The anonymous shooting of Tim McCabe caused most Santa Feans, who had no tolerance for crime, to stop buying the daily newspaper and watch sitcom reruns rather than expose themselves to the daily news, burying their heads in the sand like the proverbial ostrich. Others, like Anna Mali, slept with the lights on in every room.
Anna lived in a small apartment in the center of the historic Guadalupe District, a pre-1700s area of Santa Fe next to the equally old Our Lady of Guadalupe Church. Each time she heard a strange sound, she ran to the heavily curtained windows to peer out at the street. She was not averse to calling the cops if a wino set up shop on or near her doorstep. If a stranger knocked on her door, he was apt to stand there until accosted by the local federales. The cops who patrolled the Guadalupe beat nicknamed her Anxious Anna.
Anna wheeled a grocery basket to the checkout counter behind a tall, thirty-something guy purchasing cigarettes. She could not help but notice that he gave her an interested eye, and preened a little. She knew she was pretty. A little on the chubby side, but pretty nonetheless.
Her blond hair was pulled back in a tightly woven French braid, and she wore a pair of faded, too-snug jeans. She enjoyed a little anonymous attention, frequently misinterpreted by the interested parties. If they dared approach, she usually turned her back.
Anna engaged in some paltry banter with the checker, swiped her card on the machine, punched in her PIN numbers, and retrieved two plastic bags from the edge of the counter.
As she walked past him, the guy deliberately bumped into her. He started to apologize. Her friendly eye turned hostile. She straightened her back and quick-stepped through the automatic doors.
He went back to his truck, climbed in, smoked a cigarette, and watched Anna make her way across the parking lot.
Instead of entering a vehicle, Anna walked the sidewalk along the mall perimeter. As she strolled up a slight incline, she looked toward the cemetery across the road, white gravestones lined up in neat rows as far as the eye could see. She made a mental note to take flowers to her stepfather’s grave.
The stranger drove slowly out of the parking lot, watching as she lingered in front of a corner boutique. Moving to the intersection, Anna punched the Walk button. He trailed her as she walked by the Lotaburger and the tattoo parlor next door. The man in the car behind him honked loudly then sped off, sticking his hand out in an obscene gesture.
The stranger drove around the block.
Anna headed up the hill toward the big bronze statue of Our Lady of Guadalupe installed on the north grounds of the church. The cord from her I-Pod was plugged firmly into her ears, Los Lobos singing “Hotel California.” She crossed the street, pushed the iron gate open, and stopped to retrieve her mail from the mailboxes against the porch wall.
The stranger parked his truck next to the curb, exited his vehicle and reached the gate as she stood on the porch and rifled through her knapsack for a ring of keys. Still plugged into her I-pod, she was oblivious to his presence behind her.
She opened the door to her house, picked up the bag of groceries and, before she could scream, he placed his big latex-gloved hand over her mouth and pushed her into the living room.
Two days later the 911 operator answered a call from Myra Mali, a distraught woman who said she hadn’t heard from her daughter for several days. The call was relayed to a patrol officer, who recognized the address of Anxious Anna. A small woman in her fifties stood on the porch of the residence. Still in black flannel pajamas, she reeked of stale cigarette smoke and cheap perfume.
Myra Mali tossed her cigarette on the porch floor and scrunched it with her foot as the patrolmen approached.
“I’ve been knocking at the door for about an hour and there’s been no answer,” she said.
“What about her job, does she work somewhere?” he asked. The patrolman stepped back, as if overpowered by her scent.
Myra tried to look through the curtained front door. “Anna was off until a few days ago. She didn’t show up yesterday and wasn’t answering her cell.”
“Could she have gone somewhere for a few days?”
“No, she doesn’t drive. I don’t think she has a lot of friends. Look, I’m really worried. She’s not like other girls.” Myra scrunched up her face to hold back tears. “She doesn’t party or do drugs. Pretty much keeps to herself. It’s not like her not to keep in touch.”
The officer searched the windows and the front of the house for signs of forced entry. Finding none, he knocked loudly and then with little effort pushed the door open. There were obvious signs of a struggle. Groceries littered the floor near the hallway. Melted Haagen-Dazs dulce de leche ice cream trickled from an overturned tub across the dark walnut floor. The unmistakable, sweet odor of rotting flesh infiltrated the house.
Myra pushed past the officer, but he put up an arm to hold her back. She slumped to her knees, sobbing hysterically.