The Black Minutes Read Online Free PDF Page A

a prize.”
    When he was living in the United States, Bernardo bought himself a motorcycle and a shortwave radio to listen in on the San Antonio police communications. Little by little he deciphered the local slang and memorized the codes they used in the city to designate each crime. A number of times he reached the crime scene before the patrol cars. He got to witness the chasing down of a drug dealer, the beginning of a shoot-out in a bank, and the day he decided to quit, it was he who had gazed into the eyes of a man with a gunshot wound as he died in a shopping mall. Bernardo watched the man die, he complained to the paramedics about their late arrival, and after he gave his statement he had no memory of anything he did, from that moment on to the end of the day. What’s impressive is that after giving his evidence he went back to work, wrote a very detailed and succinct article, and said some incoherent sentences to his editor. When he finally snapped out of it, he found himself standing on an avenue that led downtown, in the moments when the sun was beginning to set and the windowpanes and asphalt were reflecting an orangey brilliance. Rodrigo Columba told him this, then interrupted himself.
    “Look who’s coming; it’s Father Fritz Tschanz.”
    Since he wore his cassock they supposed he was going to say mass. The young man asked what kind of relationship Father Fritz had with the police, why he was always seen coming and going at police headquarters. Cabrera explained that the priest taught at the Jesuit school, and in the afternoons, or at need, offered hisservices to the community: he gave psychological counseling to the policemen, confessed them, and, when necessary, reprimanded them. When they were about to arrest a member of the Paracuán cartel and worried about the possibility of gunfire, the agents were in the habit of inviting Father Fritz to serve as mediator. Before the shooting started, the priest would talk to both sides and try to persuade the guilty party to turn himself in. He’d prevented a lot of bloodbaths that way.
    “It looks like they want you,” the young man said, and he was right.
    Once he’d said hello to the people in attendance, Father Fritz had recognized Cabrera and gestured him over. The last time they’d met up, the padre had devoted his time to criticizing the department Cabrera worked in, and they didn’t part on good terms. Cabrera’s resentment was tattooed on his forehead, but that’s normal; nobody likes to have his work criticized, especially if he tries to be good at his job. As soon as he could, Father Fritz stepped away from the crowd and took him by the arm.
    “Are you in charge?”
    Cabrera nodded yes.
    “That seems like a great idea to me. Bernardo left some things in my office. Stop by for them, they’ll interest you.”
    Cabrera was about to ask, What things? but a young woman came and interrupted them, and despite efforts to shoo her away, she insisted on making her confession with the priest. A woman walked up behind her, followed by another, and yet another, until a surge of unwelcome visitors had separated them completely. At that moment the first of the odd things that followed the journalist’s death took place.
    The crowd parted and in walked the Lord Bishop. Cabrera, who remained trapped between the wall and the crowd, managedto see the prelate approach the Blanco family, give them his condolences, and start as he met up with Father Fritz. With the firmness for which he was notorious, the bishop dragged the Jesuit toward the coffin, and they bent forward as if to pray, but Cabrera had the impression that the bishop was giving Father Fritz an order. Fritz pursed his lips until they whitened but made no attempt to reply. He made a show of praying with the prelate, blessed the dead man’s corpse, and bent over the coffin in tandem with his superior. When the rite ended, the bishop took his leave of the relatives, showered a last sprinkling of holy