“Fuck you. You’re just making stuff up-and stop insulting Mikel. The insults aren’t going to clean your conscience. You have an innocent man in jail, and the worst part is that you’ve known it since the very beginning.”
“Excuse me, buddy, he’s a fag and a half, and that’s that.”
“Ponce, you always do the same thing when you screw up
… it’s like your blood gets thin and you stop thinking.”
“My bleeding is only because of what I call the eternal return. The eternal return is my belief that killers will go back to the scene of the crime. Even if it’s not true in 99 percent of the cases, the home of the deceased should always be watched. I proposed it in this case. ‘We don’t have the resources available’ was all I got.”
“Listen, with all that Borgian stuff I almost forgot to point out that Violeta was part of the neighborhood’s Security Commission. She got along well with the guys from the district: lemonade in the summer, coffee in the winter. If neighborhood gossip means anything to you, it is widely rumored that Violeta was Micaela’s daughter and that’s why she was her heir, and it’s possible Micaela had nieces and nephews circling Violeta like vultures.”
“What a mess! All we need now is a blind guy, like in the telenovelas. If Micaela had nieces and nephews, we’ll investigate. I’ll check in with the district. Lemonade in the summer, coffee in the winter, but those sons of bitches couldn’t figure out something was wrong, they couldn’t save their friend. This is so annoying. Chema Molina should be here any minute, we said quarter past 8, and we’re just a few blocks away. We’ll figure it out, one way or another.”
“Can I go with you? It would be really helpful for my next article.”
“No way, Lalito. And you should be careful about what you write. You might scare off the perpetrator. I don’t want the prosecutor, or any of his colleagues, to squeeze me any harder.”
“My sources are more sacred than the Virgin of Guadalupe. We’re friends, aren’t we? I’ll wait for you at that bar, El Centenario, in a couple of hours.”
“That bar, my dear Cohen, is no longer a bar, it’s full of junior assholes who get plastered by their second drink and then scream like a bunch of menopausal bitches. I’ll see you tomorrow at 10 p.m., at Sep’s, where we can still eat and drink like God intended.”
Mikel & Cohen Cassette. Side A.
July 20, 2007
“I’m calling to say goodbye and thank you for your support. I’m returning to Puebla to live with my parents. The cops let me go, but with conditions. They’ve ruined my life, Lalo. I’m suspended without pay at the bank, though they say it’s only temporary.”
“I’m sorry, Mikel, that’s really shitty. This will be taken care of soon, you’ll get your job back and everything will be like it was before.”
“They’ve ruined my life. They’ve branded me, and those scars can’t be erased. It doesn’t matter that I’m innocent. I’ll be suspected of killing an old woman until I die. I called Beatriz to say goodbye and her sadness froze my blood. The police went to her house. Twice. She didn’t tell me much, but I’m guessing it was that demented torturer, Ponce de León. Imagine how they must be suffering. I know that family, and they’re really good people.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. When they find the person who did it, it’ll all be forgotten.”
“Ha! Careful what you say. Whether they find him or not, my life is still ruined. They took mug shots, front and profile. I was fingerprinted I don’t know how many times; I still can’t get the ink off. I won’t get my job back and I won’t be able to get work at any other bank, because I’ll be flagged all over the country and possibly even abroad. I don’t blame them either, because they have to protect their businesses-how can they have an executive who was accused of murder? There isn’t a client in the world who would trust an executive accused of murder. I’ve also lost Beatriz, who was a good friend and might have become my girlfriend. They’ve ruined my life. They branded me with an iron, like they do to horses and cattle. They humiliated me, they destroyed me both emotionally and physically…”
“Mikel, you’ll see that time takes care of these things. Life goes on. Stop crying and get on with your life.”
“Lalo, go to motherfucking hell-”
Click.
[Mikel hung up. He was just a kid, still wet behind the ears. He hung up before I had a chance to respond to his curses. There was a black and furious storm in my head.]
Ponce & Cohen Cassette. Side B.
July 20, 2007
[At 10 o’clock I sat down at a table next to a window from which I could also see the entrance. Ponce liked to control windows and doors, entrances and exits. He arrived at 10:05. As soon as he sat down, he sliced a piece of bread, smeared it with abundant paté, and put the whole thing in his mouth. Then he ordered beers.]
“Fuck! I’m really worried that Violeta’s murder is going to be just another statistic, another one of those 97 percent unsolved.”
“What little confidence you have in your city’s police force! Chema Molina talked to the guys from the district who were on patrol that day. At 9:15 they went by the deceased’s home. She was at the door talking to a nurse and waved at them, nothing out of the ordinary. We think that the 1 percent will pan out in this case.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The 1 percent of killers who go back to the scene of the crime. After the interrogation and the poor description of the nurse that the district guys gave, we sent two of our men to watch the park. They saw a nurse in a cheerful conversation with an old woman and her caretaker. To make a long story short, they hung out for a while, then grabbed her and found a Chinese key on her person. They suspected that the nurse was a he, and so they went to rip off the wig, and surprise! There was no wig. But then there was resistance. They discovered that all her documentation was fake. They’re interrogating her right now and I’m going to bet this is it. There will be justice for the deceased.”
“The deceased was named Violeta. She was born, she lived, she died. She was of this world and now she’s just an ordinary cadaver. How sad.”
“I can’t get worked up about every little murder that comes my way, predictable or not. I’d be doped up and in a straitjacket in a psych ward. But enough of this damn mess. I want to tell you what happened the other night at Old Lady Viterbo’s house, though I’ll warn you right now that I won’t tolerate you making fun of me.”
“I’m not going to make fun of you. Let’s order now since service is so slow, and let’s get another round of beer so your throat won’t dry up.”
“The older woman quite happily invited us in. She forced us to sit down and offered us tea, a snack, soda, whatever we wanted. We’re working, it’s all right, thank you. I asked if there was a basement under the dining room and she said yes and asked how I knew. I hadn’t answered yet when a tall, thin guy appeared, older than her, more dead than alive. She introduced us. ‘This is my Uncle Carlos, my Aunt Beatriz’s first cousin. A great poet. If you like, he can recite a few of his poems.’ I can’t describe the look that Chema and I exchanged. My spinal cord froze, just like Borges’ did when he went down to the basement to see the aleph, and I felt like we’d fallen into some kind of trap.”