The Devil You Know

by Robert Swartwood

  Tears have begun to well in Gabriela’s eyes. She wipes them away, focusing once again on me.

  “The cartel found her. I don’t even know which cartel it was. And the cartel … killed her. But before they killed her, they tweeted from her phone, first outing her as the citizen journalist who had defied the cartels, then sending a message that the cartels would be coming for the other citizen journalists next. They posted a picture of her with her hands folded in front of her staring at the camera, and then a picture of her lying on the ground with a bullet hole in her head. The founder of the news site confirmed that it was her, and Twitter eventually shut down her account.”

  Gabriela goes silent again, wiping at her eyes.

  “She was truly a hero. A role model, I guess you would say. Her fearlessness was absolutely spellbinding. She knew what she was doing was dangerous, that it would some day get her killed, but she did it anyway. I guess that’s why I do what I do. I know it’s dangerous, that it will probably get me killed some day, but if I don’t do it, who else will?”

  Gabriela stops there, letting the question hang between us.

  I nod and glance again at the computer screen.

  “So tell me about the Devil.”

  Twenty-Four

  Nobody knows when the Devil first started killing, Gabriela says. Cartel families are not like celebrities. They’re not in the public eye. Drug lords, yes, but not all drug lords. The government offers rewards for many of the drug lords, but the drug lords have too much power politically that the rewards don’t matter. Oftentimes it’s the politicians and law enforcement who must rely on those drug lords that they’re supposed to be hunting to make ends meet, so of course they won’t turn them in even though sometimes the rewards can go up to 30 million pesos. They know that once they turn in a drug lord, there will be a target on their backs.

  The Devil has been killing for over a year now. Sometimes several months will pass between his kills. Sometimes weeks. The Devil, Gabriela says, is unpredictable. The first cartel the Devil attacked was the Juarez Cartel. One of the drug lord’s wives and children were found burned to death out in a field. It was first reported on La Baliza, which had launched maybe a month earlier. From there, the rest of the news hubs picked it up, though the major newspapers were hesitant to carry the news for fear of retribution from the Juarez Cartel.

  La Baliza didn’t give the Devil his name. They had simply reported the events. Several months passed, and most people forgot about what happened, until another woman and her three children were found burned to death several miles outside Matamoros. It was reported that another drug lord’s family had been targeted. This time it was the Gulf Cartel who had been hit.

  Now more and more people started paying attention. The first time may have been a fluke, they reasoned, but now another drug lord’s wife and children had been found burned to death.

  Gabriela asks me, “Are you familiar with the cartels?”

  I shake my head. While much of my work for the government had been all over the world, I hadn’t done any work in Mexico.

  “There are seven major cartels. Each of the cartels has several different leaders, and many times they fight with each other over product or territory. But families are usually off limits. The fact that somebody had taken the wife and children of one of the leaders from the Juarez Cartel and burned them alive was an act of war. But from what I heard, all of the families immediately claimed they had nothing to do with it.”

  Over the course of the next year the Devil struck two more times. This time the cartels affected were the Beltran-Leyva and the Tijuana. Each time the mother and children were found burned to death. The sights were more public, in the middle of cities. Whoever was killing these women and children wanted to make sure the public knew.

  For that first year, the cartels started fighting each other again. The truce they had agreed upon was over. It was an outright war, with gangs attacking other gangs in towns and cities, leaving hundreds of civilians much like Gabriela’s own parents dead in the cross fire.

  The cartel leaders began hiding their wives and children. Some even sent them off to hide away in various countries. They were all convinced their families were next. That the Devil would come for their wives and children and burn them alive.

  The cartels didn’t like the press attention, though. They threatened many of the major newspapers from publishing stories about the Devil. They didn’t like the idea that somebody—one person, if that was to be believed—had managed to do so much damage to them. So it became the task of La Baliza and other news hubs to make sure they learned as soon as possible when the Devil struck again. And when he did, they made sure to get the news out there for the country to see.

  Gabriela pauses her story, looking at me closely.

  “From what I heard there’s a reward for the Devil. Several of the cartels have vowed to put in 30 million pesos each. Combined, the bounty is up over ten million dollars US.”

  “Dead or alive?”

  “They want him alive. That’s the only way they will know for sure the person brought to them is really the Devil.”

  “And let me guess—they’re going to torture the shit out of him.”

  Gabriela doesn’t answer, at least not verbally. She looks away from me, her face becoming all at once troubled.

  I ask, “What’s wrong?”

  “When I first realized that there was somebody out there doing this, I was happy. It sounds terrible of me, I know, but the cartels in this country are vicious. They kill people as if they are nothing. They rape women and children. Sometimes they even keep women and children as sex slaves. They’re awful people, and the idea that somebody was coming at them, attacking them that way, was in a strange way … uplifting.”

  Gabriela frowns at me.

  “But he’s killing children. They may be the children of the drug lords, may one day take after their fathers, but they’re still children. It’s … tragic and deserved at the same time. Like I said, it sounds terrible of me.”

  I shake my head and say, “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Yes, it does. I know it does. But sometimes … sometimes I don’t care.”

  There’s a silence then, both of us sitting in her bedroom, staring at one another.

  I ask, “Was Ernesto Diaz considered part of the cartel?”

  Her frown deepens.

  “How do you know his name?”

  I say nothing.

  Her eyes narrow.

  “What are you really doing here?”

  “I told you, I’m on vacation.”

  “Yes, and I don’t believe you.”

  The computer on the desk chimes. The screensaver has come up, and Gabriela moves the mouse to make the screensaver disappear.

  I ask, “What is it?”

  “An email came through from La Baliza.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I only use one email address to communicate with them.”

  She moves the mouse around again and opens a window. There isn’t much text in the email.

  “That’s weird.”

  I stand up from the bed and step closer to the computer.

  “What’s weird?”

  “He says he needed to make a change to my story.”

  “Who says?”

  “The publisher.”

  “What did he change?”

  “Almost everything. He took out all reference to the Devil.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  Gabriela shakes her head, frustrated, and types back an angry response asking why this change was needed as the murders were obviously done by the Devil.

  A response comes back a minute later.

  Until we have more evidence, we do not know for sure the Devil is responsible. Don’t let it get you down. You did great work.

  Gabriela doesn’t move for several long seconds, staring at the screen, and then she speaks between clenched teeth.

  “This is fucking bullshit.�
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  I say nothing.

  Gabriela smacks the mouse to delete the email and stands up from the chair, begins pacing around the room.

  “Such bullshit.”

  I watch her for a while, letting her vent, and then ask another question.

  “How did you even know about the murders?”

  She pauses, glancing at me with startled surprise.

  “What?”

  “The murders. How did you know?”

  “I told you, there’s a website where people can leave tips. Today I received a tip about the murders and then how the call had been placed to that motel. It would have taken me too long to go to the murder scene, so I went to the motel and waited. I figured if after an hour nobody showed up, it would have been a crank tip. Sometimes those come through, and we need to be careful of traps. But then Ramon and Carlos showed up.”

  “You know their names?”

  She nods.

  “I know almost all of the police officers around the area, at least the ones with authority. It’s the same with local politicians. I usually write about the corruption in the city, so of course I need to know who these people are.”

  I step over to the window and look out through the shades. The sun is starting to set. I turn back to her.

  “Gabriela, I don’t know you very well, but you are one brave senorita.”

  She smiles.

  “I think I could say the same thing about you.”

  Her cell phone vibrates on the desk. Gabriela picks it up, looks at the screen. She stares for a long moment, and then little by little her face starts to fall.

  I ask, “What’s wrong?”

  “A new tip came in. Gunmen just killed over twenty people at a wedding in La Miserias.”

  She pauses and looks up at me, her voice cracking as she says the rest.

  “The person who sent the tip says the police believe it’s in retaliation for what happened last night to Ernesto Diaz.”

  Twenty-Five

  La Miserias was located about an hour south of Culiacán.

  They took two vehicles—Ramon and Carlos in the pickup, the PFM agents trailing them in a rental car. Ramon drove while Carlos sat in the passenger seat, his window down so he could smoke. It was early evening, the sun having just set, and they both should have been gone for the day. Carlos at home with his big screen TV and dog, Ramon at home with his wife and baby.

  As if sensing Ramon’s thoughts, Carlos asked, “How is your daughter?”

  “She’s good.”

  “Talking yet?”

  “Just babbling.”

  Carlos took a final drag on his cigarette and flicked the butt out the window.

  “Just wait until she says ‘mama’ and ‘dada’ for the first time. You’ll never forget it.”

  Ramon smiled and checked the rearview mirror to make sure the PFM agents were still behind them.

  He and Carlos had taken them to the motel earlier, then to Miguel Dominguez’s apartment, and that was about it. Besides those two places and the building in which the bodies were found, they didn’t have much else to go on. They had found a recent photo of Miguel and sent it around for officers to keep an eye out. The PFM agents made their notes and said they were going to check into their hotel (they’d be staying for at least a couple days), when news had come across about the mass shooting in La Miserias. When they learned rumor had it Fernando Sanchez Morales had approved the shooting, the agents wanted to investigate the scene as well.

  When they arrived at La Miserias, several police cars were already there, as were a number of ambulances.

  There were crowds near the center of town where the shooting took place. As they stepped out of the car they heard women crying.

  Bodies were splayed in the town square. Men and women, even some children. Ramon had heard at least twenty dead, but judging by the carnage, the number looked to be larger.

  Carlos lit another cigarette, shaking his head as he muttered, “Jesus Christ.”

  The PFM agents stepped up next to them. Just like Ramon, both wore masks. Serrano nodded at the nearby buildings.

  “We’re going to look around.”

  The two agents walked away.

  Ramon and Carlos watched them for a couple seconds before turning their attention back to the bodies.

  Carlos said again, “Jesus Christ.”

  He pointed.

  “Do you see her over there? They killed the bride.”

  Her wedding dress was stained with so much blood it had almost become black.

  One of the officers noticed them and hurried over. Before he could even open his mouth, Carlos raised a finger.

  “Let me guess. The people who did this wore masks so nobody knows who they were and nobody in town is ready to speculate.”

  The officer’s shoulders dropped as he nodded solemnly.

  “Yes.”

  Carlos said, “Can anybody at least say how many shooters there were?”

  The officer shrugged.

  “One person said six. Another said eight. Two pickup trucks tore into town while everybody was dancing in the square. The whole town was here.”

  The officer trailed off, shaking his head. He looked sick to his stomach even relating the events.

  Ramon asked, “Does anybody remember from which direction the pickup trucks came?”

  “I heard they came from both directions. One came down the street, the other came up. They stopped and men jumped down from the truck beds and opened fire. It lasted only a minute, and then the men jumped back into the truck beds and the trucks drove away.”

  Carlos glanced at Ramon to see if he had any further questions. Ramon shook his head. Carlos dismissed the officer saying that they would check the bodies soon. The officer nodded and returned to help the other officers as they attempted to keep everyone back. A few of the crying women kept trying to break past the officers to cling to their dead loved ones.

  Carlos said, “There’s no rhyme or reason here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The people of this town aren’t connected. They have no ties to the cartel. Most of them are farmers.”

  Carlos sighed, shaking his head.

  “We both know who’s responsible. Everybody in this town knows who’s responsible.”

  He left it at that. He didn’t need to say the rest. Fernando Sanchez Morales was part of the Sinaloa Cartel. Not quite a drug lord yet—that would be a few more years off if he played his cards right—but he was powerful enough to pay off the right people to stay out of trouble. What happened here this evening was just what they’d been told when the call first came in: retribution for what had happened to Ernesto Diaz last night. And it wasn’t because anybody in this town had any connection to what happened to Diaz, but because Morales no doubt decided there needed to be a consequence for what happened, so why not kill some innocent townspeople?

  Ramon turned and stared off at the hill a mile away and the large house on top of the hill.

  “He’s probably watching us right now.”

  Carlos lit another cigarette, nodding.

  “Probably.”

  “And there’s not a goddamned thing we can do about it.”

  “No, there is not.”

  “Sometimes I hate my job.”

  “Sometimes?”

  Carlos snorted smoke through his nose.

  “Wait until you get to be my age. You’ll hate every goddamned minute.”

  Ramon shook his head and turned his attention back to the town square and the crowd and the dead bodies. He started to say something else but froze.

  Carlos said, “What’s wrong?”

  Ramon didn’t blink as he stared ahead, not wanting to lose sight of her.

  “Samantha Lu is here.”

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-eight.

  That’s the number of bodies littering the town square. At least, that’s the number I’m able to count from where I stand in the crowd with Gabriela.

/>   She has her phone out, snapping pictures, documenting the scene. My first impulse is to grab the phone from her hand, smash it on the ground, ask her what the hell she’s thinking. But this is her job. Her purpose. The whole reason she’s here. She didn’t have to agree to let me tag along. That was her decision, and I respect the work she does.

  A minute or two has passed, but it feels like an hour. It’s night now, and there aren’t that many lights around the town. The headlights of the police cars and ambulances mostly light the square. Around us women sob and murmur prayers. The few police officers are doing what they can to keep the relatives back, but many of them want to be close to their loved ones.

  An old man stands near us. His shirt and pants are still fresh with blood, though it’s clearly not his blood. Gabriela asks him what happened. He doesn’t answer at first, just stares at the bodies, but then he shrugs his old shoulders. In a raspy voice he says two pickup trucks came into town during the party and men got out with guns and started shooting. The man’s voice cracks as he tells us one of the dead bodies is his granddaughter.

  I close my eyes. Take a deep breath. Try to slow my heartbeat.

  Beside me, Gabriela pauses in her discussion with the old man. She sucks air in between her teeth. The sharp noise catches my attention and I open my eyes and look at her.

  At first I think she’s looking right back at me. But no—she’s staring past me. I glance over my shoulder, not sure what I’m supposed to be looking for, but then I see him.

  Ramon is weaving through the crowd, heading our way.

  I turn and look past Gabriela and see the older man, Carlos, heading our way in the opposite direction.

  Which means our only way out is behind us, deeper into town.

  Without hesitation, I grab Gabriela’s arm and pull her toward the fringe of the crowd. For her credit she doesn’t protest, just follows me as I step left and right, zigzagging us out of the crowd.