Angels´ Blood: Proaza Trilogy, Book I

By Rafael Estrada

The decapitated body of a thirteen-year-old girl turns up at a coastal location in Mar Menor. Not far from the place, the Police finds a sleeping young man wearing a bloody t-shirt and displaying clear signs of alcoholic intoxication. The solution of the case seems so evident, that the Captain of the precinct where the events occur, assigns it to a rooky inspector thinking that this would be a good way to get the new cop's feet wet in investigative procedure. Chief De la Mata expects the case to be closed promptly.

That is how, from one day to the next, Juanito Proaza finds himself partnering veteran policeman Paco Garrido, who likes to use unorthodox methods, and working closely with Doctor Luzon, a brilliant pathologist and a great master at presenting his findings with great dramatic flair. Juanito heads an investigation that gets complicated by the minute and eventually results in the uncovering of a sordid net with multiple tentacles, among these a mysterious literary society dedicated to paying cult to… angels.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Sep 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9781547598854

Book preview

Forbear to sleep the nights, and fast the days; Compare dead happiness with living woe;Think that thy babes were sweeter than they were, and he that slew them fouler than he is

William Shakespeare (Richard III)

INDEX

The wisdom of the seagulls

Inspector Proaza

The dead speak

Out of service area

Susana’s room

Third persons

Lolita Club

Shifting leukocytes

Back to the past

Down the rabbit hole

Labor relations

The music teacher

The clown’s strategy

The silence of the squirrel

Lewis Carroll in love

Confidences

Today is Friday and I want to dance

The tenth order

Penultimate truth

1

The wisdom of the seagulls

The seagulls took flight only to return and hurl themselves at whatever was keeping them busy. They came from the salt marshes and the reeds, crying frantically as they swooped down. Agent Quintana knew of their characteristic voracity so he assumed that only food could be driving them to act that way. It was usual for the seagulls to go for their sustenance to the band of earth encircling the Mar Menor and the five volcanic islands sprinkled throughout it. Since they don’t dive, they limit themselves to eating only what brushes the surface of the water, devouring the refuse from the ports and beaches. Too much food available to be fighting for it, Quintana thought.

-Why do you stop, Quintana? -Jimenez asked.

-Those seagulls are making me nervous.

-You know the Sargent does not want us to go beyond the windmill.

The police did not usually transit the dirt roads going into the wetlands because, as a rule, the Seprona motorists patrol the entire La Manga, including the accesses to the Salinas and Arenales de San Pedro del Pinatar, to the North of Lo Pagan.

-Look at how excited those birds are -Quintana tapped on the windshield with his finger, pointing at the marshes-. Don’t you think there are too many?

-It must be a dead dog.

-We should take a look -he said, turning off the radio.

Although Jimenez was not thrilled, he drove the patrol car off the asphalt, rolling slowly down the dusty road. It was seven in the morning and the Villananitos Beach was silent and deserted and so were the Mud Baths. The only sounds that could be heard came from the frantic seagulls and the wheels of the patrol car crushing the gravel. When the car stopped, some of the seagulls flew away; the bolder ones took flight, unenthusiastically, only when the agent got closer.

At first sight, all he saw between the black algae was the usual detritus: Empty bottles, plastic bags, newspapers, and food scraps. Most of it was food. Shaking his head in disgust, he thought it was a good thing that the seagulls gulped it all down. He stood at the edge of the marsh, cursing, put his hands on his waist and craned his neck to peer into one of the conduits leading from the Salinas to the Mar Mayor; the impact of what he saw almost knocked him backwards.

-Fuck...!

-What is the matter, Quintana?

But Quintana was unable to answer. After inhaling deeply, he forced himself to look again, cautiously this time, although he already knew what he would see. The sargent had radioed the description of Susana Monton, a girl who had failed to return home from the movies by three o’clock in the morning. His partner, already on alert, got out of the car and moved toward him slowly, attempting to conceal his unease. The body that was submerged in the salt marshes, obstructing the conduit, was that of a young girl. The corpse was covered with marks that looked like bird pecks; the arms were outstretched in a gesture of unknown significance to the policeman. The descriptions coincided: Slim, wearing jeans and a camisole under a yellowish, long sleeved, blood stained blouse. Jimenez clenched his fists and bit his index finger, conjuring the pain of the bite, to have a more natural reality to hang on to as he looked ahead. As a mouthful of salty, fresh air flooded his lungs, he gradually regained control. A few meters in front of him, there was a head, covered by flies. The matted, long blonde hair and the two earrings on the right earlobe coincided with the description of the missing girl.

Still dizzy, he walked toward the car. With a shaky hand that would barely obey him, he connected the radio and informed the Sargent about his findings.

The patrol from Seprona took seven minutes to get to the lagoon; the SUV from the Civil Guard arrived in eighteen minutes and cordoned off the area with the usual white plastic tape that cautioned in green letters:

DO NOT TRESPASS CIVIL GUARD DO NOT TRESPASS CIVIL GUARD

While photos were taken and all possible clues numbered, so that they could later be properly inventoried, the ambulance and the court van arrived. In no more than an hour, the Salinas de Coterillo were bustling with uniforms, white coats, and inspectors in plain clothes, taking notes and whispering to each other in between the crackling of radios. 

The agents moved with extreme care in order to avoid destroying possible evidence. One of the inspectors from the Forensic Science Division, wearing white overalls, squatted next to the open carrying case that contained his kit. Carefully and methodically, he collected hair, blood, saliva and other secretions and packed them in bags that he then sealed hermetically. He proceeded to place bags over the girl’s hands, safeguarding any evidence that could later be found under her nails; he also lifted some of the footprints and searched the ground carefully for cigarette buts. When it seemed he had finished, he stood up, took off his latex gloves and while holding a cigarette between his lips, started mapping the site where the events had occurred.

The last one to arrive was Luzon, the forensic pathologist, a mature, tall, man with slightly hunched shoulders. He had a pale complexion and his hair was abundant and black, peppered with silver at the temples. The doctor greeted the judicial group, and the lieutenant from the Civil Guard; Luzon only stopped to talk to the judge of instruction; as he spoke to him, he took out of his pocket a case and, out of the case, a pair of glasses that he then proceeded to fastidiously clean. Once he was satisfied with the pristine lenses, he cleared his throat, attempted unsuccessfully to frighten the flies away and, with studied parsimony, initiated the examination of the corpse.

Luzon knew that he was being closely observed by all present. They were all following each of his precise, science steeped movements; he studied the wounds, looking for ecchymosis, hemorrhage or fatty tissue in order to determine whether they had been inflicted before or after death. Without rushing, he turned on his recorder and whispered his initial impressions into it, loud enough so that the audience could hear certain fragments of what he was saying. Thus, they learned firsthand that the body was in the first stages of rigor mortis, that cadaveric spasm showed the posture of the victim at death, which had occurred between three and four in the morning, that there were no contusions and that the decapitation had happened after the girl was already dead. That is all, ladies and gentlemen, that is all for the moment:  "Until we proceed with the autopsy and identify any other inflicted harm that might have left material imprints on the corpse and can report on any internal or external lesions we find, with due specificity".

Only then was the corpse moved. The stretcher bearers, with their dramatically serious faces, placed the body inside of a black bag, lifted it on to the stretcher, adjusted the leather belts around it and slid it into the ambulance, which drove away, its howling sirens proclaiming an urgency that no longer existed. After the patrols issued the initial reports, they received communication letting all know that the murderer had already been apprehended. The driver of the tractor that regularly raked the beach had found him sleeping in the children’s area, reeking of beer and covered in blood. The terms suspicious and presumptive were not mentioned at any time.

It was Monday, a sunny Monday at the end of June in Lo Pagan, a quiet fishing town, home to a little over three thousand inhabitants. During summer, Lo Pagan turned into the touristic area of the municipality and the population multiplied; few regions, after all, could boast a salt-water lake, crystalline, tranquil and not too deep, located right next to the Mediterranean Sea. Like every year, the newspapers were already touting an impending heat wave. High Season was just about to start in Mar Menor, and everybody wished that something as inopportune as a murder could be quickly forgotten.

2

Inspector Proaza

While they waited for Chief of Police de la Mata to appear, the Homicide Team from the Cartagena Police Station was engaged in lively discussion, joking about the latest developments and drinking coffee. The youngest inspector, Juanito Proaza, allowed his gaze to travel over the conference room; this was where the team gathered every morning to discuss the evolution of the cases they were working and to get recommendations and orders; the process was called by some pedantic individuals the briefing. As he admired the papers and folders bearing the logo of The Superior Police of Murcia resting on the nearby table, he felt like an intruder. Of all the agents beginning to form a parapet by table, he was the youngest and had not been assigned any cases yet. Juanito fantasized about giving report and how his signature would look stamped at the bottom of the report summary, something he had practiced doing many times at the Avila Police Academy. The smell of leather and oil coming from the holster under his arm and the somewhat uncomfortable pressure of the gun on his body were all that provided him some satisfaction at that moment. But what he liked most, what made him proud, was the badge. If it wasn’t because everybody would think he was a silly rookie and make fun of him, he would take the badge out just for the pleasure of looking at it again.

The conversations turned to whispers and then ceased altogether as the Chief entered the room. Octavio de la Mata was an energetic man, with an imperturbable gaze, whose honesty everybody admired. He moved with the self-assurance of those who do not fear anything; he moved like what he was, an implacable investigator of great integrity. He only had one quirk: Chief de la Mata could not stand open cases. He was the policeman who had solved the most cases in the region. He always went straight to the point, shouting his impressions without caring who was around or who could take offense and he never felt any need to justify his sincerity or lack of tact.

The Chief dumped a bunch of files on the table, sat down, and asked for the reports; once he was done reading them, he placed each one inside its corresponding folder. After that, de la Mata gave Inspector Marin a ballistics report, provided suggestions to Inspectors Barba and Utrero regarding the case they were working together and reprimanded Paco Garrido severely for slapping a minor at the entrance to a discotheque. Lastly, he separated the murdered girl’s file from the others, took out a considerable number of photographs, and distributed them around the table as though he was getting ready for a game of cards. Nobody laughed or made jokes as the photographs passed from hand to hand and de la Mata went over the details of the case, asking for opinions so that they could discuss and analyze them as a group. When everybody, except Juanito, had explained their conclusions, the Chief lighted up a cigarette.

How Juanito had managed to get his diploma, complete his police training and approve the competitive public examinations, was a mystery to Octavio de la Mata. The kid was not dumb, but everybody knew that he was quiet, somewhat distracted and a bit slow in understanding things, or at least that was the impression he gave. He was a calm sort of fellow, someone who did not seem to feel under pressure easily and who preferred listening to talking and observing to being observed, the type who was easily affected by things like the humidity, which made him useless. There he was now, with his ridiculous goatee, his well-worn jeans and the earbuds of the mp3 sticking out of the pocket of his shirt, touching the holster under his arm over and over. Juanito’s attention was scattered between the paint peeling off the wall, the calendar bearing the shield of the squad, the board listing the most recent cases and the clouds of cigarette smoke making their way slowly up to the ceiling; it had been decided by the majority, with de la Mata’s authorization,  that the team would be able to smoke in this conference room, which was really their team room, regardless of the general prohibition. He was mentally following the chorus from Breaking the Law, the Judas’ Priest track he had been listening to when he arrived at the station. When Juanito realized that the Chief was looking pointedly at him, he jumped on his sit.

-You are from Lo Pagan, right?

-No, sir. I live in San Javier.

-In your record it says 11 Doctor Fleming Street, Lo Pagan.

-That is because before I joined the Academy, I lived there with my parents.

-This is your case, Juanito -and the Chief gave him the file containing all the photos, the  testimony from the Civil Guard and a copy of the visual inspection report.

-Where do I start, Chief? -he asked, a bit startled.

Despite his youth, he did not like to be called Juanito; if he had dared, he would have told the Chief that his name was Juan and his last name Proaza. Inspector Proaza certainly sounded much better than Juanito.

-This is your case, so review the notes and manage it however you want -the Chief paused and his steely gaze went through Juanito-. But I want it closed as soon as possible.

After he said that, the Chief stood up and left the room without much ado, followed by the rest of the agents. Before getting out, Utrero elbowed Garrido and both smiled. Marin and Barba obviously got the drift of whatever the other two had going on between them, but Juanito seemed oblivious to everything. He was recoiling into his seat as though the file could jump at him any moment.

After reading the report of the visual inspection, Juanito started to walk around the room, worried and thinking that he would not be able to complete the assignment. Just at that moment of insecurity regarding the case, the question of why he had become a policeman flashed through his mind. The question was less an accusation and more an attempt to release some of his apprehension; he already knew the answer beyond any doubt. As a matter of fact, it could be said that it was the only thing he was totally certain about. He had not been motivated to become a policeman by justice, duty or altruism. He had become a policeman motivated by his passion for police novels and movies. When said like that, it sounded like a silly reason, so Juanito was careful not to disclose it to anybody. He suspected that most people, more than selecting a profession, stumbled upon one. Those who in fact chose a profession, and therefore their destiny, were probably influenced to do so by a movie, a book, the opinion of a friend or the influence of a charismatic character. How many paleontologists had found their vocation through Jurassic Park? How many archaeologists had decided on their field of study after watching In Search of the Lost Ark? How many astronauts and astrologist have at their bedside the book 2001: A Space Odyssey and pay secret cult to the Alien Saga?

Juanito had chosen his profession after watching Silence of the Lambs. Three years later, when they projected Seven at the Brasilia de Lo Pagan Theater, he was already convinced of the fact that he would be a policeman. The admiration he felt for the persevering Clarisse and the impulsive Mills had mortgaged his future. He who found it so difficult to concentrate, got tremendous pleasure from watching his favorite characters become absorbed in their cases. He who did not know how to spend his time other than by reading one Ed McBain novel after the other, with Metallica pounding his brain on the background, held their dedication in the highest regard. He also liked the detective’s logical approach to things. He liked Carella, Carvalho and Marlowe; he loved Somerset’s serenity and Fray Guillermo de Baskerville’s aplomb. What Juanito ignored was that the decision to become a policeman germinated within him the day he came back from school to find his slingshot lying in pieces on the kitchen table. He was ten years old. His father must have seen his son’s face, not one of surprise but of bafflement, before he slapped him without saying a word. Juanito would never forget that moment, the curtain of pinpoints threatening to close in front of him, the aroma of just fried turnovers, his mother wearing lipstick and a faraway expression that made her unreachable and blurry because of the tears. He had to live with the enigma all afternoon and sleep with it, eyes swollen from crying, without understanding anything because no one said anything. He found out what had happened the next day, through the neighbor who had accused him of braking the glass of her bathroom window, the same ridiculous window that did not allow her to really see who had thrown the rock, a rock that was never found. The woman thought that it might have been Juanito because she had seen him playing with the slingshot the previous afternoon, cause and effect. That injustice from his childhood was the first unsolved case he had been up against. Two days later, he found out that Guille had shot a pellet from his house and broken the window. Nothing changed, because his parents did not believe him. The slingshot was in pieces and the slap could not be taken back. The punishment had been just because kids do those things and parents are always right. There was nothing else to be said. That was that. And that was how it stayed in his mind. Juanito’s eyes would turn to glass when he looked at his father and he never cried again after that day. When Autumn of Terror fell into his hands five years later, he found himself forever under the spell of the police procedural/detective genre. 

Now that he had a real case, an authentic murder case, he was scared because he did not know how to approach it, much less how to debate about it in front of the Chief and all the other inspectors. Maybe he should have forgotten about his fantasies and settled for a routine job. But he could not go back now. He had no choice. If he did not get it right, next day he would have to contend with Garrido’s smirk and the subtle mockery of his other peers.

He planted himself firmly before the table where the photographs were scattered, just like he had seen detectives do in the movies so many times. The image of the girl, broken in two like an abandoned doll, kept going around in his head; it did not fit with the simpleton’s face the supposed murderer wore with such pride. What was his name? Juanito read the name under the picture: Pablo Villacorta. Good job, Pablo, sixteen years old and already a killer under police custody. But the scenario felt like gears that did fit and had been greased with oil that had sand in it.  He did not know where to start. He was just about to get even more nervous when inspector Marin came in, wearing her impeccable smile. He would have liked to be as experienced as she was and know what she would have done in his place or at least, have the courage to ask her, without looking like a fool,