The Mamacita Murders (26 page)

When my nana walked me up to her coffin at her funeral, my mom looked like she was sleeping and her eyes would open at any moment. She looked a lot older than just the week earlier when I saw her alive. It was probably all the makeup they put on her. The mortician did a terrible job. The makeup was chalky and didn’t match her warm skin tones. It was a bad attempt at hiding the marks on her face. I couldn’t remember which ones my stepfather made. There were so many times mom’s face was puffy, her eyes were swollen, and she had dark circles under her eyes; for the most part, I thought they were all natural.

As I stared at my mom in her casket, I hoped I died, too. I wanted to crawl into her casket and wondered if there would be enough room for me to fit inside with her. I just didn’t want to live without her and I felt so bad about not saving her. I never told anyone how bad I felt that day, especially not Nana. I was afraid of getting in trouble. Nana was so angry that my stepfather hadn’t been arrested yet. She was frustrated at how slow police were working on the investigation. She squeezed my hand and said, “We really need an attorney in the family.”

Later that day I told Nana I wanted to be an attorney. I figured they protected women like my mom from bad things happening to them, and that’s what I wanted to do if I couldn’t go with her to heaven.

I stare back at Officer Cruz, who looks like he’s about one hundred years old. The flames from the fire really wilted his whole body and his skin looks leathery. Dylan starts with Cruz’s hands. One by one, he clips the fingernails from each hand. Then he moves to his head and pulls off several follicles of hair from the base of his head.

Inside Cruz’s mouth, Dylan swabs all around the inside of his mouth, collecting cells. Dylan does the same in the ear and nose area of Cruz. Dylan looks at Cruz’s fingers. Then he opens his briefcase. He sets up his casting materials next to Cruz’s casket to take a mold of his thumb.

It looks like Cruz is grasping tightly onto something. The rigor mortis is fully developed. His hand is clenched tightly and his fingers look wrinkled and hardened. Dylan takes some wet cloths and begins to clean Cruz’s thumb with a wet towelette before he starts to dry it. Then, he wipes a black fingerprint powder to the thumb with a brush, struggling to keep Cruz’s fingers separated. The thumb returns back to his fingers, like an instant reaction every time Dylan pulls it away for the casting.

Once he gets a stable grip on Cruz’s thumb, Dylan sets the casting material around it on top of the black powder. We sit for fifteen minutes, before Dylan begins to peel off the casting material.

“This isn’t looking good. The cast didn’t come out that well. It’s really hard to separate his fingers to get a good working space here. His hand is clenched so tight,” says Dylan.

“Miss Ruiz. I know you are trying to get this impression. But the mortuary is closing. It’s five o’clock,” says Officer Nuñez in Spanish.

“Do you think we could come back tomorrow to get another impression?” I ask.

“To tell you the truth, I don’t think they are going to let us back in. We were lucky to get in today. But let me go ask,” says Nuñez walking away.

“Dylan, we need that thumb. We can’t leave without it and they’re closing. This is our last chance,” I say, wondering if I should have worn my Celia Cruz outfit instead of this Evita one.

“What do you want me to do, cut it off?” asks Dylan.

“Yes, if you have to. “What do you think this is for?” I say, pointing to a scalpel in Dylan’s molding kit.

“Stop!” says Dylan.

“We wouldn’t even need the whole hand. Just the thumb. And we’d only have to sliver off the pad of it where his thumbprint is. That’s only skin. It’s not even bone or nail!” I whisper excitedly.

“No, we can’t do that!” says Dylan.

“They used to chop off hands before they had these types of things,” I say, pointing to Dylan’s molding kit.

“I’m not doing it. We can get his print from his internal police file,” says Dylan.

“What if he somehow destroyed that, too? Make me one promise. If I slice it off, you will transport it back,” I say.

“You won’t do it,” says Dylan playfully.

“Promise me,” I say seriously, hearing someone walking towards us. I hear Officer Nuñez’ voice.

“They will not allow us to return. The funeral for this gentleman is tomorrow and the burial is immediately afterwards. It would require us to get another court order. And that might delay the funeral or require us to dig up the body once he’s buried,” says Nuñez.

I translate for Dylan.

“Okay. Would you be able to ask them if we can stay here another hour to finish up?” I ask nervously, smiling at Officer Nuñez.

“Yes, of course,” says Officer Nuñez, turning to walk away.

“Well?” I whisper to Dylan.

“I’ll check it in with my suitcase,” says Dylan.

I remove the scalpel from Dylan’s briefcase and thank God I won’t be on the same flight back with him tomorrow.

23

HONEYMOON PHASE

I lay alone surrounded by darkness in my bed at the historic hotel wishing Dylan hadn’t left this morning. All I can hear is heavy panting and bed creaks coming from the room next door. I close my eyes in utter disgust. And I pull the blankets over my shoulders and up to cover my ears. I wrap my body into a ball. I knew I should have asked for another room when I saw my hotel neighbor, aka “Señor Crazy,” at the bar last night. He had one of the cleaning ladies from my hotel pinned up against a brick wall. She was obviously not into him and looked completely bored as he demanded kisses from her. When I pointed it out to Dylan, he sized her up as a sex worker.

“No,” a faint female voice says.

The bed creaking and moans stop suddenly.

I remove the blankets from my ears to listen closer.

“Don’t say ‘no’ to me,” Señor Crazy responds sternly in Spanish.

A loud slapping sound followed by a shuffling sound in Crazy’s room moves towards the wall closest to my headboard. I try to make out muffled words of what has to be the sex worker.

What is she saying? Does she need help? Does he have his hand over her mouth?

I pull the blankets back up over my ears and purse my lips tightly, curling back up into a ball with my head down. My heart starts beating fast and the rushing sound of blood flowing through my ears makes my head buzz and feel warm.

Twenty years later, I’m still accustomed to blocking out fights or tension from the room next door. I became so good at doing it as a kid hearing my parents fight, it still feels like a natural thing to do today. My stomach starts to clench up.

I hear a loud laugh from the sex worker. And the knot in my stomach starts to loosen up and my beating heart calms down. The alarm clock on my night stand reads: 1:52. I can’t believe I’m up this late. I glance over at the phone wondering if I should call the front desk to complain about the noise, but they’re not going to be up.

A loud thump against the wall with more muffled moans startles me again.

I think hard frantically.
Should I call Dylan? No, who knows where he’ll be. Should I call Señor Borges? No, he’s probably sleeping. Should I call Officer Nuñez? No. Mom, what should I do?

I pick up the phone and dial the front desk. It rings nine times before I hang up. I hear two more thumps to the wall and then dead silence.

The neighbor in the motel room next to Laura heard thumps the night she was assaulted. I heard thumps after my mom pleaded for me to call police the night she died.

I cover my head with the blankets again. Tears warm my cheeks as I think about my mom and how I didn’t do anything to try and save her.

Pick up the phone, Gaby, call the police. Walk next door, Gaby, and help the lady.

“Please, no!” I hear in a low woman’s Spanish-speaking voice.

I look back at the list of numbers on the phone. Bell desk, laundry, housekeeping, restaurant. I go through each one, letting each ring eight to nine times before I hang up to dial the next. No one answers. I move down the contact list to
Policía
and hesitate a couple seconds before pushing that button. It seems to ring forever, before I hear a loud knock at my door.

I throw the phone receiver down onto my bed, step into my slippers, and throw my hotel room robe on. I grab a letter opener from the desk, stick it in my pocket, and open my door.

The cleaning lady sex worker stands at my door. Her lipstick is smeared above her upper lip and her black eye makeup smudged under her eyes makes her look like a racoon. It matches her black dishelved hair. She looked much prettier last night at the bar.

We speak to eachother in Spanish.

“Do you need help, Miss?” I ask.

“Yes please. Can I come in?” says the sex worker desperately.

“Yes, of course. Come in,” I say, watching her close the door quickly behind her.

She makes her way into my room and towards the sink. She removes her black lacy top and studies the red scratches down her back in the mirror.

They look just like ones I’d see on my mom. She starts wincing in pain from the sight of her back.

“Look at this,” she says pointing to the scratches on her back. “Asshole!” she says angrily.

I move to the sink and begin soaking up a washcloth with cool water.

“Do you want me to call the police?” I ask.

“No, no,” she says adamantly.

“Why not?” I ask curiously.

“Because they can’t help me,” she says.

I let out a sigh feeling hopeless as I wring out the towel. The white hotel wash cloth stains with red blood every time I pat her back with it.

The lady looks at me fondly in the mirror, like this is the first time anyone has touched her to help her instead of hurt her.

Her smile turns to fright when a knock at the door startles us both.

“Shhh,” she whispers with her finger up to her mouth.

“Who is it?” she yells.

“Me,” Señor Crazy yells in Spanish.

The sex worker’s scared look turns to anger and she motions for me to move into the closet.

“No. Why?” I ask.

“Please. Trust me,” she says sternly.

“What is he going to do?” I ask.

“Please,” she says insistingly.

Another loud knock at the door startles us. “Open the door!” Señor Crazy yells in Spanish.

I give in, following her direction towards the closet. I crouch down and she throws some clothes over my head.

I peek through the clothes and lock eyes with her. “Miss, don’t go with him,” I whisper fiercely.

“Don’t worry,” she says assuringly, closing the closet door.

I sit in the darkness and listen to her heels click towards the door she opens. They speak in Spanish.

“What are you doing here?” Señor Crazy says.

“What do you want?” she asks rudely.

“Who’s here?” he says.

“No one. Don’t worry,” she says dismissingly.

“Let’s go,” he says.

“No. I’m going to sleep here,” she says aggressively.

The silence goes for too long. It reminds me of all the times my house would go mute. It happened right before I would hear a head or rib being punched by my stepfather. I start to shake, curled up in a ball.

Then I stop, forcing myself to listen closer.

“Leave me alone!” she screams dramatically. Loud clicks from her heels, then swirling sounds come from the bed as screams muffle. But they sound like male screams this time. And I could be an expert on sounds of struggle. It’s all based on personal experience. One. Two. Three. Four. I count and count and count, keeping my eyes shut tightly.

The slaps and Spanish curse words the sex worker is shrieking at Señor Crazy finally brings me back into real time.

What do I do?
I feel down to my pocket and feel the metal letter opener. I tighten my fist around it.

I hear a loud knock at the door and release my grip. I return to calm, hearing footsteps moving towards the door.

“Who is it?” asks Señor Crazy.

“The police,” yells a man in Spanish.

The door creaks open. “Good evening,” Señor Crazy says.

“Open the door, sir,” says the policeman.

I relax the tension in my body hearing the door open.

“Miss, do you need help?” the policeman continues in Spanish.

“No, no,” she says. I cringe in disbelief.

“Are you sure?” the policeman asks.

I want to scream. I can’t believe she’s not taking his help.

“Yes, yes, thank you,” she says casually.

“Did you call the police?” the policeman asks. “Look at the telephone,” the policeman says. I remember my last call to the police and leaving the receiver off the hook.

“I’m sorry. It was an accident,” she says.

“You don’t want him arrested?” the officer asks.

“No, no,” she pleads.