Mexico City Noir (10 page)

“When and where did you agree to meet your accomplice?”

“She’s not my accomplice and we didn’t agree on anything.”

“Okay, smart guy, you didn’t agree on anything—but five minutes ago you said you’d agreed to meet next Sunday at the 1 o’clock Mass at Coronación parish. You’re not going to get a chance to go to jail—I’m going to kill you first, you piece of shit!”

He jumped from his chair, grabbed his gun, and stuck its barrel in my mouth. He screamed, as if possessed by all the demons in hell: “I’m going to kill you, faggot, I’m going to kill you, you fucking fag, I’m going to kill you, motherfucker!”

My intestines couldn’t hold any longer. I shit my pants. There were more screams, more threats, until he finally got tired and called in the others to take me to the bathroom and give me clean clothes and make sure I didn’t come back stinking of shit. “That smell drives me nuts,” he said, his mouth foaming.

A cold-water shower with Zote soap brought me back to life, rid me of that stink and even some of the humiliation. Back with the hydrophobic, and now more sure of myself, I was the first to speak.

“If you want to kill me, kill me. I don’t intend to say another word until you notify my parents and my lawyer gets here.”

“It’s obvious this faggot spends his days watching gringo cop movies. Let’s see, bring me the penal code and I’ll read him his rights.”

He pulled an issue of
Proceso
magazine out of his desk and made like he was reading it:
“You have the right to remain silent, anything you say may be used against you in court …”
As had now become predictable, those around him laughed heartily. None of it did me any good.

Ponce & Cohen Cassette. Side A.
July 19, 2007

[I’ve known Ponce de León since I began covering the police beat, what we call
la nota roja
. We were both novices: he’d just finished up at the Instituto Nacional de Ciencias Penales and I at the School of Mass Communication. There’s been a lot of water under the bridge since then. He’s a man who’s close to the law, opposed to torture, and in favor of a professional police force. He likes investigations, technical stuff, analyzing hair and other clues. In other words, his thing is being a sleuth so he can solve crimes. Nonetheless, at no point do I forget my grandfather Levi’s words:
“Fidarsi é bene, ma no fidarsi é meglio.”
To that I add my own professional skepticism, and that’s why the tape recorder has become a permanent part of my person, like a prosthetic I can’t take off, and so I hide it or show it depending on the circumstances. We met at El Chisme, where you can still talk without the background music forcing you to scream.]

“Mikel Ortiz is driving me crazy. I don’t know if he’s a psychopath, a total cynic, a con man, or if he just has some terrible problem with his nerves.”

“Ponce, have you lost your mind? Mikel is just a naïve boy from the provinces. A practicing Catholic, serious and responsible both at work and in his private life.”

“Christians are the worst. They hide behind the church. And that fag unsettles me. I’ll tell you something and then you can say what you think. I asked him for some information on the friend who he was allegedly hanging out with on the night of the crime. Initially he only knew her first name, but then he finally gave up her last name and a physical description. With the sketch, we went to the parish where he says he met her. The priests said they’d never seen her before—that is, assuming they’re not also accomplices. Although they did give us a clue. On Michoacán Street, we found the Viterbo family. According to the fag, the chick’s name is Beatriz Viterbo.”

“Beatriz Viterbo? I knew he had a friend, maybe a girlfriend, named Beatriz, but certainly not Viterbo.”

“Yes, my friend, Viterbo. We went to the house and were greeted by a skinny old woman who looked just like the Beatriz in the sketch, but about seventy years older. The lady said she didn’t recognize the girl in the sketch, same as the priests, said she’d never seen her before in her life. But the best was yet to come. We asked her if she knew Beatriz Viterbo. She said of course, that was her aunt who’d died in February 1929, and she remembered her birthday was April 30 and that for years her family would get together on April 30 to celebrate the woman’s birthday. How’s that, huh?”

“You’re messing with me. Do you know who Beatriz Viterbo is?”

“Of course I know: she’s the skinny old woman’s aunt who died in 1929 and—”

[Ponce had a little laughing attack and choked on his tequila. He raised his hands. Red-faced, gagging, he coughed a few times and then kept laughing. This went on for quite awhile. In the meantime, I finished both my tequila and his.]

“She’s the protagonist in ‘The Aleph,’ the only Borges story I’ve ever read—on your recommendation. But I didn’t just read it once: I’ve read it so many times, I know it by heart. And I’ll tell you, that faggot was really pissing me off. After I pressed her further, the old woman finally let us in. Proud of what she’d told us about her aunt, she showed us photos of Beatriz. There were several in the living room. Take note of this, because it’s crucial: there’s a hustler from Xochimilco who is, coincidentally, named Bety. Chema Molina and I exchanged crazy glances, we couldn’t believe it—last year I’d made him read ‘The Aleph.’ The old woman misinterpreted our glances and explained that her aunt had been the most beautiful woman in the city, that she’d had a dozen admirers who were loyal to her even after her death, including one in particular who always came by for tea on her birthday. That’s life—she died young, she didn’t even have time to get spoiled. I tell you, my friend, I thought I was imagining this. I’ve seen a lot of bizarre things in my time, but this was the topper. I couldn’t believe it.”

“I can’t believe it either. When did Borges come to Mexico? Did Alfonso Reyes talk to him about her? Did he have other Mexican friends? Did he write ‘The Aleph’ before he came to Mexico and met Reyes? Or did he meet Reyes when he was the ambassador to Argentina? You didn’t ask this woman if she had a basement off the dining room, did you? If not, you’re going to have to find out.”

“You’re going to have to find out yourself, my little friend, you’re the literature guy. I have to solve the murder. The prosecutor is squeezing my balls. He wants results, he wants that killer
yesterday
. He hates a civilized society. I’m not even going to tell him this story because he’ll send me straight to the last ring in the seventh circle of hell.”

“Couldn’t it be that the old woman has also read ‘The Aleph’ and knows it by heart and has set up the whole thing, pure fantasy, out of boredom, or because she’s demented, or for some other insane reason?”

“She didn’t make it up, there’s no fantasy here. Beatriz Viterbo is buried in the Dolores crypt, in a white marble tomb with sculpted flowers and all the decor you’d expect from that time. There’s a photo on the front in a bronze oval frame, same as the one in the living room. There are big angels on both sides and the gravestone gives the date of her death: February 28, 1929. The elderly niece, who’s the current owner of their house, is Estela Viterbo, and don’t even think about identity theft. This woman has a birth certificate, a voter registration card, receipts for her mortgage, and the water and phone bills, all in her name.”

“Fuck, what a story! Her name is Estela … and the guy goes by on the aunt’s birthdays … You have to find out more! This can’t all be coincidence.”

“I’m going to order another tequila to toast all the things you have to investigate. When we were looking at the photos, the old woman couldn’t stop talking about her aunt, and then a young woman came in, about twenty-four years old. She said hello, kissed the old woman on the cheek, and left. She was the exact opposite of the sketch: tall, thin, fragile, but darkskinned, dark-haired, black eyes, large mouth and fleshy lips, a round face, flat nose. No sooner had the door closed than the old woman explained that this was Beatriz, her housekeeper’s daughter. I should have done something, ran after her and brought her back, asked her about Mikel Ortiz—but I swear to you I could barely move, I was hypnotized, and so was Chema Molina.”

“Shit, shit, double shit! The housekeeper’s daughter—same as Violeta, a servant’s daughter. That’s Mikel’s friend Beatriz—he was trying to protect her. He was afraid the same thing that happened to him could happen to her. He told me how you messed with his head, how you stuck your gun in his mouth.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t touch a hair on his head, and that faggot can’t take much anyway—he’s already gone crying to you about it. The gun wasn’t loaded, it was just part of the scenery; you think I’d leave a loaded gun within reach of a prisoner? He lied to you. I only pointed it at him, an unloaded Colt. He probably told you that to explain why he shit in his pants. If I didn’t squeeze these guys a little, I’d never get anything. They’re all innocent, right? I still have a lot of doubt about that Mikel.”

“Well, you can get over it. There’s a witness who saw him say good night to the girl in the park, after midnight. He and the witness greeted each other. Besides, the neighbors say he had a very good relationship with Violeta.”

“So? What does that mean? They could be accomplices. He described the girl in reverse and instead of giving her last name, he gave her employer’s. As far as we know, he—or the murderer—gets to know old women, charms them, treats them well, and wins their trust so he can get inside their homes.”

“Ponce, you’ve forgotten all about being an investigator, about science, even after making such a big deal about it. There are such things as fingerprints, hair, nails, DNA. What’s under Violeta and Mikel’s nails?”

“There’s nothing under their nails. We found fingerprints from the last century and a few more recent ones. The ones on the deceased—on the leather jacket she had on, on her shoes, on the cable—don’t correspond with the prisoner’s.”

“Then why such a speedy conviction?”

“C’mon, don’t fuck with me. I’m just holding him. I’m over my seventy-two hours, but the family lawyer showed up and I was able to negotiate one more day. If I don’t get some kind of evidence by tomorrow, I’ll let him go. At 8:30 tomorrow, I have to go to the old woman’s house to see what I can get out of this so-called Beatriz. When I called to make the appointment, I tried to tell her a little story, that the prosecutor wanted us to talk to her about safety precautions for seniors. She didn’t really react at first, and then her response caught me off guard. She said she wasn’t in the least bit scared of the Old Lady Killer, that no Old Lady Killer could frighten her. She said she keeps a .22 nearby at all times, that she had it in a pocket in her skirt right then, and that she has excellent aim. Maybe it’s the old woman who’s your faggot friend’s accomplice.”

“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 …”