us up, then they’re gonna report us to the chief. What am I gonna tell Rangel?”

The situation was making me nervous. I wanted to take a hit from my pipe, but the bodyguard was already on his way. So I leaned back in the seat and came up with a foolproof plan.

When the guard stuck his head in through the window, I said, “Good evening, I’ve come to the party.”

“What is your name, sir?”

“Rodrigo Montoya.”

“I’m going to check the list.”

“I won’t be there,” I explained, “I’m just back from a trip; tell Jack I showed up unexpectedly.”

“Wait,” he said, and took out a walkie-talkie.

The guard had a response in a few minutes; he looked me over again and said I could go in.

“That’s it, dude,” I said to Romero, “I’ll tell you later how it went.” The Blind Man couldn’t believe my luck. He grabbed my arm and said, “Find out if that asshole is right- or left-handed. The most important thing is the weapon; look for the murder weapon. Don’t forget: it has to be a serrated knife. If you find it, we’re halfway there.” It was clear to me that I was on a special mission.

I had to be really tough to head straight into the belly of the beast, but, no problem, I said to myself, I’m a warrior, I can handle this.

As soon as I got out of the car, the car started. “What a coincidence,” the Blind Man said.

“It’s not a coincidence,” I said, “it’s a cosmic sign, I’m used to it.” I was now carrying the weight of the investigation on my shoulders.

There was a huge blow-out party, the kind that make history. Jack came up to welcome me. “What’s happening, Rodrigo? What’re you doing here in the port?”

“I’m on vacation,” I said; I wasn’t going to reveal my mission just like that. And we drank a few whiskeys, in memory of our time together in New York.

Jack asked me what I’d been doing the last couple months, and I told him about studying in the Ibero, about the art house theaters I was going to—films by Fellini and Antonioni—and about how my vision of things was evolving. “Listen,” he insisted, “what’s missing in this port is a person like you, with your experience and your knowledge of art. Why don’t you stick around and work here? My dad wants to invest in a cultural project, he wants to fund a kind of museum and expo center, I think because he wants to get around paying taxes, you know? It would be awesome if you were the director.” In short, he insisted that I accept. I said to myself that I could stay on in Paracuán; in any case, my dad’s businesses were never really interesting to me, but being twenty years old and directing a cultural center, that sure did seem like a cool job. Although, of course, a warrior like me couldn’t succumb to temptation just like that. I thought for a second that Jack knew why I was crashing his party and was trying to bribe me, but he wasn’t going to get off that easy. I was going to identify the perpetrator.

From where we were standing, I could see the kitchen, and I said to him, “I’ll be right back. I was planning to look for the serrated knife, but Jack grabbed me by the arm.

“Come with me, I want to introduce you to some girls,” and he dragged me off to the actual party.

In this mixed-up world, if you don’t get trashed, you get smashed. When Carlos Castaneda figured out the enemies of a man of knowledge, he forgot to mention alcohol and women. Jack introduced me to three girls. “Where are you from?” I asked.

The blonde said, “From California.”

“That’s Carolina—Iowa—and this is Claudette,” said Jack, motioning to the redhead. “She’s from Canada.” The three of them were out of this world.

The mansion had two visible buildings; the bigger one was the main house and the smaller one was the guest house. Between them, there was a huge garden and in the center of the garden they had set up a dance floor with lights and everything. The girls and the other guests were gathered around the drinks, talking. The guys responsible for putting on the CDs were none other than the legendary Freaky Villarreal and René Sánchez Galindo, both total experts. They played soul, blues, and disco and the place was getting hot.