IT’S EARLY, AND the day is warm and muggy. The sun hasn’t risen quite yet. Drops of dew tremble on leaves, and the people who live in the last neighborhood on the hill begin their pilgrimage to the streets, to scrape something together for mealtime.
Fifty feet from the youth center, a man lays on the sidewalk with his head burst open, a panicked expression still visible on his face despite the four gunshots he took. They killed him a while ago and his body still bleeds.
I’m standing in front of the body alongside another curious few, mostly women and children. They just stand there, with no mention of the killing. Some gossip, others talk about their sales the day before, kids run and play near their mothers.
People gather like it’s the entrance to a circus. Among the women is Jazmín, Hugo’s mother, who places a large crate on the ground and strokes a baby carried by a young woman.
The police arrive, unhurriedly. Four fat men who walk lethargically toward the corpse, stopping to stretch or yawn once in a while. They fill out a form, put up yellow tape, and call for a patrol.
The cops are waiting on the forensics team and the detectives. Both take a while to show up. When they greet each other they exchange jokes, and it seems they go way back. Suddenly, a news truck appears. Now that everyone has arrived they begin the gruesome display.
“Let’s start, then,” says one of the investigators, and the corpse is photographed by the cops and detectives. They move him from side to side looking for shell casings, search his pockets.
“Check him for drugs,” says one, filling out paperwork.
Nothing in his pockets, just a few coins, barely enough for bus fare.
“Tattoos!” he cries.
Two men lift his shirt, drop his pants, check his hands and neck, but still, nothing. People watch the scene in silence. With each thrust, more blood spills, prompting murmurs from nearby children.
Beside the corpse, a bag drips with blood.
“Ey! Check the bag. Make sure there’s no weapons in there,” says the cop, and the clang of metal rings out as it is opened. One by one, his weapons are displayed victoriously: a hammer, a handsaw, a screwdriver, a handful of nails . . .
The man was the neighborhood carpenter. He was waiting for the bus when one of the Guanacos Criminales Salvatrucha gave him four blasts to the face. No one knows quite who it was or why. No one wants to know, it seems, including the police.
People begin to disperse, and the cops search the body like they are rifling through trash. The journalists struggle to park in a tiny space. A man wielding a camera approaches. With every step, a gush of sweat and a chorus of curses. Behind him steps a young lady with a microphone. She is well dressed, and stamps the dirt with her heels. She stands out like a penguin in the desert.
“Do you know the motive for the crime? Do you know the deceased?” she asks the crowd.
Nothing, silence.
Suddenly: “No, we don’t know anything. I was inside when it happened.”
That’s the most she’ll get.
The woman drops the microphone, disappointed, while the man points the camera toward the corpse. He holds it there for a while, like he’s expecting it to do something.
The war has begun. The Guanacos Criminales Salvatrucha have retreated to the youth center. They are nervous, and their phones won’t stop ringing. This place is becoming a barracks. The youngest of the bunch are quiet, and you can see the fear in their eyes. Others, now accustomed to war, joke around and speak animatedly. Destino and Little Down confer in the kitchen. As I walk in, Destino runs to greet me and hands me a chair with exaggerated politeness. I look at the young men surrounding me and think that any one of them could have killed that carpenter a few hours ago. I search their faces, and I don’t spot a trace of culpability or remorse. They are used to this. It’s not their first rodeo. Less than a month ago, a car made its way up the hill and peppered two young men with bullets. They both survived, one with deep cuts up his abdomen, the other left castrated by bullets. It’s said it was Barrio 18, who, like Guanacos, have taken over territory in the area. Their kingdom is made up of Polanco, Jardín, and El Hoyo. Just a few blocks from Buenos Aires. The clica in question dons the pompous name Columbia Little Sycos-Tiny Locos. This is in stark contrast to their members, who, like Guanacos, they are mostly young men under twenty years of age.
It is said, too, that the Guanacos are preparing for vengeance. It’s early evening, and the crime scene is now abandoned. A woman scrubs blood off the pavement and a few feet away, Jazmín has set up her juice stand. The community returns to its routine state of anxiety. One woman cries alone, withered and old, on the pavement. Her cries are bitter, and she gasps for breath between wails. She covers her face with her hands, which drip wet with tears. At her side, a younger woman consoles her and strokes her hair.
“It’s okay, he’s with God now, he’s resting now,” she says, as the carpenter makes his way downhill in a body bag.
19 In reference to “Semos Malos,” a short story by Salvadoran author Salvador Salazar Arrué (1899–1975), known as Salarrué. It tells the tale of a father and son, two rural peasants in search of a better life. They attempt to sell a phonograph, but on their way are intercepted and killed by a group of bandits. The bandits play music on the phonograph and are moved to tears, closing with the phrase: “We’re bad.”