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There were times, said the
congresswoman, when we saw each other every day. Of course, as girls, in
school, we didn't have any choice. We spent our recesses together and played
and talked about our lives. Sometimes she invited me to visit and I loved to
go, although my parents and grandparents weren't eager for me to spend time
with girls like Kelly, not because of her, of course, but because of her
parents, for fear her architect father would in some way take advantage of his
daughter's friendship to gain access to what my family considered sacrosanct,
the iron circle of our private life, which had resisted the onslaughts of
revolution and repression that came after the Cristero uprising and the
marginalization when the remnants of Porfirism—in fact, the remnants of Mexican
Iturbidism—were roasted over a slow fire. To give you an idea: things weren't
bad for my family under Porfirio Diaz, but they were better under Emperor
Maximilian, and they would have been at their best under Iturbide, under an
Iturbidist monarchy without upheavals or interruptions. In my family's view, I
can tell you, real Mexicans were few and far between. Three hundred families in
the whole country. Fifteen hundred or two thousand people. The rest were
embittered Indians or resentful whites or violent people come from who knows
where to destroy
Mexico
.
Thieves, most of them. Upstarts. Fortune hunters. People without scruples. In
their minds, as you can imagine, Kelly's father was the prototype of the social
climber. They took it for granted that his wife wasn't Catholic. Probably,
judging by what I heard later, they considered her a whore. Anyway, that was
the charming attitude they took. But they never forbade me to visit her
(although, as I say, it wasn't to their liking) or to have her over to my
house, more and more often. The truth is, Kelly liked my house, I'd say she
liked it better than her own, and ultimately it makes sense that she should
have, and it says a great deal about the clarity of her taste, even as a girl.
Or stubbornness, which might be the more fitting word. In this country we've
always confused clarity with stubbornness, don't you think? We think we're
clear-sighted when in fact we're stubborn. In that sense, Kelly was very Mexican.
She was stubborn, obstinate. More stubborn than me, which is saying a lot. Why
did she like my house better than hers? Well, because mine had class and hers
only had style, do you see the difference? Kelly's house was pretty, much more
comfortable than mine, with more amenities, I mean, a light-filled house, with
a big, pleasant main room, perfect for receiving guests or throwing parties,
and a modern yard, with a lawn and lawn mower, a rational house, as they were
called back then. Mine, you can see for yourself, was this very house, although
of course not as well kept as it is now, a big, rambling house that smelled of
mummies and candles, more like a giant chapel than a house, but with all the
attributes of Mexican wealth and permanence. It was a house with no style,
sometimes as ugly as a sunken ship, but it had class. And do you know what it
means to have class? To be, in the final instance, a sovereign entity. Not to
owe anything to anyone. Not to have to make explanations to anyone. And that
was Kelly. I don't mean she was conscious of that. Nor was I. The two of us
were children and as children we were simple and complicated and we didn't get
tangled up in words. But that was how she was. Pure will, pure explosive force,
pure thirst for pleasure. Do you have daughters? No, said Sergio. No sons and
no daughters. Well, if you ever have daughters you'll know what I mean. The
congresswoman was silent for a while. I have just one child, a son, she said.
He's in school in the
United
States
. Sometimes I hope he never comes back
to
Mexico
.
I think that would be best for him.

That night Kessler was escorted
from the hotel to a gala dinner at the mayor's house. At the table were the
Sonora attorney general, the assistant attorney general, two inspectors, Dr. Emilio
Garibay, head of the forensics department and professor of pathology and
forensic medicine at the University of Santa Teresa, the U.S. consul Mr.
Abraham Mitchell, whom everyone called Conan, the businessmen Conrado Padilla
and Rene Alvarado, and the university rector, Don Pablo Negrete, all either
with their wives, if they were married, or alone, though one or two who were
married had been invited without their wives. The bachelors were far gloomier
and quieter than the married men, although a few seemed content with their
status and laughed and told stories. During the meal the talk was of business,
not crime (the economic situation along their strip of border was good and
still improving), and of movies, especially those on which Kessler had served as
adviser. After coffee and the near-instantaneous disappearance of the women,
following prior instruction by their spouses, the men gathered in the library,
which looked more like a trophy room or the gun room of a fancy ranch, where
they touched on the main subject, at first with excessive delicacy. To the
surprise of some, Kessler answered the initial questions with other questions.
Questions, in addition, that were addressed to the wrong people. For example,
he asked Conan Mitchell what he, as an American citizen, thought was going on
in Santa Teresa. Those who spoke English translated. Some felt it was in bad
taste to begin with the American. Not to mention addressing him specifically in
his capacity as an American citizen. Conan Mitchell said he had formed no
opinion on the matter. Immediately afterward
 
Kessler
 
asked
 
Rector
 
Pablo
  
Negrete
 
the
 
same question. The rector shrugged his shoulders, smiled faintly, said
his business was the world of culture, and then coughed and was silent. Finally
Kessler wanted to know what Dr. Garibay thought. Do you want me to answer as a
resident of Santa Teresa or as a forensic scientist? asked Garibay in return.
As an ordinary citizen, said Kessler. Not much chance a forensic scientist can
ever be an ordinary citizen, said Garibay, too many bodies. The mention of
bodies dimmed the enthusiasm of those present. The
Sonora
attorney general presented Kessler
with a file. One of the inspectors said he believed there was, in fact, a
serial killer, but he was already in prison. The assistant attorney general
told Kessler the story of Haas and the Bisontes gang. The other inspector
wanted to know what Kessler thought about killers who imitated other killers.
Kessler
 
had
 
a
 
hard
 
time
  
understanding
 
the
  
question
  
until
 
Conan Mitchell whispered
copycats.
The university rector invited him to teach a couple of
master classes. The mayor said once again how happy they were to have him
there, in the city. On his way back to the hotel, in one of the city council's
official cars, Kessler thought how nice and hospitable these people really
were, just as he had believed Mexicans to be. That night, tired, he dreamed of
a crater and a man pacing around it. That man is probably me, he said to
himself in the dream, but it didn't strike him as important and the image was
lost.

It was Antonio Uribe who
started the killing, said Haas. Daniel went along with him and helped to
dispose of the bodies afterward. But little by little Daniel got interested,
though
interested
isn't the right word,
said Haas. What is the right word? asked the reporters. I'd say it if there
were no women in the room, said Haas. The reporters laughed. The woman reporter
from
El Independiente de Phoenix
said
he shouldn't hold back for her sake. Chuy Pimentel got a shot of the lawyer. A
good-looking woman, in her own way, thought the photographer: nice posture,
tall, proud looking, what is it that drives a woman like that to spend her life
at trials and visiting clients in prison? Say it, Klaus, said the lawyer. Haas looked
at the ceiling. The right word, he said, is
aroused.
Aroused? asked the reporters. Watching what his cousin did, Daniel Uribe
got
aroused,
said Haas, and it wasn't
long before he started to rape and kill, too. Damn, exclaimed the reporter from
El Independiente de
Phoenix
.

At the beginning of November, a
group of hikers from a Santa Teresa private school found the remains of a woman
on the steepest side of Cerro La Asuncion, also known as Cerro Davila. The
teacher in charge used his cell phone to call the police, who showed up five
hours later, just as it was getting dark. As they climbed the hill, one of the
policemen, Inspector Elmer Donoso, slipped and broke both legs. With the help
of the hikers, who were still there, the inspector was taken to a Santa Teresa
hospital. Before dawn the next morning, Inspector Juan de Dios Martinez,
assisted by several policemen, returned to Cerro La Asuncion along with the
teacher who had reported the discovery of the bones, which were located this
time with no problem, and proceeded to collect them and remove them to the
city's forensic facilities, where it was determined that the remains were those
of a woman, though the cause of death couldn't be established. There was no
soft tissue left, and not even any microorganisms. Near where the remains were
discovered, Inspector Juan de Dios
Martinez
found a pair of pants, threadbare from exposure. As if the killers had removed
the victim's pants before tossing her in the bushes. Or as if they had brought
her up there naked, with her pants in a bag, and later discarded the pants a
few yards from the body. The truth is, none of it made any sense.

When we were twelve we stopped
seeing each other. The architect had the nerve to die unexpectedly, and all of
a sudden Kelly's mother found herself not only husbandless but deep in debt.
The first measure she took was to find Kelly a new school and then she sold
their house in
Coyoacan and they went to live in an apartment in Colonia Roma.
But Kelly and I still talked on the phone and we saw each other two or three
times. Then they left the Roma apartment and moved to
New York
. I remember when she left I spent
two whole days crying. I thought I would never see her again. At eighteen I
went to college. I think I was the first woman in my family to go. Probably
they let me stay in school because I threatened to kill myself if they didn't.
First I studied law, then journalism. That was when I realized that if I wanted
to keep living, that is to keep living as who I was, as Azucena Esquivel Plata,
I had to shift my priorities one hundred and eighty degrees, priorities that up
until then hadn't differed substantially from my family's. I, like Kelly, was
an only child, and my family members were languishing and expiring one after
the other. It wasn't in my nature, as you might suppose, to languish or expire.
I liked life too much. I liked what life had to offer me, and me alone, and I
was convinced I deserved every bit of it. At college I started to change. I met
different kinds of people. The young sharks of the PRI in the law department,
the bird dogs of Mexican politics in the journalism department. Everybody
taught me something. My professors loved me. At first that disconcerted me. Why
me, someone who seemed to have stepped off a country estate anchored in the
early nineteenth century? Was there something special about me? Was I
particularly attractive or intelligent? I wasn't stupid, true, but I wasn't a
genius either. Why, then, did I inspire this fondness in my professors? Because
I was the last of the Esquivel Platas with blood in my veins? And if that was
the case, who cared, why did that make me different? I could write a treatise
on the secret sources of Mexican sentimentalism. What twisted people we are.
How simple we seem, or pretend to be in front of others, and how twisted we are
deep down. How paltry we are and how spectacularly we contort ourselves before
our own eyes and the eyes of others, we Mexicans. And all for what? To hide
what? To make people believe what?

At seven in the morning he got
up. At seven-thirty showered and dressed in a dove-gray suit, white shirt, and
green tie, he went down to breakfast. He ordered orange juice, coffee, and two
pieces of toast with butter and strawberry jam. The jam was good, the butter
wasn't. At eight-thirty, as he was glancing over the crime reports, two
policemen came to get him. The policemen were utterly submissive in manner.
They were like two whores allowed for the first time to dress their pimp, but
Kessler didn't notice. At nine he gave a closed-door lecture to an exclusive
audience of twenty-four handpicked officers, most in plain clothes, although a
few were in uniform. At ten-thirty he visited the judicial police offices and
spent a while examining the computers, playing with them and the programs for
identifying suspects, under the satisfied gaze of the retinue of policemen
accompanying him. At eleven-thirty they all went to eat at a restaurant
specializing in Mexican and
nortena
food
that wasn't far from the judicial building. Kessler ordered coffee and a cheese
sandwich, but the inspectors insisted that he try some Mexican
antojitos,
or snacks, which the owner of
the restaurant brought out in person on two big trays. Seeing the
antojitos,
Kessler was reminded of
Chinese food. After his coffee, though he hadn't ordered it, a little glass of
pineapple juice was set in front of him. He tried it and immediately tasted
alcohol. Very little, just enough to heighten or serve as counterpoint to the
scent of pineapple. The glass was full of finely crushed ice. Some of the
antojitos
were crunchy, with
unidentifiable fillings, others were smooth on the outside, like boiled fruit,
but full of meat. On one tray were the hot things and on the other tray the
milder things. Kessler tried a few from the second tray. Nice, he said, very
nice. Then he tried the hot things and drank the rest of his pineapple juice.
These sons of bitches eat well, he thought. At one o'clock he left with two
English-speaking inspectors to visit ten places Kessler had chosen beforehand
from the files he'd been given. Another car carrying more inspectors followed.
First they stopped at the Podesta ravine. Kessler got out, went over to the
ravine, took out a map of the city, and made some notes. Then he asked the
inspectors to take him to the Buenavista subdivision. When they arrived he
didn't even get out of the car. He spread the map in front of him, scrawled
four notes that the inspectors couldn't make out, and then asked to be taken to
Cerro Estrella. They drove up from the south, through Colonia Maytorena, and
when Kessler asked what this neighborhood was called and the inspectors told
him, he insisted that they stop and walk for a while. The car following them
pulled up beside them and the driver looked inquiringly at the officers in the
main car. The inspector who was standing in the street with Kessler shrugged
his shoulders. In the end they all got out and set off walking behind the
American, with people stealing glances at them, some of
them fearing the worst, others
thinking it was a party of
narcos,
although
some of them recognized the old man who was walking ahead of the group as the
great FBI detective. After two blocks Kessler discovered a little place with
tables outside, under a creeping vine and some blue-and-white-striped pieces of
canvas tied to sticks. The floor was scuffed wood and the place was empty.
Let's sit for a while, he said to one of the inspectors. From the patio you
could see Cerro Estrella. The inspectors pushed two tables together and sat
down and lit cigarettes, and they couldn't help smiling among themselves, as if
to say here we are, sir, at your orders. Young, energetic faces, thought
Kessler, the faces of healthy youths, some would die before they reached old
age, before they grew wrinkled with age or fear or useless fretting. a
middle-aged woman in a white apron appeared at the back of the patio. Kessler
said he wanted pineapple juice with ice, like the kind he'd had that morning,
but the policemen advised him to order something different, you couldn't trust
the water in this neighborhood. It took them a while to come up with the
English word
drinkable.
What are you
having, friends? asked Kessler.
Bacanora,
said the policemen, and they explained that it was a drink distilled only
in
Sonora
, from a kind of agave that grew here
and nowhere else in
Mexico
.
Let's try the
bacanora,
then, said
Kessler, as some children peeked in and stared at the group of policemen and
then went running off. When the woman came back she was carrying a tray with
five glasses and a bottle of
bacanora.
She
herself poured and stood waiting for Kessler's approval. Very nice, said the
American detective as the blood rushed to his head. Are you here because of the
dead women, Mr. Kessler? asked the woman. How do you know my name? asked
Kessler. I saw it yesterday on TV. I've seen your movies too. Ah, my movies,
said Kessler. Are you going to stop the killings? asked the woman. That's a
hard question, I'll try, that's all I can promise you, said Kessler, and the
inspector translated for the woman. From where they were, under the
blue-and-white-striped canvas, Cerro Estrella looked like a plaster cast. The
black veins must be garbage. The brown veins were houses or shacks perched in
precarious and bizarre equilibrium. The red veins might have been scraps of
metal rusted from contact with the elements. Good
bacanora,
said Kessler as he got up from the table and left a
ten-dollar bill that the inspectors handed right back to him. You're our guest
here, Mr. Kessler. We want you to feel at home, Mr. Kessler. It's an honor to
have you here. To patrol with you. Are we on patrol? asked Kessler with a
smile. From the far end of the patio the woman watched them go, half veiled,
like a statue, by a blue curtain that separated the kitchen or whatever it was
from the tables. Who got that metal up the hill? wondered Kessler.