Rick Mofina - In Desperation

Investigators gathered files, notebooks, cell phones and BlackBerries and shuffled from the room, leaving Hackett alone. He ran his hand across his face, chewing on his anxiety, which encompassed his mistrust of Gannon and his suspicion of Cora.

They got clear fingerprints from her. So why did she hesitate to volunteer them at the outset?

As far as they could determine, Cora was never arrested, or charged. So why hesitate to give up her fingerprints?

Every cop knows that at the outset of a crime, everyone connected to it lies, covers up or hides some piece of the truth.

Everyone.

Tilly’s enlarged photo stared at Hackett from the monitor.

Sitting there, it suddenly dissolved into the face of the red-haired medical student, Betsy.

Hackett blinked and saw Tilly’s face again.

Maybe he was exhausted.

All he wanted was to find her alive and arrest the people responsible, because standing over the casket of another innocent victim murdered on his watch was something he could not bear.

Lago de Rosas, Mexico

Ahard day’s drive south of Juarez on a windblown road, stretching before the lonely sierras, the bean fields, and abandoned mines, was the hamlet of Lago de Rosas.

It was a speck on the map, forgotten by the nearest, still-distant towns. Few in this remote region paid much attention to the seventeen hundred campesinos, impoverished descendants of field workers, farm and ranch hands who lived, toiled, prayed and died here.

For Lago de Rosas was little more than a faded memory, a dusty cluster of tumbledown shops, and ramshackle adobe houses. They lined tired dirt streets that huddled around the community’s church, built of white stone by Roman Catholic missionaries in early 1800s.

But like the hamlet, it was decaying.

Its bell tower was eroding. Inside, the floors were cracked. The carved pine pews were split. The chipped walls were barren, punctuated by stained-glass windows with graphic depictions of Christ’s suffering at the Stations of the Cross. Lit by the sun, the images came alive; Christ’s blood flowed in crimson streams that carried the promise of salvation from the torment of human suffering.

Father Francisco Ortero adhered to this belief. It’s what sustained him every day, he thought as he left the small rectory and walked under the punishing sun through the earthen courtyard to the church.

Evil thrived in Mexico’s violence and he had witnessed too much of it.

For some thirty years, Father Ortero had been posted to parishes throughout Ciudad Juarez. He was on the front line as the city evolved into the primary battlefield for the country’s drug wars. In that time, he’d seen children he’d baptized fall into the drug world; a world where friends became enemies; a world that pitted brother against brother.

He saw the city’s streets turn red with blood.

In that time, he’d sermonized in his church about the dangers of living the life of the narcotraficantes . He counseled families of victims, tried to reach out to gang members, went to prisons to talk to criminals and urged them to return to God.

But his parish, his city, his country continued hemorrhaging.

Father Ortero had lost count of how many roadside shootings he’d hurried to in order to offer the sacrament of the dying, or how many hospital beds he had been called to in order to hear a last confession, or how many times he performed a funeral mass.

When Father Ortero’s friend, a community leader, was murdered several months ago, he shook with rage. He couldn’t explain why this death had angered him more than any of the countless others.

Perhaps he’d reached a breaking point?

For he believed he was a soldier in a war against evil.

And he refused to accept that God could let evil triumph.

In the wake of the murder, the priest had called out from his pulpit for anyone with information to step forward, to let the world know who the killer was. Or take care of matters the narco way . When word of his outbursts reached his diocese he was summoned to his bishop’s office.

“This kind of vengeful talk is not the way of the church. It is dangerous, Francisco. No one knows that better than you,” the bishop said. “The cartels will threaten you, or worse. I think it is time for a quiet reassignment, for spiritual and safety reasons.”

Without any fanfare, Father Ortero’s bishop posted him to the smallest, poorest community in the diocese with orders to “heal and rest.”

This was how he came to be the exiled priest in Lagos de Rosas.

Father Ortero’s keys jingled as he unlocked the church door and went inside and prepared. In the sacristy, he kissed his purple stole, put it on over his white clerical shirt and glimpsed himself in the small mirror under a cross. Nearly sixty-three, he still had the strong posture of the boxer from his seminary days when he was an Olympic-caliber middleweight.

He never feared a fight.

Father Ortero accepted that Lagos de Rosas would be his last posting, that he would retire with this parish. Die here, perhaps. He accepted that fact, but acceptance was absent from his face. Behind his placid, priestly mask, his eyes carried an underlying sadness, flagging unhealed wounds and a brewing storm of unresolved anger.

He shifted his thoughts and walked through the church. The air smelled of wax. Someone had lit the votive candles. A few parishioners were in pews, on their knees, their rosary beads clicking softly as they prayed.

He checked his watch before entering one of the confessional booths. The latch for the half door clacked. He drew the curtain. The small red ornate light above the confessional went on. For the next two hours, as was the case every weekday, according to the sign posted at the front of the church, Father Ortero would hear the confession of sins.

Over that time, several people came in and out of the church. Children held their tiny hands firmly together at their lips, prayerlike. Adults were less formal. One by one they entered the darkened booth, knelt and whispered their confessions.

They were the usual trespasses: A boy stole a peso from his mother’s purse. A mother had slapped her daughter during an argument. One man had lusted after his neighbor’s wife. Between confessions the priest used a small light to read the Bible, making notes for his next sermon.

As the two hours came to a close, Father Ortero peeked through the curtain. The church appeared empty. He decided to finish reading his chapter of Scripture, then end the session.

As he reached the last few paragraphs, someone entered the confessional. He saw the silhouette, but heard nothing.

“Go ahead,” Father Ortero encouraged.

Silence.

“Don’t be nervous. God is present.”

Silence.

“How long has it been since your last confession?”

Silence.

“I’ll help you begin. Bless me, Father…”

“I’ve been searching for you, Father Ortero.”

The priest was taken aback. The unfamiliar voice was that of a young man.

“You’ve found me, my son. How can I help you?”

“I am a sicario. ”

Ortero cleared his throat, his knees cracked as he stiffened in the booth.

“Do not think about looking at me, Father. It would be a mistake to try to identify me.”

“The seal of the confession offers anonymity,” he said, “even for sicarios. ”

“It is what I am.”

“Do you wish to confess?”

“I wish to negotiate.”

“What is there to negotiate?”

“Recently, police have found two bodies in a barn on a ranch south of Juarez.”

The priest was aware, having read a news story.

“That is my most recent job.”