“Fine, whatever,” said the one with the tattoo.
“Some guys got killed here two nights ago.”
“Two machine-gun blasts.” The one with the screwdrivers nodded. “The whole neighborhood heard.”
“The match was on,” said the one with the tattoo. “It was during the second half.”
Moreno did a quick calculation and said, “Ten thirty?”
“Something like that.”
“Who was it? La Cuarenta?”
“No,” the other one answered. “They weren’t from the neighborhood. Came from outside, like you all.”
“You see them?”
“No. No one did. Everyone was at home, watching soccer.”
“And the dead guys? Did you know them? Were they from around here?”
The boys chose not to answer that one and just smiled cagily at the detective.
“Hey, Treviño. Those trucks are getting closer.”
“Give me a second,” he said and turned to the boys. “So? What’s the word? Who did this?”
The one with the screwdrivers hesitated a moment.
“The night of the killings, folks saw a car drive through.”
“A squad car?”
“No, not a squad car.”
“A truck?”
“Yeah, a truck. They say it was red, one of the ones that sit real high, like they use in the trade. Or like yours. They saw it go that way, past the bar and the pool hall. They say it went up the gravel road to the motel. Then it took the highway headed out of the city. A lot of folks saw it.”
They heard a rat-a-tat-tat in the distance. It was pretty clear that people around there didn’t like having visitors. Treviño turned off his flashlight and said his good-byes to the kids.
“That’ll do. Save me a couple of tortas.”
Then he turned to Moreno. “I told you these trucks would draw attention. Step on it.” The engines on the two trucks roared and they drove through a gap between the houses, heading up the gully as quickly as possible. It’s not that they didn’t want to stay and chat, but night was falling.
As they approached Avenida de las Palmas, the detective got a call from Williams. Rafita’s vehicle was clearing a path for the Ford Lobo carrying Moreno, Treviño, and the Bus. The consul sounded nervous.
“Any news?”
“Oh, nothing. We found the kidnappers’ car.”
“What?” The consul couldn’t believe his ears. “Hold on. I’m taking you off speaker. All right, go on.”
“We found one of the trucks, all shot up. A black four-door Grand Cherokee. Older model.” The detective briefed him on what they’d learned.
“After taking Cristina from the nightclub, the kidnappers left the main avenue and headed down the gully toward the river and Colonia Pescadores. They stopped in an empty lot, where they were finished off with 762s, a caliber used in assault rifles. We don’t know who the assailants were or who died or if Cristina was with them. And one other thing: they saw the red truck leaving Pescadores along the road that leads to the highway.”
“Hm. That’s no good. Did you check for fingerprints?”
“We didn’t have the right equipment with us, but it wouldn’t have mattered,” said the detective. “By the time we got there, half the neighborhood had passed through to strip the truck. And besides, we had to hightail it out of there.”
“Shots fired?”
“We were far away by then. But yeah, they shot at us.”
The consul was silent for a moment.
“Do you think it was La Cuarenta? Do you think Cristina could still be in Pescadores?”
“It doesn’t seem likely, but I wouldn’t rule it out.”
“But if they used assault rifles …”
“Everyone’s got assault rifles: Los Viejos, Los Nuevos. You can buy one anywhere for under two hundred dollars, and that’s nothing new. And I don’t see La Cuarenta killing anyone that violently just a few blocks from their base. They’d be drawing unnecessary attention to themselves. Why not by the river or the highway? The way the city is right now, there are plenty of other options.”
“So it was Los Nuevos?”
“Not sure. Right now, what we know is this: the evidence suggests that the attack was intense and only lasted a few seconds. The neighbors heard two bursts of gunfire. One to wound the targets, the other to finish them off. The boys were standing next to their vehicle when they were shot. Why would they get out of the car if they were in the middle of a kidnapping? Also, at least two of the boys were armed, but the truck had at least fifty bullet holes on one side, plus all the casings on the ground. If they’d sensed danger, they would have tried to defend themselves and might even have succeeded.”
“We have to check the hospitals again.”
“Go back and ask about anyone who came in with a bullet wound in the past forty-eight hours. And don’t bring Mrs. De León with you. There’s a good chance you’ll find her daughter.”
“Right,” the consul agreed. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m headed to the morgue.”
“What!” shouted the gringo.
The Bus was so angry he almost stopped the car.
“You arrogant son of a bitch.”
The detective gestured to him to be quiet and went on. “Either the assailants killed everyone, including Cristina, or the kids fought and killed one another, in which case the girl could be injured. Or dead. Or worse.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” shouted the consul. “What could be worse?”
“We’re talking about luxury pickups with expensive tires and kids who wear flashy clothes and pieces tucked in their waistbands. Kids who carry assault rifles. If you do the math, everything points to guys in the trade. But first we have to confirm that Cristina isn’t with the dead kids found in Pescadores.”
“All right, I get it,” said the consul. “But listen. The morgue is awfully close to your former colleagues.”
“I know where it is. A block from the precinct.”
“Doesn’t it seem like an unnecessary risk? There’s something you should know: Margarito called the consulate ten minutes ago saying he needed to see me about someone I was working with. I think that someone might be you.”
“It’s pretty likely.”
“What do you think he wants to talk about?”
“I’m sure he’ll tell you a few lies about me and ask you to turn me in. You decide whether you want to believe him or not. Why don’t you use the opportunity to ask him about the girl?”
The consul cleared his throat.
“I get the impression he doesn’t have any real leads in the case and that he’s coming to talk about something else. If I bring it up, he’s just going to demand money in exchange for useless information.”
“He’s got a habit of doing that.”
“Well, just be careful. We don’t want them hauling you in before you find Cristina.”
“Don’t jinx me,” said the detective, and hung up.
“Listen,” said the Bus. “If you’re gonna search the morgue, you should probably just stay there. As if you didn’t have a million motherfuckers looking for you. If anything happens to you, we’re the ones who have to answer to Mr. De León. We can’t do anything for you if they take you in. I don’t know about Moreno, but I don’t want any trouble with Chief Margarito.”
Treviño nodded. Everyone knew he had little chance of walking out of the morgue a free man if anyone saw him there, just a few feet from headquarters.
“There’s a park nearby. Drop me off there and wait for my call.”
“Do you want me to go with you?” asked Moreno.
“There’s no need. Just leave me there and park somewhere downtown. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to be picked up. But be quiet. I’m calling an ambulance.”
“An ambulance?” Moreno searched the detective’s face.
“Pinche Treviño’s finally cracked,” said the Bus, under his breath.
9
“Here’s another one for you,” said the EMT.
“Is he in bad shape?”
“Terrible,” he smiled. “A real mess. We picked him up over there, in the park. Well, see you tomorrow.”
“Wait,” said Dr. Elizondo, “I haven’t signed anything.”
“You don’t have to sign for this one. He’s a gift.” The EMT smiled again and made his exit.
As soon as she was alone, Silvia Elizondo, known as Dr. Ugly among her many admirers, walked over to the gurney, her long, silky mane swishing behind her. When she was about two steps away, she heard a groan that was meant to be scary coming from under the sheet.
“Very funny,” she said. “But I’ve heard this one a hundred times.”
She pulled back the sheet that covered the new arrival. The sight of Treviño wiped the smile right off her face.
“What are you doing here? Don’t you know Margarito’s looking for you?”
“I need your help.”
The doctor looked at her watch.
“A fine hour for a visit. This can’t be on the up-and-up. Get down from there.”
The head of the forensics unit locked the door and turned back around. Treviño hopped down from the gurney.
“Very pedestrian. You used to be more creative.”
“Let’s just say this is an emergency house call.”
The doctor gathered her hair with a distracted movement of her hand and peered at her visitor. They studied one another motionlessly until the woman spoke.
“So, you’re not dead?”
“Officially, I am.”
“Well, you’re in good shape for a corpse. Would you like some coffee?”
“I’d love some, but I don’t have time. Will you let me see the latest arrivals?”
“Getting right down to business, as usual. Everything else can wait. What are you looking for? Men, women?”
“Men and women.”
“Make yourself at home,” she said, gesturing toward the metal drawers filled with bodies that covered the far wall.
“Thank you, Doctor.”
The detective opened the first drawer and shook his head.
“Poor woman.”
“Which one?”
“The one with the exit wound in her forehead. Stray bullet?”
“Exactly.”
“Poor thing. But I’m looking for someone a bit younger.”
“Look over there, then. Those are the last ones to come in. You still roughing it? I can’t imagine you’ve gone back to the police force.”
“No, of course not. Sometimes I do detective work, if the case is interesting. And I bought a hotel. A little one, on the beach in Veracruz. You should visit.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Hey, do you remember that white Maverick I used to have? The one we used to drive down along the river in?”
“The one you described as the mirror of your soul? I have nothing but bad memories of that thing. Why?”
“I’ve got another one just like it now.”
“I hope it brings you better luck. Don’t forget how that all turned out.”
Treviño smiled.
“It’s not a good idea for you to be out in public around here,” she insisted. “Margarito’s not the type to forgive and forget, and he’s got it in for you. This afternoon he sent around a memo putting us all on alert. He says you’re in the trade.”
“In his dreams. Anyway, look who’s talking. If anyone’s in the trade …”
“I know. So, how’s your wife?”
“She’s great, very happy. And my daughter, she’s two and already walking.”
“You have a daughter?”
The young woman’s face lit up and darkened in two quick flashes. Then she shook her head as though she’d just taken a sip of bad tequila. Treviño felt like a total idiot.
“I’m happy for you. All right, take a look at this, maybe it’ll get you out of here faster,” she said, opening a folder in her cell phone and handing him the device.
The screen displayed a series of faces: older men’s and women’s and every now and then a child’s. Treviño pored over them until he saw one of a young man—and then another and then another, all with tattoos on their necks. They were all around twenty years old, and all of them looked as if they’d been cleaned up before their photos were taken. Two had a big red spot on their parietal lobes, and it was hard to make out the features of the third: he’d been forced to kneel and took the blast to the crown of his head.
“When did these last three arrive, the ones with the tattoos?”
“Two shifts ago, the night before last. They came in together, the Three Amigos.” Missing a few locks that refused to leave her forehead, Dr. Ugly wove her hair into a loose braid. “They brought them in the night before last and I examined them yesterday morning. So many people come in looking for their family members, and since the precinct has a habit of losing information, I’ve gotten used to taking pictures of my cases. Other people document fancy meals or their vacations, but with me it’s just work, work, work.”
The detective listened to her carefully. When she’d finished speaking, he asked, “So there wasn’t a girl with them?”
The doctor sighed.
“No, no girls. Just women between fifty and sixty.”
“But no teenager, a blonde, green eyes, around sixteen years old?”
“No. You looking for a girlfriend or what?”
Treviño handed back her phone and surveyed the room.
“I see you’ve gotten more storage. Are things that bad?”
“The city isn’t the place you used to know, Carlitos. The people are different.”
“Tell me.”
Treviño watched her settle into the only seat in the room, as lithe as a gymnast, and pull her knees up to her chest. A slender woman, angry with the world, who wore high-heeled cowboy boots and her hair down to her waist.
“A year ago, when I was still teaching at the elementary school, a representative from the ministry of education came to see us, supposedly for a course in classroom safety.”
As long as he’d known her, Dr. Ugly had taught science at a private school in La Eternidad in the mornings before shutting herself up in the morgue in the afternoons. It was how she stayed psychologically and financially stable.
“He looked and acted like a bodyguard. If this guy has a fourth-grade diploma, it’s because he bought it. I doubt whoever sent him made it through elementary school, either. We’ve been seeing strange things these past few months: military checkpoints at the entrance to the city, charred vehicles on the avenues, storefronts set on fire or all shot up, shell casings on the ground. We knew something was going on, but they hid the truth from us. Until the truth got so big that we were the ones who had to hide. One day the principal sent around a memo asking us all to stay late for an emergency training session. Long story short, she introduces this guy, and the rat explains how violence is terrible in the area, and it’s going to get worse. I couldn’t believe what he did next. It’s inhuman.
“He told us if shots were fired in the school that we should make sure all the students drop immediately to the floor and keep their heads down.” As she spoke her voice grew thin, like a sheet of ice about to break. “And if an armed assailant came looking for one of the children, we should point out who it was he wanted to take. I stood up and said, ‘Who gave you the right to come here and ask us to do something like that? Who designed this “course”? Your boss in the government? The teachers’ union? You have no right. How can you ask us to do something like that, when we’re the ones responsible for these children?’ I yelled at him, just like that. And you know what he said to me? ‘That’s just the way things are, ma’am.’ By that time, we were all crying in pain and anger. Our ambitious snake of a principal wasn’t even there, probably to avoid having to intervene on our behalf. All she cares about is getting ahead. Miss Charito, who always speaks her mind, the only teacher there wit
h a degree, said, ‘How can you ask us to do that? Whoever gave this order has no clue about the bond between a teacher and a student. What you’re asking is wrong, we can’t do it.’ The bodyguard interrupted her and said that he wasn’t asking. It was an order and whoever didn’t like the idea was free to go. They gave him hell.
“Miss Charito asked us to quiet down and said, ‘The president, the governor, or our union leader might be able to give that order, but can you imagine a teacher actually sending students to their death? We get up early every morning, take our kids to school, and then go teach other people’s children. We do all we can to help them learn and treat them the way we hope someone else is treating our own kids at that moment. How could you think a human being would obey that order? Whoever complied, how could they go on being teachers?’ When she finished, we all started yelling. He was angry but had to swallow it. He probably wasn’t used to being treated like an idiot by a bunch of teachers, and we were really giving him hell, so, making a serious effort, he told us in a more or less conciliatory tone that even if the order didn’t seem to make sense, when an armed crew enters a school looking for one child in particular, the child’s classmates refuse to give him or her up. And that could be dangerous, because these guys could injure or kill several children before finding the one they’re after, which is why they felt compelled to give this course to reduce the number of potential victims and why they were asking the teachers to do their part.
“Then one of the other teachers said, ‘Don’t you all have any other solutions, like finally ending the violence or setting up better security at our schools?’ The guy said he was sorry but the class was over and that the guidelines he’d laid out were not advice but rather a direct order and we could either follow them or quit. We looked at one another and someone said, ‘I’m sorry, sir, but we won’t do it. We’ll think of something, but what you’re asking just isn’t an option. We’re here to give these kids an education, not be accessories to a crime. What you’re asking is that we collude with the criminals and the morons who are supposed to be governing this country.’ To which he responded, ‘Your call.’
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