The Dead Women of Juarez

Sevilla didn’t want to look directly at Kelly. “If he confessed, he didn’t do it to me.”

“No? Captain Garcia said—”

“Someone called me this morning,” Sevilla said. “The man… the caller told me Kelly was dead. When did he come here?”

Something flickered behind Quintero’s eyes when she looked at Sevilla, and then it was gone. “He was found in his cell during rounds at three o’clock. Why would someone call you? Did you recognize the voice?”

“How did it happen?”

“He was attacked by another prisoner.”

Sevilla shook his head. “That’s impossible. He was in his cell alone.”

“It’s very crowded at El Cereso. He was placed with a prisoner awaiting trial on drug charges. He was a nonviolent offender; no one could know he would attack like this.”

“Where is this prisoner now?”

“In solitary.”

“I’d like to talk to him.”

Quintero waved the words away with her hand. She was poised in person just as she was on television. The FEDCM was the Special Task Force for the Investigation of Crimes against Women. Whenever a feminicidio occurred, someone from the FEDCM was on television to make a statement or a comment with the offices of the Procuraduria behind them. The faces changed over the years, but the message was always the same, waved away with a hand.

“There’s no need for that,” Quintero said. “Captain Garcia and his people will handle it.”

Sevilla winced. “And what about Esteban Salazar?”

“Who?”

“The other suspect,” Sevilla said. “He’s the dead woman’s brother. Paloma Salazar is the victim.”

Quintero turned toward Kelly and Sevilla couldn’t see her face. “I’ll have to check on that.”

Sevilla wanted to take the woman by the arm, but he didn’t. He kept his voice low. “Senora, I don’t mean any disrespect, but I think I should—”

“Let’s go outside,” Quintero cut in. She favored Sevilla with a smile. “Have you had any breakfast? I’ll buy you some.”

They left Kelly and passed through the cops outside the door. Quintero led the way out through the emergency room. A baby cried and a young man waited patiently on a vinyl-upholstered chair with his bloody hand wrapped tightly in gauze.

Out in the sun, Quintero lit a cigarette with a disposable lighter. She offered Sevilla one. He took it. Quintero’s brand was Marlboro Lite. Sevilla lit it with his own lighter and for a long moment they stood in silence breathing nicotine and smoke.

“You’re a narcotics investigator, yes?” Quintero asked at last.

“That’s right.”

“How long have you been doing that?”

“Nearly thirty years.”

“That’s impressive, senor.”

“Thank you,” Sevilla said.

Quintero flicked her cigarette away half finished. She turned to face Sevilla and her expression was stolid. “I’m forty-three,” she said, “so I don’t have your experience, but I’ve worked for the office of the Procuraduria for eleven years. I’m good at my job. That is why I’m here, doing this: because it’s important work that can’t be made a mess of.”

“I understand,” Sevilla said, though he did not. He wanted to read Quintero, but he couldn’t; nothing moved behind her eyes anymore. “It’s only—”

“This American man, Courter, you knew him well?”

“Perhaps not as well as I thought. But, yes, I knew him.”

“Then you should be glad you were allowed to be a part of the investigation at all. We’ve had to deal with these feminicidios for almost twenty years. It’s a shame. It’s an embarrassment. They mock Ciudad Juarez all over the world because we can’t stop this. It was almost a relief when the cartels started killing each other; it took the pressure off.”

Sevilla took a long drag on the Marlboro, but he no longer had a taste for it. He let the cigarette fall to the pavement and ground the coal beneath his toe. “You don’t have to tell me these things, Senora Quintero,” he said.

“Kelly Courter was a fighter and a drug user and a drug dealer. Isn’t that right?”

“Yes, that’s right,” Sevilla said. He wanted to spit the bad taste from his mouth.

“Then you see where this is going,” Quintero replied. “The victim’s brother was a drug dealer, as well. You know how these narcotraficantes are, how crazy they can get when they use their own stuff. They’re running riot all along the border. Maybe we don’t know why they killed Paloma Salazar, but we’ll find out.”

Sevilla dragged his foot across the broken cigarette and smeared the ash on the sidewalk. “Not from Kelly,” he said.

“What?”

“I said, ‘Not from Kelly,’” Sevilla repeated. “I was told a confession was paramount, but now he can confess to no one. And why would Esteban do such a thing to his own sister? These things… they make no sense.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” Quintero said.

“No, but—”

“It’s a terrible thing, what happened to Senor Courter,” Quintero continued, “but it’s done now. We can only work with what we have, and there’s evidence — convincing evidence — pointing to these men for the crime. If it doesn’t make sense, it’s because none of this makes sense. Ciudad Juarez doesn’t hate its women.”

“Why was Kelly removed from the jail?”

Quintero smiled a little but it was quickly gone. “That was a decision I made. The jail’s infirmary isn’t capable of dealing with a man in Courter’s condition.”

“Why not just let him die?”

“Like I said: I want him as an example. And he’s American.”

“The other,” Sevilla said quietly.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“And who knows how many other murders he’s responsible for. We’re taking statements from witnesses who attest to strange behavior on Courter’s part. Behavior that might lead to additional convictions.”

“What witnesses are these?”

“Reliable ones.”

Sevilla frowned. “I’d like to see Esteban Salazar taken from the general population in El Cereso and placed under protective custody. If it’s examples you want, you can’t have anything like this happen again.”

“I find it unlikely that lightning will strike twice.”

“All the same, it would make me more comfortable.”

“I’ll do it if the opportunity presents itself.”

Sevilla stared at his feet. He crossed the line of ash with his toe. Justicia, said an echo in the back of his mind. When he looked sidelong at Adriana Quintero, he saw she had her cell phone in her hands, texting with her thumbs. Somewhere close by an ambulance’s siren whooped once and then went silent.

Quintero put her phone away. “You are a very dedicated police officer,” she told Sevilla. “We need that, now more than ever. If you want our office to keep you informed of what’s happening with this case…?”

“Yes. Yes, I’d like that. Can I contact you directly?”

“It would be better if I gave my assistant your number,” Quintero said. “The way things go, I would miss your message and I don’t want that.”

“All right,” Sevilla said. “Here is my card.”