Redemption (30 page)

“And if I’m not afraid of the Devil, if I want to open those doors and don’t care what happens… what then?”

The old man sighed and took a shot of tequila.

“All right… well, if you’re crazy enough to open the doors and if you don’t want to live, I would tell you to go talk to the girls’ families. For example, the people who want to find their girls’ killer. Who would want to find the killers the most, Vandal?”

“I agree. And how would I get in contact with these families?”

“There’s a help center in San Matanza for families who have lost loved ones to violent crimes. They go after the government to fix the situation. You know, they do good things. They get money, give out flyers to foreigners about what happens here. They do what they can with what they got, but it’s not enough. Some of them know a lot after all the years. Many of your fellow journalists already passed by there probably, but if you insist…”

“Yes, I insist!”

The old man pulled a pencil from his shirt pocket and wrote an address on a napkin. He offered it to Namara.

“There’s a Renata there could help you most.”

“Thank you for your time, Silvio,” he said, extending his hand.

“Good luck, young man,” he said, tipping his hat.

Namara and Guerra turned to leave when Silvio whistled at them. Nearly out the door, they turned back.

“Be very careful. Pay attention where you put your feet, Mr. Vandal! You’re not in Chicago. You in Mexico. Don’t forget it, understand?”

Namara nodded his thanks and they disappeared through the door.

CHAPTER 43

“May I see your identification?”

“Certainly,” said Namara as he fished out his fake
Chicago Globe
card that Andy had procured him. He had been surprised to see how real it looked. Erick Vandal (who, in his ID picture, looked a lot like Danny Namara) was, by all appearances, an accredited journalist. Renata scrutinized it for several minutes before handing it back.

“All right, Mr. Vandal. What can I do for you?”

Renata was a matronly woman in her thirties. Her shoulder-length hair was black and curly. She wore a bright yellow cotton dress. Her look was conservative, but her Latina attitude suggested a
joie de vivre
and a passion one never forgot once one had seen the victim’s help center in San Matanza. The small building in the city center was cramped and outdated. There were three desks and no window. The walls were papered with posters of all kinds. There was a stifling heat and two huge overworked fans at opposite corners of the office. Namara was seated uncomfortably in a wood chair, facing Renata, who sat behind a desk.

“So, to begin: I’m interested in a case you probably know very well.”

“That’s possible. Which one?”

“The murders of women that run rampant in San Matanza.”

“Ah. I see. And you came all the way to Chicago to learn about this business.”

“Exactly. I’m writing an article on the unresolved murders hoping to educate foreigners on what happened here.”

“You’re not the first journalist to come here and you won’t be the last. Who referred you to me, if I may ask?”

“An old man I met by chance on the street. He pointed me toward you, said you’d know the case best.”

“Well, I’ve worked with a lot of people who lost a close one because of them. You know, we try to help victims of all sorts of violent crime. I’ll spare you the list.”

“I’m sure you do excellent work.”

“We try to do everything possible to help, but in all honesty, we lack the finances and the personnel. But for you, the murders… all right. Over four hundred women were killed over ten years. They were all from poor families and they were all subjected to torture and rape, if they were found. And the children, never found, that is…”

“Yes, I’m up-to-date on the facts. I researched the issue.”

“Very well. In that case, if you know all the details, what do you need me for?”

Namara leaned forward and waited a few seconds before speaking.

“I wonder how it’s possible that so many women disappeared over so long and nobody saw anything. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes… apparently. The police botched so many investigations and most of the crime scenes were contaminated. Not to mention the possible witnesses who might have identified the culprits, but who shut up for fear of retaliation.”

“Or even details that the civilians noticed, but they ignored…”

“Like I said, anything’s possible, Mr. Vandal, but what went unwritten in the files probably disappeared long ago, because there are murders that date back several years. It’s not very probably that you’ll succeed in finding new leads. Everything you know is in the documentation.”

Namara cleared his throat loudly.

“If you’ll allow me to clarify: With all the victims’ families that you’ve met over the years, did none of them ever try to mount their own investigation to find the killers?”

“Possibly, but I can’t tell you the fruit of their research, if there is any. We at the center have always kept from leading our own investigation. We’re an organization to help the victims, not the police. Our task here for ten years has been to put pressure on organizations mandated to lead such an investigation to the end of arresting the culprits. Clearly, so far we’ve failed. We’ve never tried to get information or run an investigation because the existence of our center is a service of support. What we do know is mostly public knowledge.”

“I understand your position. Although, I would like to be able to speak with the families that would have done such an investigation, who would have been ignored. Do you remember any? I’d like to ask them some questions.”

Renata leaned forward onto the desk to peer at her interrogator. She stared at him suspiciously.

“You don’t seem like a journalist, Mr. Vandal…”

Namara decided he should try a different tactic if he wanted to get what he wanted.

“Don’t I? I’ve been told they’re normally less good-looking.”

Renata’s suspicious stare disappeared as she threw her head back in laughter.

“Ohhh, honestly! What a load. Are all journalists this humble, too?”

“Yeah, I know… humility is another one of my many qualities. It’s not easy to be so perfect these days.”

“I understand, we’re all having trouble.”

Renata, who had responded enthusiastically to Namara’s playfulness, laughed beautifully with him, happy to find someone who shared her sense of sarcasm.

“My goodness. I have to admit, you’re funny. You don’t look it, though. All right, Erick… can I call you Erick?”

“Of course.”

“I’ll give you a hand with your article. I’ve seen lots of people, you know, over the years, but I remember one man in particular…”

“Who?”

“The father of one of the girls. Her body was found in the desert on the side of the road, if memory serves. It must have been three years ago.”

“And why this man in particular?”

“Well, he was so determined to find his daughter’s killers. He said the police didn’t want them resolved and that he would find them himself. He came to see me several times to get advice and to share information. As I’ve explained, I have always refused to get involved at this level. I told him to share his information with the police, or to wait and see if other organizations would decide to get involved. He told me that the police never took him seriously. Then, I never saw him again.”

“Would you still have his address?”

“I don’t know… I’ll need to check. His name is Armando, I think, and his daughter was Cecilia. She was no more than seventeen. How sad…”

“I’d like to meet him.”

“A few conditions.”

“Like?”

“First, I have to find him and second, I’m going to give you his information if he wants to talk to you. I’ll call you, understand?”

“That’s perfectly fine,” he said, winking as the fans stirred the papers around the office.

CHAPTER 44

Danny pulled up at the address in question and cut the engine.

 “I think we’re here.”

“It’s unbelievable people can live in places like this,” muttered Guerra as he stepped from the vehicle.

The residence of Armando Marquez was in fact a little house of unpainted wood, weathered by the years and the desert winds. An old truck was parked near the door and a little dog, tied up by the house, yapped to warn of the intruders. The landscape was nothing but stretches of sand anywhere they looked. Several meters separated this house from the next. A man of small stature rose from a rocking chair to greet his visitors. The man, who must have been nearing his fifties, was frail-looking. Dressed soberly in a dark-colored shirt and cotton pants, he approached them with a smile.

“Misters Vandal and McDermott?”

“Exactly. Mr. Marquez?”

“Yes.”

“Hello,” said Namara with a smile. Armando extended his hand and Namara took it, Guerra following.

“Strong hands. What do you do for a living?” asked Guerra, taking pains to affect an American accent.

“Oh, I’ve worked in a parts warehouse on boat motors for years. I’m always carrying heavy parts around, you know.”

“So kind of you to receive us,” said Namara as he inspected the life-worn man. His skin was copper and lined; his back, slightly curved. He was the image of a man who had worked  hard his whole life to survive, but there was no bitterness in his voice.

“Renata told me why you’re here. I appreciate your interest, really. Please come in, I’ll introduce you to my little family.”

They entered through the front door into the kitchen, where a woman greeted them with a smile. Two young girls, about fifteen years apiece, stood by her side.

“My wife Manuela, and my daughters, Adriana and Izabelle.”

“Pleasure! Erick Vandal.”

“And I’m Arthur McDermott,” said Guerra with a nod.

From the back of the room, an old lady observed everything. She was frailer, more heavily lined. Her skin was leathery as though the dryness of the desert had already mummified her.

“This is my mother Lucinda. She lives with us.”

“Pleasure,
Señora,
” said Namara.

“You too, Mr. Vandal. We’re happy you came. Few people come to visit us. Here, sit, take my chair,” she all but ordered as she stood.

“No, please,
Señora
, sit. We’re perfectly comfortable like this. We sincerely appreciate you seeing us.”

The old woman smiled and patted his hand.

“You are at home here. Where do you come from?”

“Chicago.”

“You travelled far. You must be tired. Would you do us the honour of staying for dinner this evening?” said the old woman.

Namara turned toward Guerra for help.

“Well, I… I mean,” he stuttered lamely.

“Please, misters, it would bring me pleasure if you ate at our table. My wife makes the best Mexican food. You see…” said Armando.

Guerra smiled at Namara, making a slight shrug.

“Well, in that case, on the condition that we help prepare the meal,” said Namara.

“Marvelous!”

*     *     *

“Go on, Mr. McDermott, have a little more,” said Manuela, delighted at James’ reaction to her cooking.

“Yes, gladly!” He held out his plate with a grin.

Namara couldn’t swallow another bite. His stomach was about to rupture, he was sure of it, and he watched Guerra go for double portions with complete fascination.

“Just as long as I don’t have to carry you out to the car afterwards,” he told him gravely. Adriana and Izabella laughed.

“Your cooking is superb,” said Guerra.

“I’m happy you enjoy it,” said Manuela.

Namara hadn’t had such a good time in a very long time. They conversed easily, especially since they were all curious about their American visitors. Namara fed them his fabricated history and they hung on his words. It hurt him, to know that he would be dredging up their painful past, but he didn’t have any other choice. Armando talked of Mexican manners, how things happened here. The atmosphere was agreeable and, for the moment, he could forget why he had come. He looked around and realized they could pass for a convincing family, something he’d never had until tonight.

So the evening was excellent, despite the fact that they hadn’t even expected the invitation. He thought of the misery they must have gone through. They had nothing, not really, and still they welcomed him as one of their own. They were ready to give over anything to these people they’d known for a few hours. Across the room, he spotted a photo of a girl that wasn’t present at the table. He guessed it was Cecilia. A great sadness overcame him, even as he joined in with the joking and laughter around him. Why these people, he thought. They must have suffered for years, and still be suffering, a little niggling thought that someone should be at this table who wasn’t.
But I couldn’t really understand unless I’d live through it myself.
He shook it off and concentrated on the banter between James and Adriana that was making everyone laugh, but he couldn’t help glancing back at the photo. His gaze struck Lucinda’s quite by accident – she’d seen him look. She smiled sadly, a smile which he wordlessly returned. After the meal, Armando lead the two outside. They trooped out behind him, carrying chairs, and sat themselves on the porch. The horizon was compellingly orange.

“You have a wonderful family, Armando,” said Guerra sincerely.

“Thank you.”

Armando had brought a huge envelope that he laid on the table facing them. He shook out a few family photos, taken back when Cecilia was alive.

“Three years ago now, she left us. She was seventeen when she was killed. She was my oldest. She worked in a shoe factory in San Matanza three days a week. At night she took the bus home and had to make part of the trip on foot. One evening, she left the factory and never came home.”

“What happened then?” asked Namara.

“Three weeks later, they told me they’d found a body by the side of the road in the desert. They thought it might be hers.”

“You saw her body?”

“Yes… I went to the crime scene right away. I saw the body, half-rotten. By that point nobody could identify it as her. They did an autopsy to confirm it.”