Silver Bullets (2 page)

Edgar “Lefty” Mendieta took his pistol out of the glove compartment, got out of the Jetta, stuck the gun in his belt, and left the door open. He had been listening to Herman's Hermits' “There's a Kind of a Hush” on a CD of oldies and could not get the tune out of his head. I hope it's one of those impossible cases, they're the ones we're best at, he thought, we never solve them and nobody cares or asks questions at three in the morning. He was wearing a black T-shirt and black jeans and a thin windbreaker the same color. Beside an abandoned truck on the outskirts of the city, in a big lot for truckers in a place known as Piggyback, lay the body of a man not yet identified. For comfort, he put the Beretta in the pocket of his jacket while he dealt with Daniel Quiroz, crime beat reporter for
Eyes on the Night
, who thanks to his connections was the first to arrive at the scene.

Lefty, do you know anything I don't know? Well, by the blue of his eyes I'd say he was Steve McQueen, an American, motorcyclist by trade. But you haven't seen him. I'm psychic, don't you remember? My man Lefty, I am whatever I may be, but I am not ungrateful, and never would I be disloyal to a buddy like you who has done me so many favors. Boss. Calling to him was
Zelda Toledo, his partner, who until recently was a traffic cop and now since Sánchez had retired was always at his side. Oh, baby, Quiroz sighed, do you ever look good, you don't have your irons in that fire, do you, Lefty? God help me, I would never get involved with a woman whose feet stink. Oh, I would, and I'd get off sucking on her little pinkies.

The technicians had sealed the area with yellow tape, and two assistants of Dr. Montaño, the forensic, were doing their thing without much enthusiasm. A dust devil in the distance made it plain that if February is wild, March is wilder still.

The blanket was brown and blood-soaked, emblazoned with a stag between two peaks, on it lay the body of a man, forty-five or fifty years old, the detective calculated, five foot nine, Versace shirt, barefoot, castrated, and with a bullet in his heart. One of the officers scouring the place returned with an ostrich-leather cowboy boot, Mendieta made a face. Let's hand the case over to Narcotics, he ordered his partner, several cell phones rang out, we don't need his name to know his line of work. Not only did they castrate him, Zelda said, they also cut out his tongue, we haven't found the casings, which makes you think they killed him someplace else and brought him here. It makes no difference, any case that involves the narcos has already been solved, call Pineda so he can get in touch with Ortega, who'll be here before long anyway, and we'll see each other at the office. What should I tell the district attorney's people? She pointed at a young woman who was taking in the scene, her eyes out of orbit. Whatever you can dream up, he walked over to the white Jetta parked beyond a row of big trucks. Several drivers were nosing about, drinking coffee and eating shredded-beef tacos and beans. Two of them had seen a black Lobo dump the blanket-wrapped body, but they were not crazy enough to say so. With the Mexican police, the farther away the better, same story with the killers.

Seventh Cavalry song. Mendieta, the detective muttered, answering a call from Briseño, his boss. Where are you? Looking at a tomato field and an army of Oaxacans picking red and green peppers, and since you called let me report that Narcotics turned up and wants rights over the gangsta-wrap, let's hand it over so we don't have problems, you know how touchy they can be. Who was it? Pineda, Señor Jealous-of-His-Turf. Let them have it and take charge of a case in Guadalupe, half an hour ago a body was reported, name Bruno Canizales, a lawyer, nominee for professional of the year, and a member of the USB The what? The Universal Small Brotherhood. Sounds like the Undercover Surveillance Bureau. Not at all, they preach meditation and vegetarianism, the call came from a Dr. Francisco Ripalda, who's here from Mexico City and was going to stay with the deceased; write down the address and get going.

He knew the neighborhood of Guadalupe fairly well. Split down the middle by Obregón Avenue, it lay below La Lomita church and to one side of the Col Pop, where he had lived for his entire life.

In the living room sat Dr. Ripalda, plus a thin man and two women, one of whom looked particularly shaken. They were drinking lemonade. Mendieta and Zelda observed the scene for a moment, then sat down with them. An impossible case? I hope so, the detective took out his PalmPilot and straightened his legs, when there is a body to contend with the living are more important than the dead. On the wall hung landscapes, a few diplomas from the USB, a painting by María Romero depicting a woman's genitals, and another by Kijano. Who found him? While Ripalda raised his hand, Mendieta observed the others. Three potted plants gave the room a comfy feel.

We are members of the Universal Small Brotherhood, which Attorney Canizales also belonged to; I live in Mexico City, but I'm giving a course on Transcendental Meditation and I've been coming here weekends for the past month, the attorney always picks me up at the airport and I stay here; this morning when he did not meet me and didn't answer his telephone I took a taxi; the door was open and I found him on his bed, aren't you going to look at the body? Because besides the door I haven't touched a thing. Did you call these people? I called Señor Figueroa, he indicated the thin man, who is our leader here. And what did you do? I called Laura and Dania so they would keep me company, I'm rather sensitive and I didn't dare come by myself, I still haven't got the courage to look at him, he gestured toward the bedroom at the back. And you? Laura Frías wiped away a tear. We went in to see him. Besides being in the USB together, is there anything else? We were like brothers and sisters, he always stood by us. Dania Estrada had a lovely voice. Laura simply nodded. By the way, we called his family in Navolato and they'll be here soon. What time was it when you found him? About 8:20. Did he live alone? Yes, sir. Did you visit him often? Not really, Figueroa said, we'd see him at our center, which is on Riva Palacio Street. We girls saw him last week, we had tea at the Verdi and we talked. About what? About his plans, about the news that he'd been nominated for professional of the year, he wanted to go back to the Safety Council to put an end to the violence. Really? The detective smiled, did he work? At Social Security, he was a legal adviser. The car in the garage, is that his? They nodded. Do you have any idea who killed him? They shook their heads. Okay, give your addresses, telephones, and cell phone numbers to Agent Toledo in case we need you for any clarifications, he made a quick note on his Palm; the technical people will be
here soon, they'll take your fingerprints just in case you touched anything else.

He opened the door with a handkerchief. He closed his eyes and concentrated. Aromas assaulted his senses and were on the point of evoking a memory: What is that dry, spicy fragrance?

He observed the body on the twisted sheets, the bloodstain. Black pants, white shirt, dark socks. The bullet hole was in the left temple. The detective took in the tidiness of the room, no mess on the floor or on the furniture. Thursday's newspapers lay on a leather easy chair. On the chest of drawers, the novel
News from the Empire
by Fernando del Paso. He took photographs with his cell phone. Using a Kleenex, he picked up the remote and turned the television on: Channel 22, the favorite of the culture-loving middle class. “Every Wednesday at 8:30 p.m.
Caught in Fiction
, interviews with the authors of the latest in Mexican literature,” an advertising voice intoned. He turned it off. Under the bed he saw black shoes, a pair of sandals, and at the back a square object. He moved the bed: It was another copy of
News from the Empire
. He did not touch it. Two copies: a reader? One entire wall was covered by bookshelves, which as far as he could tell were filled with contemporary literature. Carefully, he opened the closet, also a model of perfect order. Typical, an example to us all, I swear I'll be the same when I grow up. Shirts, pants, and suits hung in an impeccable line, polished shoes all in their places. From the window he looked out at the backyard: plants, a clothesline, a few used tires. The bathroom was immaculate: bathrobe, towels, soaps, colognes. He breathed in. The spicy aroma did not emanate from there. He looked at his watch: 10:58. He took a few pictures with the cell and went back into the bedroom.

Zelda came in and stared at the cadaver: In a minute the techies will be here and also someone from the district attorney's
office, Mendieta sniffed the sheets, he was thirty-seven years old, single, the son of Hildegardo Canizales. The former minister of agriculture, she added, the detective looked again at his watch, she moved close to the wound. And he was handsome, she scrutinized the hole in his head and then the carpet. Did you see this, boss? She pointed at the shoes, a pair of black loafers. What? They look a lot alike, but they're different. Mendieta squatted and saw she was right. You are a genius, Zelda, we'll have to watch out the Russians don't grab you, one is even cleaner than the other. He called Dr. Montaño's cell.

We're in Guadalupe near Río Piaxtla, get over here right away. What, weren't you in Piggyback? Yeah, only that body got up to have another drink. I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Half an hour, thought the detective, and he asked Zelda to step out. Sister, go see the neighbors, ask them the usual, see if anybody agrees to tell you anything.

Montaño was a rather libertine young doctor, early that morning he had called to say he would send two students to Piggyback, since at that moment he was in a darkened room making a fool of himself with a cheerleader for the Culiacán Tomateros. Do me a favor, Lefty, I promise to be all yours at eleven. You give me your word? I swear, have I ever let you down? As predicted, half an hour later he appeared accompanied by the same technicians from Forensic Services who had worked on the gangsta-wrap: Dudes, the shoes are from different pairs, there are two copies of the same book, check them out then give them to me, find his cell phone, get me the calls from the past week. He's the son of a former federal minister and he's a former member of the Citizens' Safety Council, I'm telling you so you won't just fill out the form. Where's Ortega? He's at headquarters. The doctor took a look at the body and nodded, stuck in the thermometer: Body temperature drops one degree every hour, so he's been dead five
to seven hours. He moved the head. The bullet went out by his right ear, and if they killed him here it should be around. Anything else before the autopsy? Nothing for certain. Don't you smell something funny? Montaño smiled: Right now I still smell of my lovely little girl, but maybe they sprayed something on him, I'll let you know. He agreed to call later on. Then, without taking his eyes off Zelda, who had not gone out as he had asked, Montaño came up to him and made a sign of what about her, Mendieta let him know the way was clear, Montaño, all smiles, gave him the Roman thumbs-up.

Cavalry charge. It was Briseño: Hurry it up, don't do an autopsy, get ballistics and forensics to work quickly. What's the problem? That's what his father wants, Engineer Canizales, the former agriculture minister; District Attorney Bracamontes just called me to say we should expedite it all and hand over the body as soon as the family turns up. Even if it has murder written all over it? It doesn't matter, consider it natural causes. Okay. He gave the order to Montaño and the techies, who accepted it as a matter of course. In their departments anything could happen and everything did. They ended up just dusting for fingerprints.

They were leaving when the family lawyer arrived with one of the brothers. The father was in the United States negotiating the price of corn for the region's farmers and would not be back until the funeral, the mother did not have the courage to come and swallow this bitter pill. Instead of speaking with them, the detective asked Zelda to get their basics and set up a date with the parents. Then he took Laura Frías to the Miró, which he preferred to his tiny office at headquarters.

Why her? Such sadness, there had to be a reason.

Paola drank beer from a can and looked out the window at her longtime neighborhood. Eyes dry, dull, blank. She had turned all the photographs and paintings in her room to face the wall. Except the one of her parents on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, which was on the dressing table next to two empty beer cans. Bookshelf full. It was 8:10 a.m., and the house was as quiet as could be. No one nearby, no one moving. No one was her sister, Beatriz, her brother, Dante, and her parents.

She thought when it comes to dying, every day is the same, who wants to live forever? She once slept with an undertaker who liked to say that. Living or dying makes no difference, only the former happens at 7:00 and the latter at 7:30.

Afraid? She had sworn to it so many times, she did not even feel upset. She would do just as she had said and that way she would not have to answer any questions or put up with the black walls of the days to come.

The gray sky was appropriate.

The neighborhood had always seemed horrible to her, no personality, awful narrow steep streets. From her window on the second floor she saw a young man on a bicycle come out and
glide downhill. For a moment she saw him in her arms and she recognized herself in his kisses, but she wiped that away immediately. She did not like anyone in the neighborhood and even less a boy who thought he could win her heart and her charm with beer and wheedling flattery. Idiot, nothing means nothing.

What a difference. Bruno's kisses were soft, no drooling saliva, not always the same. She met him when the University of Sinaloa gave an honorary doctorate to Carlos Fuentes. They were both in line to get their books signed, and they talked about what they thought of them. She had four, and he had them all. After the writer signed and chatted with them both, they went to have a juice because he did not drink. That was when they kissed the first time and he said he was one of those who never marry. That was also their first night together.

The bedroom was large. Off-white. Beside the window a black computer on a table laden with books and notebooks. Her bag was on the dressing table, next to three unopened cans of beer and surrounded by bottles of perfume and a bedraggled teddy bear. She went over, in the mirror she looked uncombed and determined. She opened the bag and reached for the pistol. A final message? She felt a tiny impulse when she saw the lipstick, but she controlled herself. What for? She put the photograph of her parents facedown. She turned on the television, Channel 22 was broadcasting a round table on contemporary art, lay down on the bed, and shot herself in the right temple.

In the street the kid with the bike, who had returned, looked at Paola's window without comprehending, made a move toward the house, then stopped, he let a few seconds go by, waved his arm, spun around, and went into his own home.

Did you see
The Good, the Bad and the Ugly
? That music crossed the young man's mind.