Executioners

By Esteban Navarro Soriano

In 1952, the Encarnación and Matilde Silva Montero sisters were murdered inside the tobacconist's shop they ran in the city of Seville. The police soon arrested the three authors: Juan Vázquez, Antonio Pérez and Francisco Castro, being sentenced to death by garrote. The executioner, Bernardo Sánchez Bascuñana, coincides a few weeks after the execution with a friend of his, a retired civil guard, and tells him a terrible truth: the accused were innocent. The civil guard decides to start an investigation on his behalf to find the real culprits of the double crime.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Mar 7, 2024
• ISBN: 9781667441054

Book preview

As a prologue

The vile garrotte consists of an iron collar that, by means of a screw with a ball at the end, recoils producing death by breaking the neck. The name garrote comes from the fact that in the past it was a rope that was tightened by means of a stick and caused death by drowning. The vile derives from the set of medieval laws that established that beheading with a sword was considered a punishment reserved for members of the nobility. On the other hand, for the villains, inhabitants of the villages, the vulgar execution by compression of the victim's neck was maintained. It is important the capacity of the executioner in the application of the penalty, because when it is executed in an incorrect way it causes the strangulation, with which the agony is prolonged in a horrifying way, between screams and writhing of the executed. A weak executioner determines an agonizing death.

Chapter 1

José Silva recently turned sixty-three years old. He lives in the Sevillian neighborhood of Triana. He is married and has three children: one boy and two girls, all three are under 21 years of age. On Wednesday, July 9, 1952, he felt unwell, suffering from severe stomach pain. Emilio, a fellow tavern companion, in the bar La Raza, whose surname he does not know, as he is a casual drinking buddy where he plays cards at the time of the attack, insinuates that it may be appendicitis, as he remembers having distinguished an identical ailment in an acquaintance of his, who years ago was admitted to the hospital in Seville on an emergency basis.

-You're making a bad face," he says with a pout of displeasure drawn between his brows.

Then he fixes his eyes on his belly. Carlos, the owner of the tavern, is more frightened than José, as he fears that his discomfort is the result of a ration of bad fish.

-This shitty pain is tearing me apart," he exclaims. It's like I've got half a dozen baby cats playing inside my stomach.

He recalls that the discomfort began to manifest its first symptoms in the morning, when he felt the twinge around his navel. It was just after drinking the first of the six coffees she usually drinks during the day. But during the afternoon, in the time between lunch and dinner, the pain moved to the lower right quadrant of the abdomen. In the morning she ignored the pain. And now he regrets having been so careless and not having taken a Bolga Stomach tablet dissolved in water.

-Shall I call your wife? -asks Emilio, solicitous.

José rejects the proposal with a plaintive shake of his head. Maruja must be at home and if she is alerted she will immediately go to the bar. And for him it will be an embarrassment for his wife to go to a men's bar.

-No. Don't say anything to Maruja," he rejects.

-Let's go to the doctor before it's too late, offers the tavern owner. Because it's not heat stroke, he says, looking at the air conditioning unit that was recently installed.

-Where to? -asks Ramón, one of the regular customers.

-To the aid house," Carlos confirms.

-We'll go faster in my car," offers Emilio.

-Please tell Maruja," pleads the sick man, sensing that his discomfort is increasing. But don't tell her that it is serious, just tell her that I have fainted.

Emilio and Carlos, with the help of another man who throws to the ground the cigarette that is burning on his lips, introduce Jose into a Fiat Balilla, which Ramon has just parked at the door of the bar.

-Give yourself a racket," says Emilio. Be quiet or he will die in the car.

They drive quickly to the aid house, where they arrive in just a few minutes. On the way, José lurches and bumps his head as if he were a broken doll with a broken neck.

-Take it easy," says the driver, looking back at his jutting chin. Your wife knows we're taking you to the aid house.

José slumps into the seat, his forehead sinking into the soft fabric. The driver has not yet realized that he is bleeding from the nose, and is leaving the inside of the car like a slaughterhouse.

-Quickly, Ramón shouts as he arrives at the aid station. This man is writhing in pain, he calls out to a nurse calmly smoking by the door.

-A street fight? -The attendant is interested, firing his cigar on the ground as if it were a slingshot.

-No," José answers, whining. It's a stomachache, but no one has hurt me.

The doctors intervene immediately after detecting acute appendicitis. During the fifty-minute wait, the men smoke one cigarette after another while talking about soccer.

Soon Maruja appears. The woman gets out of one of the most modern cabs in Seville, a light-colored Ford 17.

The sight of the three men standing in the waiting room, smoking and talking about soccer, is enough to gauge the importance of her husband's admission to the emergency room.

-What about José?

The poorly done chignon and unpainted eyes show that the woman left the house in a hurry. She has dark circles under her eyes and a worried look in her eyes.

-Inside -answers the owner of the Fiat-. They are operating on him.

-But don't worry, ma'am," Emilio tries to pacify her. Be calm, your husband is fine.

Jose Silva dies during the operation. The doctors could do nothing to save his life. They say that the operation would not have saved him because a galloping peritonitis was to blame for his death.

Chapter 2

It has been arranged that the funeral of José Silva Montero, sixty-three years old, Sevillian and father of three children, be held on Saturday July 12 at a quarter past ten in the peripheral parish of La Concepción. At the wake, the previous Friday, they miss two of his sisters. It is believed that both, both Matilde and Encarnación, will be working at the tobacconist that the former runs at that time.

Aren't the aunts coming? someone asks.

A relative takes the opportunity to criticize them, since he comments that money is more important to them than family. He says that as long as there is a customer inside the tobacconist, they won't be able to close to attend his brother's wake. They talk about the sisters being greedy. And they are single, and not because they are ugly, which they are, but because they don't want to share their wealth with anyone.

They must have been entertained, says a nephew. Fridays are paydays and therefore also spending days.

Time passes and before the delay several relatives decide to go looking for him. Among those relatives is a nephew-in-law of the deceased, named Manuel Buzo González, an armed police officer stationed in Seville. The boy is brave and broad-shouldered, since before being a police officer he was a legionnaire. There is also Francisco Silva Montero, brother of Matilde and Encarnación. He is a serious and grumpy man, with glassy eyes that he hides under bushy black eyebrows.

When they arrive, they check how the tobacconist is closed. Francisco looks at the clock with maniacal nervousness, because it is not yet nine at night, and there is no known occasion in which his sisters closed before the time established by municipal regulations.

Do you know where your sisters are? one of the many neighbors who gather in front of the shop asks him.

Francisco raises his eyes to heaven, as if he wanted to remember how long it's been since he spoke to them.

No, he replies. I haven't seen them since last Saturday.

Did they tell you if they planned to be absent from the tobacconist's today? The neighbor insists. In his hand he holds a gasoline lighter.

-Nope. I don't remember them saying anything to me. But in any case, the death of our brother has changed any plan we had in mind beforehand.

Did you notice anything strange about them?

Francisco observes that he is a tall, lanky man with lustrous gray hair. The glasses he wears on him are huge and slide down his gleaming aquiline nose, leaving a thick red mark at the root.

-Nope. They were like always. I didn't notice them strange, if that's what you mean.

The door remains firmly closed, as if the tobacconists had gone on a trip.

They'll be in the cathedral, says a neighbor who looks out into the street when she hears the sound of voices. I've known your sisters for years —she turns to Francisco—, and since I've known them they've never skipped Friday mass. And, for obvious reasons, he says, referring to his brother's death, I don't think they'll skip today's.

What cheek, gossips an older woman, who must be at least eighty years old. I am also devoted, God knows, but watching over the lifeless body of a brother is above any other servitude to the Most High.

Those who had gathered in front of the tobacconist leave in groups or in pairs, while they talk among themselves. Their voices fade away at the corner of the Puerta de la Carne. Some go into their homes where they continue with their daily chores, while others peek behind the curtains of their windows, sheltered in the anonymity that comes from a safe home.

It begins to get dark and Francisco and Manuel decide to return to the parish of La Concepción, where they will continue with the wake.

Chapter 3

At the wake is José Silva's wife, Maruja, who still can't believe that her husband is no longer with her.

She was only sixty-three years old, she utters, crying.

Her three children are not here, at the express wish of her mother and grandfather. Friends and relatives keep their faces serious and speak in whispers, babbling. Most of them dress in black, others wear clothes of sober colors.

The afternoon is passing and the sisters of the deceased do not appear for the wake. Those present take the opportunity to criticize them.

You'll see how they won't miss out on the distribution of the inheritance, says a woman.

They won't miss that, no, says another.

A group of three women approaches Maruja and they line up, as if they were in a movie theater. One by one they offer their condolences.

Services end on Saturday. But the sisters do not appear, so the relatives fear the worst. It's eleven o'clock in the morning and everyone already suspects that something bad has happened to them. That is when the armed policeman, Manuel Buzo, heads to the store.

Aunties, open the door, he yells as he bangs hard on the shelf.

In front of the tobacconist an improvised and tumultuous choir of neighbors is summoned who shout the names of the two sisters. Especially Matilde's, as she is the owner of the store. The noise makes several more neighbors look out.

Manuel, an athletic young man, cultivated during his time in the Legion, climbs up to a window of the house. He wants to peek inside to see if he can see something. He digs the toes of his boots into the exposed bricks in the wall and pulls himself up to the first window. He grips the ledge firmly and cranes his head to peer inside.

-Do you see? a neighbor asks.

You can't see anything, she replies, panting from the effort of climbing up. But there seems to be no movement inside the tobacconist.

Aren't you an armed policeman? another of the neighbors asks.

Yes, I am, he says proudly.

Well, he breaks down the door.

The policeman jumps from the window to the street, where he almost steps on an old woman who had gotten under him. As he does so, he holds his gun in his right hand so it doesn't slip out of his belt.

Stand aside! —He orders a lady with curlers on her head and a dressing gown.

He takes a short run, barely three strides, and kicks out. The tobacconist's door gave way by jumping into the air, chipping part of the wood that covers the trim that protects the lock.

The policeman is the first to go inside. He does so limping slightly, as he has hurt himself by kicking. Behind him the neighbor with the curlers in her hair does it, peeking through her doorway.

-OMG! She," she shrieks.

Manuel stops by the counter, where the cash register is with the closed box. He spins on his axis and addresses a teenager who is about to walk through the doorway.

He —asks for help, he runs to the San Bernardo police station and alerts the agents —orders the boy who has remained silent—. Don't let anyone in," he then asks his uncle Francisco to take cover behind him.

On the ground lie the two women. There is blood everywhere and no checking is necessary as they are both corpses. Manuel makes a fuss with both arms to shoo away the flies that flutter around the bodies, while he turns in circles trying not to step on any evidence.

Good heavens! —Francisco Silva exclaims at the image of his sisters lying on the ground.

Chapter 4

In just a few minutes, after the bodies were found inside the tobacconist, several agents from the Seville criminal investigation brigade, led by Commissioner González Serrano, appeared at the store. An envoy from the police court also makes an appearance. He is a guy with a gallows look and a malicious look, who speaks in a hoarse voice while detailing the situation of the sisters' bodies, and orders several photographs to be taken of the scene. He then orders the removal of the corpses and their transfer to the anatomical department.

At the door, some policemen are trying to throw out a dozen onlookers who are standing static guard in front of the tobacconist's. There is a young girl with braided hair holding a Maricela on her lap. Her doll's red lips are partially parted, revealing three pointed teeth that offer a monstrous image.

Come on, girl, an agent tells her. Go home, there's nothing to see here. He then looks at the doll suspiciously.

The girl looks into the expressionless eyes of her Maricela and says:

Let's go, Rosaura, they don't want us here.

The agents smile at each other as she waddles away from her as if she were an old woman.

The tobacconist's street door has strong and resistant leaves. They are made of wood with three locks: two old and one modern. While the other door, the one that leads to the hall, has a lock, two latches and a security bar.

One of the investigators believes, motu proprio, that the thieves and murderers had a key to the tobacconist's.

Why do you deduce that? another policeman asks.

Because there's no forced door, he explains. The victims let the assailants enter without any hindrance.

Don't forget in your deductions that the tobacconists were older women, therefore weak, and they couldn't face some, we suppose, young and aggressive assailants, according to the bloodbath, he points with one of his hands towards the I usually.

It's also possible... he starts to say and then breaks off.

-What? He encourages him to keep talking.

—I was thinking that the victims and the murderer, or murderers, since there were perhaps several, knew each other. Hence, even if the tobacconist was closed, they would have been able to access without major impediment or fear. The neighbors will have to be questioned to determine if they heard voices for help moments before the crimes.

In the kitchen there is a basket with some groceries. The small stove does not show signs of having been lit, there are two raw meat fillets, which indicates to the agents that the crime took place between Friday morning and Saturday morning.

It smells good here, one of the agents mocks, before the disapproving look of the court clerk. He smells like money.

There are quite a few scattered papers. Notebooks, books, loose sheets with notes, drawers and clothes are distributed disorderly on the floor.

The house is made up of four rooms. Entering from the tobacconist, through a side door, there is a lounge. Next, two parallel bedrooms. And in the background there is a tiny bathroom. In the closets they find good quality clothes. The beds in both rooms, one for each sister, are made by Manuel del Toro Pérez. And the bookcase in the living room is from Berlanga Furniture. In the dining room there is an alarm clock that signals 12:30. At his side, a pocket watch, a woman's. It is made of chromed steel and marks 07:30.

Between seven and twelve at noon, a policeman ventures to affirm.

Between seven and twelve, what? —Asks his partner.

Time of death, he says. According to the clocks, the sisters were stabbed to death between seven o'clock yesterday morning and twelve noon today, when the pocket watch ran out of wind.

—Then, in that case, we would have to set the time between nine, when the tobacconist opens, and twelve.

Later, more, intervenes the commissioner. A robbery of these characteristics always occurs around noon, just before closing time. The policemen listen to him without interrupting. For obvious reasons: it is when there is more money in the box and fewer people on the street.

Just before closing can also be at night, one of the agents speaks. The tobacconist, as I understand it, usually closes at nine. At ten o'clock, during the weekends, as is the case on Friday and Saturday. Haven't you thought, commissioner, that perhaps they were murdered late in the afternoon, being already at night?

—When it comes to a crime, you don't have to rule out anything, or anyone.

In the tobacconist's room there are two flower pots: one on the right and one on the left; the one on the left appears knocked over and its pot broken into two large pieces. It is precisely on that side where the two corpses are outside the counter, in front of a small waiting bench and in front of the entrance that gives access to the house. Both women appear face down and with their eyes closed. The victims wear dark clothes; One wears slippers and the other wears shoes. They carry some jewelry on them, and they have wounds on their hands. It is possible that one of them has a fractured arm, as if it had been twisted before she was killed. The two have numerous wounds in identical parts of the body, the most serious being two cuts in the throat, at the height of the jugular, and several stab wounds to the heart, which produced huge blood stains that soak the clothes and the floor of the tobacconist. .

It is evident that the murderers attacked the unfortunate women in the same way, the commissioner assures. Which indicates that it was only one who shared his fury between the two tobacconists. Another possibility is that they were two with identical training in the experienced art of killing.

A military man, interprets one of the policemen.

Inside the counter there are three baskets that apparently have not been touched. One of them contains change and small bills that must add up to six hundred pesetas in total. Another has some jewelry, among them some gold watches and some old crosses of the same metal. The third is empty.

The researchers agree on a first impression, and in view of what was discovered up to that moment in the tobacconist and in the house, that there were at least two authors. And they advance the possibility that the intention was not to assassinate the tobacconists, but that, for obvious reasons, in view of the wealth that they observe inside, the assault was carried out with the intention of stealing. It remains to be determined why they did not steal and ended up murdering them.

The civil governor of the province since 1949, Alfonso Ortí Meléndez-Valdés, is informed by Commissioner González Serrano of the crime and the first impressions of the police. Ortí is a prominent Falangist in Seville and does not want to cloud his political career with the murder of the tobacconists. An unsolved crime like that can be his political tomb. While the commissioner reveals to him what happened at the tobacconist's, the politician's mind wanders to the only thing that interests him: to present the culprits as soon as possible. They have informed him that some residents of the tobacconists are beginning to rumor that the crime was motivated by revenge. They say that the sisters had betrayed several reds during the fight, who ended up on the wall because of their tips.

The press announces the crime, which is already known as that of the tobacconists. They publish that it was on the afternoon of Friday, July 11, 1952. A terrible event has occurred