Vivar took him to the table farthest away, at the other end of the room. One of the bodyguards was smoking at a nearby table, his hand under the table like he was holding up the barrel of a gun. So this is the table for questionable visitors.
“I’d like to speak with Mr. Obregón.”
“The boss isn’t able to receive you, Licenciado. Please relay whatever you would like to say through yours truly. I’m at your service.”
One had to recognize that Vivar was an educated man. There was a reason why he was the lawyer for the boss of the Paracuán cartel.
“He complained about an issue that I had nothing to do with. I’d like to explain the misunderstanding and ask him for a favor.”
“Just a moment.”
Vivar went over to Mr. Obregón and relayed the message as his lunch companions pretended to look away. How ridiculous, Taboada thought. Since when do I have to talk through messengers?
“Sir, it’s Chief Taboada.”
“I know who it is, tell him not to fuck around.”
He saw his intermediary lean over and whisper in his boss’s ear.
Mr. Obregón looked very upset. His voice carried across the room.
“Tell him I said El Chincualillo is one of my people and ask what he locked him up for. I don’t know how he’ll do it, but I want him out.”
Judging by his tone, he’d spent the night drinking. Taboada understood he’d picked a bad time, but it would be worse to postpone it now.
Vivar sat down in front of him again. Before he could convey the message, Taboada said, “I already heard; you don’t need to repeat it. I’ll look into what happened, but the investigation is already well under way. Best case, we could transfer him to the prison in the capital, where you already know the way things work.”
“That’s not going to be good enough for him, but I’ll tell him. Something else, Licenciado?”
Taboada accepted his reprimand, but he still needed to find something out. “Was Bernardo Blanco in touch with your people?”
“Please don’t insinuate—”
“Of course not. But I thought perhaps someone from your organization might have acted on his own, someone who wanted to make a good impression with Mr. Obregón.”
Vivar sucked his teeth. “I can answer that one: we haven’t seen Mr. Blanco in a year. We’ve had no contact with him since the day of the interview. If you’re really interested, Mr. Obregón said last night that if you want to find who’s responsible you should look around you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You should know.”
He thought about it for a minute, then stood up. “I appreciate your help. Tell him I’m very sorry and I am more than willing to—”
“I will, Licenciado.”
Vivar shook his hand and led him to the door. Although Mr. Obregón did glance at him, he didn’t say good-bye. The relationship was falling apart.
As he took the avenue back to the office, Taboada saw the white highway they had just finished. He remembered the receipt he’d found among the journalist’s personal effects and told himself it wouldn’t be a bad idea to take a look at the Las Conchas subdivision.
5
Chief Taboada took the brand-new highway and passed by the lagoon. A sign marked the turnoff he was looking for: GRUPO ENLACE. BUILDERS. As he approached a barbed-wire fence, he saw a building emerging out of the dunes. He parked his car and continued on foot. A small bonfire was burning a hundred feet ahead of him, in the sand in front of the building, a bonfire like the ones that construction workers make to heat up their food. Next to it, they had tied up a German shepherd that still hadn’t sniffed him out: finally, good luck, the wind’s blowing in my favor.
A mountain of bricks and cement blocks was piled on the dunes. Taboada ducked down behind them to watch a man walking toward the bonfire; he was stooped over and wrapped in a dirty serape. At first, he thought it was a boy leading him by the hand, but soon he realized that what he had thought was a boy was actually a dwarf. The stooped man raised his eyes and his front teeth showed. I know that guy, he said to himself. It couldn’t be . . . Jorge Romero! What is he doing here? Could he be the building’s night watchman?
In front of the bonfire, there was a carpet of trampled beer cans. The dwarf helped Romero sit down on a stump, and they talked as the dwarf warmed tortillas. A little bit later, a girl arrived with a container of food and started to serve it on four plastic plates. Romero shouted something unintelligible to his right and another dwarf came out of the building. When they saw what was on the plate, the little men jumped for joy. The girl finished serving and the dwarfs attacked the food as if they hadn’t eaten for a long time.
Right then, the wind must have changed direction, because the German shepherd started barking. One of the dwarves scaled the mountain of blocks with difficulty, and when he got to the top, he saw the policeman and jumped up and down and pointed at him. The other dwarf was jumping, too, and Romero immediately lifted the rifle the girl passed to him. As a reflex, Taboada reached for his belt, looking for his .357, which agitated the dwarves even more. He’d just seen the Blind Man lifting the barrel of the gun when the rifle blast tore through a bag of cement. Holy shit, he thought. There was no reason to fire back if he had no way to cover himself, and if he wanted to get to the car, he’d have to run at least thirty feet in the open. Fuck, he said to himself, there’s nowhere to hide. From his spot in the dunes, Taboada saw the dwarves motioning in his direction, they were running toward him. A second rifle blast, even closer, forced him to jump to the ground. Shit, he said to himself, how can he be such a good shot? His eyes, cabrón. The dwarves are his eyes. When he tried to run away, he fell flat on his face right into a puddle full of mud. As soon as he could, he started to run down the slope and he kept on running until he couldn’t hear the barking anymore.
6
He couldn’t go back to his office looking like such a mess, so he went home to take a bath. As he took off his mud-covered clothes, he had the idea of calling Camarena.
“Find out who Grupo Enlace belongs to. Who owns it. And look for Fatwolf and the Bedouin. Tell them to come to my house.”
He waited ten minutes, which seemed to last forever, and since they hadn’t called him back he called the office again. The girl answered.
“Do you know who owns Grupo Enlace?”
“Yes, sir. Grupo Enlace belong to the governor’s brother. My sister-in-law works there.”
Damnit, girl, he said to himself, you’re finally worth something.
“I’m on my way.”
“Licenciado,” said the girl, “Mr. Campillo just called for you. He says the governor wants to see you in the capital at eleven o’clock.”
Taboada sighed deeply and collapsed on the bed. This is how it starts, he told himself: one day the governor calls you and it’s all over. Back to the street, you fucking dog, thanks for your help. He had helped governors, mayors, secretaries of state, and even union leaders, but suddenly he wasn’t needed anymore. What bullshit, he thought. The governor had wanted to put someone he trusted in the port, someone who could look out for his businesses. The way things were, he could choose to fight and win some time, stay on top of things, but he couldn’t lose sight of the fact that the governor still had four years in office. . . . He could also negotiate for a good pension, some repayment for many years of loyalty.
“Thanks,” he told her, “call them and tell them I’m on my way.”
I’m on my way? he said to himself, no fucking way! He remembered an important detail: he had already seen a similar situation, a long time ago, when they got rid of Chief García. He wasn’t going to let them do the same thing to him, so he picked up his cell phone and called his office.
“Licenciado?”
“Has anyone gone into my office?”
“Mmm . . . just Camarena, sir, when you went to eat.”
Camarena? He didn’t expect that one.
“And did he ta
ke anything?”
“No, I asked him what he wanted, and he said he was looking for you.”
“But did he have anything in his hands?”
“Some papers.”
Then he understood. The land they bought, Grupo Enlace, the journalist’s murder, all of it was connected.
“Sir?”
“Lock up my office. Is the Bedouin there? Let me talk to him.”
“What can I do, Licenciado? We’re willing to do whatever you need.”
“The next person who tries to go into my office, arrest him, whoever it is, especially Camarena. Understand? No one goes in there, nobody touches my files; you take care of that. I’m on my way.”
7
He got to the state capital at eleven that night, after pressing the gas pedal to the floor for more than two hours. The attorney general called him three times, and he almost flipped his car over each time as he talked to him.
The lights in the state capital were still on. Everyone works at night here, he thought; that’s when the most important things happen. He had never been so intrigued in his life.
“The attorney general will see you in just a moment.”
They told him to sit down in a huge room, without anyone else around. Fucking hell, he thought, it could be anything, he didn’t trust the new attorney general. Walking around the room, he found a copy of the most recent edition of the South Texas Herald, as if it were expecting him. The journalist’s death and his father’s insert stared him in the face. Suddenly, he felt something that wasn’t exactly a pain, but more like a new feeling in his chest, like he was breathing knives. It must be the air-conditioning, he said to himself. I spent three hours driving in the sun’s heat, and here the air is almost freezing. It’s not good to switch from one temperature to another that quickly. As long as I relax a little while, I’ll be like new.
As if she’d heard him, the girl walked in again. “This way.”
They were waiting for him behind a large, round table: the attorney general, the governor, and the chief of the state police for Ciudad Victoria. Holy shit, he said to himself, fucking Sigüenza, fucking no good son of a bitch.
“Hello, Governor.”
“Come in, Chief.”
They held out three cold hands. The governor’s hand was practically inert, like he didn’t want to touch him. Then, silence. They looked him over like one looks over a liar, or an unstable person who might do anything. It was obvious they had reached an agreement.
Sigüenza smiled. “How’s the Bernardo Blanco situation going?”
“Good,” he breathed, “good. We’re looking into another line of investigation and I hope to get results.”
“I can’t understand how you allowed this to happen. It’s hurting my administration’s image. Did you see Channel Seventy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s really bad. And you’re on a different track now?”
“Correct.”
“Looking inside the police force?”
Taboada felt a knife stab into him. How did he know that?
“Well, actually, I’m looking into all possibilities. I can’t rule anything out.”
And before he could continue:
The attorney general said, “We understand that you’ve been in your position since 1977, is that right?”
“Yes, it is.” He nodded.
Not even a glass of water, he said to himself, they don’t even offer me a glass of water to get me through this crap.
“I understand that you got there through a direct recommendation from the Federal Safety Administration, is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you explain how that happened?”
“Because of my experience.”
“And your work on one case. Actually, for apprehending the Jackal, René Luz de Dios López.”
Taboada nodded.
“René Luz de Dios López, who is now in prison in Paracuán. We’re talking about the same case, right?” The attorney general handed him an old copy of El Mercurio. He didn’t need to see the photos to recognize the girl, Karla Cevallos.
“Yes, Licenciado.” He couldn’t contain his shock.
“And the perpetrator is in prison. There is no reason to think that you could have made a mistake. Right?”
His heart beat loudly. “That’s right, sir.”
“Do you still have the evidence?”
“No, sir.” He backpedaled. “We brought up charges and everything was presented to the judge.”
“Fine,” said the attorney general. “I understand you had the evidence in your possession quite some time, and in the end you got rid of it. Could you explain why?”
How did he know that? Only the people closest to him had access to his personal files.
He leaned both elbows on the table. He was trying to be convincing.
“For my own mental health. It’s impossible to live with that case file so close by. I don’t know if you understand what I’m saying.” And he forced a smile, to which no one responded.
“So, there’s no doubt that the perpetrator is in prison, right?”
“No doubt.”
“Fine. Then could you explain this?”
He spread out half a dozen black-and-white pictures in front of him. Little by little, he understood that they were pictures of a girl hacked to bits.
“Look,” Sigüenza pointed out, “the body in pieces, with her school uniform on top, with three initials. Just like the Jackal, right? It’s the same system.”
Taboada didn’t understand anything. He looked at the attorney general, who stared at him unblinking.
“She was found this morning, on the outskirts of the city. They killed her the same way the previous murderer did twenty years ago, and according to you that would be René Luz de Dios López. But René Luz de Dios López is in prison—we confirmed that a few hours ago—which creates a real problem, a huge contradiction. So, Chief? How do you explain all this?”
Oh, he concluded, so this is it. Following his tortuous reasoning, with the intuition that had kept him in his position so long, Taboada understood that just one person could know all this, the person closest to Bernardo Blanco. Namely, Padre Fritz Tschanz.
“Chief? Do you feel all right?”
He was having a really bad time, but Fritz had it worse.
8
Statement of Fritz Tschanz, S.J.
It took me a while to recognize him, but it was El Macetón himself. “You knew,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
We were in my cubicle about eleven o’clock. At that hour, the school was empty and the only thing audible was the noise the eighteen-wheelers made as they braked their engines. The fact that Cabrera had put everything about Bernardo together surprised me, but I tried to deal with the situation.
“In the first place, it was the expressed order of the bishop. Second, professional ethics. And third, because you didn’t ask the right questions. The Church Fathers concluded that one is not obligated to tell the truth if that puts one’s life in danger. And since you came on Taboada’s behalf. . . .”
Cabrera sat down in my armchair. He was wearing a wrinkled black suit and carrying a bag of bread. Because of his neck brace, he reminded me of a robot or a walking refrigerator. He had to rotate his whole body just to keep his eye on me, and I took advantage of that to protect myself and close the drawers.
“I heard about the accident. Do you know who it was?”
“Mr. Obregón’s son,” he explained.
“Hmm. Mr. Obregón is really dangerous. Why’d you get involved with him?”
El Macetón growled and adjusted himself in his chair, which creaked under his weight.
“What are we going to do, Macetón? Everybody’s looking for you: the attorney general, your colleagues, and, now, Mr. Obregón’s people. Don’t you think it was unwise for you to come here? Do you know what Mr. Obregón would do to you if he found you in the street?”
“I took
precautions,” he said, and he showed me the shotgun he was carrying in the bag of bread.
“Don’t use it. Why don’t you leave town for a while, till things calm down? It’s the smartest thing to do.”
“And who’s going to deal with the situation, El Travolta?”
“El Travolta, as you call him, turned in his resignation last night. He had a meeting with the attorney general and the state governor.”
El Macetón tried to open his mouth, but his neck brace prevented him from doing it. A grimace of pain twisted his face, and then he charged ahead. “Padre, I don’t have time, so I’m going to get to the point. You were the reporter’s source, weren’t you?”
That one surprised me, I admit it. How did he know I was the informant? I knew Cabrera was watching me through his dark glasses, and I felt my ears buzzing. “How did you find out?”
My former student fidgeted in the armchair. “You’re the only one who could know all the angles: you work with prisoners and cops, and you’ve been here since the seventies.”
Wow, I said to myself, El Macetón Cabrera solved the case, who woulda thought?
“The killer was someone named Clemente Morales?”
“Yes. His brother was the leader of the Professors’ Union in Paracuán. He covered up the murders so he could pursue his career on a national level.”
“And where is the murderer? They sent him to the United States?”
“They didn’t have to, you can’t imagine the power that man had. The killer could live in the same city in which he committed his crimes. . . . He could even live a few blocks away from one of the victims.”
Then I took off my glasses and massaged my eyes. I’d never felt so tired before.
“The last time I saw him was in the psychiatric hospital. A little while after they came up with their scapegoat, his brother sent him to an appointment with me, to see if I could help him, and I found out he was the perpetrator in that first therapy session. A man named Clemente. I asked him to draw himself, and he drew himself with his body parts scattered around, separated from his torso: total schizophrenia. Draw a woman, and he drew a vagina. Draw a girl, and he drew four bodies. The first time he killed the daughter of the poor woman who rejected him, and at that moment something in him snapped. He kept on killing girls and scattering their remains around the city. At the end of the first session, his brother decided he didn’t trust me and took him away from the port. I received threats and they beat up Padre Manolo because they confused him with me. If he’s still alive, he would be sixty years old. Anything else?” I cleaned my glasses.
The Black Minutes Page 34
