The Ripper

by Carmelo Anaya

  Malasana takes the patrons' names and phone numbers and we move off towards the Golf.

  - "He's definitely fucked her but doesn't want to admit it," he says.

  - "We weren't going to get anything out of his telling us. He's not the killer."

  - "And what the fuck do you know?"

  - "He's a john, not a criminal."

  - "Yeah, well whoever did it probably doesn't look like someone who'd tear women to pieces, either."

  We sit in silence as we drive back into the city, both of us angry. Inside the small car we look like a giant and a dwarf, as people often call us. I like working with Malasana. He knows the city best out of all of our men. One of the last to move here and the first to uncover its secrets. He drank in all the reports on the underbelly of Almeria life: drug dealers, thugs, troublemakers, gangs, everything under the sun. He asked for leave before joining the local force. Instead of going on holiday, he spent his time off walking the streets of the city, small and determined, dressed in working-class attire, like the flame moths are drawn to. A month later, when he started working, he already knew the people who mattered better than we did and had informers on his side. Since then, he's been my eyes and ears.

  - "So, if there are no suspects, what shall we do now? Play some double solitaire? Or maybe pool, if you fancy something more exciting?" he says sarcastilly.

  People strolling along the beach. The last parasols are being taken down. The pavement cafes are half-empty. Lots of businesses have declared the summer season done and dusted and shut up shop until next year. Their dark windows strike a chord of finality in the streets.

  We speed past the Best Mojacar and drive towards the beach. Lopez is stationed in a car nearby and confirms that the door-to-door search has yielded nothing, not even a sliver of information. The outcome: "I don't know anything about it, I didn't see anything, I heard about it on the news, I wasn't here last night, and yes, some girls work on the outskirts of town, near the motorway. That's it.

  We smoke, drenched in sweat. The heat and humidity has our clothes sticking to our skin and making any movement is a painful reminder of it. The slow cadence of the surf.

  - "They say that if no good clues are found within twenty-four hours, the case will almost certainly not be solved," says Lopez suddenly.

  - "Twenty-four hours or twenty-four days, we'll keep looking," I answer, cutting him off.

  Malasana thinks out loud, working through his frustration:

  - "We have to close in on the Romanians."

  We leave Lopez and get back in the Golf. We get on the motorway, heading to Macenas. Usually, it's milling with prostitutes on the outskirts of town, lounging against eucalyptus and palm trees, waiting for clients who are fed up of looking for someone to spend the night with in the nearby bars.

  But tonight it's deserted.

  We drive past the Marina Golf Hotel. As we move towards the Macenas roundabout we glimpse a car hidden in a ravine.

  Macenas Castle looms silent and alone next to the beach, like a relic from an ancient, mysterious civilization. The light from the half-moon overhead seems to stick to its bricks, sticky as the heat. Nearby, an aborted building juts into the night, its unfinished pillars pointing into the sky like a shipwreck swallowed up by the darkness. To the right, the white stain of the Nueva Macenas housing estate glows high on the hill. We move towards the hidden car.

  - "Sisi! I want to talk to you."

  The screeching of the cicadas is the only response. Fireflies flare with light. Thick bushes provide the cover the car driver seeks. A cosy love nest.

  - "Sisi!" This time, I shout. "I want to talk to you." "If you don't come out, I might whip you."

  A few shrill protestations and the sound of heels clicking on the tarmac. Slowly, a silhouette emerges from the shadows, hips swaying.

  - "Here we go," sighs Malasana.

  - "You never know. Maybe she..."

  - "She? "She"'s more man than me."

  - "Oh, Chief! What a fright! I didn't realize it was you. You know, if I realized you were looking for me I wouldn't have put on any shoes! Barefoot, like a pilgrim."

  - "Aren't you scared of working out here today?"

  - "Of course, boss. More than ever. But someone's got to bring home the bacon. And us hot-blooded girls, well, you know..."

  - "I dont know what you're talking about."

  - "Well! Someone's annoyed! Of course, since you're not by yourself today."

  And she shoots a suggestive look Malasana's way. He shifts his weight, looking uncomfortable.

  "I need your help, Sisi."

  She crosses her arms, the costume jewellery around her neck and wrists clinking loudly. It shines in the half-light. She juts out her hip and gets serious.

  - "Of course, boss. There's no one around here today. Everyone's left, gone to Baria or further away. But I have a duty to my clientele. I'm a professional. Through thick and thin. Come rain or come shine. If they can't come to me here, God only knows what'll become of them, poor lambs!"

  - "Cut the crap," orders Malasana.

  - "Oooh, someone's feeling grumpy! What you need is..."

  Malasana takes a step in her direction and I have to grab his arm.

  Sisi gets serious for real and tells us she doesn't know anything about the murder, she didn't see anything strange. She was working non-stop that night, barely had time to freshen up between tricks.

  - "You know the worst perverts around here, Sisi. Anyone you can think of who would do this?"

  - "Is it like what they're saying on the news?"

  - "Worse."

  Sisi looks pensive, opens her bag and takes out a packet of Marlboros, offering them round. She lights our cigarettes with her big manicured hands. Moving over to one side, she asks us to move away from the road. A car crawls by slowly. Alarmed at the sight of us, it speeds away.

  - "Chief, deep down most of my clients are just unhappy, looking for something different, or dissatisfied with their marriages, or closet homos who are afraid to come out and eventually work up the courage to come and see me. I don't know anyone who could have done something like this. Those who come looking for me aren't interested in women."

  I ask her to ask around for me. Talk to the other trans* girls, to everyone. Let me know of anything, no matter how insignificant it may seem, as soon as it comes up. Sisi swears to help, kissing the medal that dangles over her magnificant silicone cleavage. I tell her to take care and we get back in the car.

  Apart from Ramona, who's staying at the women's shelter, the other women have been sent home. They'll be out working tonight. Wherever Bogdan sends them.

  They're working along the Baria beaches, or near the industrial estate, we're told.

  There's a lot of traffic on those narrow roads, which the constant construction has made obsolete. They can't handle the thousands of people who come down in summer in search of sun and heat, their holidays fading away now as they get back to the sad post-holiday grind, September looming. We take forever to get there.

  We drive slowly through Puerto Rey until we get to the wall that surrounds the beach. We get out of the car, squinting in the darkness, but there's no one to be seen. This isn't a good place for them. It's the oldest, most upscale housing estate in the area.

  - "Your friends know what they're talking about," I say. Malasana's informers tipped us off about this place.

  We carry on along the coast road, driving up to the El Limite woods. This is where the gays and male prostitutes hang out. We walk up to the woods. When we enter the thicket of pine trees, we hear more than just the breeze ruffling the leaves. Whispers, panting, sweet mmms and aaahs. A shadow comes out from the trees and stands in front of us, one hand on its crotch.

  - "You want me to..."

  A swift kick to the groin shuts him up. He gasps. Malasana flashes his badge. The boy shrinks, as if caught in the act by his own mother.

&n
bsp; - "Have you seen the Romanian girls around here?"

  He dries his tears and speaks in a high-pitched voice.

  - "They were here a while ago. There was a big fight. This isn't their turf," he says as if to justify himself. "There was a fight with some of the guys and the Romanians, but then a pimp came along and beat up the guys."

  He points to the opposite end of the woods.

  - "They're out on the road, by Lola's."

  We leave him to lick his wounds. Other shadows emerge from the trees to offer us their services. Malasana frightens them off. One stops to curse us. This is their turf, we're going to scare off the clientele. Malasana sidles up to him with a half-smile and sticks his badge on his lips like a kiss. The shadow runs off at top speed.

  We see the girls, where the first shadow said they would be. We see Petrica, but not Tatiana. They're with two other girls we don't know. We observe them from a distance for a while, but there's no sign of their pimp. Cars cruise by, but none stop, despite the girls' efforts. One drives up to Lola's Playa and the other crawls by at a snail's pace, but evidently he doesn't like picking girls up on gay turf. He makes a U-turn and disappears. We move forward, and when the girls are looking the other way, we cross the road and see a dark car parked between some trees. We hear a shriek and the car revs up and drives off in a cloud of dust. We pursue it for a few metres, pointlessly. The car hits the asphalt, gears grinding, wheels screeching. We look behind us and see two girls running away. Malasana gives chase, but loses them in the woods. He comes back, swearing.

  - "I can't see them. It's impossible at night."

  - "Where did Petrica go?"

  - "She must have been the one who screamed."

  We walk back to the car, sweating profusely.

  - "Do you think the Romanians did it, boss?"

  - "No. Why would they? Cristiana was bringing in a lot of money. And if they had a problem with her, why finish her off in such a showy way? They could have got rid of her without anyone noticing."

  - "Well, we don't have any other leads."

  - "We don't have any other leads," I repeat.

  - "And more than twenty-four hours have gone by," he says, sounding dispirited.

  - "And more than twenty-four hours have gone by."

  I tell Malasana to go home and get some sleep. The station is deserted except for Lopez and a couple of officers on duty.

  Lopez makes puppy dog eyes at me. He's putting the final touches to the negative report on the door-to-door search. If Malasana's face is the picture of desperation, Lopez's is that of weary sadness.

  I tell him to go home and we leave the station together, walking out into the clammy night. The humid heat can't make us look any scruffier, but it stops us from breathing deeply. I'm lying as I try to cheer him up.

  - "Tomorrow is another day. A new lead will come up."

  Malasana and I are two furious pessimists driven chiefly by rage. Lopez, on the other hand, is a gentle giant, a kind soul who needs to be cheered up like a little boy.

  This time he doesn't say anything. My words are hollow and do nothing to lift his heavy heart. He gets into his minivan, which makes him look like the friendly family man he is, and drives slowly out of the parking lot. The van is enveloped almost instantly in thick fog, veiling the lights, and it crosses my mind that the murderer must have used a large vehicle to transport Cristiana Stoicescu.

  I think about it until I'm home. I park next to the house, the house that was rebuilt after the fire, a parting gift from a murderer whose crimes I wish I could forget. But at least I understood him, I think, full of regret, knowing that if I could get to grips with Cristiana Stoicescu's killer I would be so much closer to catching him.

  I crunch over the sand up to the porch in the front of the house. A one-storey whitewashed building on the beachfront. Just one thin strip of sand separates it from the water, sand that blows into every nook and cranny, covering every surface in a light layer, like dust. You wouldn't be allowed to build a home so close to the water now. The house is old and the landlord rented it out to me when I was assigned to Baria. So many years in this same house. I know why I never leave. I know that the memory of my wife keeps me shackled to these four walls, of which I've barely made a home, but that I'm incapable of escaping from. I thought I would, after the fire. But the insurance paid for everything and the landlord had the place rebuilt and when he called to ask whether I wanted to stay I couldn't say no. Turning it down would have been an act of cowardice. It would have meant running away from her, her memory, the pain that made her leave me.

  I hear singing and someone strumming a guitar. Further away, along the beach, someone's having a party. I stand watching a group of shadows dancing around the flames of a bonfire. You can hear the cicadas screeching and the slow rumble of the sea, heavy with the last of the summer heat.

  I put on my swimming trunks and walk barefoot towards the waves. I see the lights glimmering along the coast like a diamond necklace.

  The water brings no relief. It isn't cold. It can't cleanse my conscience. It can't strip away the memory of blood. Cristiana Stoicescu is next to me. I imagine what she would be like if she were still alive and a shudder rattles through me like a convulsion. Beautiful, young, pretty. Full of life. As I make my way into the dark water my imagination runs away with me and the images of her gutted body, flayed skin and face twisted in a horrible death flash through my mind. I feel a deep, wrenching terror. The salty water enters my mouth and I retch. I swim towards the shore. I feel an urgent need to escape from the deep darkness all around me, the stark blackness of the night water that wants to swallow me whole with its horrific images. I have to move towards the light, a light that will anchor me, remind me of who I am and what I do, that there is still a life to be faced, a life in which I must fight to find the man who did this to Cristiana Stoicescu.

  She's just the way I remembered. The sun hasn't come up yet, and tonight is the same as last night, just as one drop of water is identical to another. I remember everything, exactly as it happened. The precise way her body was slit open in silence by the knife. The incredible ease with which a knife glides through human flesh. Fascinating, like the clouded consciousness you get from a drug. It's almost impossible to see the blood flowing out in silence. A feeling of fullness, blinging, the blood flowing out in streams, so black, so sweet, fragrant as perfume. And the body, so suddenly and placidly defenceless, something you can't understand if you haven't felt it in your own hands. Life slips away with a silent scream and strength leaves the limbs, delicious and evanescent as the soul. Then: nothingness. Silence. The body now nothing more than a mere representation, like a sad Pagan goddess. Convulsions course through me as below my feet I feel the thrumming of the earth watered by that blood, the air that flowed around the body, the sky receiving the fearful soul. Life seems to stop once again, as it did at that moment. Life that gave life. Life that screamed life. Life giving itself over to death. Death that materialized, deep as the body of a prophet. My eyes open and close. Everything spins around me. I live and I die in the woman's agony. I die and I live in her mutilated body. I feel myself slip away. I can barely breathe. I try to take a breath, air entering and filling my lungs, and I feel something leaving me. A moan as dark as the girl dying. The lights of the bar opposite me pierce my brain and eyes like needles. They wound me. They hurt. How can it be that no one knows? Why here? Can't they see it? Everything has meaning. Life has meaning. Death has meaning. Where you die has meaning. I despair. I sob. My eyes flood with tears and the night and lights seem to smash into them with the terrible turmoil of shouts and stabbings. My head feels as though it's about to explode. I feel my heart beating wildly in my chest. The images of her open entrails swim through my mind. They show the hidden misery behind the facade. The back room of the furious lust for life. The blackness behind the tidy exterior. The raw truth. The heart was still beating. Yes. It had to beat. Everything happened so fas
t. How could the heart not beat in a last death rattle? A desperate, useless heartbeat. Like my shouts, that no one wanted to hear. That no one can hear anymore. Now they'll hear my lamentations as a woman split open. I know. It is inevitable. No one can stop evil, just as no one can prevent the Apocalypse. It will come. Evil will become the death of life before their eyes. They have never understood. They don't want to understand. Like those who lived in greed, in lewd lust, while Moses received the Tablets of the Law. But they did not listen. Just as no one listens now. No one pays attention. They've forgotten their spirits, left in the filthy attics of their conscience, where no light can filter through. Dusty, dirty, miserable, their spirits cry out in the desert of their hearts. A car drives along the road with its maddening geometric lights, its unbearable violent noise. Its violence tears the night open, the silent night where death was present, and besmirches its sacred altar. I curse its violence and terrible indifference. I will pray, indecipherable prayers to unknown gods. Perhaps she was also praying when she tried to move her lips under the gag. Perhaps she recovered her sullied spirit at the last moment, with her last quivering breath. The breath that escapes us in an instant while Nonsense ignores us, indifferent and cruel. Now the first light is glinting along the horizon. But that light, which will soon invade all, illuminating every corner of the sky, cannot light up the blood the earth swallowed. It cannot breathe warmth into the body that death holds in its clutches. It cannot fire understanding in the desolate hearts of men.

  When did I discover my true nature?

  Perhaps I always knew of it

  Everything in my life has led me here

  Now I understand it