Ramon stared into the barrel and thought of a jigsaw puzzle.
Years ago, a foot had been found by children playing in a field. The foot was bare and severed at the ankle. They had searched the area but found no other body parts. Then, a week later, an arm was found across town. A week after that, a leg. Little by little, a body had begun to emerge from all the missing pieces until finally the last piece, the victim’s head, was found on the doorstep of the police station. At that point they were able to establish who the victim was—a shopkeeper who had gone missing the previous month—but it was unclear what sin the man had committed to deserve such a vicious and elaborate death.
They had never figured out who murdered the shopkeeper, which wasn’t rare in their line of work. They were crime scene investigators, yes, and they were pretty good at their jobs, but they didn’t have the resources they needed to follow up on leads. Still, following those body parts week after week had stuck with Ramon ever since, and now as he stared into the barrel, he was reminded of how disgusted he was at the world then, and how he had been disgusted at the world ever since.
Miguel Dominguez had been cut up in pieces much the same way as that shopkeeper years ago. Only the killer had been kind enough not to disperse his body parts all over the city. At least, it didn’t appear that way from where Ramon stood. Everything was in the barrel—Miguel’s feet and legs and torso and arms and hands. His head was at the very top of the heap, staring up at the cloudless sky.
Carlos said, “I have a hunch our friend here pissed somebody off.”
Ibarra and Serrano stood around the barrel with them. A few other officers sealed off the area the best they could. They were in an alleyway, and crowds had begun to form on both ends.
Carlos stepped back and looked at Ramon. When he realized Ramon was still staring into the barrel, he reached out and snapped his fingers in front of his face.
“Hey.”
Ramon blinked, looked at his partner.
“What?”
“You look pale. You’re not getting soft on me, are you?”
Ramon shook his head, focusing again on the barrel.
“I’m just thinking about that shopkeeper from a couple years back.”
“Oh yeah. Whoever did that was one sick fuck. Hell, whoever did this is one sick fuck. Maybe it’s the same person.”
Carlos chuckled at his own joke and then went quiet. He squinted at the two PFM agents.
“What do you two think?”
Serrano said, “Doesn’t add up.”
“How so?”
“Call it a gut feeling.”
Carlos snorted.
“My gut is telling me this guy pissed off the wrong person.”
Ramon murmured, “You said that already.”
“Well, I think it bears repeating. From what we can tell, Miguel wasn’t a drug dealer. He worked at that shitty motel and made shitty money and lived in a shitty apartment. Not the kind of person somebody would want to cut up and stuff in a barrel.”
Ibarra pulled his cell phone from his pocket and turned away as he placed it to his ear.
The other men didn’t say anything while the agent spoke quietly on the phone. They stared down at the pieces of Miguel Dominguez’s body. Right now they couldn’t do much until the barrel was transported to headquarters so that Jorge could start his work. Though at this point Ramon didn’t know what more Jorge would be able to tell them except maybe what kind of blade was used to sever the body parts. There was the possibility the can was covered in prints, but it was a good assumption none of those prints would belong to the killer.
Ibarra turned back to them as he disconnected his call.
He said to Serrano, “We need to leave.”
Serrano said, “Where?”
“Pátzcuaro.”
Pátzcuaro was a town located in Michoacán.
Carlos said, “What’s in Pátzcuaro?”
The agents traded a quick glance before Ibarra cleared his throat.
“Earlier this morning the Devil attacked a convoy. They had been working as a decoy to lure him out with the idea they were transporting the wife and children. One of the men was missing, from what we understand, and it’s believed the Devil tortured him for information.”
Ramon said, “What kind of information?”
“The whereabouts of the wife and children.”
“How do you know?”
“Because their bodies were just found.”
There was a brief silence as the men digested this new information, and then Carlos shook his head.
“Wait a minute. Pátzcuaro has to be at least one thousand kilometers from here.”
The agents said nothing.
Carlos said, “Just to be clear, do either of you think this man was killed by the Devil?”
The agents said nothing.
Carlos said, “You guys have been a lot of help, you know that?”
Serrano said, “We need to head out. Send us updates as they come in.”
The PFM agents left them and hurried up the alleyway toward where they’d parked their car.
Carlos watched them and muttered, “Assholes.”
He and Ramon stayed motionless for a long time, both staring down at the body in the barrel.
Carlos lit a cigarette and shook his head.
“Who in the hell did you piss off, Miguel?”