Redemption (29 page)

“Thanks, Andy. However, it needs a slight rectification: Kamilia’s in charge of managing the funds. She needs the access.”

“No problem, I’ll work out that detail.”

Namara slid the paper to Kamilia and she took it with a small smile.

“How many’s in there at this moment?” she asked.

“Well… I’ll let you surprise yourself, how’s that?” said Andy.

“That’ll be fun,” she said with a laugh.

“I’d like to return to our previous discussion,” Ming Mei interjected.

“Go on.”

“There were no DNA samples taken?”

“No. Let me remind you that we’re talking about San Matanza, I think that suffices,” said Andy.

“What restrictions do we have as to our means of operation?”

“Avoid any contact with local police, customs or any form of authority. It’s possible that certain agents or influential people there are connivers. We have no proof, but we should consider it fact. So, discretion on all sides. If you need to show yourselves, do so with care. If ever the perps become wise to your presence, your mission is compromised. Other than that, your plan of action is up to you.”

“Five strangers arriving in the city asking questions on the murders. It won’t be difficult to figure us out even if we
are
discreet,” retorted Shinsaku decisively.

“It depends… the story was somewhat covered, so the people have seen foreigners asking questions before. Reporters and the like. It depends on the means in which we approach them,” said Namara.

“So what are we going to be?” asked Guerra.

“Whatever’s normal to them. Foreigners looking to shoot a documentary, or better, to write an article. The people must be sick and tired of those types over the years. I suggest we do the same, promising to educate the public on the atrocities… you know the drill. We could walk around asking questions to our heart’s content. At worst, they’ll think we’re annoying.”

“I like it,” said Shinsaku. “I think it’s the best of our limited options.”

“When are we leaving?” asked Guerra.

“We have to comb through all these files, first of all. We need to know all the pertinent details. Then we’ll go visit that charming little place,” said Namara darkly.

“And the bar?”

“I propose that Kamilia go straight to Miami to start establishing us, if she’s willing?”

“No problem, I’ll take care of it.”

“Perfect. The jury is in,” said Guerra, rapping his hand on the table like a judge’s gavel.

CHAPTER 41

San Matanza, Mexico.

“Christ, this motel reeks of mold,” Ming Mei murmured as she tossed her bag on the edge of one of two old beds that was concave with use. The carpet was torn up in places. The dark wallpaper was as dated as the rest of the room. There was a little television set on the wood table. That, and a bathroom was their workspace.

“It’s perfect, said Namara, clapping his hands, satisfied with his choice.

“Are you kidding? There’s probably cockroaches in those beds,” retorted Ming Mei.

“Well… you’ll have company at night, that’s good, right?”

“I hate it here. The heat is ridiculous and the sand gets everywhere.”

“Will you stop bitching?” retorted Shinsaku. “I just inspected the room, there’s no cockroaches.”

“I’m not bitching!” she whined.

“You and Shinsaku get this room, James and I are next door.”

“What’s the plan, now that we’re here?” asked Shinsaku.

“Simple. We’re journalists and we want to write about the events. We’ll leave our bags here and then, we’re going to tour the downtown. Dress like… well, dress like journalist, I guess.”

“Wow,
quel plan
! I’m inspired!” said Ming Mei sardonically.

“I know it’s sketchy for the moment, but we have to do tracking and start from the beginning. We’re not from around here, so we have to get to know the locals. It’s them who will let us integrate and lead us where we need to go. Open your eyes and don’t let any details slip, you know?” said Namara as he wiped the sweat from his brow.

“We got it,” said Ming Mei.

“I didn’t think we were so close to the American border. We are a few kilometers from Texas!” said Shinsaku, stretched out on the bed.

“Yeah, that explains the drug war. It’s the perfect place to transport drugs in. The American customs and the DEA keep finding tunnels dug by traffickers to pass under the border with their merchandise. It’s the drug-runner’s paradise! This motel is perfect, like I said, because we’re a bit withdrawn from the city, which lets us stay discrete. We’ll separate in teams of two on the scene. You’ll leave for your side, and James and I will see what we can do,” said Namara.

*     *     *

The heat hit them full-force in the city of San Matanza, where sun and fuel exhaust mingled. Cars lurched in all directions and pedestrians filled the sidewalks. San Matanza was a historic city where several monuments had been conserved, giving it the appearance of an old city in the modern Mexican world where big American businesses held headquarters – these showed up among the shops littering the streets. San Matanza was a mix of Mexican and American culture. Thousands of people swarmed through the city’s core because of the proximity to the border. Several Americans came to find whatever they wanted at low price. It was a city of vices for foreigners who wanted to stay unnoticed. Strip clubs operated everywhere.

From nightfall, the city took on a completely different allure when the frenzy of commerce, the mills and the merchants changed to sex workers and bars. Mexican cabaret dancers and revelers populated the city glowing with neon signs. Bars were numerous, but rather outdated, as were most commercial establishments in the city. The bars were controlled by different cartels according to city sector. The principal source of revenue for workers were the big American corporations that came for the cheap labour. The population, mostly impoverished, ripped out a life for themselves with small jobs and returned to their homes at night.

At night, violent altercations took place in the streets between rival gangs for control of the territory. Drugs were the principal cause, but so many illegal activities were lucrative here, such as prostitution. Business never stopped in San Matanza, from night to day. Only the type of business changed according to the hour of the day. Namara hadn’t seen heat this intense since Colombia and he continued to criss-cross the packed streets breathing the smog they called air. James and Danny were dressed in jackets and shirts as though they were accountants on lunch break. They were looking for people who could help them. They had circulated through the clothing stores, restaurants and all the public places of interest. In presenting themselves as American journalists who were here to report on the unresolved murders, the reception had been cold and distant. More often than not, the responses were of feigned ignorance. The people never gave commentary, apart from that it was a tragedy and that they feared for their closest.

When they followed with other questions, they were politely told that they didn’t want to discuss it further. They got angry, too. Namara and Guerra didn’t push them. They stayed polite and courteous, leaving their information, hoping for information in the future. Several hours they wandered to return with basically the same information. Until now, they couldn’t help but notice a strong reticence to talk about the murders, a palpable fear and discomfort.

“It’s going to be harder than we thought,” said Guerra as he took a bite of burrito and washed it down with a gulp of beer.

“Yeah, but we expected that. We’ll need to get creative.”

“I’m willing, but how, mate? We’re foreigners and we want information on murders that seem to involve the authorities. The people are scared. I’m not surprised they don’t talk. We’re like some repugnant swarm of crabs swarming out of a cadaver’s ass.”

“Lost my appetite, thanks very much,” said Namara, taking a bite of burrito next to an old man’s burrito stand. They had decided to take a break and a bit of food and watch the urban flow go by.

“They’re delicious, these, don’t you think?”

“Yes indeed, excellent. Listen, I know what you mean, but we don’t have any other choice, we need to keep going. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

“Ok. Hey Namara, what’s this white crap?” he asked, peering into his burrito.

“Rice.”

“Rice in a burrito!? That’s nonsense!”

“We’re in Mexico, eh? They invented it… so if they say rice goes in a burrito, I’m going to believe
them
.”

“It’s still bizarre. Here, while your are waiting, have a beer, it’s excellent in this heat.”

CHAPTER 42

They walked into a tavern where the TV showed a local sporting event and immediately appreciated the cooler interior temperature. The “decoration” consisted entirely of wood. A dozen tables and several chairs filled the space dominated by bar counter, behind which an old barman did his job without enthusiasm. The odor of tobacco and alcohol was stifling. James and Danny contemplated the clientele. About fifteen patrons sat around the television.

They were all elderly Mexican men, most of which wore cowboy hats. Namara noticed that all eyes were fixed on them and no-one said a word. He decided to break the silence and made his voice sound casual.

“Hi, everyone, my name is Erick Vandal and I’m a journalist for the
Chicago Globe
. My colleague Arthur McDermott and I are writing an article on the San Matanza murders and we would like to ask you a few questions, get the people’s perspective on what happened here.”

“Arthur McDermott? Why don’t you just tell them I’m a tranny looking for a goat to shag?” he hissed in Namara’s ear.

“I don’t know ok, it's like that... it's just a name, so shut up please! Why are you agitated, it’s a fine name, eh?” he shot back from the corner of his mouth.

“Where exactly did you come from?” asked a man from the back of the room.

“Chicago. We’re journalists, sir, and we’d like to talk to a few of you about what happened here. Maybe you could alert us to new elements of the investigation that could let us resolve these murders once and for all!” said Namara, trying to project his voice to the back.

“American journalists, eh? You’re not the first to write an article.”

“I know that, sir, but I think the more we talk about this story, the more the international community is going to put pressure of Mexican authorities to solve these murders. It’s possible that certain unknown or forgotten clues could aid us in our investigation, if you would be so kind as to speak to us, you see?”

A hush followed and no-one said a word. Namara and Guerra continued to stare at the crowd, waiting, staying planted at the bar.

“Where you been all these years, Mr. Vandal of the
Chicago Globe
?” asked a old man with a wrinkled and sunken face who wore a beige hat and a checked shirt. The man was sitting near the bar several meters from Danny and James.

“Mister…”

“My name is Silvio, young man, and I’ve lived in San Matanza my whole life.”

“Pleasure. Please know that we’re here to help in any way. We would simply like to know more of the complete story…”

“You know how many people like you have come here over the past ten years?”

“Well… I’m not sure.”

“Tons. From everywhere, to write articles. All kinds of organizations tried to intervene, even your FBI tried to get in on the story ‘cause we’re so close to the border, maybe thems that doing it are Americans. They found nothing. The police here don’t let them do nothing. They ended up going home. Here the police do what they want. They said a lotta things, but that don’t stop it happening to us. No offense, but you’re not gonna change nothing. You want to write an article on the murders of San Matanza? Go home and read everything they wrote for ten years and you could write your article no problem.”

“According to you, Silvio, between you and me, who are the killers and why haven’t they been arrested?”

The old man raised his cowboy hat to look Namara in the eyes while the other patrons leaned in to listen.

“It’s the work of the Devil himself, Mister Reporter.”

“What do you mean, exactly?”

“I mean it’s a curse on us and our city. The Devil himself decided to stop here and party a bit, smoke a few cigarettes, see! You get it now? I pray every day it stop, but he likes it here, he lives here.”

“They say the police might be implicated in these murders. Do you believe that?”

“I’m nothin’ but a retired truck driver and an old geezer, you know, I don’t know nothing. All I know is, is that the police ignored too many details from the start and they started by ignoring what the citizens of this city could know. I can’t say if the police is the ones, but they’s embarrassed by this. No-one can stop the evil. We should all leave, but we ain’t got the money.”

“You spoke of Satan… are you referring to a cult, maybe?”

The old man laughed and shook his head.

“Young man… is it important to know if it’s a cult or not? The only thing I know is, it’s hundreds of women and children who died here without anyone knowing who did it. Nobody can stop it after all this time. I don’t need to know any more. In my eyes, it’s an act of the Devil. What piss me off is, is that it makes me realize God forgot us too. Are you a believer, Mr. Vandal?”

“I’m sorry, I’m not.”

“Too bad, because if you were, I would have asked you to pray for us if you
really
want to help.”

“I understand, but maybe we can follow some of those forgotten details to new clues. Don’t you think?”

“If did I tell you anything that shows you to the killers, do you think that you two alone could stop those monsters? They have no face, they kill with no consequences here for years. If you get close to the evil, you becoming victims yourselves, that’s the truth. When you look down the abyss, she looks at you too! There are doors that shouldn’t be opened. Go back to Chicago, Vandal, and write your article. It’s not with your pen and your nice clothes that you’ll stop the killers. You’re not from here and you’re not Mexican… you wouldn’t understand.”