The Invisible Guardian

by Redondo, Dolores

  Juan covered his face again and wept bitterly while his friend cleaned up the blood.

  28

  ‘We’ve got another dead girl, chief,’ announced Zabalza.

  Amaia swallowed before replying. Zabalza had said ‘we’ve got another’ as if they were trading cards in a collection. This was speeding up in a way that was rarely seen. If the crimes continued to occur at an increasing rate the killer would go into a spin and it would be more likely he’d commit an error that might lead them to him, but the price paid in lives would be very high. It was already very high.

  ‘Where?’ she asked firmly.

  ‘Well, that’s where the difference lies: this one isn’t by the river.’

  ‘Where then?’ she said, on the verge of losing patience.

  ‘In an abandoned hut on a hill near Lekaroz.’

  Amaia stared at him, weighing up the importance of this new information.

  ‘This is quite a big change in the modus operandi … Did he leave the shoes? How did they find her?’

  ‘Well,’ said Zabalza slowly, as if considering the effect of his words, ‘that’s the other strange thing. It looks like some children found her yesterday, but they didn’t say anything; one of them mentioned it at home today and the father went to the hut to see if it was true and then rang the Guardia Civil. There was a patrol car in the area that responded and they confirm that there’s a body belonging to a young girl. They’ve put all the protocol for homicide and sexual crimes into action. It looks like it could be a girl whose disappearance was reported days ago.’

  Amaia interrupted him.

  ‘Why didn’t we know about any of this?’

  ‘The mother reported her missing to the Guardia Civil barracks in Lekaroz, and you know how these things are.’

  ‘Well, how are relations with the Guardia Civil in the valley?’

  ‘We have a good relationship with the guardias. They do their job, we do ours and they collaborate wherever they can.’

  ‘And what about the commanders?’

  ‘Well, that’s a completely different story. There’s always some problem or other with whose jurisdiction it is, a petty rivalry, information being withheld. You know the drill.’

  ‘So there might be more girls missing in the valley that we don’t know about because their disappearances were reported to the Guardia Civil?’

  ‘Lieutenant Padua is in charge of the investigation, he’s waiting there to speak with you, and he says that there wasn’t really a formal report, although the mother had been coming in daily for several days saying that something had happened to her daughter. However, there were witnesses who said that the girl had gone of her own accord.’

  Padua wasn’t wearing uniform, although he did get out of an official patrol car, accompanied by another guardia who was in uniform. He introduced himself and his colleague whilst exchanging a firm handshake with Amaia and then went with her, walking at her side.

  ‘She’s called Johana Márquez. Fifteen years of age. She was originally from the Dominican Republic but she’s been living in Spain since she was four and moved to Lekaroz when she was eight after her mother got remarried to another Dominican. They’ve got another young daughter aged four. The girl had problems with her parents, to do with the hours she was keeping, and she ran away from home on a previous occasion two months ago; she was at a friend’s house. It looked like the same thing this time, it seems she had a boyfriend and ran away with him; there were witnesses. Even so, the mother kept coming to the barracks every day to tell us that something bad had happened, that her daughter hadn’t run away.’

  ‘Then it looks like she was right.’

  Padua didn’t answer.

  ‘Let’s talk later,’ she suggested in the face of his silence.

  ‘Sure.’

  The cabin turned out to be invisible from the road. It was only on approaching it cross-country that it could be seen half hidden by the trees, camouflaged by the numerous creepers that grew up over the façade and disguised it so it blended in with the tangled, wooded depths that surrounded it. Lieutenant Padua waved a greeting to the two guardias stationed to either side of the door. The interior was cool and dark, tinged with the unmistakable odour of a corpse that has started to decompose and by another sweeter, musky one, like perfumed mothballs. The aroma immediately made Amaia think of her grandmother Juanita’s linen closet and the sets of folded sheets with their corners embroidered with the family initials, which were kept, perfectly aligned, in that wardrobe. The shelves were hung with little transparent bags containing balls of camphor that surprised anyone who dared open the doors with their sickening reek.

  She waited a few seconds until her eyes became accustomed to the dark. The roof had begun to sag due to the weight of the previous year’s snow falls, but the wooden beams looked like they could hold it up for a few more winters to come. Blackened scraps of old fabric and cord hung from the crossbeams and some of the creepers that grew up the front of the hut had made their way in through the hole in the roof and were entwined with hundreds of brightly coloured fruit-shaped air-fresheners that hung from the rafters. Amaia was sure that unique combination was the source of the sickening perfume. The cabin consisted of a single rectangular room, an old and unusually large table and an accompanying bench that seemed to have been upended on the floor beside it. In the centre of the room was a strangely swollen two-seater sofa covered in damp and dark stains and positioned facing the blackened chimney, which was complete with scraps and rubbish that someone had tried to burn unsuccessfully. The top of a fairly clean foam filled pillow was visible over the back of the sofa. The floor appeared to be covered by a fine layer of earth that was darker in the places where water had got in through the roof, forming puddles that had already dried up. Otherwise, it was clean and it seemed recently swept; the strokes of a broom which Amaia spotted leaning against the chimney were still visible. Not a trace of a body.

  ‘Where …?’

  ‘Behind the sofa, Inspector.’ Padua pointed.

  She shone the light of her torch towards the place they were pointing out to her.

  ‘We need floodlights.’

  ‘They’ve already gone to get some, they’re bringing them now.’

  The beam of her torch lit up some silver-coloured trainers and some rather earth-stained white socks. She took a couple of steps back while she waited for them to set up the floodlights and take the preliminary photos. She closed her eyes, said a brief prayer for the soul of that little girl and began.

  ‘I want everyone out of here until we’ve finished, just my team, the forensics officers and Lieutenant Padua from the Guardia Civil,’ she said, meeting the gaze of all those present as if she were giving a presentation. Apart from one of the uniformed guardias, she was the only woman present and her experience with the FBI had taught her the importance of using professional courtesy when taking charge of a case on which other police officers were already working. ‘They found the body and were kind enough to inform us. I want to know who’s been in here and what they’ve touched, and that includes the children and the father of the boy who raised the alarm. Jonan, you’re with me. I want photos of everything. Zabalza, give us a hand, we’re going to move the cushion very carefully. Watch where you put your feet, everyone.’

  ‘Wow,’ exclaimed Jonan, ‘this is different.’

  The girl, an extremely thin teenager, had had tanned skin that now seemed rather swollen, and the swelling was a bright olive-green. The clothes had been separated to either side of the body using rough, clumsy cuts, although some scraps had been used to cover her pubic area. A piece of cord hung from her bulky, purplish neck, its ends disappearing into the folds of the swollen skin. A bloodless hand rested on her stomach, holding a bunch of white flowers held together with a white ribbon. Her eyes were half open and a film of whitish mucus was visible between her eyelashes. Dozens of small flowers at various stages of decay surrounded her head, arranged in her lustreless, wavy hair for
ming a tiara that reached her shoulders and drew a silhouette around the body.

  ‘Fuck,’ murmured Iriarte. ‘What is this?’

  ‘She’s Snow White,’ whispered Amaia, impressed.

  Dr San Martín, who had just arrived, walked around the sofa and stood next to Amaia.

  He put on his gloves and gently touched the girl’s jaw and arm.

  ‘The state of the body indicates that she’s been dead for several days, quite a while.’

  ‘Some of the flowers are more recent, a day old at the most,’ Amaia pointed out, gesturing to the bouquet the girl was holding against her stomach.

  ‘Then I would say that whoever put the first flowers here has come back each day to add fresh ones; some of these,’ he speculated, pointing to the drier ones, ‘have probably been here more than a week; furthermore, someone has poured perfume onto the body.’

  ‘I’d already noticed that, as well as the air-fresheners. I think,’ Amaia stood up to look at Iriarte, ‘that the bottle might be somewhere in the pile of rubbish in the fireplace.’

  She had recognised the rather pompous, dark-coloured little bottle as she came in. Ros had given her that extremely expensive perfume two years earlier which she had only worn a couple of times; James liked it, but she found the dizzying notes of sandalwood too sickly-sweet. She knew she would never use it again. Iriarte raised his gloved hand, in which he held the ash-covered bottle.

  ‘The body,’ continued San Martín, ‘completed the chromatic phase several days ago and has now entered the emphysematous stage. As you know, I’ll be more precise following the autopsy, but I would say she’s been dead for around a week.’ He touched the girl’s skin, pinching the area between her fingers. ‘The skin hasn’t started to disintegrate yet and it still seems to be quite hydrated, but being in a cool, dark place such as this may have helped conserve it. However, the body has already started to swell from the gases generated during putrefaction, which is most noticeable here and here,’ he said pointing to her green-tinged abdomen and her neck, which was so inflamed that the ends of the string hanging in the girl’s dark hair were barely visible.

  San Martín leant over the body, looking at something that had caught his attention. Inside the girl’s open mouth, larvae were visible belonging to insects that had laid their eggs there.

  ‘Look at this, Inspector.’ Amaia covered her nose and mouth with the mask San Martín handed her and leant over. ‘Look at her neck; do you see what I see?’

  ‘I can see two enormous well defined bruises, one on each side of the trachea.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, and she’s bound to have several more on her neck, we’ll be able to see them once we can move her. In spite of what the cord is trying to tell us, this girl was strangled manually, and these two bruises correspond to where her killer’s thumbs would have been. Take a photo of this,’ he said, turning to Jonan. ‘I hope to see you at the autopsy this time.’

  Jonan lowered the camera for a moment to look at Amaia, who continued talking without paying them any attention.

  ‘Did he kill her here, Doctor?’

  ‘I would say so, although it will be up to you to confirm that. But, in any case, if he didn’t kill her here, he brought her here immediately, since the body hasn’t been moved after the two hours directly following the death. The cause of death was most probably strangulation, asphyxia. Date: it’ll be necessary to analyse the larvae, but I would say a week ago. And location: certainly here. The body temperature has stabilised at that of the hut and the livor mortis suggests she hasn’t been moved since shortly after her death. Rigor mortis has almost completely disappeared, as one would expect at this stage, and it would appear that signs of dehydration have been delayed by the obvious environmental humidity.’

  Amaia took a pair of tweezers and uncovered the girl’s genitals. She moved aside slightly so that Jonan could take the photos.

  ‘What can you tell me about the external lesions? I’d say she was raped.’

  ‘Everything would suggest that, yes, but at this stage of decomposition the genitals often appear quite swollen. I’ll find out during the autopsy.’

  ‘Oh, no!’ exclaimed Amaia.

  ‘What’s wrong? What have you seen?’

  Amaia stood up as if she’d been struck by lightning. Going round the sofa, she caught hold of Iriarte’s arm.

  ‘Come on, help me.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘Move the sofa.’

  Taking an end each, they lifted it up, realising that, in spite of its appearance, it was remarkably light. They moved it forward fifteen centimetres or so.

  ‘Fuck!’ exclaimed San Martín.

  Judge Estébanez, who was just entering the cabin, came over cautiously.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  Amaia stared at her, it seemed as though the judge had the impression that her look went right through her, through the walls of the hut, the forests and the age old rocks that made up the valley. Until she managed to speak.

  ‘Her right arm is missing below the elbow. The cut’s clean and there’s no blood, so it was cut off when she was already dead. And we won’t find it, it’s been taken away.’

  The judge’s expression became one of profound disgust.

  Spring 1989

  Amaia lived with Aunt Engrasi from that day on, visiting her father in the workshop every day and going home to eat on Sundays. She remembered those meals as regular examinations. She would sit at the head of the table opposite her mother, the seat furthest away from her, and would eat in silence, responding in monosyllables to her father’s feeble attempts to start a conversation. She would help her sisters clear the table afterwards and, when everything was tidy, she would go to the living room, where her parents would be watching the three o’clock news. There she would say goodbye until the following week. She would lean over and kiss her father, and he would put a folded bank note in her hand; then she would stand and look at her mother for a couple of minutes, waiting while she continued to watch the television without deigning even to look at her. Then her father would say, ‘Amaia, your aunt will be expecting you.’

  And she would leave the house in silence, with a shiver running up her back. An enormous, triumphant smile would spread across her face as she gave thanks to the almighty God of children that her mother hadn’t wanted to touch her, kiss her or say goodbye to her that day either. She preferred it like that. She was constantly afraid that her mother might give some indication that could be interpreted as a desire for her to return home. She was terrified by just the idea of her mother looking at her face for more than two seconds because when she did, while her father was searching for the wine in the cellar or leaning over the fireplace to stir up the fire, she felt so scared that her legs trembled and her mouth became as dry as if it were full of flour.

  She was only alone with her again on two occasions. The first was a year after the attack, the following spring. Her hair had started growing back and had got a lot longer during the winter. She knocked at her parents’ door and when her mother opened it and stepped aside to let her in she already knew her father wasn’t at home. She went in as far as the middle of the sitting room and turned to look at her mother, who had stopped in the middle of the short hallway and was watching her from there. She couldn’t see her face or the expression of her mouth because the hallway was dark compared to the sunny living room, but she could feel the hostility as if there were a pack of wolves in the hallway. She still had her jacket on, but she started to shiver as if she were being threatened by the cruellest Siberian winter instead of enjoying the warm spring weather. It must have been only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity to her as she concentrated on the twitching noises and soft moans that came from somewhere where a little girl was crying; she could hear her clearly, although she couldn’t see her while she kept a close watch on the threatening evil that was lying in wait in the hallway. The slightest movement, one step and the little girl who was crying beg
an to shout like someone stricken by panic, with muffled howls that barely managed to make it out of her throat, failing to give voice to the madness that threatened her. They are the shouts from nightmares in which little girls scream themselves hoarse, but their screams turn into whispers as soon as they leave their throats. Another step. Another yell, or was it the same one? Either way, it seemed it would go on forever. Her mother reached the living-room door and Amaia could finally see her face. That was enough. In that same instant she realised that she was the little girl who was shouting muffled cries, and the certainty made her lose control of her bladder at the very moment that her father and sisters came through the door.

  29

  Amaia made the journey to Pamplona in silence, immersed in an inner anxiety that had overwhelmed her since the moment she saw Johana’s corpse. There were so many different elements to the crime that she found it difficult to even start establishing a preliminary profile, although she had been going over and over it in her head for the entire journey. The flowers in the girl’s hair, the perfume, the bouquet resting on her stomach, the almost modest way in which the body’s nudity had been covered up … All that contrasted with the obvious brutality of the blows to her face, the savage way in which the clothing had been almost torn into strips, the likely rape and the fury with which the killer had lost control, strangling his victim with his own hands. And then there was the matter of the trophy. Many serial killers took something that had belonged to the victims with them in order to be able to recreate the moment of death again and again in private, or at least until fantasy ceased to be enough to satisfy their needs and they had to go in search of more. But it wasn’t often that they took pieces of the body due to the difficulty involved in keeping them intact while at the same time having access to them whenever they wanted. They often chose hair or teeth, but not parts that might suffer a rapid deterioration. Taking a forearm and hand didn’t fit with the profile of a sexual predator, although the almost exquisitely careful attention that had been paid to the corpse over several days didn’t fit either.