Avenue Of The Dead

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Book excerpt

The Devil You Know

Hidalgo del Parral, Mexico, March 2005

“So Juan, it's finally over,” the bishop said as we left the graveside.

“Yes, bishop, it is. I hope he can find the peace in death that so eluded him in these last years,” I replied. The funeral had been small; just the bishop, who had conducted the service himself, two sisters of mercy from the seminary and myself. No great ceremony to mark the passing of Father Rodrigo, he whose name had once been spoken with such reverence by the people of Parral, those he had served so well, for so long. Now, as the afternoon stretched before me, with little to occupy me for the rest of the day, my thoughts turned again to remembrance of the man who had helped so many. Rodrigo, the priest with a big heart, had never turned away a needy case, be it a homeless person in need of a bed or a meal, or an orphan child needing care and a home, in fact, it is probable the whole town at one time knew of Rodrigo and his charitable works, all of which had ended so suddenly a few short years previously.

“Do you think everyone has forgotten him now?” I asked.

“We are fickle creatures, we humans, Juan,” the bishop replied. “Once, everyone in town knew of the works and the good deeds of Rodrigo, but time erases even the fondest memories sometimes. Better that he be remembered by those who knew him best, and cherished forever by God in Heaven.”

“I suppose you're right, your grace,” I replied.

The bishop looked at me, and then, as if remembering a forgotten thought from all those years ago he spoke again, a serious look upon his face.

“You know of course that now he's gone, I release you from your promise Juan. You may speak of this with whom you like.”

“I know, but I really don't feel like talking to anyone about Rodrigo now, your grace.”

“Not now maybe, but perhaps one day.”

He touched my arm, and we stood looking at each other for a moment, as if in shared reminiscence. He reached out his palm as did I, we shook hands, and I felt that this would be the last time I would meet bishop Armando Entierro.

“Go in peace, my son. May God be with you,” the bishop said as we parted.

I merely nodded in reply, I could find no words. The secret we had shared for so long lay buried along with Rodrigo in that small graveyard in Hidalgo del Parral. I wanted it to stay there.

Hidalgo del Parral, known simply as Parral, is a small mining town south of Chihuahua in Mexico, famous both for its mining heritage and as the place where the great revolutionary Pancho Villa was assassinated. It has been my home since birth, and I have served its police force for all of my adult life, my ascent up the promotion ladder seeming to have stalled at the rank of captain which I have held now for fifteen years. I am, I think, good at my job and my superiors seem to respect me and value my contribution to the maintenance of law and order in our town. Perhaps my current station in life will prove to be the pinnacle of my achievements on this earth. If so, I am happy to accept my lot, and I am grateful for having had the opportunity to serve the public good in some capacity for so long. Some are born for higher things, but anyway, but not me, it would seem, and anyway, who wants to be Police Commissioner?

Five minutes after leaving the cemetery, I returned to my car which I had left parked on the Plaza del Niño. As I fumbled with the keys, about to open the door, a voice hailed me from a few metres away.

“Captain Morales, I must speak to you.”

I looked around to see her advancing towards me, a dark-haired woman, quite beautiful, I had to admit, in her thirties, dressed somewhat business-like, in a red skirt suit, matching red shoes with two inch heels, and with the unmistakeable smell of 'Press' emanating from every pore in her body.

“I'm sorry, Señora; I have just attended a funeral, and have no wish to speak to you or anyone else at the moment.”

“It's Señorita actually, Señorita Maria López, I work for Hoy (Today) and it is precisely the funeral you have just attended of which I wish to speak.”

I had no idea what she wanted with me, and was in no mood to find out. Standing at the open door of my car, I tried to dismiss her as politely as I could.

“Not now, please, Señorita, I have no time to indulge in idle gossip or chitchat about the dead.”

“But, Captain,” she replied. “You were there all those years ago, you were part of the original investigation, and there are things I need to know, things the people need to know.”

“Señorita, it all happened a long time ago, and now, Father Rodrigo is dead. There is no point in further discussion of the matter. I have no scandal for you to communicate to your readers. I'm sorry.”

She fastened a look on me that pierced me like an arrow, and her next words took me by surprise.

“Captain Morales, I'm not here for the newspaper, I'm here for myself. Fifteen years ago, six young boys died and Father Rodrigo was found close to death in the grounds of his church. No arrests or charges were ever made in respect of the boys' deaths or the attack on the Father. You were close to everything that took place. I was in the USA when it happened, studying at UCLA. I came home when they found the bodies. Captain, Pablo López was my brother!”

That was it, she had me. It wasn't going to be easy to just walk away from this determined young woman in her smart business suit, but with the undeniable heritage of her Aztec ancestors blazing defiantly from her eyes. I knew she wasn't about to let me walk away.

“You like coffee?” I asked. She nodded.

“Get in.” She climbed into the car beside me, her skirt riding up as she lowered herself into the seat. I couldn't help but admire the shapely pair of legs she presented as she self-consciously re-arranged the hem to preserve her modesty.

A ten minute drive took us across the bridge spanning the Rio Parral and into the North of the city. I parked the car close to the cathedral and escorted my passenger on foot the few yards to the bar of the Hotel Moreira, where Pepé Fonséca served the best coffee in town. I found us a table in the darkest corner of the bar, gestured to her to sit down, and tough she tried to engage in conversation immediately, I held up a hand, and she understood my meaning, and waited until the coffee arrived.

“Okay, señorita, what now? I'm not at all sure I can help you much, or give you whatever you're seeking, but tell me anyway.”

Maria López looked at me again with those dark, Aztec eyes, her look pleading with the strength of ancestry.

“My brother died, Captain Morales, and I don't know why, or who was responsible. Also, one of the finest priests the city has ever known was almost killed, and then simply disappeared, and no one would say where he was or what had happened to him after the attack on him.

The next time I hear of him is when my paper gets a press release from the seminary to say he's died and giving the time of his funeral, but that it will be private, no public presence allowed. Why, Captain? What happened to him? Where has Father Rodrigo been all these years? Was he badly disfigured, or mentally scarred by what happened to him? Who killed my brother and those other poor boys? The police, and I concluded you were one of those responsible, closed the case without anyone being charged, but your presence at the funeral tells me that you just may know more than a little about what might have happened. Don't you see, Captain? I have to know!”

I sighed heavily, with more than a little sympathy for the young woman sitting opposite me, with that doe-eyed, pleading look on her face. My own thought reverted back in time, and though I'd tried to forget most of what had taken place in and around the church so long ago, I knew deep down that the events of the past never really leave us, and I knew I had to try, at least, to give her something to help ease her pain. I made a decision and spoke quietly in response to her pleading.

“Yes, señorita, I see very well. I will try to tell you what I can, though it was a long time ago.”

“Fifteen years, Captain. I was nineteen; I never had a chance to see my brother grow into the fine young man he should have become. Just tell me, please.”

“Okay, listen carefully. It's not easy, but I'll do my best.”

I allowed my mind to drift slowly back in time to that night all those years ago when I received a telephone call from my chief telling me to get to the hospital as fast as I could. The much celebrated Father Rodrigo had been found almost dead at the foot of the bell tower of his church, the church from where six choir and altar boys had disappeared in the previous six months. The chief wanted answers, and he wanted them fast.

* * *

Hidalgo del Parral, Mexico, July 1990

“Police, I'm here to see the priest.” I arrived breathless, having driven at breakneck speed across the city, and parking the car in the hospital grounds, before having to climb four flights of stairs to the critical care ward, because the elevator was out of order. I flashed my identity card at the nurse sitting behind the desk at the nurses' station.

“Father Rodrigo is just out of surgery,” the sister on duty replied. “Doctor Guerrero is in the office at the end of the corridor, perhaps you should speak with

him.” “Right, yes, thank you, sister, I'll do that,” I gasped, wishing my lung functions would return to normal. Walking along the corridor to the doctor's office, I couldn't help but notice how quiet my footfalls were on the corridor floor. I'd never noticed before, but realised they must build the floors in such places to ensure as much quiet as possible for the patients. No way would a woman's high heels click-clack on these floors, I thought as I knocked on the door the sister had indicated. A voice from within bade me enter.

Doctor Guerrero sat behind a desk, looking as tired as I felt breathless. His light brown hair appeared dishevelled, in need of a good combing, and his eyes held a weary, troubled look, as though the man carried the weight of the world on his shoulders. Perhaps his day to day involvement in life and death decisions, the highs and lows of his profession, living so close to death at all times, made him like that. Or, maybe he'd simply worked a long shift and was tired and in need of a good night's sleep.

“How may I help you?” he asked.

I identified myself as a police officer and asked him to give me as much detail as he could about Father Rodrigo's injuries.

“Please tell me as much as you can, Doctor. The chief of police has sent me to ensure we leave no stone unturned. We must find out what happened tonight. Father Rodrigo, as I'm sure you know, is well known in the town, and if he has been brutally attacked we must do all we can to apprehend his assailant.”

Doctor Guerrero nodded, and looked down at the chart lying on his desk, quite obviously that of Rodrigo.

“Father Rodrigo apparently fell approximately fifty feet from the bell tower of his church, El Templo de la Virgen del Rayo. In addition to severe head injuries, he has suffered two broken legs, five broken ribs, a broken arm and wrist and a punctured lung. There may be brain damage; at this time it's too early to say, but you can not speak to him until he regains consciousness, maybe tomorrow”

“You say he fell, Doctor? Could he have been pushed?”

“That is also a possibility Captain, but one more in your line of expertise than mine, I think. My job is to help my patient in his recovery from his injuries. The intricacies of how he came by those injuries I leave to you and your colleagues.”

“Quite correct, of course, Doctor. Then, with your permission, I shall return in the morning and speak to Father Rodrigo at that time.”

“You may speak with him only if he has sufficiently recovered and is able and willing to speak with you, Captain. My patient comes first, before your investigation, is that clear?”

“Perfectly,” I replied, knowing that Father Rodrigo would be in good hands under the care of this young doctor who so obviously put the welfare of his patients at the top of his list of medical priorities.

Thanking him again, I wished the doctor goodnight, promising to return in the morning, but asking him to telephone me if the Father awoke before I returned to the hospital. He agreed to do so, again, under the conditions he had already stipulated.

Back in the car, I radioed in to headquarters, and waited no more than a minute before the chief himself came on the radio at the other end.