Redemption

by Dufour, Danny

  “I know it’s sketchy for the moment, but we have to do tracking and start from the beginning. We’re not from around here, so we have to get to know the locals. It’s them who will let us integrate and lead us where we need to go. Open your eyes and don’t let any details slip, you know?” said Namara as he wiped the sweat from his brow.

  “We got it,” said Ming Mei.

  “I didn’t think we were so close to the American border. We are a few kilometers from Texas!” said Shinsaku, stretched out on the bed.

  “Yeah, that explains the drug war. It’s the perfect place to transport drugs in. The American customs and the DEA keep finding tunnels dug by traffickers to pass under the border with their merchandise. It’s the drug-runner’s paradise! This motel is perfect, like I said, because we’re a bit withdrawn from the city, which lets us stay discrete. We’ll separate in teams of two on the scene. You’ll leave for your side, and James and I will see what we can do,” said Namara.

  * * *

  The heat hit them full-force in the city of San Matanza, where sun and fuel exhaust mingled. Cars lurched in all directions and pedestrians filled the sidewalks. San Matanza was a historic city where several monuments had been conserved, giving it the appearance of an old city in the modern Mexican world where big American businesses held headquarters – these showed up among the shops littering the streets. San Matanza was a mix of Mexican and American culture. Thousands of people swarmed through the city’s core because of the proximity to the border. Several Americans came to find whatever they wanted at low price. It was a city of vices for foreigners who wanted to stay unnoticed. Strip clubs operated everywhere.

  From nightfall, the city took on a completely different allure when the frenzy of commerce, the mills and the merchants changed to sex workers and bars. Mexican cabaret dancers and revelers populated the city glowing with neon signs. Bars were numerous, but rather outdated, as were most commercial establishments in the city. The bars were controlled by different cartels according to city sector. The principal source of revenue for workers were the big American corporations that came for the cheap labour. The population, mostly impoverished, ripped out a life for themselves with small jobs and returned to their homes at night.

  At night, violent altercations took place in the streets between rival gangs for control of the territory. Drugs were the principal cause, but so many illegal activities were lucrative here, such as prostitution. Business never stopped in San Matanza, from night to day. Only the type of business changed according to the hour of the day. Namara hadn’t seen heat this intense since Colombia and he continued to criss-cross the packed streets breathing the smog they called air. James and Danny were dressed in jackets and shirts as though they were accountants on lunch break. They were looking for people who could help them. They had circulated through the clothing stores, restaurants and all the public places of interest. In presenting themselves as American journalists who were here to report on the unresolved murders, the reception had been cold and distant. More often than not, the responses were of feigned ignorance. The people never gave commentary, apart from that it was a tragedy and that they feared for their closest.

  When they followed with other questions, they were politely told that they didn’t want to discuss it further. They got angry, too. Namara and Guerra didn’t push them. They stayed polite and courteous, leaving their information, hoping for information in the future. Several hours they wandered to return with basically the same information. Until now, they couldn’t help but notice a strong reticence to talk about the murders, a palpable fear and discomfort.

  “It’s going to be harder than we thought,” said Guerra as he took a bite of burrito and washed it down with a gulp of beer.

  “Yeah, but we expected that. We’ll need to get creative.”

  “I’m willing, but how, mate? We’re foreigners and we want information on murders that seem to involve the authorities. The people are scared. I’m not surprised they don’t talk. We’re like some repugnant swarm of crabs swarming out of a cadaver’s ass.”

  “Lost my appetite, thanks very much,” said Namara, taking a bite of burrito next to an old man’s burrito stand. They had decided to take a break and a bit of food and watch the urban flow go by.

  “They’re delicious, these, don’t you think?”

  “Yes indeed, excellent. Listen, I know what you mean, but we don’t have any other choice, we need to keep going. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  “Ok. Hey Namara, what’s this white crap?” he asked, peering into his burrito.

  “Rice.”

  “Rice in a burrito!? That’s nonsense!”

  “We’re in Mexico, eh? They invented it… so if they say rice goes in a burrito, I’m going to believe them.”

  “It’s still bizarre. Here, while your are waiting, have a beer, it’s excellent in this heat.”

  CHAPTER 42

  They walked into a tavern where the TV showed a local sporting event and immediately appreciated the cooler interior temperature. The “decoration” consisted entirely of wood. A dozen tables and several chairs filled the space dominated by bar counter, behind which an old barman did his job without enthusiasm. The odor of tobacco and alcohol was stifling. James and Danny contemplated the clientele. About fifteen patrons sat around the television.

  They were all elderly Mexican men, most of which wore cowboy hats. Namara noticed that all eyes were fixed on them and no-one said a word. He decided to break the silence and made his voice sound casual.

  “Hi, everyone, my name is Erick Vandal and I’m a journalist for the Chicago Globe. My colleague Arthur McDermott and I are writing an article on the San Matanza murders and we would like to ask you a few questions, get the people’s perspective on what happened here.”

  “Arthur McDermott? Why don’t you just tell them I’m a tranny looking for a goat to shag?” he hissed in Namara’s ear.

  “I don’t know ok, it's like that... it's just a name, so shut up please! Why are you agitated, it’s a fine name, eh?” he shot back from the corner of his mouth.

  “Where exactly did you come from?” asked a man from the back of the room.

  “Chicago. We’re journalists, sir, and we’d like to talk to a few of you about what happened here. Maybe you could alert us to new elements of the investigation that could let us resolve these murders once and for all!” said Namara, trying to project his voice to the back.

  “American journalists, eh? You’re not the first to write an article.”

  “I know that, sir, but I think the more we talk about this story, the more the international community is going to put pressure of Mexican authorities to solve these murders. It’s possible that certain unknown or forgotten clues could aid us in our investigation, if you would be so kind as to speak to us, you see?”

  A hush followed and no-one said a word. Namara and Guerra continued to stare at the crowd, waiting, staying planted at the bar.

  “Where you been all these years, Mr. Vandal of the Chicago Globe?” asked a old man with a wrinkled and sunken face who wore a beige hat and a checked shirt. The man was sitting near the bar several meters from Danny and James.

  “Mister…”

  “My name is Silvio, young man, and I’ve lived in San Matanza my whole life.”

  “Pleasure. Please know that we’re here to help in any way. We would simply like to know more of the complete story…”

  “You know how many people like you have come here over the past ten years?”

  “Well… I’m not sure.”

  “Tons. From everywhere, to write articles. All kinds of organizations tried to intervene, even your FBI tried to get in on the story ‘cause we’re so close to the border, maybe thems that doing it are Americans. They found nothing. The police here don’t let them do nothing. They ended up going home. Here the police do what they want. They said a lotta things, but that don’t stop it happening to us. No offense, but you’re not gonna change nothing. You want to write
an article on the murders of San Matanza? Go home and read everything they wrote for ten years and you could write your article no problem.”

  “According to you, Silvio, between you and me, who are the killers and why haven’t they been arrested?”

  The old man raised his cowboy hat to look Namara in the eyes while the other patrons leaned in to listen.

  “It’s the work of the Devil himself, Mister Reporter.”

  “What do you mean, exactly?”

  “I mean it’s a curse on us and our city. The Devil himself decided to stop here and party a bit, smoke a few cigarettes, see! You get it now? I pray every day it stop, but he likes it here, he lives here.”

  “They say the police might be implicated in these murders. Do you believe that?”

  “I’m nothin’ but a retired truck driver and an old geezer, you know, I don’t know nothing. All I know is, is that the police ignored too many details from the start and they started by ignoring what the citizens of this city could know. I can’t say if the police is the ones, but they’s embarrassed by this. No-one can stop the evil. We should all leave, but we ain’t got the money.”

  “You spoke of Satan… are you referring to a cult, maybe?”

  The old man laughed and shook his head.

  “Young man… is it important to know if it’s a cult or not? The only thing I know is, it’s hundreds of women and children who died here without anyone knowing who did it. Nobody can stop it after all this time. I don’t need to know any more. In my eyes, it’s an act of the Devil. What piss me off is, is that it makes me realize God forgot us too. Are you a believer, Mr. Vandal?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m not.”

  “Too bad, because if you were, I would have asked you to pray for us if you really want to help.”

  “I understand, but maybe we can follow some of those forgotten details to new clues. Don’t you think?”

  “If did I tell you anything that shows you to the killers, do you think that you two alone could stop those monsters? They have no face, they kill with no consequences here for years. If you get close to the evil, you becoming victims yourselves, that’s the truth. When you look down the abyss, she looks at you too! There are doors that shouldn’t be opened. Go back to Chicago, Vandal, and write your article. It’s not with your pen and your nice clothes that you’ll stop the killers. You’re not from here and you’re not Mexican… you wouldn’t understand.”

  “And if I’m not afraid of the Devil, if I want to open those doors and don’t care what happens… what then?”

  The old man sighed and took a shot of tequila.

  “All right… well, if you’re crazy enough to open the doors and if you don’t want to live, I would tell you to go talk to the girls’ families. For example, the people who want to find their girls’ killer. Who would want to find the killers the most, Vandal?”

  “I agree. And how would I get in contact with these families?”

  “There’s a help center in San Matanza for families who have lost loved ones to violent crimes. They go after the government to fix the situation. You know, they do good things. They get money, give out flyers to foreigners about what happens here. They do what they can with what they got, but it’s not enough. Some of them know a lot after all the years. Many of your fellow journalists already passed by there probably, but if you insist…”

  “Yes, I insist!”

  The old man pulled a pencil from his shirt pocket and wrote an address on a napkin. He offered it to Namara.

  “There’s a Renata there could help you most.”

  “Thank you for your time, Silvio,” he said, extending his hand.

  “Good luck, young man,” he said, tipping his hat.

  Namara and Guerra turned to leave when Silvio whistled at them. Nearly out the door, they turned back.

  “Be very careful. Pay attention where you put your feet, Mr. Vandal! You’re not in Chicago. You in Mexico. Don’t forget it, understand?”

  Namara nodded his thanks and they disappeared through the door.

  CHAPTER 43

  “May I see your identification?”

  “Certainly,” said Namara as he fished out his fake Chicago Globe card that Andy had procured him. He had been surprised to see how real it looked. Erick Vandal (who, in his ID picture, looked a lot like Danny Namara) was, by all appearances, an accredited journalist. Renata scrutinized it for several minutes before handing it back.

  “All right, Mr. Vandal. What can I do for you?”

  Renata was a matronly woman in her thirties. Her shoulder-length hair was black and curly. She wore a bright yellow cotton dress. Her look was conservative, but her Latina attitude suggested a joie de vivre and a passion one never forgot once one had seen the victim’s help center in San Matanza. The small building in the city center was cramped and outdated. There were three desks and no window. The walls were papered with posters of all kinds. There was a stifling heat and two huge overworked fans at opposite corners of the office. Namara was seated uncomfortably in a wood chair, facing Renata, who sat behind a desk.

  “So, to begin: I’m interested in a case you probably know very well.”

  “That’s possible. Which one?”

  “The murders of women that run rampant in San Matanza.”

  “Ah. I see. And you came all the way to Chicago to learn about this business.”

  “Exactly. I’m writing an article on the unresolved murders hoping to educate foreigners on what happened here.”

  “You’re not the first journalist to come here and you won’t be the last. Who referred you to me, if I may ask?”

  “An old man I met by chance on the street. He pointed me toward you, said you’d know the case best.”

  “Well, I’ve worked with a lot of people who lost a close one because of them. You know, we try to help victims of all sorts of violent crime. I’ll spare you the list.”

  “I’m sure you do excellent work.”

  “We try to do everything possible to help, but in all honesty, we lack the finances and the personnel. But for you, the murders… all right. Over four hundred women were killed over ten years. They were all from poor families and they were all subjected to torture and rape, if they were found. And the children, never found, that is…”

  “Yes, I’m up-to-date on the facts. I researched the issue.”

  “Very well. In that case, if you know all the details, what do you need me for?”

  Namara leaned forward and waited a few seconds before speaking.

  “I wonder how it’s possible that so many women disappeared over so long and nobody saw anything. Don’t you agree?”

  “Yes… apparently. The police botched so many investigations and most of the crime scenes were contaminated. Not to mention the possible witnesses who might have identified the culprits, but who shut up for fear of retaliation.”

  “Or even details that the civilians noticed, but they ignored…”

  “Like I said, anything’s possible, Mr. Vandal, but what went unwritten in the files probably disappeared long ago, because there are murders that date back several years. It’s not very probably that you’ll succeed in finding new leads. Everything you know is in the documentation.”

  Namara cleared his throat loudly.

  “If you’ll allow me to clarify: With all the victims’ families that you’ve met over the years, did none of them ever try to mount their own investigation to find the killers?”

  “Possibly, but I can’t tell you the fruit of their research, if there is any. We at the center have always kept from leading our own investigation. We’re an organization to help the victims, not the police. Our task here for ten years has been to put pressure on organizations mandated to lead such an investigation to the end of arresting the culprits. Clearly, so far we’ve failed. We’ve never tried to get information or run an investigation because the existence of our center is a service of support. What we do know is mostly public knowledge.”

  “I underst
and your position. Although, I would like to be able to speak with the families that would have done such an investigation, who would have been ignored. Do you remember any? I’d like to ask them some questions.”

  Renata leaned forward onto the desk to peer at her interrogator. She stared at him suspiciously.

  “You don’t seem like a journalist, Mr. Vandal…”

  Namara decided he should try a different tactic if he wanted to get what he wanted.

  “Don’t I? I’ve been told they’re normally less good-looking.”

  Renata’s suspicious stare disappeared as she threw her head back in laughter.

  “Ohhh, honestly! What a load. Are all journalists this humble, too?”

  “Yeah, I know… humility is another one of my many qualities. It’s not easy to be so perfect these days.”

  “I understand, we’re all having trouble.”

  Renata, who had responded enthusiastically to Namara’s playfulness, laughed beautifully with him, happy to find someone who shared her sense of sarcasm.

  “My goodness. I have to admit, you’re funny. You don’t look it, though. All right, Erick… can I call you Erick?”

  “Of course.”

  “I’ll give you a hand with your article. I’ve seen lots of people, you know, over the years, but I remember one man in particular…”

  “Who?”

  “The father of one of the girls. Her body was found in the desert on the side of the road, if memory serves. It must have been three years ago.”

  “And why this man in particular?”

  “Well, he was so determined to find his daughter’s killers. He said the police didn’t want them resolved and that he would find them himself. He came to see me several times to get advice and to share information. As I’ve explained, I have always refused to get involved at this level. I told him to share his information with the police, or to wait and see if other organizations would decide to get involved. He told me that the police never took him seriously. Then, I never saw him again.”

  “Would you still have his address?”