The Black Minutes (46 page)

“Some papers.”

Then he understood. The land they bought, Grupo Enlace, the journalist’s murder, all of it was connected.

“Sir?”

“Lock up my office. Is the Bedouin there? Let me talk to him.”

“What can I do, Licenciado? We’re willing to do whatever you need.”

“The next person who tries to go into my office, arrest him, whoever it is, especially Camarena. Understand? No one goes in there, nobody touches my files; you take care of that. I’m on my way.”

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. Fucking 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, fucking Sigüenza, fucking 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.

It took me a while to recognize him, but it was El Macetón himself. “You knew,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

We were in my cubicle about eleven o’clock. At that hour, the school was empty and the only thing audible was the noise the eighteen-wheelers made as they braked their engines. The fact that Cabrera had put everything about Bernardo together surprised me, but I tried to deal with the situation.

“In the first place, it was the expressed order of the bishop. Second, professional ethics. And third, because you didn’t ask the right questions. The Church Fathers concluded that one is not obligated to tell the truth if that puts one’s life in danger. And since you came on Taboada’s behalf. . . .”

Cabrera sat down in my armchair. He was wearing a wrinkled black suit and carrying a bag of bread. Because of his neck brace, he reminded me of a robot or a walking refrigerator. He had to rotate his whole body just to keep his eye on me, and I took advantage of that to protect myself and close the drawers.

“I heard about the accident. Do you know who it was?”

“Mr. Obregón’s son,” he explained.

“Hmm. Mr. Obregón is really dangerous. Why’d you get involved with him?”

El Macetón growled and adjusted himself in his chair, which creaked under his weight.

“What are we going to do, Macetón? Everybody’s looking for you: the attorney general, your colleagues, and, now, Mr. Obregón’s people. Don’t you think it was unwise for you to come here? Do you know what Mr. Obregón would do to you if he found you in the street?”

“I took precautions,” he said, and he showed me the shotgun he was carrying in the bag of bread.

“Don’t use it. Why don’t you leave town for a while, till things calm down? It’s the smartest thing to do.”

“And who’s going to deal with the situation, El Travolta?”

“El Travolta, as you call him, turned in his resignation last night. He had a meeting with the attorney general and the state governor.”

El Macetón tried to open his mouth, but his neck brace prevented him from doing it. A grimace of pain twisted his face, and then he charged ahead. “Padre, I don’t have time, so I’m going to get to the point. You were the reporter’s source, weren’t you?”

That one surprised me, I admit it. How did he know I was the informant? I knew Cabrera was watching me through his dark glasses, and I felt my ears buzzing. “How did you find out?”

My former student fidgeted in the armchair. “You’re the only one who could know all the angles: you work with prisoners and cops, and you’ve been here since the seventies.”

Wow, I said to myself, El Macetón Cabrera solved the case, who woulda thought?

“The killer was someone named Clemente Morales?”

“Yes. His brother was the leader of the Professors’ Union in Paracuán. He covered up the murders so he could pursue his career on a national level.”

“And where is the murderer? They sent him to the United States?”

“They didn’t have to, you can’t imagine the power that man had. The killer could live in the same city in which he committed his crimes. . . . He could even live a few blocks away from one of the victims.”

Then I took off my glasses and massaged my eyes. I’d never felt so tired before.

“The last time I saw him was in the psychiatric hospital. A little while after they came up with their scapegoat, his brother sent him to an appointment with me, to see if I could help him, and I found out he was the perpetrator in that first therapy session. A man named Clemente. I asked him to draw himself, and he drew himself with his body parts scattered around, separated from his torso: total schizophrenia. Draw a woman, and he drew a vagina. Draw a girl, and he drew four bodies. The first time he killed the daughter of the poor woman who rejected him, and at that moment something in him snapped. He kept on killing girls and scattering their remains around the city. At the end of the first session, his brother decided he didn’t trust me and took him away from the port. I received threats and they beat up Padre Manolo because they confused him with me. If he’s still alive, he would be sixty years old. Anything else?” I cleaned my glasses.

He showed me a page torn out of something that said
Vicente Rangel
and
Xilitla, Mile 18
on it. I didn’t like where this was headed.

“Instead of bothering law-abiding citizens, you should solve Bernardo Blanco’s murder, don’t you think?”

My response upset him. I saw he was about to stand up, maybe to shake me, but his neck brace prevented him from doing it, so
he just growled from his seat. “You know all of the murders are connected. Bernardo Blanco and the girls, the situation with the Jackal.”

“We’re going to resolve this once and for all. What year did you study with me?”

“In 1970.”

It took me a minute to find it: Cabrera Rubiales, Ramón. To my surprise, I gave him an A as his final grade. An A, I said to myself, El Macetón got an A? How is it possible that I gave him an A and I can’t remember him? And then it all came back. Of course. El Macetón was always very quiet; they called him the invisible man. Are you going to fight with the invisible man? Fritz, I said to myself, it’s over; you have to know when to fold. An A, who would have guessed?

I opened the chess set clumsily and the pieces fell out all over the desk. A set of keys tumbled out with the pawns and bishops. El Macetón eyed them with curiosity.

“Take these,” I told him. “Bernardo gave them to me months ago, when they started to follow him. I doubt El Chaneque has left any tracks, but with a little luck you’ll find what you’re looking for there.”

Instead of thanking me, he pointed his finger at me. “People have died,” he rotated his body. “If you’re implicated, I’ll be back for you.”

Right then, something caught my eye in the street and I saw that two individuals were looking toward me.

“Are you driving a black pickup?”

“No.”

“Well, there’s one outside, and two people are looking over here. I suggest you go out the back door. Behind the soccer field,
where the pine forest begins, you’ll find a rocky path that’ll take you to the Colonia del Bosque. I’m not going anywhere. I don’t have any reason to be afraid.”

Right then, a gust of wind blew through the window and I rushed to close it, turning my back to Cabrera.

“Bad weather’s coming, you should go. You’ve been in one place for a while.”

When I turned around, El Macetón was gone.

He opened his shotgun and made sure it was loaded. As he left, he heard an engine start. A black pickup, parked on the opposite side of the street was moving in his direction. He’d seen that truck before: it was outside the hospital when he left to stake out Fritz’s office and get the keys. Holy shit! The priest is right, he thought, they’re following me.

From the end of the street came a very strong gust of wind. It was a sign that the storm, the worst of the storm, was about to arrive. Well, he thought, that decides it. As he turned the corner, it started to pour. His shirt and suit coat were completely drenched.