The Black Minutes

2

For Agent Cabrera the case began on Monday, January 15. That day Chief Taboada had a meeting with the best member of his force, Agent Chávez. According to the secretary, they argued, and it seemed Chávez raised his voice. Halfway through the meeting, the chief peered out through the thick blinds that separated his office from the main room, looked over the officers who were present, and picked out the only subordinate who, in his opinion, could still be trusted. That is to say, Ramón “Macetón” Cabrera.
Cabrera was chatting with the social service girls when he was told the boss was ordering him to report. At the moment he entered the chief’s office, Agent Chávez was leaving and jostled him with his shoulder. Fortunately, Cabrera was a peaceable sort, so he didn’t strike back as he reported to his boss.
“Drop whatever you’re doing and look into the deceased on Calle Palma for me.”
He was referring to the journalist who’d been found dead the morning before. Sunday afternoon, some hours after the body was reported, Agent Chávez had managed to detain El Chincualillo in a lightning operation, with enough evidence to lock him up for fifteen years. To Chávez’s mind, the guilty party had acted alone and the motive was robbery. But Chief Taboada wasn’t satisfied.
“I’m missing information: find out what the journalist was doing over his last few days. Where he was, who he saw, what they said to him. If he was writing something, I want to read it. I need to know what was he up to.”
Cabrera knew El Chincualillo was a dealer for the Paracuán cartel, and so his chief’s request raised a problem of professional ethics. “Why doesn’t Chávez do it?”
“I’d rather you took charge.”
Cabrera hesitated. “I have a lot of work.”
“Let the new guys help you.”
Cabrera said no, that wouldn’t be necessary, he could do it himself. He couldn’t abide the new guys.
“One more thing,” the chief added. “Go see the deceased’s father, Don Rubén Blanco, and stand in for me at the funeral. It’s essential for you to report to him, and for him to know you’re going on my behalf, and for you to keep on the lookout until everything’s over. It’s at the Gulf Funeral Parlor, but hurry up; they’ll be burying him at twelve. Don’t you have a suit coat?”
“Not here.”
“Have them lend you one. Don’t show up like that.”
“Anything else?”
“Yes: discretion. Don’t let anybody know what you’re up to.”
Cabrera went back to his desk and asked the social service girls to hunt up the autopsy report. The girls, who didn’t have that much work to do, squabbled over who would take it to him. Who brought it was Rosa Isela, a girl in her twenties with emerald-green eyes, who leaned on the desk and, after handing over the report, didn’t take her eyes off him. Cabrera smiled, flattered, until she remarked that he reminded her of her father. When she observed the detective’s discomfort, the girl became all smiles.
“I brought you a present.” It was a ruled notebook.
“What’s this for?”
“So you can get rid of the other one.”
She meant the notebook he was using at the time. Cabrera’s notebook was so full by now that he sometimes wrote over pages he had already filled at least twice before, a real palimpsest, as it’s called in legalese. And it’s true that he had had a lot of work the last few days.
“Gracias, amiga. Could you get me some coffee?”
Isela fulfilled his darkest desires and left the beverage on his desk. It should be noted that he brought his own coffee to brew at work, since he found the headquarters pot disgusting. Ten minutes later Camarena, one of the new guys, came in to chat with the social service girls. Camarena was a tall, cheerful young guy, successful with the ladies. That day he was flaunting at least three lipstick marks around his mouth: one of them could be Rosa Isela’s. Camarena made himself some decaf and went to his desk. Cabrera wondered how anybody with half a brain could possibly like coffee without any coffee in it.
It was a hot, muggy day. He tried to study the report but couldn’t concentrate and was reading through it unattentively when another rookie interrupted him.
“Hey, where’s the concrete room?” He was wearing dark glasses in the office. These new guys know zip about the venerable institution of dark glasses, Cabrera grumbled to himself. Wearing them in the presence of a superior shows a lack of respect, and Cabrera’s tone of voice was a reproach.
“What’d you lose in there?”
“Nothing.” The young man lowered his glasses. “I was sent to look for mops. Your coffeemaker is leaking.”
“Take the one in the closet, at the end of the hall; there’s nothing for you to do in the concrete room, understood?”
His car leaked oil, the coffeemaker leaked water, what was next? Was he going to have prostate trouble, as his doctor had warned him? Perhaps, at his age, he should drink less coffee and more plain water. But could he live without coffee? After some depressing thoughts (a vision of a world without caffeine, the world as a long and boring blank space), he finally managed to concentrate on the text.
The report indicated that they’d sliced the journalist’s throat from ear to ear, collapsing the jugular, and then extracted his tongue through the orifice. In other words, he told himself, they’d given him a Colombian necktie, so there’d be no doubt about who had committed the crime. Ever since the people of the port had been associating with the Colombian cartel, these things were happening more and more often. . . . He was thinking this over when, as he began to reread the report, he felt a burning sensation in his gut. Damn it, he said to himself, what did I get myself into?
When he was almost through reading the report, his stomach growled again and he told himself it was a sign that he shouldn’t take the case. But his sense of duty was stronger than he was, and he went out to look for Ramírez.
In the entire headquarters there was only a single person who could have lent him a suit coat in his size, and that was the forensic expert, Ramírez. Not that Cabrera was fat, it was just that he was very broad-shouldered. As for Ramírez. . . .
In the port city that we’re discussing, when people get upward of forty they face a dilemma: either they find something interesting to do or they take up eating, with the universally acknowledged outcome. The expert Ramírez belonged to the second category. He had not a double but a triple chin, and his belly spilled out over his belt. Cabrera went in to say hello and noticed a young man wearing glasses typing on a computer at the desk in the back.
“So who’s that?”
“My assistant, Rodrigo Columba.”
Ramírez had no idea what they wanted from him. In the journalist’s house not a manuscript was found, no drafts, nothing. Only a notebook, of no real interest.
“Let me see it.”
“Handle with care. . . .”
“Yes, I know.” They had found Cabrera’s fingerprints at a crime scene once, and since then no one let him off without a good ribbing.
Ramírez handed him the evidence and Cabrera examined it with gloves and tweezers, so as not to worry his colleagues. It was a black notebook: a journal, which at first glance revealed nothing of importance: two or three dates, a poem about Xilitla, and a name, Vicente Rangel. . . . Cabrera felt his gastritis flare up again. Son of a bitch, this can’t be happening. He read the poem, which he thought terrible, but found no other written mark. How strange, he thought at last. He couldn’t imagine a journalist who took no notes . . . a journalist who didn’t write. And that name, Vicente Rangel. He said nothing to the forensic expert, but taking advantage as he looked away, Cabrera tore that page from the notebook and put it in his pocket, under the astounded eyes of the young agent. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to “erase” a little evidence. Cabrera completely ignored the young man’s look and spoke to fat Ramírez.
“Did he have a computer?”
“Did he have a computer? Strictly speaking, yes, he owned one, but we can’t access it. It requests a password, and there’s no way of guessing it.”
“Get a technician.”
“That’s what my colleague Columba here is doing; he’s the next generation of policemen—not like you, Macetón, still using a typewriter.”
The young man in glasses smiled at Cabrera, who looked away.
“And cassettes? Did you find any?”
“Audio cassettes? No, we didn’t.”
“No, not audio cassettes but, like, cassettes to save information.”
“They’re called diskettes,” Ramírez said, “or CDs.”
The specialist bent over the evidence, pulled a diskette from a plastic bag and in one sweeping motion handed it over, more gracefully than Cabrera would have expected.
“This is what we found. Let Columba help you.”
The young man in the glasses inserted the diskette in the computer. On the screen an empty window appeared. “It’s blank.”
“Let’s see it.” Cabrera looked at the blank image. Yes, the diskette had nothing on it.
“Or maybe it’s not formatted for a PC. I’d have to look it over on my Mac. If you want, I’ll examine it later, with another operating system.”
Cabrera answered with a growl. “Give me a photocopy of that notebook, butthead,” he ordered the kid. “And wear gloves.”
“Hey”—it suddenly dawned on Ramírez—“why are you working on the journalist? Wasn’t this El Chaneque’s case?”
Cabrera motioned for him to lower his voice. They went out to the hallway, and Cabrera said, “Chief’s orders.”
Ramírez heaved a deep sigh. “If I were you, I’d get out of it; this smells very weird.”
“Why? Or what? What did you hear?”
“Haven’t you ever wondered if the chief is just using you?”
“What are you trying to say?”
At that moment another colleague came in to ask for a report and Ramírez took the opportunity to end the conversation. “I’ll hunt down what you asked me for later, OK? Right now I’ve got a lot of work.”