The Devil You Know

by Robert Swartwood

  “See here? This story is about the bodies being found yesterday, and how Miguel Dominguez is a suspect. Christ, look here. They even have pictures of Dominguez’s apartment.”

  Ramon tried to skim the text, but the pictures kept distracting him. One was of the Paraíso Motel, the other of Miguel Dominguez’s apartment. On the surface the picture could have been of anybody’s apartment, but Ramon had been there just yesterday. Had stood in the middle of the place. Smelled the dankness of the room. These pictures were legit.

  Carlos said, “Remember our pimp friends from yesterday? They said they followed Samantha Lu to that building. The same building where the landlord was shot and killed and where those narco wannabes got beat up.”

  Ramon forced himself to look away from the computer screen. He fixed his eyes on Carlos.

  “Are you saying this Samantha Lu writes for La Baliza?”

  “My gut says she doesn’t. But remember, when she came out of that building, she wasn’t alone. She was with another girl, who I’m betting is the same girl she was with at La Miserias. Speaking of which, should we tell the boss about what happened last night?”

  “You mean getting our asses kicked?”

  Carlos touched the side of his face again.

  “My wife’s passed five years now. I can’t quite use the excuse that she punched me last night. Yours doesn’t look so bad, by the way.”

  Ramon just nodded. He didn’t want to tell Carlos it was because his wife had touched it up with some of her makeup this morning. It was too embarrassing, though maybe not as embarrassing as being beaten up by a woman.

  Before Ramon could say anything, Carlos’s desk phone rang. Carlos answered it, listened for a couple seconds, then said they would be right down and replaced the phone in its cradle.

  Ramon said, “What’s up?”

  “That was Jorge. He’s ready for us.”

  Jorge was the medical examiner. He worked in the basement, examining the dead bodies that came in every day.

  Carlos pushed his chair back and stood up.

  “Ibarra and Serrano are downstairs waiting for us, too. Let’s hope they also want to act like last night didn’t happen.”

  Ramon stood up and gestured for Carlos to go first.

  “Age before beauty.”

  Carlos snorted as he started toward the elevators.

  “Says the guy wearing makeup.”

  Down in the basement they found the two PFM agents already back in Jorge’s lab. The bodies were laid out on three tables, covered with sheets. Still, the smell of the charred flesh lingered in the air.

  Jorge said, “Now that you’re all here, do you want me to show off my brilliance or just tell you my conclusion?”

  Carlos said, “Which do you think?”

  Jorge beamed a bright smile.

  “My brilliance, obviously.”

  He waited a beat, and when nobody laughed or even smiled, he sighed.

  “Fine, I’ll jump right to my conclusion. Something that may or may not be pertinent to the case.”

  Ramon asked, “Which is?”

  “At this time there’s no way for me to identify the bodies.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m still waiting on the dental records, and without those, there’s no way I can make a match. Besides, we’re not even one hundred percent certain who the victims are.”

  Jorge held up a hand before anybody could interrupt.

  “Yes, yes, I know we believe we know who the victims are, and that may very well be true, but without one hundred percent certainty I won’t say one way or another. All I have right now is the woman’s jewelry.”

  He gestured at a stainless-steel bowl on the counter behind them.

  “One earring. That’s it.”

  Carlos crossed his arms, impatient.

  “And your conclusion?”

  “Based on the fact that there was no smoke found in their lungs, their throats were cut before they were burned. All three of them.”

  This caused the PFM agents to trade glances. They didn’t say anything, though, and just turned their attention back to Jorge.

  Ramon said to the agents, “Anything you want to share?”

  Ibarra shook his head.

  “Not at the moment, no.”

  Carlos heaved a heavy sigh.

  “We’re all on the same team here, right? Don’t leave us in the dark. If you have information to share, share it.”

  The two agents traded glances again. They stared at each other for a long moment, communicating silently, and then Serrano nodded.

  He said, “This is new.”

  Ramon said, “What’s new?”

  “The Devil cutting their throats before burning them. From what we’ve learned about the past murders, he ties them up, douses them in gasoline, and sets them on fire. They burn alive until they die.”

  Carlos drifted over to the counter and glanced inside the stainless-steel bowl at the single earring.

  “So what does that tell you about these murders?”

  Ibarra shrugged.

  “We’re not sure yet. We’ll have to call headquarters and see what they think. One theory is that he had no choice but to cut their throats. That he was pressed for time.”

  Still smelling the charred flesh in the air, Ramon asked, “How long does it take for somebody to burn alive before they die?”

  The agents glanced each other again, but this time it was clear they weren’t trying to hide information. Instead, each was curious if the other knew the answer.

  Ramon said, “Never mind. I don’t think I want to know. Jorge, is there anything else?”

  The medical examiner shook his head.

  “Not unless you want to hear my brilliance.”

  Carlos was already headed out of the room.

  “Not today, Jorge. You stay cool down here.”

  Ramon nodded his thanks to the medical examiner and hurried to keep up with Carlos. The two agents lingered behind.

  As they stepped onto the elevator, Ramon said, “I feel like they’re hiding something from us.”

  Carlos nodded, staring up at the elevator’s ceiling.

  “Probably.”

  “What do you think we should do now?”

  “First, I want a cigarette. Then second, I think we need to find Miguel Dominguez.”

  “Do you think he’s still alive?”

  The elevator door opened, and Carlos stepped out, shaking his head.

  “Not a chance.”

  Thirty-Four

  La Miserias looks different.

  Granted, it’s daytime now, midmorning to be exact, so there’s more of the town to see than there had been last night. Still, something about it feels off. Like it’s not real. Like it’s hollow. Which, of course, is to be expected after last night’s massacre.

  We walk down the main street leading to the square. The bodies are gone, but there are still people there, mostly old men. Some are sweeping up the debris. Others are laying down hay to cover the blood-spattered dirt.

  Gabriela whispers, “What are we doing here?”

  Good question. She’d asked it during our drive and I hadn’t had a proper answer then. I still don’t.

  I motion her toward one of the side streets.

  “Let’s go this way.”

  A minute later we’re standing outside Yolanda’s house. Dorado, the chubby brown cat, peers out at us from the window.

  I knock.

  No answer.

  I knock again.

  Still no answer.

  Dorado just watches us lazily from his perch on the windowsill inside.

  I say, “Maybe we should try the back.”

  Before we can move, though, a young kid appears down the street. He doesn’t look any older than ten years old. He reminds me of the kid who sold me those firecrackers, and for an instant I wonder what this kid might be peddling today. But he simply approaches us, his expression much too serious for a kid his age.

&nb
sp; “Are you looking for Yolanda?”

  We nod.

  He says, “I know where she is.”

  We follow him between several different houses until we come to one packed with people.

  The kid squeezes inside without a word, leaving us alone outside. The few people crowded in the doorway glance back at us. A minute passes, and then Yolanda appears. She gazes outside, frowning, and shuffles toward us, leaning heavily on her cane.

  “You girls were the last two I expected to see today.”

  I say, “Is there somewhere we can talk?”

  She gazes up and down the empty street.

  “Why not here?”

  “I’m sorry again about what happened last night.”

  “You came here to apologize?”

  “No. I came here to ask you a question.”

  The old woman leans on her cane.

  “And what is your question?”

  “Last night you said you wondered when Morales will strike again. You said you wondered when more people will die. You said that it’s a bloody cycle.”

  “Yes, I did say that. Is that your question?”

  “No, my question is, do you want to break the cycle?”

  In the sunlight the scars on her face are even more pronounced. She stares at me, studying my face.

  “What are you saying?”

  “You told me about the autodefensas, how they once stood up to the narcos. Why not stand up to them again?”

  Yolanda closes her eyes and shakes her head slowly.

  “As I told you, the autodefensas have been disbanded. They have become illegal. And besides, we are a small town. The weapons we have are simplistic. A few handguns, maybe, a few hunting rifles. The narcos have military weapons. How are we supposed to defend ourselves?”

  One of the old men from the doorway has drifted outside to smoke. He’s the same old man Gabriela spoke to last night in the town square. He clears his throat and speaks in a low gravely voice.

  “The boys have weapons.”

  Yolanda glances back to glare at him.

  “Be quiet, Antonio.”

  I ask, “What boys?”

  Antonio says, “The narcos. The ones here in town.”

  I look at Yolanda.

  “You have narcos in town?”

  Yolanda sighs.

  “There are narcos in every town. Narcos need a place to live. They aren’t all rich like Fernando Morales.”

  “How many are there?”

  Antonio answers.

  “Two of them. Sometimes more. But two of them stay in the house on the edge of town. They’re young, about your age. They came one day and kicked the family out of the house and have been there ever since.”

  I ask, “And they have weapons?”

  The old man nods.

  “I would guess so.”

  I look again at Yolanda.

  “Are weapons the only thing stopping you from protecting yourselves from the narcos?”

  Yolanda shakes her head again, this time sadly.

  “You two should leave. Forget about this town and what happened here.”

  “Last night you told me about how towns like these once stood up to the narcos. You made it sound like this was something you wished happened again. Now, do you still feel that way?”

  Before Yolanda can answer, Antonio grunts.

  “I wish we did.”

  Yolanda shoots him another glare.

  “Thankfully that is not a decision for you to make.”

  Antonio takes a final drag of his cigarette before dropping it on the ground.

  “You are right, Yolanda. It is up to the town.”

  He motions at the crowded house behind him.

  “Why don’t we ask them?”

  Thirty-Five

  The house is small, and about thirty people are crowded inside. Some sit on the couch and chairs, others on the floor, while still others stand leaning against the wall. There are only a few middle-aged people, the youngest maybe in their thirties. Most are older, about fifty or sixty, and immediately I realize that these are the town elders.

  Gabriela and I have interrupted a town meeting.

  Whatever conversation the people inside were having dies once we enter the house. All eyes turn to us.

  Someone asks, “Who are they?”

  Before Yolanda can answer, Antonio clears his throat and addresses the group.

  “It does not matter who they are. What matters is last night narcos came into our town—during a wedding, no less—and murdered our people.”

  Someone else says, “Yes, Antonio, and that is why we are meeting. To discuss the funerals.”

  Antonio growls at this.

  “Fuck the funerals.”

  He pauses, and his shoulders drop, his angry expression going all at once somber.

  “Obviously I do not mean that. The funerals are important. But what I want to talk about is the narcos who did this.”

  An uneasy silence fills the room. Many of the townspeople glance around at each other, but nobody responds.

  Yolanda says, “Sit down, Antonio. You are being foolish.”

  He turns to her, his eyes starting to well with tears.

  “My granddaughter died last night. The bullets did not even kill her right away. At least that would have been a mercy. They hit her in the stomach. I told her she would be okay while I did everything I could to try to stop the bleeding. But it was not okay. She died in my arms. My granddaughter died.”

  Stunned silence. Everybody’s focus is on Antonio.

  The old man stands in the middle of the room, turning slowly to address each of the townspeople.

  “We all lost somebody close to us last night. And it was not the first time. And it will not be the last time. And I am sick of it. I am sick of it!”

  Spittle flies from his mouth. He wipes it and the tears in his eyes away but doesn’t say anything else.

  Somebody says, “We are all sick of it, Antonio. But what can we do?”

  Somebody else says, “We can stand up to them.”

  Another person says, “No, we can’t. If we stand up to them, that will only lead to more killing.”

  As if a switch is thrown, the townspeople all start talking at the same time. Some arguing that no matter what they do the cartel will keep sending more narcos to kill them. Others arguing that it had worked in the past, that the autodefensas were successful.

  Somebody shouts, “But look what happened to the autodefensas! They’re gone. The government won’t allow it.”

  Somebody else counters, “That is because they were spreading from town to town. There is nothing to stop us from protecting our own people.”

  Again the townspeople start talking over each other.

  Gabriela and I stand off to the side. There’s nothing for us to say.

  Finally somebody hollers for Yolanda to speak, and the townspeople quiet down.

  Yolanda leans on her cane. She hasn’t spoken this entire time. She just stood there and listened and now it’s her turn to speak and I wonder what it is she’ll say.

  She surprises me.

  “I think we owe it to the loved ones we lost last night—to the loved ones we have lost before last night—to stand up for ourselves. I think we owe it to our own children and grandchildren. They have learned to live in fear of the narcos. It has become part of their life. But it does not have to be.”

  Many of the townspeople agree with Yolanda. Others don’t. They start arguing again, some saying that fighting back will mean they’ll all die, others countering that if they don’t fight back they’ll eventually die anyway. After a while, Antonio raises his voice again.

  “I call for a vote.”

  This quiets the room.

  Antonio says, “Let us vote on it. We are a small town, and we are all friends, but clearly we all have different ideas on what we should do. But something must be done, so let us vote.”

  Murmurs ripple through the room. Several people no
d their assent.

  Yolanda says, “Before we vote, I do want to say one thing.”

  The crowd goes quiet again.

  “Last night I felt just like Antonio does now. I wanted to fight. I wanted vengeance for our loved ones. But this morning when I looked in the mirror and saw my face I felt differently. As my scars will attest, I am very familiar to the brutal ways of the narcos. They can be heartless. They can be brutal. They feed on fear, and expect those who are not narcos to be scared of them at all times. I fear standing up to the narcos may cause more bloodshed. But I also fear not standing up to the narcos. Even if the end result is the narcos come here to kill us all, at least we have finally stood for something. And so I will cast the first vote. I vote yes.”

  After that, things move quickly. Antonio votes next, then it goes around the room, and within a minute every townsperson in the living room has voted yes. Each and every one of them.

  There’s a heavy silence as the realization hits them of their decision. From some of their expressions, it’s clear they’re immediately questioning their vote.

  That’s when somebody asks, “Now what do we do?”

  Somebody else answers, “We kick the narcos out of town.”

  A third person asks, “How do we do that?”

  There’s another silence, which I take as my cue to step forward and raise my hand.

  “I can help with that.”

  Thirty-Six

  Like Yolanda said, the only weapons in town are a few hunting rifles and handguns. There are over two dozen of them, yes, but none of the weapons look new. None of the people who own those weapons look equipped to handle them very well. The rest of the townspeople gather up what weapons they can find: shovels, bats, metal pipes. Once word gets out about the vote, everybody in town wants to contribute.

  The house in question—the one the narcos took over a year ago, kicking out the family who had lived there and threatening their lives if they tried to take the house back—sits near the edge of town. Half of the people circle around toward the back, while the other half fans out in front of the house. There are over fifty people now—all ages and sizes—and they’re determined, which is good, because it’s clear many of them are scared. They know going up against the narcos is dangerous—many of them lost loved ones last night, after all—but they don’t want to stand idly by anymore.