—I'll tell you a professional secret.
—Which?
—When I was with Mateo in the" Nautic, "documents fell into my hands that I thought were irrelevant, about a possible landing on the Galician coast of twenty-five thousand kilos of cocaine.
—Yes, on the tenth of August. It was a decoy, —interrupted Nicholas.
—How?
—A ghost operation to fool the hell out of you. The drug had to enter another place another day.
That night, Nicholas asked Mireia to tell him about the old days of Jomer, the old place that was ran by Isaac Jiménez, as well as all the protagonists of her stories. Mireia still remembered the Jomer with nostalgia. Whenever she travelled to the city she could not help herself to have a drink around that place. They had not yet reformed it since the first time she had entered with Lucia twelve years before. Mireia was glad he continued to keep the old furniture, which had brought back so many good memories from past times, giving off that smell of old, antique, that fragrance that only a thousand times manipulated things keep; But who have the strange gift of maintaining their charm despite the wear and tear on them as a slow erosion of their continued handling.
Mireia liked to smell that smell mixed with the scented candles with which Isaac used to decorate the tables in the room. These were square, their eight-centimetre thick lids, rectangular solid beech legs six by eight centimetres, screwed directly to the lid, almost in line with the corners, respecting the edges. The chairs were of solid appearance, also built in solid beech to match the tables and just as these were the work of a local carpenter, personal friend of "Softie" and regular client of the Jomer. The bar was a mixture of walnut and glass through which different objects could be seen such as pocket watches, silver medallions, old coins and even old newspaper articles, among which were the stories that Mireia had published in "La Región" And that there they were like an old treasure hidden in an urn on which hundreds of coffee were served every day. The bar was located in front of the entrance, had hexagonal shape dividing the room into two parts almost symmetrical. To his right, it spread a dozen tables where they disputed championships of auctioned during the day and endless games of poker in the nights. In the background were three pool tables and two champagne ones. His carpets were almost immaculate green. To the left of the bar were the slot machines. There were fruits of all colours and flavours, fruits that smelt like money whose flavour did not usually restrain the voracious appetite of the players. Among them, Ramón González, who used to spend whole evenings sitting in front of the machines. At first he used to supply weed to Lucía Márquez, then he stopped trading with her to dedicate himself more exclusively to cocaine and heroin, which brought greater benefits. Behind the machines were reserves, separated by screens with oriental details, ideal for business meetings of various kinds.
Lucía used to meet with her most important clients and suppliers. Behind these screens were taking place political and commercial agreements of various kinds, which had been important milestones for the city's economy. Judges had been bought and bribed, among them Manuel Marquina, the one in charge of carrying out the new trial that would take place next October 10 against Lucía Márquez.
The young judge, Manuel Marquina, in addition to being a regular client of the "Jomer" since his student years, which of course had a strong friendship with Isaac Jiménez and the rest of his collaborators, had also kept on sporadic occasions some room adventures with the same "Queen", so it was understandable that, despite his reputation as a tough and strict judge in strict compliance with the law, in the case of Lucía Márquez, he was more forgiving than usual. Reasons were not lacking for it. He was a learned man, well educated in the criminal arts; But at the same time weak in matters of womanhood, gambling, or ethical issues. Now he was running one of the most important courts in the city, and with the help of Isaac Jiménez, Diego Suances, the friends and politicians they had in their pockets, it would not be difficult for them to continue to climb on their work. Although for this he had to undergo small vagaries of some big fish every now and then.
7 - The scene.
When I got to the scene of the crime, the coroner, the court clerk and the judge had left. I regretted not having arrived before, but the vehicle that had been assigned to me did not give more of itself. I showed up there, dressed in civilian clothes with blue jeans and a yellow sweatshirt. Two guards were waiting for me at the scene of the crime; What my eyes beheld stunned me. The corpse of Lorena Vázquez sat on the floor of the prison wardrobe, before dropping had left a huge stain of blood on the wall, against which someone had crushed her skull; on the rest of the body there were no signs of violence of any kind. Her uniform remained impeccable, except for the splashes of blood, while her face remained immaculate, drawing a smile as a kind of rictus after death.
The diagnosis was clear: a limited number, one or more physical persons had reduced it, after subjecting it, struck or hit her head hard against the wall, until it stripped it causing a quick and violent death, apparently without more witnesses than the empty lockers and shower cabins. Suspicious? In principle none of the inmates of that institution, except one, Lucía Márquez, who apparently had a perfect alibi, because she was attending the visit of her friend Mireia Martín at the time of the murder. Put it like this, you do not know what line of research to follow. For now, wait for the scientist waiting to find some trace or traces, with which to catch the responsible or responsibles for such an outrage. Apparently, according to the commissioner, a case sung, so he sent his newest sergeant to be fired in the office. Of course he omitted a small detail, that the officer in question knew the victim and that he had had sexual relations with the possible assassin. I was glad that that was not so, that Lucía Márquez, unless they managed to prove otherwise, had nothing to do with the death of Lorena Vázquez.
—An adjustment of accounts, —said Joaquín Costa, the director of the prison, a bald man with black-rimmed glasses that made him look like a mad scientist.
—I wish it were only that. She was the right hand of Lucia Marquez. I fear that this has something to do with drug trafficking, —I pointed out at the same time as I felt like my past in the narcotics brigade by some strange and incomprehensible reason obstinate in persecuting me.
—How much better! —Said the insipid director, who was struggling to get worse and worse. They arrange their own accounts by themselves. A motherfucker less in this world.
This guy was disgusting, worse than many criminals with whom I had tried to practice my profession with, more or less honourable and lucky. I thought that because her death was related to the drug trade did not detract a bit of my attention. The dead woman, with such a beautiful body, belonged to me. Her gaze told me that she would not rest in peace until the guilty party or culprits were brought to court and paid for the crime they had committed. The case promised and I decided to go all the way, splash the shit wherever I went. These bastards would pay dearly for having killed a human being, for if anything was clear in that penitentiary was that the killers were of the female sex, although after analysing the appearance of the director of the prison it was convenient not to discard anyone. That included the guards or functionaries who worked between the walls of the penitentiary, waiting for the results of the analysis of footprints, I decided to take advantage of the time by interviewing my old friend Lucía, better known by all the members of this institution as The Queen. At last we would see each other again. Fate insisted on crossing our paths without us being able to do anything to stop it.
They say that one does not speak with the dead, until he has them in front, looking at it in the eyes makes you see that one day not far away you will be in his place, crouching with the snowy, cold, stony face; Contemplating as the last breath of your life has vanished like the wind.
When that day arrives you are never ready and less if you are still too young. You spent the last years of your life in jail and you still had a life to go. At twenty-six Lorena Vázque
z has left us forever. She was not a bad girl, on the contrary, she was always a very extroverted young woman of character and hedonistic spirit. She only made the small mistake of falling in love with the wrong person, but who has never done it; I am one of those who believes that she had already paid her crime more than it was needed and she didn’t deserve such an end. Who deserves it?
I felt compelled to do her justice; Although the consolation that would obtain with it would be minimum in comparison with the effort to realize. But as much as I weighed things up, this was my job. The satisfaction obtained by arresting the guilty would only serve to relieve my own conscience and partially reduce the pain of the family, although this was not really what motivated me to do my job, but the belief that I would at least have been able to shut it down always the thirst for justice that the deceased could shelter in the depths of her soul and that she could make the transition to the other world knowing that the responsible for her agony had paid dearly for their crime. That's why the girl deserved all my respect. It costs very little time to plan and execute a crime, to root out a life that takes so many years to build. But contrary to what they think, the police don’t have problems with time because they have all the world to order and they record the information, which is not little, that falls into their hands. This point is what criminals forget when they decide to shorten the lives of their victims, leaving a lot of doors open for investigation, hence the effectiveness of the modern Civil Guard bodies when it comes to tying up and finding the culprits ; Although at the time of resolving a crime not always the most direct way is the shortest. That is why the face of my colleagues in the judicial police of Orense after six hours in a row interrogating Lucia Marquez was a poem, smoking cigarettes after cigarettes and emptying cartons with the same speed of a death row. And all, in order not to get a single confession from her, after keeping her awake all night, despite the fact that my turn had arrived: contrary to the methods of torture used by my companions, of continuous pressure on the suspect stealing her sleep and denying her the rest, methods that are as effective on occasions as any other, I decided to give a rest to the prey number 6328.
A few hours of sleep would do her no harm. I preferred to talk to her when she was more rested. In the meantime, I would spend my time studying the crime scene more carefully. The judge had already given the order to lift the corpse, so there was only one report and a huge blood stain decorating the wall of the dressing room to the left of the showers. Difficult picture for a beginner. After examining again and again the place and concluding that I would not bring anything new to the examination to shed some light on the events happened, my next step was to let the false rumour run between the dams that the prisoner forced by the harsh interrogations had betrayed the true culprits of the massacre, without too much hope that this trick would work, I began to go over the file of the deceased in detail. Widow of Julio Corcuera, a husband whom she murdered, belonging to one of the most famous families of the Galician drug trafficking. It seemed a clear case of account adjustments. But there were several dubious questions that burned me, they raged deep in my throat. Did her death have something to do with the operation "Nécora IV"? Had Lucia ordered her murder when she discovered that she was collaborating with the police? Or, on the contrary, did Lorena collaborate with The Queen in fooling the investigation by giving up her freedom?
This last hypothesis seemed very improbable to me, since the profile of the deceased was more like that of a convulsive killer in a moment of uncontrolled rage, she murdered her husband in an outburst of passion, than that of the typical collaborator of drug trafficking. But sometimes the classic patterns with which certain criminals work, undergo different pressures, surprising changes of behaviour. I still didn’t believe that this was the case of Lorena Vázquez, rest in peace.
A full breakfast with cereal, toast, milk and hot chocolate; If it is accompanied with toasts with real butter, I always thank in the middle of the adversity: I did not ignore it for that reason I was in charge to facilitate it to my dear friend Lucia Marquez. She thanked me with a cordial smile, whose eyes did not bother to verify tired, sleepy and slopes only of the food, I let her eat with calm and I began my interrogation without insisting, although the repetition is also a police technique, in the direct accusations and threats, which had already been perpetrated by my colleagues throughout the night, their interrogation had been summarized by the brigade Sánchez with an unusual parsimony of an agent of the law, as a review of the kind of relationship maintained between the two Prisoners in the prison, he tried to squeeze out a motive, if any, for which Lucia could hate Lorena so much as to order her murder.
Lucia did not tire of repeating that her relationship with her cellmate was cordial and affectionate, that she felt indignant at her death and that she was willing to collaborate with justice in all she could to help arrest the true perpetrators of the crime.
I saved myself from telling the brigade my belief in Lucia's absolute innocence and thanked her for her collaboration. Now the prisoner passed the same as the case to my hands, the central brigade of the provincial capital had sent one of its most inexperienced members to resolve the case in a few days.
Lucia was again after more than a hundred and twenty days and four hours with me. My heart quickened. I felt a pang, that only her presence so pure and innocent, because only this way feels the loved one, it was able to sprout from the depths of my chest. I felt like embracing her. I think she felt the same, for as soon as she finished eating breakfast and decided to face the look, which until now she had hidden before my eyes, she burst into tears. She did it in silence, without her lips emitting a single sound that betrayed her tears. I gave her a kleenex. What else could I do for her. I envy her for being able to vent. I wanted to cry too for all the days that we had not been able to be together and those that would remain to us. But my position as an agent of the law prevented me.
—Easy, —I said—. I know you're not a killer. I would like to help prove it but I need your cooperation.
She dried her tears and looked at me with those eyes that only an innocent woman can look at.
—I swear, I had nothing to do with her death. I loved her. I know that she collaborated with you, I knew from the beginning but she did not give you away. She never did. I set up a fictitious operation. Actually, I did it to help Mireia with her book. I swear I'm clean. I don’t know anything about twenty-five thousand kilograms of drugs. Everything was a decoy, a true set-up from the beginning.
—I thought so, —I said—. Whether or not there was a mass disembarkation of narcotics to satisfy the expansionist appetites of the Russian mafias, I cared nothing at all. That was not my domain, now I am working on homicides.
—I'm sorry you got involved in my game, —Lucia said.
—On the contrary, I'm glad I failed. I am very happy to have gone to the homicide department, deep down, I think it is more worthy to pursue murderers than drug traffickers.
— Seriously? —She looked surprised—. I did not know, I did not know it. It will be a relief not to have you here. I want you to know that I'm clean. Actually I'm innocent: I never trafficked and I have nothing to do with mafia families. My ex-boyfriend Alberto was the one who put the drugs in my flat. My lawyer has told me that the court has decided to reopen the case. It is possible that with the new trial to be held on October 10 I will be released without charge.
—I did not know! It's fantastic! —This time I was surprised—. I'm glad for you, it's great news.
I turned off the recorder for a moment. What I was going to say was something that only concerned us both.
—I want to tell you something very important now that no one is listening, one day I told you I was not in love with you. Not that I lied to you. I actually did love you but I really didn’t know it. —Lucia tried to say something. I made a gesture with my hand to stop—. I don’t want you to say anything, I'll wait for you, I know you love me too; We will be back together very soon in one
way or another. Now I have to start the recorder again. I don’t want to raise suspicion, and we will continue this conversation another time.
I pressed the play again and continued with the interrogation. I wished to possess the results of the forensic and scientific analyses soon to unmask the culprits and to shelve the case as soon as possible. But just in case the fingerprints failed, I tried to open new waterways in the investigation. Unlike my colleagues, of course more trained than me in the body, I decided to tackle small things, small details that could lead me to some specific track, such as the colony brand used by the victim or her hobbies, among which for my surprise I was reading, her favourite tobacco, Malboro Light ... So, calmly, I ask question after question, I was doing a small x-ray about the likes of Lorena. Then I went on, entering the personal terrain. At first Lucia gave me little, except that Lorena did not regret at all to have murdered her husband. Rather, she felt that she was a prisoner of the laws of this country, where gender violence was only punished when it was too late. Only once the victim had been transformed into a punch bag, police began to take action on the matter. I nodded affirmatively, that unfortunately this was so. These things were not solved by a simple restraining order. But in our case, no evidence of battery was found; although according to the statements of Lorena Vázquez these had existed and probably would be so. However, the judge believed that the motive of the crime had been adultery: there was evidence that Lorena's deceased husband had had sex outside of marriage and that Lorena was aware of his infidelities. According to the Jury jealousy pushed her to end her husband's life.
—Any other little detail you can tell me, no matter how small, some quarrel with some cellmate for some insignificant motive? —I asked, looking directly into her eyes.
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