The Black Minutes (38 page)

She’d woken up sad that morning, because of a dream she had, and didn’t want to go to school, but her parents dressed her and sent her on her way. Since they lived in a neighborhood with no electricity or paved streets, the girl had to walk through a small wooded area with mango and avocado trees to get to Public School Number Seven.

She was very small, her father thought. She looked so pretty with her hair wet and combed, just after her bath. She always wanted a metal lunchbox, like her classmates had, but José Torres never could buy it for her: I’m sorry,
mija
, but the most important thing is to have enough to eat, and he handed her her breakfast wrapped in a plastic bag.

The girl waved good-bye. It was the last time he saw her.

A group of Boy Scouts was responsible for finding the body: Augusto Cruz, Jesús Cárdenas, Carlos Síerra, and Martín Solares. Not one of them was more than seven years old. The first thing that was strange about the chaotic statement they gave was that they had no reason to be there, because their group, Number 7, was based out of the other end of the city. It all started when they
tried to skip class and see
The Exorcist
at the Cinemas del Bosque, but—they’d never skipped class before—they took a bus headed in the wrong direction and when they got off, they were caught in a thunderstorm, so they sought shelter in an abandoned building. Later, one of them wanted to explore the second floor and he found the body.

The address was for an abandoned building on the outskirts of the city. The Evangelist’s car was in the street, and there was an ambulance next to it. Rangel jumped the barrier restricting access to the crime scene. Crazyshot tried to stop him.

“Hold on, man, you can’t go in.”

“Why?” He tried to push his way through, but his coworker got in his way.

“Chief’s orders. Taboada’s in charge.”

“Fuck Taboada.” And he pushed his coworker out of the way. Cruz Treviño made such a small effort to hold him back that Rangel realized the giant really wanted him to take the case, so he wouldn’t have the responsibility. Fucking jerks. All of them just want to get off the hook, and here I go like a complete idiot.

He walked to the first floor, and immediately the awful smell hit him, like he was entering a tiger’s den. Damn, he said to himself, this is the place, no doubt about it. His legs almost gave way when he passed the stairs and walked into the foul-smelling hallway; it was impossible to breathe and he started to cough. The Evangelist ran out of the room, covering his nose with a handkerchief and didn’t stop till he made it to the window. Then he started vomiting.

“Watch out,
cabrón
!” they shouted at him from below.

Rangel deeply wanted someone else to take the job from him, but he found himself on his own again, so, summoning all his
strength, he covered his mouth with his handkerchief and walked through a door that seemed to lead to another world.

The scene of the crime was so overwhelming that while he was in the room, he couldn’t think. He could only ponder the insanity that was behind it all, trying to imagine what kind of person could do something like this. His hands weren’t even sweating anymore, they were literally cracking open, but he didn’t realize it at that moment. He realized he was covered with cold sweat when Dr. Ridaura came into the room.

“Oh, finally, you’re here. If you thought this was it, follow me; I’ll show you some more.”

The old woman went back down the hallway and, completely exasperated, opened one door after another.

“Look.”

There was blood splattered on the floor in each of the rooms. “Holy Mother of God,” said Rangel. The building had a parking area inside it, so the killer was able to go in and out without being seen. Of course, he thought, that fucking pig, he killed all of them right here. I’m in the killer’s den.

The doctor sneezed and angrily blew her nose.

“And that’s the least of it. You know what’s the strangest part, Vicente? That girl who’s lying on the ground has been dead for two months. There’s evidence that the maniac came back and attacked her several times.”

“Two months?”

“At least. Look: advanced state of decomposition, cadaver fauna; the skin comes off like a glove. It’s awful, I don’t understand how no one found her sooner. But right now, the most important thing is that this guy’s got to be caught and brought to justice.”

The doctor picked up the clothing with a metal wire. The sound of the flies buzzing was unbearable, and Rangel couldn’t take it anymore. And right then, he said to himself, the clothes, the clothes. Vicente was able to decode the strange arrangement of the bodies.

In the three plastic bags he had examined so far, the killer had covered the girls’ remains with strips of their school uniform. First, he put the girls into the bags and then he added the uniform. Was he trying to cover them? Exactly, he thought, covering them up is his calling card, as Dr. Cuarón would say. Holy shit, that’s it, why would he possibly want to cover them up? And he said to himself silently: To identify himself. Horrified, completely stupefied, Rangel looked over the first layer of clothing, a white shirt with bloodstains. Using tweezers, he spread it out, and his amazement multiplied infinitely when he recognized that, if he squinted, the shape of the stains seemed to spell out three block letters.

He went to his car, took out the two girls’ files and reviewed the black-and-white photos: three letters, damn it, it was obvious. On the front of both shirts he recognized similar markings. It wasn’t hard, because they were the initials of one of the most powerful political associations in Mexico, which was especially powerful in the area. Cigarettes bitten on one side, white wool from a sheep, a hunting knife, three letters. . . . Holy shit, he thought, it’s crystal clear. He saw
El Mercurio
out of the corner of his eye and the hair on his arms stood on end. That day, they had published the perpetrator’s photo; he was at an official event, practically in the place of honor, receiving applause from the public.

Holy shit, he thought, holy shit, this is about to blow up. They had to take Mrs. Hernández seriously. Covering his face
with his hands, he considered the possibility of telling Wong and the Professor, but if the fucking idiots didn’t support me before, he thought, they sure as hell won’t do it now. He mentally ticked through the rest of the officers on the force and concluded that he had his reasons not to trust any of them, just like none of them trusted him. Ever since the rumor about his quitting had made the rounds, they had even more reason to buddy up to Taboada and stop working with him. Shit, he said to himself, what do I do now?

When Taboada pulled up, he was surprised to find Rangel parked there.

“And what the hell are you doing here? Weren’t you going off with Barbosa, you fucking asshole?”

Surprising everyone, Rangel headed right at him, more than willing to break his face in, and he walked so purposefully that even El Travolta took a step back.

Now you’ve gone and done it, fucking fat-ass, Rangel thought. El Travolta was about to jump on top of him when Wong and the Bedouin held him back. Not now,
cabrón
, not here. A little calmed down and without the look of fear in his eyes, El Travolta puffed his chest out like normal.

“You’re gonna pay, asshole.”

“Bring it on, man.”

And he turned around slowly, giving the fat guy a chance to go after him, but he didn’t try it. Taboada’s a fucking idiot.

He pulled his car out, tires squealing. If I could’ve, I would’ve quit right that fucking second. If Taboada wants to get mixed up in all this violence, let him, let him get in the mud and stay there, like the pig he is. I’ve had enough.

He wasn’t able to calm himself down until he got to the avenue, but as he headed down the boulevard in Tres Colonias, he had no more doubts about what he had to do.

After making his decision, it took him two minutes to put together his plan. He needed someone desperate who’d be willing to help him. And since he couldn’t trust anyone, he called the only investigator with that profile.

Not like it was anything new, but they started to assign me to follow up on the most fucked-up calls; they sent me to the Colonia Coralillo. You know what they say about that neighborhood: One time a cop went in there and they diced him up alive. I asked the boss, Why don’t you go? It’s really far; you’ve got a car and I don’t. “You don’t really want to be part of the secret police, do you?” he said. Yeah, I do. “OK, then, go. And don’t be late coming back.” So I went.

I had a fake reporter’s ID and, depending on the situation, I wasn’t sure if I’d say I was a cop or not. I had a fake badge in one pocket, and in the other I had a mini–tape recorder that my cousin lent me so I’d be more convincing. When I headed into that part of town, I remembered they’d assault you for a watch or your glasses, so I thought I’d better keep it in my pocket. Just then, the taxi driver turned around at the traffic circle instead of going in. What’s up? What’s the problem? Why’re you stoppin’ here? “It’s union orders; they’re really worked up today about the girls who got killed. One of ’em was from here.” And what do I do now? “Sorry, that’s not my problem.”

As soon as I went in, I wouldn’t have anywhere to hide. The neighborhood’s calmed down a little now, but you can’t even imagine what the Coralillo was like in the seventies. None of the streets were paved; it was just a dusty pit where everybody went to throw their junk. No drinking water or electricity, not even a sewage system. Malaria, diphtheria, polio . . . the river was so dirty there were dead burros floating in it. The government never went there except to arrest somebody. A few months before I went in, a mob lynched a cop from Ciudad Madera. The guy went in, chasing some robbers, and he left in an ambulance, with his ribs broken. That’s why I was trembling. But the only thing I could think to do was to go in a straight line, never pass by the same place twice and entrust myself to the Virgen María.

And that’s how I did it, cussing the whole goddamn way. The first person who made a report lived in a house in front of a pharmacy called La Perla, an old termite-ridden wooden place. In front, there were like twenty kids fighting over a bike with training wheels. A skinny kid was hitting another kid when I came up.

“Hey, kids.” All of them stopped playing except for the one whose turn it was to be on the bike. “Is Mrs. Mariscal here?”

“Why you wanna see her?” A kid in a striped shirt asked. The other ones were curious, too, and they surrounded me.

“She asked for me to come. I’m a reporter with
El Mercurio
.”

“From
El Mercurio
?” the one in the striped shirt asked. “My mom didn’t talk to no reporter. She called the cops. That’s why my dad sent her to the hospital.”

I had to swallow my spit. The kids started shouting that I was a cop and that they were going to tell Juan’s dad. Luckily there were no adults around. I was trying to come up with something to say to interrupt them when I took a step backward and tripped on a bike wheel, almost breaking it. El Flaco, the skinny one, shouted,
“Fucking cop! Don’t let him go!” And they all came at me at once. They started kicking me, throwing rocks, hitting me, whatever they could do. El Flaco held my legs together while the others grabbed my hands. I was still thinking,
Aww, what sweet kids
, and I wanted to get free without making noise, but one of them hurled a stone that hit me right in my left eye. No more Mister Nice Guy, I thought, and I got really mad and started to hand out knuckle sandwiches. Take that you, fucking kids,
güegüenches
, you cocksuckers. Little by little they started to let go, but El Flaco was holding onto my pants really tight, and when I looked down I saw he was about to bite my stomach, the little bastard, so I gave him a good loud slap.

All of them turned to look, and when the kid saw he was at the center of attention, he started to cry. Typical. Then he shouted, “Now you did it, asshole! I’m gonna get my dad’s gun.”

Gun? What the fuck? I thought and ran to take cover in the little store on the corner. Since the kids were right at my heels, I took out the only pesos I had, put them on the counter, and shouted, “This is on me!” And I emptied a jar full of candy and gum into my hands.

The kids surrounded me like piranhas and I offered them the candy. That got their attention and they stopped shouting. It didn’t stop one of them from yelling, “Fucking cop,” and another from smearing mud on my shirt, but as soon as the first one grabbed a piece of candy, the others did, too.

“My mom told you to get all this?” asked the kid in the striped shirt.

“Sure she did.” I assured him.

Then the little devil showed what he was really made of. “My mom always buys us Chaparritas.”

After I bought a case of those little bottles of soda, the kids finally quieted down. I was just starting to breathe normally, when
El Flaco showed up, carrying a plastic bag. He seemed surprised by our little party.

“What’s happenin’?” he asked the one in stripes.

“Nothin’, this dude got us some Chaparritas.” He was talking with his mouth half full of candy.

“And you, buddy, you don’t want anything?” I cut him off.

El Flaco looked at me distrustfully until the one in the striped shirt egged him on.

“Right on, get some chips.”