The Black Minutes

7

He got to the state capital at eleven that night, after pressing the gas pedal to the floor for more than two hours. The attorney general called him three times, and he almost flipped his car over each time as he talked to him.
The lights in the state capital were still on. Everyone works at night here, he thought; that’s when the most important things happen. He had never been so intrigued in his life.
“The attorney general will see you in just a moment.”
They told him to sit down in a huge room, without anyone else around. F*cking hell, he thought, it could be anything, he didn’t trust the new attorney general. Walking around the room, he found a copy of the most recent edition of the South Texas Herald, as if it were expecting him. The journalist’s death and his father’s insert stared him in the face. Suddenly, he felt something that wasn’t exactly a pain, but more like a new feeling in his chest, like he was breathing knives. It must be the air-conditioning, he said to himself. I spent three hours driving in the sun’s heat, and here the air is almost freezing. It’s not good to switch from one temperature to another that quickly. As long as I relax a little while, I’ll be like new.
As if she’d heard him, the girl walked in again. “This way.”
They were waiting for him behind a large, round table: the attorney general, the governor, and the chief of the state police for Ciudad Victoria. Holy shit, he said to himself, f*cking Sigüenza, f*cking no good son of a bitch.
“Hello, Governor.”
“Come in, Chief.”
They held out three cold hands. The governor’s hand was practically inert, like he didn’t want to touch him. Then, silence. They looked him over like one looks over a liar, or an unstable person who might do anything. It was obvious they had reached an agreement.
Sigüenza smiled. “How’s the Bernardo Blanco situation going?”
“Good,” he breathed, “good. We’re looking into another line of investigation and I hope to get results.”
“I can’t understand how you allowed this to happen. It’s hurting my administration’s image. Did you see Channel Seventy?”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s really bad. And you’re on a different track now?”
“Correct.”
“Looking inside the police force?”
Taboada felt a knife stab into him. How did he know that?
“Well, actually, I’m looking into all possibilities. I can’t rule anything out.”
And before he could continue:
The attorney general said, “We understand that you’ve been in your position since 1977, is that right?”
“Yes, it is.” He nodded.
Not even a glass of water, he said to himself, they don’t even offer me a glass of water to get me through this crap.
“I understand that you got there through a direct recommendation from the Federal Safety Administration, is that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you explain how that happened?”
“Because of my experience.”
“And your work on one case. Actually, for apprehending the Jackal, René Luz de Dios López.”
Taboada nodded.
“René Luz de Dios López, who is now in prison in Paracuán. We’re talking about the same case, right?” The attorney general handed him an old copy of El Mercurio. He didn’t need to see the photos to recognize the girl, Karla Cevallos.
“Yes, Licenciado.” He couldn’t contain his shock.
“And the perpetrator is in prison. There is no reason to think that you could have made a mistake. Right?”
His heart beat loudly. “That’s right, sir.”
“Do you still have the evidence?”
“No, sir.” He backpedaled. “We brought up charges and everything was presented to the judge.”
“Fine,” said the attorney general. “I understand you had the evidence in your possession quite some time, and in the end you got rid of it. Could you explain why?”
How did he know that? Only the people closest to him had access to his personal files.
He leaned both elbows on the table. He was trying to be convincing.
“For my own mental health. It’s impossible to live with that case file so close by. I don’t know if you understand what I’m saying.” And he forced a smile, to which no one responded.
“So, there’s no doubt that the perpetrator is in prison, right?”
“No doubt.”
“Fine. Then could you explain this?”
He spread out half a dozen black-and-white pictures in front of him. Little by little, he understood that they were pictures of a girl hacked to bits.
“Look,” Sigüenza pointed out, “the body in pieces, with her school uniform on top, with three initials. Just like the Jackal, right? It’s the same system.”
Taboada didn’t understand anything. He looked at the attorney general, who stared at him unblinking.
“She was found this morning, on the outskirts of the city. They killed her the same way the previous murderer did twenty years ago, and according to you that would be René Luz de Dios López. But René Luz de Dios López is in prison—we confirmed that a few hours ago—which creates a real problem, a huge contradiction. So, Chief? How do you explain all this?”
Oh, he concluded, so this is it. Following his tortuous reasoning, with the intuition that had kept him in his position so long, Taboada understood that just one person could know all this, the person closest to Bernardo Blanco. Namely, Padre Fritz Tschanz.
“Chief? Do you feel all right?”
He was having a really bad time, but Fritz had it worse.