Mexico City Noir

by Paco Ignacio II Taibo

  “This is going from bad to worse!” shouted the one with the rabid look, and he hit his fist so hard on the table that the guns, papers, phones, and pencil holder danced, and the Coke bottle almost spilled.

  But the commander turned out to be so right. This was all nothing compared to what came later.

  Neighbors Cassette. Side B.

  July 16, 2007

  [Same problem as Side A. Impossible to get these people to talk one at a time.]

  I want to know why Lalo didn’t give a statement. He’s a journalist. The police don’t usually like it when journalists snoop.

  Wait and see what he says.

  I was the first to make a statement.

  And what did you say?

  I told what little I knew about Violeta.

  Did you see a strange man or woman hanging around the block a few days ago, yesterday, today, this afternoon, tonight? Did you hear a struggle, screams, anything out of the ordinary?

  This neighborhood has been run over by cops, it isn’t what it used to be. With a zillion restaurants, bars, theaters, and all that other trash, it’s just packed with outsiders.

  So how can you tell if those outsiders are potential killers, petty thieves, or rapists? How can you distinguish a cry for help from a wild scream or some drug addict or drunk losing his mind? This is Mexico Park, one of the prettiest places in the whole city, and they killed her right across the street. Nobody saw anything, nobody heard anything.

  I saw Mikel say goodbye to a girl in the park while I was walking my dog. It was after 12. We said hello in passing.

  Then Mikel couldn’t have killed her because Lalo said the murder occurred between 10:30 and 11. That’s certainly a relief. Just imagining we might be living with someone who’d kill an old woman makes my skin crawl. It couldn’t have been Mikel. She spoke so well of him, and he of her. Besides, he’s a very courteous young man, very responsible.

  Poor guy, I hope they treat him okay and set him free. It’s not fair to blame an innocent person.

  Mikel Ortiz Cassette. Side B.

  July 17, 2007

  The rabid one asked me what time I got home the night of the crime. I told him, “Late, after 12. I went straight to my room, trying not to wake Violeta up.” Then he wanted to know what time I usually get in at night. “Between 8:30 and 9, then I watch a little TV and go to sleep because I get up at 6 in the morning.”

  “But that night you got in after midnight. Why?”

  “I went to Mass at 8 at Coronación parish and afterward I talked for a bit with a young woman I’ve chatted with a few other times. She invited me to coffee and then we went for a walk in the park. We agreed to meet again next Sunday, at the 1 o’clock Mass.”

  “Let’s see … you go to Mass every day?”

  “No, just on Sundays and special occasions.”

  “What was so special that evening? Were you going to ask forgiveness for killing your landlady?”

  “I didn’t kill her! I went because it was the anniversary of my grandmother’s passing.”

  “Name and surname, phone number, and address for that young woman. Is she a student? Does she work? Where? Who does she live with?”

  “Beatriz. Her name is Beatriz, but I didn’t get her last name.”

  “Of course—you didn’t get her address either. You have a perfect alibi. You know what time your landlady was killed? Do you know, you fucking faggot, that if you’d gotten home at the same time you do every single night, she’d still be alive? But no, that night you got in late, so late you didn’t even run into the killer. What a coincidence! Your orderly schedule out of order that night, a stranger entertaining you for hours on end, then you get home so late you don’t even need to call for help.”

  “I didn’t kill her! I didn’t kill her! I swear to God and the Holy Virgin Mary!”

  “Don’t blaspheme, you fucking faggot fuck. And you better confess soon because I’m sick of hearing this shit. Your alibi is pathetic.”

  “I really need to use the bathroom. Please let me go to the bathroom!”

  “Denied. And you better not shit in your pants. I can’t stand the smell of shit, it drives me even crazier than you do. I swear I’ll slice you up with a razor. Do you understand me?”

  Of course I understood him. The effect of that threat was to terrify me; the idea of being sliced into a poblana stew paralyzed my intestines and bladder. I thought of Beatriz, so sweet and good, and felt a certain relief, but it was short-lived because the dog was quickly back in action.

  “You went out with a young woman, you don’t know her last name, her phone number, or her address. You went out with a young woman and you don’t know anything about her. If she even exists, she’s obviously your accomplice and you’re covering for her. While she entertained the deceased, you wrapped the cable around her neck, pulled her hands behind her back, and tied her legs to the chair. So disgusting! How could you do that to a defenseless old woman? Who has the goods? Because it’s clear that you killed her in order to rob her. Or did you kill her just for fun? You and that Beatriz are a couple of shits. You’re heading straight for a life sentence, you’re going to rot in jail.”

  A life sentence for a crime I didn’t commit loosened my bladder and I peed myself. It’s impossible to repeat all the insults and threats that rabid man directed at me. All I could think about was saving Beatriz, an innocent young woman who, because she’d had a cup of coffee and a pineapple juice with me, was going to rot in jail. The dog called I don’t know who on the phone and there was an instant knock on the door. A guy with a big sketchpad and a bunch of pencils and erasers came in.

  “Give me a physical description of your accomplice, buddy, understand? If you lie to me, I’ll cut your balls off with this blade or maybe I’ll just blow them off.”

  “Beatriz is … tall, slender, fragile, white-skinned. Light brown hair, short. Small eyes, like almonds. Small mouth, thin lips. Her face is longish. Straight, medium nose.”

  I said the same thing twenty times. The good part was that the dog left me alone for a while. The sketch artist would show me the face and ask questions, then draw in the features, erase a little, sketch again. In the end, Beatriz came out quite beautiful and the dog soon started up again.

  “When and where did you agree to meet your accomplice?”

  “She’s not my accomplice and we didn’t agree on anything.”

  “Okay, smart guy, you didn’t agree on anything—but five minutes ago you said you’d agreed to meet next Sunday at the 1 o’clock Mass at Coronación parish. You’re not going to get a chance to go to jail—I’m going to kill you first, you piece of shit!”

  He jumped from his chair, grabbed his gun, and stuck its barrel in my mouth. He screamed, as if possessed by all the demons in hell: “I’m going to kill you, faggot, I’m going to kill you, you fucking fag, I’m going to kill you, motherfucker!”

  My intestines couldn’t hold any longer. I shit my pants. There were more screams, more threats, until he finally got tired and called in the others to take me to the bathroom and give me clean clothes and make sure I didn’t come back stinking of shit. “That smell drives me nuts,” he said, his mouth foaming.

  A cold-water shower with Zote soap brought me back to life, rid me of that stink and even some of the humiliation. Back with the hydrophobic, and now more sure of myself, I was the first to speak.

  “If you want to kill me, kill me. I don’t intend to say another word until you notify my parents and my lawyer gets here.”

  “It’s obvious this faggot spends his days watching gringo cop movies. Let’s see, bring me the penal code and I’ll read him his rights.”

  He pulled an issue of Proceso magazine out of his desk and made like he was reading it: “You have the right to remain silent, anything you say may be used against you in court …” As had now become predictable, those around him laughed heartily. None of it did me any good.

  Ponce & Cohen Cassette. Side A.

  July
19, 2007

  [I’ve known Ponce de León since I began covering the police beat, what we call la nota roja. We were both novices: he’d just finished up at the Instituto Nacional de Ciencias Penales and I at the School of Mass Communication. There’s been a lot of water under the bridge since then. He’s a man who’s close to the law, opposed to torture, and in favor of a professional police force. He likes investigations, technical stuff, analyzing hair and other clues. In other words, his thing is being a sleuth so he can solve crimes. Nonetheless, at no point do I forget my grandfather Levi’s words: “Fidarsi é bene, ma no fidarsi é meglio.”To that I add my own professional skepticism, and that’s why the tape recorder has become a permanent part of my person, like a prosthetic I can’t take off, and so I hide it or show it depending on the circumstances. We met at El Chisme, where you can still talk without the background music forcing you to scream.]

  “Mikel Ortiz is driving me crazy. I don’t know if he’s a psychopath, a total cynic, a con man, or if he just has some terrible problem with his nerves.”

  “Ponce, have you lost your mind? Mikel is just a naïve boy from the provinces. A practicing Catholic, serious and responsible both at work and in his private life.”

  “Christians are the worst. They hide behind the church. And that fag unsettles me. I’ll tell you something and then you can say what you think. I asked him for some information on the friend who he was allegedly hanging out with on the night of the crime. Initially he only knew her first name, but then he finally gave up her last name and a physical description. With the sketch, we went to the parish where he says he met her. The priests said they’d never seen her before—that is, assuming they’re not also accomplices. Although they did give us a clue. On Michoacán Street, we found the Viterbo family. According to the fag, the chick’s name is Beatriz Viterbo.”

  “Beatriz Viterbo? I knew he had a friend, maybe a girlfriend, named Beatriz, but certainly not Viterbo.”

  “Yes, my friend, Viterbo. We went to the house and were greeted by a skinny old woman who looked just like the Beatriz in the sketch, but about seventy years older. The lady said she didn’t recognize the girl in the sketch, same as the priests, said she’d never seen her before in her life. But the best was yet to come. We asked her if she knew Beatriz Viterbo. She said of course, that was her aunt who’d died in February 1929, and she remembered her birthday was April 30 and that for years her family would get together on April 30 to celebrate the woman’s birthday. How’s that, huh?”

  “You’re messing with me. Do you know who Beatriz Viterbo is?”

  “Of course I know: she’s the skinny old woman’s aunt who died in 1929 and—”

  [Ponce had a little laughing attack and choked on his tequila. He raised his hands. Red-faced, gagging, he coughed a few times and then kept laughing. This went on for quite awhile. In the meantime, I finished both my tequila and his.]

  “She’s the protagonist in ‘The Aleph,’ the only Borges story I’ve ever read—on your recommendation. But I didn’t just read it once: I’ve read it so many times, I know it by heart. And I’ll tell you, that faggot was really pissing me off. After I pressed her further, the old woman finally let us in. Proud of what she’d told us about her aunt, she showed us photos of Beatriz. There were several in the living room. Take note of this, because it’s crucial: there’s a hustler from Xochimilco who is, coincidentally, named Bety. Chema Molina and I exchanged crazy glances, we couldn’t believe it—last year I’d made him read ‘The Aleph.’ The old woman misinterpreted our glances and explained that her aunt had been the most beautiful woman in the city, that she’d had a dozen admirers who were loyal to her even after her death, including one in particular who always came by for tea on her birthday. That’s life—she died young, she didn’t even have time to get spoiled. I tell you, my friend, I thought I was imagining this. I’ve seen a lot of bizarre things in my time, but this was the topper. I couldn’t believe it.”

  “I can’t believe it either. When did Borges come to Mexico? Did Alfonso Reyes talk to him about her? Did he have other Mexican friends? Did he write ‘The Aleph’ before he came to Mexico and met Reyes? Or did he meet Reyes when he was the ambassador to Argentina? You didn’t ask this woman if she had a basement off the dining room, did you? If not, you’re going to have to find out.”

  “You’re going to have to find out yourself, my little friend, you’re the literature guy. I have to solve the murder. The prosecutor is squeezing my balls. He wants results, he wants that killer yesterday. He hates a civilized society. I’m not even going to tell him this story because he’ll send me straight to the last ring in the seventh circle of hell.”

  “Couldn’t it be that the old woman has also read ‘The Aleph’ and knows it by heart and has set up the whole thing, pure fantasy, out of boredom, or because she’s demented, or for some other insane reason?”

  “She didn’t make it up, there’s no fantasy here. Beatriz Viterbo is buried in the Dolores crypt, in a white marble tomb with sculpted flowers and all the decor you’d expect from that time. There’s a photo on the front in a bronze oval frame, same as the one in the living room. There are big angels on both sides and the gravestone gives the date of her death: February 28, 1929. The elderly niece, who’s the current owner of their house, is Estela Viterbo, and don’t even think about identity theft. This woman has a birth certificate, a voter registration card, receipts for her mortgage, and the water and phone bills, all in her name.”

  “Fuck, what a story! Her name is Estela … and the guy goes by on the aunt’s birthdays … You have to find out more! This can’t all be coincidence.”

  “I’m going to order another tequila to toast all the things you have to investigate. When we were looking at the photos, the old woman couldn’t stop talking about her aunt, and then a young woman came in, about twenty-four years old. She said hello, kissed the old woman on the cheek, and left. She was the exact opposite of the sketch: tall, thin, fragile, but darkskinned, dark-haired, black eyes, large mouth and fleshy lips, a round face, flat nose. No sooner had the door closed than the old woman explained that this was Beatriz, her housekeeper’s daughter. I should have done something, ran after her and brought her back, asked her about Mikel Ortiz—but I swear to you I could barely move, I was hypnotized, and so was Chema Molina.”

  “Shit, shit, double shit! The housekeeper’s daughter—same as Violeta, a servant’s daughter. That’s Mikel’s friend Beatriz—he was trying to protect her. He was afraid the same thing that happened to him could happen to her. He told me how you messed with his head, how you stuck your gun in his mouth.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t touch a hair on his head, and that faggot can’t take much anyway—he’s already gone crying to you about it. The gun wasn’t loaded, it was just part of the scenery; you think I’d leave a loaded gun within reach of a prisoner? He lied to you. I only pointed it at him, an unloaded Colt. He probably told you that to explain why he shit in his pants. If I didn’t squeeze these guys a little, I’d never get anything. They’re all innocent, right? I still have a lot of doubt about that Mikel.”

  “Well, you can get over it. There’s a witness who saw him say good night to the girl in the park, after midnight. He and the witness greeted each other. Besides, the neighbors say he had a very good relationship with Violeta.”

  “So? What does that mean? They could be accomplices. He described the girl in reverse and instead of giving her last name, he gave her employer’s. As far as we know, he—or the murderer—gets to know old women, charms them, treats them well, and wins their trust so he can get inside their homes.”

  “Ponce, you’ve forgotten all about being an investigator, about science, even after making such a big deal about it. There are such things as fingerprints, hair, nails, DNA. What’s under Violeta and Mikel’s nails?”

  “There’s nothing under their nails. We found fingerprints from the last century and a few more recent ones. The ones on the deceased—o
n the leather jacket she had on, on her shoes, on the cable—don’t correspond with the prisoner’s.”

  “Then why such a speedy conviction?”

  “C’mon, don’t fuck with me. I’m just holding him. I’m over my seventy-two hours, but the family lawyer showed up and I was able to negotiate one more day. If I don’t get some kind of evidence by tomorrow, I’ll let him go. At 8:30 tomorrow, I have to go to the old woman’s house to see what I can get out of this so-called Beatriz. When I called to make the appointment, I tried to tell her a little story, that the prosecutor wanted us to talk to her about safety precautions for seniors. She didn’t really react at first, and then her response caught me off guard. She said she wasn’t in the least bit scared of the Old Lady Killer, that no Old Lady Killer could frighten her. She said she keeps a .22 nearby at all times, that she had it in a pocket in her skirt right then, and that she has excellent aim. Maybe it’s the old woman who’s your faggot friend’s accomplice.”

  “Fuck you. You’re just making stuff up—and stop insulting Mikel. The insults aren’t going to clean your conscience. You have an innocent man in jail, and the worst part is that you’ve known it since the very beginning.”

  “Excuse me, buddy, he’s a fag and a half, and that’s that.”

  “Ponce, you always do the same thing when you screw up

  … it’s like your blood gets thin and you stop thinking.”

  “My bleeding is only because of what I call the eternal return. The eternal return is my belief that killers will go back to the scene of the crime. Even if it’s not true in 99 percent of the cases, the home of the deceased should always be watched. I proposed it in this case. ‘We don’t have the resources available’ was all I got.”

  “Listen, with all that Borgian stuff I almost forgot to point out that Violeta was part of the neighborhood’s Security Commission. She got along well with the guys from the district: lemonade in the summer, coffee in the winter. If neighborhood gossip means anything to you, it is widely rumored that Violeta was Micaela’s daughter and that’s why she was her heir, and it’s possible Micaela had nieces and nephews circling Violeta like vultures.”