Mexico City Noir (9 page)

Lalo Cohen came to visit. He demanded that I hold his beloved tape player while he smoked nonstop. He made his demand in that way of his—as if he doesn’t have any friends, even though he is, in fact, a friend in the end. He asked that I tell him the same story I told the police and the Public Ministry. Words upon words, minus some of this, that’s what I told the Public Ministry—because the police had already given my statement to the PM. Even though it’s illegal, I don’t plan to protest, I just want this to be over with.

Mikel Ortiz Cassette. Side A.
July 17, 2007

I got up at 6 in the morning, like I do every day Monday to Friday, and on Saturdays when I have to work. Then I do ten minutes on the treadmill and ten minutes on the stationary bike. Then I bathe, shave, and dress. With my tie still undone I made my way to the dining room for breakfast. Pretty much on automatic pilot, because routines become automatic … or life on automatic pilot creates routines. What do I know? I didn’t smell coffee, or huevos rancheros, or even freshsqueezed orange juice. I thought Violeta was still asleep and I was going to have to make do without breakfast.

When I got to the dining room, the light was off.
Violeta’s asleep
, I said to myself, and cursed. I was in a hurry and it was dark; it was 6:30 and, though the bank is only four blocks away, I had to check in by 7 on the dot, otherwise I’d lose my eligibility for the annual punctuality award.

On my way out, I inadvertently stumbled on a chair and whatever was on it. I hit it with my knee and cried out. I can’t explain it. In an instant everything rushed to my head like a crazy hurricane and I somehow knew it was Violeta. I ran to turn on the light. I saw her and the gasp from hitting my knee was quickly replaced by screams of horror. She was tied to the chair with a cable. I couldn’t bear to look at her and I ran out to the street, scared out of my mind. I paused at the door and my screams turned into a professional mourner’s lament. I don’t know how much time passed, maybe a minute or two … it’s just that in situations like that, minutes become an eternity.

That’s when Lalo Cohen showed up; he’s a neighbor who goes running in the park every morning at the same time. He’s like Kant—according to legend, people would set their watches when Kant went out for a walk.

“What’s the matter, Mikel?” Lalo asked. I tried to answer. But I couldn’t, no matter how hard I tried, choking on my sobs and shaking all over; I couldn’t get a single word out.

I started to scream. Lalo plastered his hand over my face. That is, he slapped me so hard my head rattled, and I’m actually grateful because I think it might have been the best way to get rid of my hysteria.

“What’s the matter, Mikel?” he repeated harshly.

“She’s dead, I mumbled.”

“Who’s dead?” He was getting angrier and his voice was even more harsh.

“Violeta,” I said with a steadiness I didn’t really feel.

“Violeta? Are you sure? That can’t be. I was talking to her just yesterday afternoon. That can’t be.”

“I didn’t kill her, I didn’t kill her, I didn’t kill her…” I kept repeating, and Lalo squeezed my arm so hard he almost broke it.

“You’re being hysterical, she must have just fainted—calm down,” Lalo said, and pushed me away from the door. “Come with me and stop screaming.”

I decided to follow my neighbor’s orders. Hanging on to the walls in the hallway, I went in after him. As we came to the dining room, I covered my eyes with the arm he’d almost broken.

“Fucking A, they killed her!” were Lalo’s first words. And the second ones: “We have to call the police!” He went for the phone and I stumbled to the floor, falling right next to Violeta, and lost consciousness.

I don’t know if I was awakened by the pain or the
plaf, plaf, plaf
of Lalo’s slaps. Whatever it was, it made me leap away from the dead woman and scold my insensitive neighbor: “Why are you hitting me, you beast?”

He acted as if he’d been caressing me. “C’mon, you have to rise to the occasion!”

“To the occasion? I’m going to the bank, I’m already late.”

“You’re not going anywhere. The police are on their way and you’re going to have to give a statement,” he said without any sympathy.

I began to shake again and started repeating my refrain: “I didn’t kill her, I didn’t kill her.” I shut my mouth when I saw Lalo raise his heavy hand.

When the authorities showed up, they arrested me as soon as they laid eyes on me, without even asking my name or any questions. But I’m not going to talk about any of that, because you already know all this, I told it all to the commander.

The commander, who said his name was Ponce de León, looked at me with the eyes of a rabid dog until I thought I could see drool in the corners of his mouth.

“Your statement is absolute crap—you haven’t said anything remotely useful. Let’s try again,” the guy growled, looking very secure behind his big desk with his big guns. Sitting like that, anybody can give rabid-dog looks and growl.

“I got up at 6 in the morning, like I said—”

“Fuck that shit! Just answer my questions! You understand?” barked the commander.

“Whatever you say …”

“That’s right, whatever I say.”

An officer came in with some folders and a woman brought a bottle of Coke and left it on the desk next to a pistol.

“This asshole’s going to drive me crazy, I can barely keep myself from smashing his brains against the wall,” said the one with the rabid look.

“Be cool, commander, don’t worry: this fag will give it up sooner or later, he’ll give us everything we want.”

“Everybody’s innocent, even after they’ve sliced up their sainted mother and used her to make mixiotes,” said the woman who’d brought the soda.

“
Here
, everybody’s guilty until they prove otherwise,” declared the rabid one, and the others offered hearty laughs in response.

The dog finally calmed down a little in the other cops’ presence and drank some soda. But nobody calmed
me
down. My guts rumbled in a way I knew meant I should hurry to the bathroom. I asked for permission to go but was turned down.

“So tell me: full name, place and date of birth, profession, whether you can read and write, parents’ names, and how long you’ve been living in the home of the deceased.”

“Mikel Ortiz Goitia. Puebla,” blah blah blah …

“The names of three reputable citizens who can serve as references. Address and telephone number for each.”

“I’m not opening a bank account or applying for a credit card, so I don’t need to give you references.”

“Cut the crap! Just answer my questions. You’re driving me nuts, you fucking faggot!”

“Excuse me, but I want to state for the record that I’m not a homosexual.”

“If you keep this up, motherfucker, you’ll end up being the biggest seapussy on the boat.”

I didn’t have the strength to argue that he was trying to lock me up without any evidence whatsoever. And that I was innocent. I didn’t kill Violeta, who in just a few hours had lost her name and become simply
the deceased
.

“This is going from bad to worse!” shouted the one with the rabid look, and he hit his fist so hard on the table that the guns, papers, phones, and pencil holder danced, and the Coke bottle almost spilled.

But the commander turned out to be so right. This was all nothing compared to what came later.

Neighbors Cassette. Side B.
July 16, 2007

[Same problem as Side A. Impossible to get these people to talk one at a time.]

I want to know why Lalo didn’t give a statement. He’s a journalist. The police don’t usually like it when journalists snoop.

Wait and see what he says.

I was the first to make a statement.

And what did you say?

I told what little I knew about Violeta.

Did you see a strange man or woman hanging around the block a few days ago, yesterday, today, this afternoon, tonight? Did you hear a struggle, screams, anything out of the ordinary?

This neighborhood has been run over by cops, it isn’t what it used to be. With a zillion restaurants, bars, theaters, and all that other trash, it’s just packed with outsiders.

So how can you tell if those outsiders are potential killers, petty thieves, or rapists? How can you distinguish a cry for help from a wild scream or some drug addict or drunk losing his mind? This is Mexico Park, one of the prettiest places in the whole city, and they killed her right across the street. Nobody saw anything, nobody heard anything.

I saw Mikel say goodbye to a girl in the park while I was walking my dog. It was after 12. We said hello in passing.

Then Mikel couldn’t have killed her because Lalo said the murder occurred between 10:30 and 11. That’s certainly a relief. Just imagining we might be living with someone who’d kill an old woman makes my skin crawl. It couldn’t have been Mikel. She spoke so well of him, and he of her. Besides, he’s a very courteous young man, very responsible.

Poor guy, I hope they treat him okay and set him free. It’s not fair to blame an innocent person.

Mikel Ortiz Cassette. Side B.
July 17, 2007

The rabid one asked me what time I got home the night of the crime. I told him, “Late, after 12. I went straight to my room, trying not to wake Violeta up.” Then he wanted to know what time I usually get in at night. “Between 8:30 and 9, then I watch a little TV and go to sleep because I get up at 6 in the morning.”

“But that night you got in after midnight. Why?”

“I went to Mass at 8 at Coronación parish and afterward I talked for a bit with a young woman I’ve chatted with a few other times. She invited me to coffee and then we went for a walk in the park. We agreed to meet again next Sunday, at the 1 o’clock Mass.”

“Let’s see … you go to Mass every day?”

“No, just on Sundays and special occasions.”

“What was so special that evening? Were you going to ask forgiveness for killing your landlady?”

“I didn’t kill her! I went because it was the anniversary of my grandmother’s passing.”

“Name and surname, phone number, and address for that young woman. Is she a student? Does she work? Where? Who does she live with?”

“Beatriz. Her name is Beatriz, but I didn’t get her last name.”

“Of course—you didn’t get her address either. You have a perfect alibi. You know what time your landlady was killed? Do you know, you fucking faggot, that if you’d gotten home at the same time you do every single night, she’d still be alive? But no, that night you got in late, so late you didn’t even run into the killer. What a coincidence! Your orderly schedule out of order that night, a stranger entertaining you for hours on end, then you get home so late you don’t even need to call for help.”

“I didn’t kill her! I didn’t kill her! I swear to God and the Holy Virgin Mary!”

“Don’t blaspheme, you fucking faggot fuck. And you better confess soon because I’m sick of hearing this shit. Your alibi is pathetic.”

“I really need to use the bathroom. Please let me go to the bathroom!”

“Denied. And you better not shit in your pants. I can’t stand the smell of shit, it drives me even crazier than you do. I swear I’ll slice you up with a razor. Do you understand me?”

Of course I understood him. The effect of that threat was to terrify me; the idea of being sliced into a poblana stew paralyzed my intestines and bladder. I thought of Beatriz, so sweet and good, and felt a certain relief, but it was short-lived because the dog was quickly back in action.

“You went out with a young woman, you don’t know her last name, her phone number, or her address. You went out with a young woman and you don’t know anything about her. If she even exists, she’s obviously your accomplice and you’re covering for her. While she entertained the deceased, you wrapped the cable around her neck, pulled her hands behind her back, and tied her legs to the chair. So disgusting! How could you do that to a defenseless old woman? Who has the goods? Because it’s clear that you killed her in order to rob her. Or did you kill her just for fun? You and that Beatriz are a couple of shits. You’re heading straight for a life sentence, you’re going to rot in jail.”

A life sentence for a crime I didn’t commit loosened my bladder and I peed myself. It’s impossible to repeat all the insults and threats that rabid man directed at me. All I could think about was saving Beatriz, an innocent young woman who, because she’d had a cup of coffee and a pineapple juice with me, was going to rot in jail. The dog called I don’t know who on the phone and there was an instant knock on the door. A guy with a big sketchpad and a bunch of pencils and erasers came in.

“Give me a physical description of your accomplice, buddy, understand? If you lie to me, I’ll cut your balls off with this blade or maybe I’ll just blow them off.”

“Beatriz is … tall, slender, fragile, white-skinned. Light brown hair, short. Small eyes, like almonds. Small mouth, thin lips. Her face is longish. Straight, medium nose.”

I said the same thing twenty times. The good part was that the dog left me alone for a while. The sketch artist would show me the face and ask questions, then draw in the features, erase a little, sketch again. In the end, Beatriz came out quite beautiful and the dog soon started up again.