The Black Minutes

by Martin Solares

  “What’s going on?”

  “It’s a protest, doctor. Going by the signs, the Professors’ Union must have organized it.”

  According to El Mercurio, there were two thousand people, all demanding quick justice. They were asking for Chief García and the mayor of Madera to be dismissed from office. They alleged they were conspiring with the killer. From the second story, Rangel looked at the variety of inflammatory signs that made reference to Barbosa and to Chief García.

  The doctor shook his head. “Same as always. It’s already started. Rangel, take me to the crime scenes.”

  Rangel drove Dr. Quiroz Cuarón to the Colegio Angloamericano where Karla Cevallos had studied. They turned at the corner so the doctor could examine the entrances without getting out of the car. Afterward they went to see El Palmar. When they pulled up to the lagoon, they noticed two groups of teenagers were getting ready to go waterskiing. Rangel asked him if he wanted to check out the islet, and the doctor said yes. In the Regatta Club, they gave them a boat and a driver. Once they got close to the island, the doctor jumped out with an agility unexpected for his age, and a huge crow appeared in the reeds. The old man scared it off by throwing a rock at it and shook his head. As quickly as he could, Rangel crossed through the police line, which was marked with four branches, and answered the doctor’s questions as well as he could. The doctor asked for very specific details about the conditions in which they found the body. Rangel responded acceptably, thanks to his having read El Travolta’s report.

  “What did they find here?”

  When they were investigating on the islet, Rangel explained, the only thing they found was a footprint in the mud. The doctor stressed that the remains of both victims were found in plastic trash bags. He asked if the two girls were from the same social class, and Rangel explained the first girl went to a private school and was middle class, while the second girl was the daughter of Pemex workers. The specialist commented that the islet was not the ideal place to hide a dead body.

  “It’s very close to where they rent the boats. . . . The killer ran the risk of being discovered because so many people pass by here. I guess you’ve already interviewed the security guard at the club, but we should enlarge the perimeter of the crime scene to the entire shore of the lagoon and interview the fishermen one by one. Most likely, he didn’t rent a boat at the Regatta Club. Probably, he started far away. But in that case, why would he want to leave the body here where he risked being discovered?”

  Immediately, they went to Public School Number Five and the old man asked him to drive around the block, without getting out of the car. Afterward, they headed to the Bar León, where Rangel parked in such a way that he was able to show the doctor the entryway to the alley, where the killer would have had to enter to drop off the girl’s body. The doctor didn’t want to get out of the car.

  “I know this area. It’s not necessary.” He wrote something down in his tiny notebook. “OK, I’m done for the day.”

  When Rangel went to drop him off at the hotel, the doctor asked, “Can you take me to Tampico? I have to make two visits.”

  They went to the old railroad station, and the doctor got out. “I have a strange tradition,” he explained.

  They walked to the old manager’s offices and the doctor looked at the inside through a dusty window. There was a rusted metal desk and a chair thrown on the ground. Ever since they had closed this train station, trash and spiderwebs had taken over. Rangel knew the visit was very important for Dr. Quiroz Cuarón. The rumor was that his father had been killed in that office sixty years before. One of his employees got in an argument with him and shot him in the back. The doctor was fourteen years old when it happened. An uncle went to pick up the boy from school and explained that someone had assaulted his father. The doctor said he had never been able to forget the impression caused by the visit to his first crime scene, seeing his father’s desk covered with blood and his papers strewn everywhere.

  “I remember as if it were yesterday. It was a cloudy day. Even before my uncle arrived to pick me up from school, I had a feeling that something was wrong. Imagine: you get to your father’s office and suddenly he isn’t there. In that moment, my career began.”

  The doctor broke off a branch from a tree with his foot and kicked it toward the street. It made Rangel think about a gardener accustomed to stubbornly clearing weeds and dead leaves from the same land.

  “Now, the cemetery in Paracuán. Let’s go see your uncle.”

  They stopped in front of the gray headstone. Ivy was starting to grow over it. Damn, Rangel said to himself, it’s obvious I’ve totally neglected my duties, I should come here more often.

  The inscription was simple:

  MIGUEL RIVERA GONZÁLEZ

  1900–1975

  DETECTIVE

  YOUR RELATIVES AND FRIENDS REMEMBER YOU

  The widow had insisted on inlaying a black-and-white photo of his uncle in a suit and tie, standing with one boot on the bumper of a Ford.

  “Look at that!” the old man exclaimed. “I was sure I’d never see your uncle again, and now there he is, just like I remember him.”

  The photo must have been from the fifties. In the picture, Rivera looked thin but his expression was friendly.

  “So what do you think, Miguel? Are you going to help us solve this case?”

  The doctor didn’t notice, but a wind gust rustled the ivy.

  A moment later the doctor asked, “Is the bar at the Hotel Inglaterra still there?”

  16

  They were looking out over the lagoon in Paracuán. At the far end of the immense sheet of water, they could see the horizon and the hills of Nagual. From there, they could make out El Palmar, the area where they found the first girl, but they weren’t talking about that. The chords of a melodic organ were coming out of the bar, where a musician was playing a song by Julio Iglesias: I love, I love, I love. . . . Every now and then, they smelled a slight odor of disinfectant, and the wind scared away the mosquitoes. Three gringas were going in and out of the pool, enjoying themselves. Meanwhile, the doctor finished his fish à la veracruzana, put down his utensils, and looked around for the waiter, but couldn’t find him anywhere.

  “My parents’ house was in front of the lighthouse in Tampico, near the jetties. Where do you live, Vicente?”

  “Here, in Paracuán. On the other side of the river.”

  “What part?”

  “Near the ferry landing.”

  “Near the old hacienda?”

  “Next to it,” he said, “in the house that used to be the foreman’s.”

  “You know what they say about the hacienda, right? You have to be brave to live there.”

  “I don’t believe in that stuff.”

  The girls exploded laughing and made Rangel shudder. When they had quieted down, the doctor asked, “I don’t see the waiter anywhere. Could you order me a cognac?”

  Rangel went to the palapa and returned with the drink. Then he said he was going to make a call, and the doctor nodded. Not soon after, the doctor fell asleep.

  The sound of a heavy person diving clumsily into the water woke him up. Someone got the girls all wet, how inconsiderate, he thought. The doctor saw the blurry silhouette of the diver swimming around at the bottom of the pool. That’s insane, he said to himself, he’s been down there too long. As if he had heard him, the man came up for air and started to breathe. The detective said to himself that the man moved with incredible agility despite being so large, and as he said that, lightning struck: I know that guy. He wanted to stand up, but his body felt remarkably heavy—it must be the cognac—but I do know him. What’s he doing here on the Gulf of Mexico?

  From where he was sitting, the doctor saw that the swimmer was crossing a strip of light reflected in the water. He said to himself that he would wait until the guy got out of the water to confirm his impression, and he watched him swimming from one end to the other, from one side to the other, like a huge frog. The repet
itive motion of the swimmer was hypnotic, and the doctor closed his eyes again.

  He remembered a long-ago afternoon when he was five years old. His parents swam in the lagoon in Paracuán while he played onshore with one of his favorite toys, which he hadn’t remembered in years. My blue bike, he said to himself, I never think about it anymore; visiting the port reactivated my memory. He watched out of the corner of his eye as his parents floated in the water, his father holding his mother in his arms, as she smiled timidly. He was thinking how much he would have liked to hear his mother’s voice, when one of the three gringas let out a shrill scream and the doctor stirred in his seat. He was afraid that the same anxiety as always was about to overtake him. Lately, as soon as he got to sleep, he would dream about a man dressed in black, who seemed to laugh at him, a guy he hadn’t seen in his whole life. He told himself that the dreams were a puzzle with one question: How close am I to dying? He told himself he should think about that.

  A meaty hand came out of the pool and grabbed the staircase. Then another hand, and a really fat man emerged. The doctor asked himself who it was, but no matter how much he thought about it, he couldn’t figure it out, the same grogginess that prevented him from getting up also kept him from remembering. The man put on his sandals, wrapped himself in a white bathrobe, and covered his neck with a little towel. All of a sudden, the girls were not to be heard. The man came over to him. Because of the glare coming off the pool, the doctor couldn’t be sure it was the same person, but he looked very similar.

  The man, red as a shrimp, leaned over to say hello. Dr. Quiroz Cuarón? What a surprise! What a pleasure, it’s been so long! He recognized the face of the film director, but the name escaped him: When was the last time? Eleven, twelve years ago? A little more, Doctor, we saw each other in ’fifty-nine, through my agent. And your wife, Sir Alfred? She’s fine, resting in our room.

  The two men were silent until the swimmer clarified. I’d like to tell you something, Doctor. I am so sorry for what happened between us. Listen, Sir Alfred—No, no, let me say this: When you criticized the script for Psycho, I got really upset, because the evaluation got into my producer’s hands, because of a mistake by my agent, and they wanted to cancel the project. But you were right to say the story didn’t hold up to a logical analysis, that it wasn’t believable. And because of all that, I decided to rewrite it, with better results, I let myself believe. I’m really sorry—Don’t say that, Doctor, the misunderstanding was caused by my agent—you know how meddlesome agents can be—don’t worry about it. By the way, I never knew if you saw the film. Yes, I saw it in Mexico City. And did you think it was believable?

  The doctor laughed and said to him, “Sir Alfred, tell your detractors that if you were concerned about believability, you would make documentaries. The swimmer smiled. And you, doctor? What are you referring to, Sir Alfred? I don’t understand. Sir, how are you going to catch the killer? You’re not too old for this yet?

  “Excuse me?”

  The doctor shifted in his seat. Vicente was leaning over him. “It’s five-thirty. We need to get going.”

  17

  At the request of Don Daniel Torres Sabinas, the meeting took place Thursday afternoon in the assembly room at City Hall. Torres Sabinas introduced the specialists and left him with the agents, as he couldn’t stay for the meeting. Over by the door, Vicente confirmed that a majority of his colleagues were in attendance. Besides the policeman from Paracuán, there were a dozen other officers from Tampico and Ciudad Madera in attendance, all willing to cooperate in the investigation. El Travolta and Cruz Treviño were talking quietly. Chief García’s nephew said hello. When the meeting was about to start, Rangel noticed that one of Torres Sabinas’s secretaries was calling him, waving him over urgently.

  “Sir, are you Vicente Rangel?” The girl asked.

  “Yes.”

  “You have a call. This way, please.”

  She led him to the large offices near the main entrance. As they walked down the hallway, they ran into the Professor, coming toward them with a taciturn expression. When he recognized Rangel, he called him over, and said quietly, “Someone killed Calatrava. They put a bullet through his neck.”

  “What?” Rangel stopped. “Are you sure?”

  The Professor nodded. “They took him out at the checkpoint. The ambulance already went for him.”

  “Sir,” the secretary interrupted them. “Your call is long distance. It’s very urgent.”

  He went up to the first floor, where a new surprise awaited him: the person calling was Chief García, from the state capital.

  “Rangel? I’m glad I found you.”

  It may have been caused by the distance, but the chief’s voice sounded old and tired. He was calling to send his regards to the doctor, but he didn’t want to interrupt the meeting; he’d already heard what happened to Calatrava.

  “Lolita told me a few minutes ago. Wong’s handling it.”

  “Sir, I’d like your permission to take part in the investigation—”

  “Don’t get distracted.” The old man was unequivocal. “Wong is already on top of it. You worry about the doctor and the girls.”

  “Taboada is with him.”

  “Rangel, this is an order. Is that understood?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Does the doctor need anything?”

  “No, everything is fine.”

  “Remember, he’s very sensitive. If something upsets him or makes him distrustful, he’ll leave and slam the door on his way out. My nephew isn’t giving you any problems, is he?”

  “Not really.” He was still being watched by the Blind Man. “He just went into the meeting.”

  “No, get him out of there. You don’t know what he’s capable of! Get him out immediately.”

  “I’ll do it right now, sir.”

  They said good-bye. Rangel made another call, this time to El Mercurio, and spoke briefly to Mariana in the editorial room. When he hung up, Rangel noticed that Cruz Treviño had been listening to his conversation.

  “What do you want, Treviño?”

  His coworker looked at him with contempt. “We know you’re talking to Barbosa. You going to Ciudad Madera, man?”

  “You’re a complete jackass.”

  Rangel pushed past his coworker and went back to the room. Cruz Treviño followed two steps behind.

  When he entered the conference room, he signaled to the Blind Man.

  “I’m leaving the doctor with you,” he ordered. “I’ll be back in a half hour. You keep the patrol car and give me the keys to my car.”

  And he went out to look for the Chevy Nova.

  Getting to the checkpoint took him a few minutes. As he was parking, he noticed that Wong was already at the Wizard’s post.

  “What’s up, Rangel? You’re going off with Barbosa?”

  Rangel was fed up and ignored the question. “What have you found?”

  Wong, aware of Vicente and Calatrava’s friendship, gave him an update.

  “Look.” He showed him the holes in the exterior of the checkpoint. “Nine bullet holes, and Calatrava hadn’t even pulled out his gun.”

  “A machine gun?”

  “It’s gotta be. I’d say an Uzi. Another two bullets hit on the inside of the checkpoint. The body was lying inside, but it was visible from the highway.”

  It was impossible not to notice the blood.

  “A driver headed to the refinery reported it. Everything’s in order.”

  Holy shit, Rangel thought, he probably stopped some driver to ask for the paper, and the guy had a record. Maybe the driver thought he was in trouble and took Calatrava out.

  “Look, here’s another.” Wong pointed at a piece of metal on the ground. “The shooter didn’t even get out of his car. He called him, or Calatrava came up to him; the guy pulled out the gun and shot him. On my first count, I got seven bullet wounds between the left leg and arm, like he was trying to cover up. One pierced his neck.”

  “Ho
w big’s an Uzi?”

  “They’re small, not too heavy, made by the Israelis. Some are as small as a clothes iron.”

  With Vicente’s help, the officer was able to open a closet.

  “Hell-o,” said Wong, “no wonder he didn’t have a TV.”

  He was holding up a piece of newspaper full of marijuana. Rangel said nothing but followed the trail of blood with his eyes.

  “They shot him over there.” Wong pointed to the highway. “The killer got away. Calatrava dragged himself to the desk and picked up the phone, but he couldn’t speak—he had a bullet in his neck—and he stayed right there on the ground. Poor fuck. He ran off to his meeting with infinity.”

  “Yeah,” said Rangel. “Poor cabrón.”

  When the jugular’s cut, the only way to stop the hemorrhaging is to strangle the person.

  “What did you see?”

  “It’s just that he didn’t come back to finish him off.”

  As Wong looked through the late officer’s personal effects, Rangel lifted up the previous Monday’s copy of El Mercurio and found a green notebook: Calatrava’s diary. The front said: UNSOLVED MYSTERIES, and the inside was divided into two columns. In the first, there were a series of notes along the lines of: “Every new moon, green lights are seen floating toward the mountains.” “A dove who loses a baby returns every day to the same spot for four months.” “The cat activity picks up at dawn.” Dreams were recounted in a very thoughtful way: “I dreamed that my father was sad and dejected. In the dream my father was like a small child who had to be consoled. When one consoles someone in dreams who has shrunk in size, who is being consoled in reality, that part of our consciousness is afraid of disappearing. Identity is like a wave, in which crests will rise at times, then be submerged and then disappear.” One note attracted his attention: “There are times when one dreams of monsters or deformed dwarves that refuse to leave a room or a vehicle in motion and even come back furious after we’ve made them go. These dreams announce pain, what is left of a great pain or the remains of a stubborn sickness that will soon be destroyed or forgotten.”