The Ripper

by Carmelo Anaya

  She looks at us with resentment and very round eyes that stand out against the jutting bones of her face, barely covered with pink skin.

  - "When was the last time you girls saw her?"

  - "Last night. She left at ten," she replies, her accent thick.

  - "Where did she go?"

  The women shrug and the chubby one looks at the others, seeking out the confidence she needs.

  - "We just want to know where she is," I reassure them.

  - "Has she done something?" the chubby one asks in a low voice.

  I step forward and stand in front of her. She looks at the floor. The others haven't really helped her out, confidence-wise. Her face is pale, her expression dazed.

  - "Look up," I order. "What's your name?"

  - "Ramona."

  - "Ramona what?"

  - "Balan."

  - "There is no problem, do you understand? We just want to know where your friend is. Do you have a picture?"

  The girls look at one another and Tatiana gets up. She takes out a mobile phone from a bag hanging on the back of the chair and taps at the screen before handing the phone to Malasana and returning to the couch.

  Malasana shows me the photo. It's her. Our girl.

  - "She left at ten," I say, and the women nod. "Who with?"

  - "With a friend," says Petrica before the others can say anything.

  - "Who's your pimp?"

  - "We don't have a pimp," Petrica says rudely.

  We know she's lying, but I hold Malasana back.

  - "We think something happened to your friend."

  They look at one another. But Petrica motions to the others. They don't want to talk without their pimp's permission.

  - "What's your friend's name?"

  - "Cristiana," says Petrica.

  - "Cristiana what?"

  - "Cristiana Stoicescu."

  - "Where does she work? In the street? In a brothel?"

  She shrugs.

  - "I don't know. We're just her flatmates," she lies.

  - "Take them," orders Malasana. "They're coming down to the station."

  Tatiana and Petrica shout and struggle while Malasana leads them by the arm.

  I enter the bedroom with the unmade bed and rummage in the bedside table and wardrobe drawers. I don't find any ID. The wardrobe contains only summer clothing, so I assume Cristiana Stoicescu had not been in Spain for very long. I see a picture of a girl. It's her. I slip it into my jacket pocket.

  When I come out of the bedroom, the women are ready: Tatiana fidgeting, Petrica irritated and Ramona confused.

  There are three more bedrooms, one each. I identify whose is whose thanks to the pictures in the drawers. They must work at home sometimes because the photos aren't displayed, but hidden away. I rummage through their clothes but don't find anything worth investigating. In the kitchen, I see a half-finished beer on the table. I don't think any of them have been drinking beer so early in the morning. So I put my hand on my gun and open the pantry door. An old washing machine and a basket for dirty washing. On the other side of the kitchen is a small terrace, but I can't see anything through the translucent glass door except a heater and a clotheshorse. A plaster lattice frames a sliding door. It leads to the terrace of the adjacent flat. I have a look through and see an open window. Someone has escaped from there.

  We lock up the girls in individual cells. They feel worse when they're defenceless.

  We leave the interrogation room for Ramona because she seems the most vulnerable.

  - "Ramona, do you like being a prostitute in Spain?"

  She looks me with almond-shaped eyes that are a very dark brown, so dark that you almost can't tell the irises apart from the pupils. She is short and stocky. Probably has a harder time finding clients than the others.

  - "Petrica does. I don't."

  - "How long have you been in Spain?"

  - "A year."

  - "So, is someone forcing you to do it?"

  She shakes her head first. Then raises her head and looks at me for a while. Then she nods.

  - "Do you want to stay here or go back to Romania?"

  - "Go back."

  - "I can get them to send you back, but you have to help me. I won't ask you to do anything that will get you in trouble. Do you understand?"

  She nods, but looks down again. As I were offering her an incredible gift, the kind she no longer believes in.

  - "I just want to know about Cristiana."

  - "Why?"

  I don't say she's dead. I don't want to scare her. Plus, she might think the same people who are exploiting her killed Cristiana.

  - "Tell me what you know about her."

  - "She's Romanian. She's pretty. That's it."

  - "Did they tell you not to trust the police?"

  She looks at me to see whether I'm offended. I smile.

  I lean forward and fold my hands. Like an understanding priest. As fake as a plastic ten-pound note.

  - "They told you that so you wouldn't try to escape. This gig isn't for you. Others might be able to get into it, like Petrica, but not you. Do you smoke?"

  - "Yes."

  I give her a cigarette and light one for myself.

  - "Water, a soft drink, coffee?"

  - "I don't want anything."

  She exhales lustily and I laugh.

  - "What are you laughing at?"

  - "This could be a bar."

  A sweet smile blooms on her face, the kind of smile that would make a good man happy. Not so much the tricks she turns every day.

  - "I promise I'll get you out of here." "Nothing will happen to you. You'll be fine. But you have to tell me what you know about Cristiana."

  - "What happened to her?"

  - "I can't tell you yet. "But it has nothing to do with the people you work for," I lie to reassure her. "Tell me what she did last night, where she went, with who, where she works."

  She sucks on her cigarette and smoke fills the room. I see from her face she's decided, but first she seeks reassurance.

  - "You swear?"

  - "I swear."

  She steps on the cigarette butt and looks me in the eyes, a serious expression on her face.

  - "She left at ten P.M. Now, in summer, we start late. She left with a friend. With Bogdan."

  - "Bogdan who?"

  - "I don't know."

  - "The same man who was in your flat this morning?"

  I catch her off guard and her pupils dilate. Later, she admits I'm right.

  - "Can I have another cigarette?"

  I give her one and we smoke together. The smoke-filled air is choking, but she doesn't seem to mind.

  - "She went to work with him. But I don't know where. Sometimes she worked in one place, sometimes in another. I don't know where she was last night."

  - "Tell me where she usually worked."

  Ramona shrugs.

  - "Sometimes at El Garfio and sometimes at the industrial estate. Or at the beach. I don't know."

  El Garfio, a former dive bar on the outskirts of the city, now a brothel with cheap whores. Full service for thirty euros.

  - "Are you scared of Bogdan?"

  - "Of course."

  - "Where can I find him?"

  - "I don't know."

  - "Yes you do. Tell me and he won't know it was you."

  - "No," she says, so firmly that I know I won't be able to get it out of her.

  I trust Malasana will know where to find him, the same way he found the girls without having to wait.

  I grind out my cigarette on the floor.

  - "Cristiana was young and attractive, why was she working at El Garfio for thirty euros a fuck?"

  - "Because they want us to turn a lot of tricks even if it's cheap. You make more money."

  - "They make more money," I correct her. "Where are Cristiana's papers? I didn't fi
nd anything in her room. Do they have them?"

  - "Yes."

  - "Did you see her yesterday while she was working?"

  - "No."

  - "Where were you?"

  - "At El Garfio."

  - "Do you know where she was?"

  - "No."

  - "Do you know if she was in Mojacar? Near Club Mandala?"

  - "I don't know."

  - "Did she have any special clients?"

  - "Special?"

  - "That she saw a lot of. Regulars."

  - "I don't know."

  - "Did she ever work at home?"

  - "Yes."

  - "With who?"

  - "I don't know them. I've seen a few of them, but I don't pay attention. They don't interest me."

  - "Has she ever talked about any strange clients? Or any aggressive or violent ones?"

  - "No. Just that they smell bad and do it worse.

  - Maybe a few she argued with because they wouldn't pay.

  - But other people take care of that."

  - "Bogdan?"

  - "Yes."

  I give her a cigarette and leave. I tell Malasana to take Ramona to the women's shelter.

  I go back to the interrogation room when they bring in Petrica.

  - "Oof. Smoky in here. Like a brothel," she says as soon as she comes in.

  - "Just to get us in the mood."

  - "You want one right here?"

  She looks at the opaque glass panel of the interrogation room and laughs.

  - "Some of the tricks like to watch and be watched. How about you?"

  - "Let's talk about your friend Cristina."

  - "She's not my friend."

  - "You two don't get along?"

  - "She's not my friend."

  - "Does she steal your clients? She's very pretty."

  - "Humph!" She answers, trailing a finger over the glass.

  - "Sit down."

  She sits down opposite me, brazen. She looks at me with those round doll eyes and says:

  - "Don't I get a cigarette?"

  I give her one and light it for her. She catches my hand and caresses it with her fingertips, looking into my eyes.

  - "I'm much too old for you," I console her. "Do you want to go back to your country or stay here?"

  - "My country? Nothing but poverty there. And the men are worse than here."

  - "Are you comfortable? Do you have a good life? Can I help you?"

  - "Yes. Come with me and pay me."

  - "I'm on duty."

  - "Ooh. If only you knew what your coworkers on duty do."

  - "I'd rather not find out today. Maybe you can tell me another time."

  She laughs.

  - "When the police say they're going to help you, they screw you, for sure."

  - "We're not all like that," I say in my defence.

  - "You're not? Pigs."

  - "I can imagine. But now I want you to tell me about Cristiana. How long had she been living with you three?"

  - "A couple of months."

  I wait for more but she doesn't elaborate. I'm getting angry.

  - "I'm not going to wait for you to take your time. Spit it out."

  Petrica smokes slowly, pondering her next words. I warn her:

  - "It didn't take us long to find you. We know who you work for, we know where you work, where you hang out. So start now, I haven't got all day."

  She shrugs.

  - "Fine. Since Ramona's told you the whole story..."

  She takes a draw, reading the answer in my eyes. She must be satisfied with what she sees, because she carries on.

  - "She lived with us in the flat. She worked well, I mean she got a lot of work, because people around here love fresh meat. I don't know who her clients are, and she doesn't know who mine are. We each work separately, in a different place."

  - "At El Garfio?"

  - "Sometimes we go there. We have a drink."

  - "Uh huh."

  - "And sometimes in the street."

  - "Tell me where. Tell me where she was last night. You were in charge of the flat."

  - "I wasn't..."

  - "Shut up and tell me."

  - "Last night she was on the Mojacar-Carboneras road, where the big hotel ends. There's lots of traffic and you can find private places on the beach or in the fields and it's much quicker and better."

  - "Who took her out there?"

  - "I don't know," she lies.

  - "Bogdan?"

  Her face closes off when she hears the name.

  - "Was he with her at any point?"

  - "No."

  - "Do you know her clients?"

  - "I've already said that I don't. She doesn't have regulars. She hasn't been here long."

  - "What time was she out on the road?"

  - "From eleven P.M., more or less."

  - "Who watches her? Who goes with her?"

  - "No one," she lies again.

  - "Where can I find Bogdan?"

  She looks away, a scornful scowl on her face.

  Braulio, the medical examiner, is waiting for me in my office. He's sweating like a pig. His eyes are emotionless behind his thick steamed-up glasses. On his face, a defeated look I've never seen before.

  - "It was gender-based, wasn't it?"

  His eyes open so wide they look big even behind his coke-bottle glasses. I always wonder why he doesn't get laser surgery for his Mr Magoo shortsightedness. It makes him seem slow, and he isn't. He told me once he was terrified of the operation. Even kids line up to have laser surgery these days.

  He takes his time answering, as if there's something he's missing, as if my stupid question has thrown him. He slumps his considerable weight into the armchair. I hear it creak when he shifts uncomfortably.

  - "Like hell you really think that! Here's the report."

  - "Why are you giving it to me in person?"

  It's the first time.

  - "What do you think?"

  On the desk, he deposits an Institute of Legal Medicine folder he's been holding in his bear paw of a hand, resting on his huge belly.

  - "This is all very strange," he adds.

  - "Compulsive stab wounds," I say. "Seems like a crime of passion."

  He thinks about his answer while I light up.

  - "Don't take me for a fool," he says, irritated.

  - "Why?"

  He closes his eyes.

  - "Stab wounds, yes. But the two slits across the neck... When you stab someone in the stomach like a scorned lover, as you say, the wounds are different, more incisive, deeper. These wounds are more deliberate. He meant to open her, not kill her. To show off, not to hurt her. That son of a bitch split her open like a pig for slaughter."

  - "There are stab wounds to the right-hand side of her ribcage, too," I say.

  - Shallow, incisive wounds, next to a deep cut which opens up the ribcage so the intestines spill out. "I don't understand the dynamics of the attack and that worries me."

  - "Why?"

  - "Because it means I don't understand the crime."

  I keep my suspicions and gut feeling to myself. The Chief of Police should be the last to put forward a hypothesis.

  - "We're absolutely certain he killed her where she was found?"

  - "Traces of tape on her mouth, hands and feet. He moved her from somewhere else. But he killed her there.

  - A risky location.

  - An unbelievable location.

  - The right location for a crime of passion.

  - The wrong location for a crime of passion because the murderer must have come in with the woman another way so they wouldn't be seen. Then he must have killed her and eviscerated her and then cut the wire mesh around the field and dragged the body to the pavement to leave it in plain sight."

  - "Maybe they slipped off to the field to get busy and the guy got angry."
/>
  - "Will you stop talking crap? I'm not stupid!" he shouts.

  I look at him and give him a minute to calm down. He sighs.

  - "There's no sign of sexual contact. Either premortem or post-mortem."

  Every word out of Braulio's mouth confirms my fears.

  - "The rest is up to you," he says, heaving tiredly himself to his feet, heavy with terror, the fear of what he is imagining, just as I am. It's more frightening in someone who is so used to dealing with death.

  I open the file and the first photograph of the body on the steel table in the autopsy room hits me hard. When I look up at the looming shadow in the doorway, turning around to ask me something, Braulio sees the look in my eyes and spits, with wordless empathy,

  - "Catch that bastard!"

  It's not a plea. It's a curse.

  - "Or kill him!"

  He slams the door.

  Cristiana Stoicescu's throat was slit open with a first cut that starts below her left ear. The murderer made a second cut, parallel to the first, approximately two centimetres below it. As if he wanted to make sure death would result, or that the second cut perfectly mimicked the one above it. The autopsy reveals hematoma on the left occipital lobe, just above the neck. Braulio presumes that the murderer knocked her unconscious to tie her up and gag her. The blow must have come as a surprise, because there are no signs of a struggle and the slits in the neck are so perfectly symmetrical that the victim must have been unconscious when she died.

  The murderer made a deep cut from the lower abdomen to the diaphragm. There are four similar cuts on the right-hand side of her ribs and cuts across her vulva and vagina. The intestines are visible through the deep cuts in her abdomen. The uterus has disappeared.

  On the open flesh of her abdomen, now the blood has been cleaned up, a symbol can be seen, tattooed onto the skin using the sharp point of a knife. A circle encasing a five-point star.