FALLEN ANGEL

The shutters, clattering against the bedroom window, wake him though he struggles to recognise his surroundings; vaguely recalling the faceless whore he’d picked up in a bar in Teotihuacan.

Instinctively, he realises he is alone. Sitting up, head hammering, he glances around the room: clothes scattered everywhere, ashtrays piled high with weeks old butts, empty liquor bottles; none of which he’d noticed in the darkness of the previous night. The sheets, he now realises, are grimy, redolent of the sweat of numerous bodies who had fucked here before him.

In a filthy bathroom, he stares into the cracked mirror, taken aback at the ugly, fragmented reflection that meets his gaze: bloodshot eyes, haggard, unshaven face. Taking a fifty peso bill from his wallet, he throws it on the bed, grateful, at least, that she, whoever she was, had not robbed him.

Out on the street, the wind blows sand in every direction; the midday sun beating down mercilessly. In the far distance he can make out the pyramids, buses spitting out tourists by the dozen as the open sewers emit an overwhelming stench.

Halfway back to CDMX, he pulls into a roadhouse, needing to call in to the comisario. The reek of cumin, ingrained in every aspect of this establishment, jarring, as he dials the number.

“Policia Federal”.

“Regina, it’s me”.

“Ay dios mio! Where are you? You were supposed to be back yesterday…”

“Calm down, okay? I got delayed…uh…something came up…”

“The Chief has been screaming for you, Angelo. This is your big chance and there has been another one…”

Momentarily, he is confused, tries to make sense of what she is saying. Another one? Another murder?

“You mean the same MO?”

“Si. You need to get your ass back here pronto, detective. Jimenez is…”

“Jimenez can go fuck himself”, he shouts, forgetting he is in a public place, though those few, bothering to look up reactively, turn away immediately; in this country only fools involve themselves in something that’s not their business.

“I’m sorry, Regina, but…”.

“Avenidos Mineros, numero 25. Chief Jimenez left here ten minutes ago”.

The line goes dead.

He’s upset her, he knows, by his loss of temper. He’d have to make it up to her later; his one remaining ally.

Avenidos Mineros? That was in Tepito, the site of the great market, Barrio Bravo. Another murder; same MO. That made four now. Not that murder was a rarity in the Mexican capital of 1950. But this case was different: young girls, innocents, murdered in cold blood, their immature breasts carved with bloody crosses, their unsullied vulvas also slit in cruciform fashion, before the coup de grace, administered by one final thrust of the killer’s knife.

It was his case, his big opportunity. And he’d devoted himself slavishly to solving it until, just two days previously, when a false tipoff had led him into the provinces and…and, somehow, he had allowed himself to be led astray. His hands grip the wheel of his Oldsmobile tightly.

Angelo Sanchez, Superintendente Federal, curses his superior though, in truth, it is himself he inwardly despises. If only he’d returned, as intended, yesterday. Instead, he’d succumbed to his urges yet again. Damn!

Sanchez is a good cop. Since childhood, it had been all he’d ever dreamed of. Graduating from the academia, he’d immediately set his sights on becoming a detective, earning his shield in record time.

His madre had urged him to take up another profession having seen what twenty years on the force had done to her husband, his alcoholic father, who had, finally, used his service revolver to take his own life upon witnessing one too many gruesome sights in the cesspit that was La Capital; the tipping point into extinction.

Being put in sole charge of this latest case was a singular honour and Angelo was hell bent on finding the murderer. Yet, undeniably, constant immersion in the swamp that was the Mexican metropolis, had exacted a damaging toll on this particular detective.

On duty, he had become desensitised to the horrors witnessed daily but, at the end of each shift, it had become impossible for him to keep those images at bay and he had turned to drink to help him sleep, understanding, at last, why the father he had denigrated for so long had opted out of this world, preferring the inferno of the afterlife to the living hell on earth that was Mexico City.

Such exposure had introduced another element in one as intuitive and empathetic as Angelo Sanchez. For, off duty, this former altar boy had begun to cruise, at night, the bars and clubs that proliferated in Centro Historico, wondering: what if, just for once, he cast off the heavy mantel of his strict, formal, Catholic upbringing and dipped a toe into this netherworld. More and more, he had allowed himself to creep ever closer to the precipice, the thrill of almost succumbing to temptation addictive and, inexorably, he had found himself sliding into the filth of the gutter.

Always, following any lapse, this good Catholic boy would be consumed with guilt, fearful of the commandments he had broken. Hangovers became a normal occurrence. Intermittent doses of the clap, another unwanted problem. Worse though, had been the indelible stain upon his soul caused by his use of heroin, the only thing that really relieved him of his nightmares, transporting him, temporarily at least, far from reality.

He’d managed to disguise his excesses from those he worked with, limiting his sporadic lapses. Yet, ironically, this intimacy with the pimps, thugs, thieves, whores and addicts that crawled out of their holes at night, had actually aided his police work, providing contacts, knowledge, that, otherwise, he would never have had.

The house, like all others in Avenidos Mineros, seemed derelict and he was pleased to note that there were no newspaper reporters yet, thank God. A clicking noise made him turn to his right, catching sight of an old woman, both hands raised in front of her face, pretending to work an imaginary camera. She smiled at Sanchez, her toothless mouth causing, inexplicably, despite the searing heat, an ice cold chill to run down his back as, once more, she made the same clicking noise, as if the detective was her photographic subject.

As soon as he crossed the threshold, his nostrils were assaulted by the undeniable stench of putrefaction.

“Well, well, well. Look who’s decided to join us”.

Chief of detectives, Jimenez, a huge, lumbering veteran, confronted the detective.

“Numero cuatro, Sanchez! How many more before you get your ass into gear?”

More than anything, Sanchez most wanted to crack this case so that he could rub it in the face of this boss; their detestation mutual.

“I should have stayed around instead of going to Teotihuacan. This could have been avoided”.

“Ain’t nothing you could have done ‘bout this one. Tell him, Chito”.

A small man stepped forward.

“Judging by the decomposition, I’d say she’s been dead four, five days”.

Sanchez was absorbing this information from the City’s Chief Medical Officer when Jimenez confronted him once again.

“Okay, smart ass? Now where are you on this thing?”

“ I…I have some leads”.

Jimenez looked sceptically at his detective, taking note of the young man’s dishevelled appearance.

“Sanchez, I don’t like you. You stink, son. Get a shave and a shower; a change of clothes. Then get me a result or I’ll find somebody who can”.

Inside, the warehouse was a darkened, seething mess, an overhead light illuminating a sawdust filled cock pit. The atmosphere, filled with smoke, booze and the reek of unwashed masculinity was stupefying and, above all, the volume of noise was reaching a crescendo as men screamed their wagers, fistfuls of cash changing hands.

Sanchez, his personal odour matching the general stench, pressed his way through the throng. In a raised section, surrounded by swarthy minders, sat Gustavo Mendez, the man who claimed Barrio Bravo as his personal realm.

“Hey, look who’s here.”

“Gus, there’s been another one. This time, it’s on your patch. Avenidos Mineros”.

“Huh? Ain’t nobody living on that street, amigo…”

A sudden, deafening increase in volume indicated that the savagery had started.

Gustavo Mendez was a stone cold killer yet, somehow, a mutual appreciation existed between the two and Angelo knew that having reporters and police focus on the comings and goings of Tepito would be anathema to the gangster.

Outside, in the comparatively fresh, Mexican air, Mendez angrily confronted Angelo.

“Listen up, amigo. I got big development plans with the alcaldia for that street. El Presidente Municipal is in my pocket. I’ve bought out los residentes. I don’t need no reporters snooping around and messing things up, you understand? Hell, you gotta solve this thing, amigo. I’m relying on you”.

Angelo nodded.

‘I’m doing my best, Gus. The first three victims were discovered close to churches, all in the same part of La Capital. He works the same colonia. But now, he’s here in Tepito.”

“Well, ain’t no damn church on Mineros.”

“The parish priests of all three churches were covertly permitting members of their congregation to worship Neustra Senora de la Santa Muerte…”

Gustavo Mendez, this fearless, ruthless gangster, shrank back in the darkness at hearing this name, making the sign of the cross several times as he did so.

“Ay dios mio! The Lady of Death!”

“Gus, Barrio Bravo is known for its street altars, its dedication to Santa Muerte. The killer is deliberately choosing places devoted to this cult and he’s here now and he’ll stick around, I’m sure.”

“What the fuck can I do?”

“Gus, I don’t give a damn who you worship but the Vatican refuses to recognise this icon yet millions of Mexicans pay daily homage and the killer is mocking, carving crucifixes, for fuck’s sake. And, now, he’s chosen to strike on your turf, Gus, the home of the Lady of Death. Have your guys ask around. We’re looking for a stranger, somebody new to Tepito, who arrived four, maybe five, days ago”.

A temporary muting of sound from within indicated that the cock fight had ended.

“One other thing, Gus. Earlier today, I saw a strange old woman outside the house where the victim was found, pretending to take photos only… she didn’t have a camera…”

“Ah, si. That’s that old bitch, Camila; a holdout, refuses to move. She’s not the full peso but I’ll wear her down. I send her gifts to keep her sweet so I don’t know why she was pretending to take photographs because I sent her one of those Polaroid ones; the kind that give you a picture in less than a minute. Listen, amigo, I’ll put the word out. Give me twenty four hours”.

Much earlier, that day, left alone at last to do his job, Sanchez had examined the naked body, this latest ritualistic killing. The similarities were evident: young, pretty, innocent. Chito had confirmed that the mutilations, with obvious religious undertones, were being caused by the same knife: a switchblade. But, in these years following the war, almost every criminal in Mexico carried this type of weapon; cops, too. Reflexively, as he’d stared at the bloodied carvings on this latest victim, Angelo had fingered his own such weapon, nestled in a back pocket of his pants. The proliferation of these knives, he knew, only too well, would not make his task of finding this killer any easier yet Angelo Sanchez had never in his life wanted anything so much.

These young girls, mostly illiterate, continued to leave their families in the provinces for a life in La Capital which had nothing to offer them apart from eventual degradation and disappointment and it was only a matter of time before they surrendered their souls, lured by the promise of easy money; shame alleviated by the thought of the cash they could send home to loved ones.

Back in his tiny apartment, Angelo needed to take the cold shower that might, just, pull him out of this latest spiral, yet, despite his unbounded determination to catch this monster, he felt unable to move. In his hand he held a paper wrap and was fighting a losing battle with the desire for oblivion that was consuming him.

The hit is instant, rapture spreading throughout his body. He feels himself floating, cares and worries fast disappearing, guilt vanquished; euphoric. But the pleasure is fleeting as young faces appear, pleading. His madre’s face follows, as she had looked in her coffin, at peace. But, suddenly her eyes open and his heart is pierced by the silent disappointment issuing from her venomous gaze. He begins to come down, far too soon. Too often this has been the case of late though the dope retains its sluggish hold within his system.

Semi comatose, he lies back against his pillow, staring up at the ceiling fan as it spins above him. round and round, making barely a dent in the humidity of the night.

A vision of Avenidos Mineros, the row of rundown homes. Jimenez, Chito, the latest victim, her carved mutilations. A clicking sound, repeated, over and over, the old woman, la anciana, her toothless smile, grinning at him. The warehouse, the stench, the clamour. Gustavo Mendez: I gave her one of those Polaroid ones…”

Angelo sits bolt upright, sweat seeping from every pore. Desperately, he attempts to gather his thoughts; the flashing, external, neon lights illuminating the darkness, bringing a shard of clarity.

Everything is in darkness when he switches off the headlights of the Oldsmobile outside the house where, for all Angelo knows, the decaying body of the latest victim still lies. He shivers involuntarily as he approaches a home further along.

Once more, he curses himself for not having realised sooner the significance of Gustavo Mendez gifting Camila a new fangled Polaroid and the chance, a slim possibility, that she might have captured something significant on film.

The gate creaks loudly as he enters the yard and, somewhere in the distance, unseen, a dog picks up his scent and starts to bark. The main door to the house opens suddenly, startling him, as he comes face to face with the woman, Camila.

“Madre, I am sorry to trouble you so late”.

He holds up his badge but it does not seem to mean anything to her. She smiles, wet gums glistening, raises her hands and starts to mime the same, familiar action of snapping a photograph.

“You have una camara?”

He makes the same miming gesture, raises his voice.

“CAMARA?”

She ceases to smile, her eyes recalling something and she turns back into the house,. Quickly, he follows and they enter a spacious, dimly lit room, cluttered, untidy. Opening a dresser, she produces a carton that, he sees, is marked: Polaroid Land Camera Model 95. From inside the box, she pulls a large, black and brown object with leather, expandable bellows.

“Camara”, she croaks. “Fracturado”.

He observes the large slit in the leather. She’d obviously dropped it, rendering it unusable. His heart sinks and he is about to take his leave, hopes dashed, when, as she attempts to replace the broken camera, she knocks over the box and its contents, a number of small, sepia coloured images scatter on to the floor.

The first picture that catches his eye is that of a house and, stooping low to retrieve it, he recognises the yard, piled high with junk; the location where he had viewed the most recent victim. He suppresses a thrill as he snatches up a handful of others, sorting through them rapidly.

A rear view of a girl, slim, dark haired, dressed in chaste white, being led by a hand through the yard towards the front door of the house; the hand of a man, he now realises, as he stares at another photograph. Camila must have been standing in the road, unseen.

The next snap reveals a different viewpoint: the camera now facing the street, capturing the dark shape of a vehicle, parked unobtrusively in the roadside; the outline, unmistakably, that of an Oldsmobile.

Quickly flicking to the next image, he gasps audibly. The camera, now focused back towards the house, the murderer, unaware that he was being photographed, had turned, his face, encapsulated in monochrome for posterity. This profile causes the blood in the detective’s veins to freeze for it is the face of…himself… Angelo Sanchez, Superintendente Federal!

Staggering to his feet, the detective, as if in a nightmare, stunned, the photographs falling from his grasp, recalls things clearly, as if the fog of his addiction has suddenly lifted, allowing a glimpse of clarity.

He remembers, viscerally, the pain of the daily, brutal scourging inflicted with a strap by his madre; in her other hand, a rosary beads. The bitter frustrations of life with an incurable alcoholic being visited remorselessly upon her offspring.

As well, he is reminded of the painful slaps of his school years, dished out by the Sisters of Mercy as they zealously impressed the catechism of the Catholic Church, upon his young brain.

How he had prayed for his own salvation, the incense, the candles, the crucifix.

And, finally, he reflects on that latest, beautiful, young girl, descending from the bus that has brought her to this place of perdition; unaware of the evil, lurking beneath the surface, ready to claim her innocence.

For, upon him, Angelo Sanchez, product of intense, religious fervour from the moment he could talk, has fallen this sanctified crusade of saving her from the same fate that has claimed his own soul.

To the sound of the old woman, once more, clicking a non-existent camera, a sense of bewilderment overcomes the detective as he realises that he, the hunter, is also, the hunted and, taking his service revolver, as his father before him, inserts it in his mouth and pulls the trigger.