The Black Minutes

20

Back at headquarters, Rangel picked up the evening edition of El Mercurio: COLUMNIST CORMAC MCCORMICK DISAPPEARS.
Tuesday night, the renowned FBI investigator Cormac McCormick disappeared under mysterious circumstances. The author of All About UFOs, the famous column reprinted in more than a hundred and fifty newspapers in the United States, was headed from Mojave, California, to Searchlight, Nevada, where he was to give a talk on UFOs (Unidentified Flying Objects). The writer’s vehicle was found abandoned on the highway in Death Valley. Prior to his disappearance, the investigator spent the weekend in a Las Vegas hotel, where he won a considerable amount of money that was found undisturbed inside the car. There was no sign of theft or violence, no evidence or blood. But around the vehicle, a curious circular track was found, a meter wide and with a diameter of twenty meters. The grass around it appeared to be charred. The detectives in charge of the case were baffled—
He had thought things couldn’t get any worse. Then the phone rang again, the secretary answered, and, suddenly frightened, she covered her mouth with her hand.
“Mr. Rangel?”
“What’s wrong?”
“They just found two more girls, near the train tracks.”
José Torres loved his three daughters, especially the youngest, Daniela. He had named her after an actress with green eyes from the telenovelas. The girl’s eyes were brown, but to please the mother, everyone said that they were green at first, as if the actress’s name had changed them for the better. Ever since the first telenovela in Mexico, an actress’s popularity was measured by the number of girls baptized with her name.
She’d woken up sad that morning, because of a dream she had, and didn’t want to go to school, but her parents dressed her and sent her on her way. Since they lived in a neighborhood with no electricity or paved streets, the girl had to walk through a small wooded area with mango and avocado trees to get to Public School Number Seven.
She was very small, her father thought. She looked so pretty with her hair wet and combed, just after her bath. She always wanted a metal lunchbox, like her classmates had, but José Torres never could buy it for her: I’m sorry, mija, but the most important thing is to have enough to eat, and he handed her her breakfast wrapped in a plastic bag.
The girl waved good-bye. It was the last time he saw her.
A group of Boy Scouts was responsible for finding the body: Augusto Cruz, Jesús Cárdenas, Carlos Síerra, and Martín Solares. Not one of them was more than seven years old. The first thing that was strange about the chaotic statement they gave was that they had no reason to be there, because their group, Number 7, was based out of the other end of the city. It all started when they tried to skip class and see The Exorcist at the Cinemas del Bosque, but—they’d never skipped class before—they took a bus headed in the wrong direction and when they got off, they were caught in a thunderstorm, so they sought shelter in an abandoned building. Later, one of them wanted to explore the second floor and he found the body.
The address was for an abandoned building on the outskirts of the city. The Evangelist’s car was in the street, and there was an ambulance next to it. Rangel jumped the barrier restricting access to the crime scene. Crazyshot tried to stop him.
“Hold on, man, you can’t go in.”
“Why?” He tried to push his way through, but his coworker got in his way.
“Chief’s orders. Taboada’s in charge.”
“F*ck Taboada.” And he pushed his coworker out of the way. Cruz Trevi?o made such a small effort to hold him back that Rangel realized the giant really wanted him to take the case, so he wouldn’t have the responsibility. F*cking jerks. All of them just want to get off the hook, and here I go like a complete idiot.
He walked to the first floor, and immediately the awful smell hit him, like he was entering a tiger’s den. Damn, he said to himself, this is the place, no doubt about it. His legs almost gave way when he passed the stairs and walked into the foul-smelling hallway; it was impossible to breathe and he started to cough. The Evangelist ran out of the room, covering his nose with a handkerchief and didn’t stop till he made it to the window. Then he started vomiting.
“Watch out, cabrón!” they shouted at him from below.
Rangel deeply wanted someone else to take the job from him, but he found himself on his own again, so, summoning all his strength, he covered his mouth with his handkerchief and walked through a door that seemed to lead to another world.
The scene of the crime was so overwhelming that while he was in the room, he couldn’t think. He could only ponder the insanity that was behind it all, trying to imagine what kind of person could do something like this. His hands weren’t even sweating anymore, they were literally cracking open, but he didn’t realize it at that moment. He realized he was covered with cold sweat when Dr. Ridaura came into the room.
“Oh, finally, you’re here. If you thought this was it, follow me; I’ll show you some more.”
The old woman went back down the hallway and, completely exasperated, opened one door after another.
“Look.”
There was blood splattered on the floor in each of the rooms. “Holy Mother of God,” said Rangel. The building had a parking area inside it, so the killer was able to go in and out without being seen. Of course, he thought, that f*cking pig, he killed all of them right here. I’m in the killer’s den.
The doctor sneezed and angrily blew her nose.
“And that’s the least of it. You know what’s the strangest part, Vicente? That girl who’s lying on the ground has been dead for two months. There’s evidence that the maniac came back and attacked her several times.”
“Two months?”
“At least. Look: advanced state of decomposition, cadaver fauna; the skin comes off like a glove. It’s awful, I don’t understand how no one found her sooner. But right now, the most important thing is that this guy’s got to be caught and brought to justice.”
The doctor picked up the clothing with a metal wire. The sound of the flies buzzing was unbearable, and Rangel couldn’t take it anymore. And right then, he said to himself, the clothes, the clothes. Vicente was able to decode the strange arrangement of the bodies.
In the three plastic bags he had examined so far, the killer had covered the girls’ remains with strips of their school uniform. First, he put the girls into the bags and then he added the uniform. Was he trying to cover them? Exactly, he thought, covering them up is his calling card, as Dr. Cuarón would say. Holy shit, that’s it, why would he possibly want to cover them up? And he said to himself silently: To identify himself. Horrified, completely stupefied, Rangel looked over the first layer of clothing, a white shirt with bloodstains. Using tweezers, he spread it out, and his amazement multiplied infinitely when he recognized that, if he squinted, the shape of the stains seemed to spell out three block letters.
He went to his car, took out the two girls’ files and reviewed the black-and-white photos: three letters, damn it, it was obvious. On the front of both shirts he recognized similar markings. It wasn’t hard, because they were the initials of one of the most powerful political associations in Mexico, which was especially powerful in the area. Cigarettes bitten on one side, white wool from a sheep, a hunting knife, three letters. . . . Holy shit, he thought, it’s crystal clear. He saw El Mercurio out of the corner of his eye and the hair on his arms stood on end. That day, they had published the perpetrator’s photo; he was at an official event, practically in the place of honor, receiving applause from the public.
Holy shit, he thought, holy shit, this is about to blow up. They had to take Mrs. Hernández seriously. Covering his face with his hands, he considered the possibility of telling Wong and the Professor, but if the f*cking idiots didn’t support me before, he thought, they sure as hell won’t do it now. He mentally ticked through the rest of the officers on the force and concluded that he had his reasons not to trust any of them, just like none of them trusted him. Ever since the rumor about his quitting had made the rounds, they had even more reason to buddy up to Taboada and stop working with him. Shit, he said to himself, what do I do now?
When Taboada pulled up, he was surprised to find Rangel parked there.
“And what the hell are you doing here? Weren’t you going off with Barbosa, you f*cking a*shole?”
Surprising everyone, Rangel headed right at him, more than willing to break his face in, and he walked so purposefully that even El Travolta took a step back.
Now you’ve gone and done it, f*cking fat-ass, Rangel thought. El Travolta was about to jump on top of him when Wong and the Bedouin held him back. Not now, cabrón, not here. A little calmed down and without the look of fear in his eyes, El Travolta puffed his chest out like normal.
“You’re gonna pay, a*shole.”
“Bring it on, man.”
And he turned around slowly, giving the fat guy a chance to go after him, but he didn’t try it. Taboada’s a f*cking idiot.
He pulled his car out, tires squealing. If I could’ve, I would’ve quit right that f*cking second. If Taboada wants to get mixed up in all this violence, let him, let him get in the mud and stay there, like the pig he is. I’ve had enough.
He wasn’t able to calm himself down until he got to the avenue, but as he headed down the boulevard in Tres Colonias, he had no more doubts about what he had to do.
After making his decision, it took him two minutes to put together his plan. He needed someone desperate who’d be willing to help him. And since he couldn’t trust anyone, he called the only investigator with that profile.