An Inconsequential Murder

by Rodolfo Peña

  Lombardo turned off the television and the lights and unlike the other night, he promptly went to sleep.

  The next day he woke and was startled for a few seconds by that feeling, so common to frequent travelers, of not knowing where you are. He looked at the clock—it was eight in the morning.

  He got up and decided to shower later after having coffee and something to eat. He went to the small cafeteria to get his “courtesy continental breakfast,” which consisted mostly of cereals, industrial pastry, and watery juices and coffee. The place was full of squealing kids and adults in Bermuda shorts and t-shirts—the hotel was near several theme parks. He got a cup of coffee and a pastry wrapped in a cellophane bag and went back to his room.

  He watched the news while having his breakfast. After the usual sound bites from the President of the United States and other politicians about the upcoming signing of the Bilateral Trade Agreement in the Rose Garden, there was a bevy of reports on the latest victims in the Cartel wars. Finally, there was a report on the Mexican presidential campaign. The newly named conservative candidate called for a tougher stance against the Cartels and the use of the Army in the fight against them, citing the fact that police forces were usually outgunned when going up against cartel soldiers, but not the fact that a lot of those policemen had little incentive to get killed for the miniscule salary they got when they could stay out of the fight and get rewarded handsomely by the Cartels.

  Leobardo Contreras, the center-left Liberal candidate, on the other hand, promised to find new, less violent ways, of meeting the challenge of the “drug problem”—he didn’t refer to it as a “war.” He also hinted that more responsibility for the problem would have to be assumed by the “great consumers” of the drugs since “if it were not for such a huge illegal market, there would be no problem.” He was also adamant about the U.S. curtailing the amount of guns and other weapons being sold to the Cartels by American gun stores and dealers.

  One didn’t have to be a genius to guess where this idea of a “new” drug policy was heading. He was scaring and displeasing the conservatives on both sides of the border with these hints at a possible drug legalization initiative if he was elected. It was even rumored that the President of Mexico, who had personally picked him as his successor, was surprised and annoyed at the way the PLR’s candidate was running his campaign.

  Lombardo turned off the television and showered. He checked out of the hotel and drove to the Mall. He read the email again in which the Dean described where they were going to meet. He parked his car at a discreet distance, backing up into the parking spot so that if a car parked next to him, it would partially hide his car but allow him to see the spot where the Dean intended to park. Also, it would be easier to drive out of the parking space when the Dean and his friend left for the motel.

  Lombardo looked at the time on his cell phone. He had forgotten to wear his watch. It was 11:00 a.m.. He had time to wander around the Mall and then have lunch in the food court.

  Lombardo spent an hour walking slowly through the huge building. There were a few people about—the throngs having shopped until exhausted on the weekend, and, after all, this was a workday. There was little of interest to him. The spacious corridors were lined with the same stores offering the same articles as in practically every other mall he had ever visited. He went into a book store and bought a magazine.

  In the upper level, he wandered into the food court, and after looking over the various junk food offerings, decided to have a couple of hotdogs with plenty of sautéed onions.

  He ate his hotdogs and read his magazine. The only other people in the food court were employees of the shops and stores.

  A few minutes after one o’clock, he walked out of the mall and went to his car. The place the Dean had indicated for the meeting with his friend was empty. A few cars were parked in the same row as his. He got in the car—it was stifling. Although it was a typically cool November day, it was cloudless and bright with autumn sunshine. He opened all of the car’s windows to allow the gentle breeze that had begun to blow to flush the hot air out.

  He slid down on the seat to rest his head on the car seat’s back. The heat and the food made him drowsy. “Besides,” he said aloud, “he might recognize me if he sees me.”

  He had a fitful snooze for about an hour, drifting in and out of sleep. Suddenly he sat upright, as if alarmed by the memory of why he was there. He looked over to the part of the parking lot where the Dean said he would park. A lone car was there.

  “Damn!” exclaimed Lombardo. “I missed him!”

  The car was obviously a rental—it had the color and simple four-door look of the typical fleet sedan. He was about to get out of his car to go inspect it when he noticed another car rolling slowly up the lane where he was parked.

  As it passed, he saw that the driver was a middle-aged man with a beard, wearing a plaid shirt and sunglasses. Lombardo was about to turn away, dismissing him as just another shopper, when the man’s profile was outlined against the bright daylight—it was the Dean!

  Lombardo slouched down again; he could barely see over the dashboard.

  The Dean’s car slowly cruised by, turned, went over to the next lane of parked cars and slowly cruised along that lane until it could turn again and it cruised back on the lane where Lombardo was parked. The Dean was obviously checking to see if it was safe to stop.

  Seemingly satisfied, the Dean parked next to the lonely rental. As soon as it did, a man came out of the mall and walked to the Dean’s car. Lombardo saw him get in the car, hug the Dean and kiss him. Lombardo whispered, “How could I have been so stupid! That was not the Dean’s car, that was his boyfriend’s car!”

  The two men talked for a few minutes, kissed again, and then the Dean started his car. Lombardo waited for him to pass by on the way to the exit and then he followed at a discreet distance.

  The Dean’s car left the mall’s parking lot and merged into the traffic of the side street that passed under Freeway 410’s overpass; it turned left and then went on to the freeway heading north.

  Lombardo could see that the two men were talking animatedly so they would probably not notice him following. He nevertheless made sure there were a few cars between his and the Dean’s.

  When he saw the Dean’s right-hand turning light begin to flash, Lombardo changed over to the right-hand exit lane and followed the Dean’s car into the exit ramp. A couple of blocks later, the Dean turned into the parking lot of a motel. Lombardo did not follow him in but continued down the street and went into the parking lot of a hamburger joint. He parked his car, jumped out and ran back to the motel.

  He was too late to see into which room they had gone so he went to the motel’s office. A skinny young man was reading a magazine at the counter that had a sign announcing that this was the “Check-in Desk.”

  Lombardo flashed his badge at the young man and said, “I’m with the Mexican Judicial Police. Two men just drove into the motel; what room are they in?”

  The young man’s eyes had widened at the sight of the badge and he stammered, “I, I, didn’t notice, uh, wasn’t looking…”

  “I need to see your registrations for last night and this morning,” said Lombardo with marked authority.

  “We had no, uh, no one registered this morning,” said the young man while producing some cards from under the desk. “Just a couple of people came in last night.”

  Lombardo looked at the cards. There was a family from Dilley, Texas; a guy from Amarillo; and Filiberto Herrera who wrote “Saltillo” rather than “Monterrey” as the city where he lived when he stated his address. The room number was 17.

  “Where’s room 17?”

  “Up on the second level,” said the young man gesturing with a finger.

  Lombardo said, “Don’t call them to tell them I’m coming and don’t leave—I have to talk to you when I’m done talking to them, OK?”

  The young man nodded slowly, evidently scared.

  Lomba
rdo left the motel’s office and went up the prefabricated stairs to the second level. It was a small motel and all the rooms faced the parking lot. The construction was so cheap and flimsy that the second floor corridor trembled as he walked on it.

  When he reached room 17 he tapped lightly on the door. Lombardo could hear muffled comments in Spanish before a voice near the door said tentatively, “Yes?”

  Lombardo said in his perfect, unaccented English, “This is the manager; may I speak with you for just a minute?”

  Lombardo could hear the door chain being slipped into place before the door was opened. A face peered out, but Lombardo pushed heavily with his shoulder, snapping the flimsy chain out of the door frame, and knocking the man behind the door to the floor.

  He went inside the room and closed the door behind him

  “Dean Herrera, do you remember me? I’m Captain Lombardo of the Public Ministry’s Investigations Department.”

  The Dean looked uncomfortable in bed, pulling the sheet up with one hand to cover his nakedness while he searched for his glasses with the other.

  “You can’t come barging in like this…,” Jaramillo, the Dean’s friend, started to object.

  “Shut up!” said Lombardo, “and put your damned pants on.”

  Dean Herrera finally found his glasses. He put them on and said, “What do you want, Captain? Have you come to arrest me?”

  “Of course not; I haven’t jurisdiction here.” Lombardo took the small chair that was under the tiny table that pretended to be a desk. He sat on it and lit a cigarette.

  “This is a no smoking…,” said Jaramillo.

  “I told you to shut up,” said Lombardo without looking at him.

  “Then, what are you here for, Captain?”

  “You’ve been very careless, Mr. Herrera. Your emails were easy to trace and you even used your name and your credit card to register in this, uh, this motel,” said Lombardo, dropping the title of “Dean” to which he felt the man was no longer entitled.

  “I thought nobody would think of looking for me in such shabby accommodations,” said Herrera.

  “Well, that is not very smart thinking for such a bright man as you’re reputed to be, Mr. Herrera, and if I could find you in a day or two, the people that I’m sure are looking for you will find you just as quickly.”

  “You mean those louts from the State Judicial Police?”

  “Worse than that. I think the gringos are going to come and get you first.”

  “The Americans? Why?”

  “I told you, you should have asked for political asylum,” scolded Jaramillo.

  “Why don’t you put some clothes on and I’ll tell you all about it,” said Lombardo to Herrera.

  Obviously embarrassed, Filiberto Herrera said, “I’m afraid there’s no place to dress but in…”

  “Don’t worry, we’re all adults here,” said Lombardo; then he looked over to Jaramillo, “or at least I think we are.”

  Herrera quickly got up and put on his clothes.

  “Why don’t you go and sit on the bed, boy,” said Lombardo to Jaramillo, “you make me nervous standing behind me.”

  “All right,” said the fully dressed ex-Dean, “now please explain why you think the Americans are looking for me.”

  Lombardo spoke slowly; he wanted Herrera to digest everything and understand the gravity of his situation.

  “The men that killed Victor Delgado are dead. They were killed because the people who hired them to get information from Victor couldn’t afford to let them be arrested in Mexico.”

  “What do you mean, ‘the people who hired them’? Who are they?”

  “It’s not very clear exactly who or what organization of this country hired them, but it was the head of the DEA in Mexico who asked them to nab Victor and get information out of him.”

  “Oh,” he sighed, “is this about those damned encrypted files again?”

  “This whole mess has always been about that. You see, there is a DEA agent, who was trying to gather intelligence on your pro-legalization crowd. He wanted the email files and documents stored in the University’s Computer Center, which would have given him the name of a lot of important people and politicians who where participating in the drug legalization campaign.

  As you well know, the University became a clearing house for communications among the legalization group, so the DEA agent got some hackers to go into your system and try to get the files where the emails and such were stored. Victor found out that the system was compromised so he encrypted the files. Even if they got them, they would never be able to read them.”

  “Those damned files have been the cause of a lot of misery. How I rue the day I accepted to have them on our computers,” said Herrera.

  “Now let me tell you why I think they might come after you.”

  “Please do,” said Jaramillo.

  “There’s a new Dean at the University,” Lombardo began, “and from what I have heard he will probably make sure that the files in question will be deleted—destroyed for all intents and purposes. If that is the case, the only other known or possible sources of the information will be you and me. As far as I am concerned, they have struck a deal with me and although they didn’t fulfill it completely—because I wanted the three men who killed Victor jailed, and they had them killed—they did see to it that they got punished for it. Besides, they know that as long as I keep the information as a guarantee, I am safe.

  You, on the other hand, are a loose cannon. You’re on the run and you are liable to do anything out of desperation. So, they have to deal with you.”

  “What do you think they’ll do?”

  “Well, they won’t come to greet you with a kiss like your boyfriend here,” said Lombardo. “They have a lot to lose if you expose them.”

  “So, what can we do?” asked Jaramillo anxiously.

  “I think that your best bet is to contact the members of your group that still have influence and power and to get them to help you come out of the cold.”

  “You mean go back to Mexico?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  “But, they’ll put me in jail. They are accusing me of fraud.”

  “Listen, Mr. Herrera, jail is the safest place for you right now. If you stay here, any night someone will bust into your room, like I did today, and pump you and sweetie-pie here full of bullets.”

  “OK, so let’s say I do go back. What’s to keep them from killing me even in jail?” asked Herrera.

  “Look, now that the originals have been destroyed they’ll need a corroborating witness to prove that the copies of the files I have are not just some fancy fabrication done by some computer guru. If you have influential friends, it will be in their interest to protect you. Whatever your chances are in those circumstances, believe me, they are much better that what they are now. Here in the outside you’re just an easy way for any punk with a gun to make a few thousand dollars. In fact, I could get word to one of the Cartel bosses that you have stuff that’ll land some of their enemies in jail or get them thrown out of the country. You can’t get better protection while in jail than the one this guy can give you.”

  Ex-Dean Herrera bit his lip. “So, I am the only person who could corroborate the validity of your copy of the files,” he said; and then added, “and the presidential candidate.”

  “The candidate?” asked Lombardo, “How could the candidate corroborate their validity?”

  “He has the originals of the documents we prepared were for him. He is going to make drug legalization one of the priorities of his administration, although he said he was not going to push it during the campaign—for obvious reasons, eh?”

  “The conservatives must to try to stop him, too, of course.”

  “Of course. That’s probably one of the reasons they were after the files. I am sure they wanted to know how far he was willing to go with this; and, most importantly, they probably wanted to know if he was aware of the drug money that was flowi
ng toward his campaign via the pro-legalization forces. If they had some hard evidence, they could pretty well neutralize his campaign.”

  “You should warn him about your case and about the Governor,” suggested Lombardo.

  “He probably already knows. He has some pretty smart people running his campaign, and, he has the President behind him.”

  “I hope you’re right because there have been rumors that their relationship has soured lately. The candidate needs protection. These people are pretty ruthless. They’ll stop at nothing.”

  “Oh, they wouldn’t dare touch a presidential candidate,” said Herrera with confidence. “He was hand-picked by the President. It would be a direct blow to him, as if they were attacking him personally. You know that Mexican presidents always rely on their successor to sort of gloss over their peccadilloes.”