Paco Taibo II - Mexico City Noir

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.

“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.