An Inconsequential Murder by Rodolfo Peña Page A

being warned? Why would the killer or killers leave the body in such an obvious place and his wallet and things on his body, which would make it easy to identify him? Was the severed head a mistake? Or was it intentional? When cartel killers severed heads they made sure that the act made the headlines, like those poor seven bastards, the soldiers they had rounded up in a whorehouse and executed by the highway. Heads neatly severed and put into sacks, hung on the fence near the bodies, just to show the Army that if they came into the drug wars, it was in for a tough fight.
     
    Then there was the speed with which the story had disappeared from the media. Who had squashed it? This bullshit about the University being embarrassed—they had had riots on campus, for Christ sake! Someone had called his boss to get him to wrap up the case, be done with is as soon as possible. Why was this little guy’s murder so important behind the scenes, yet made to look unimportant publicly? Why did it matter if the media made a big thing out of it or not. No one seemed to care to muffle stories of the thousands of cartel members, soldiers, and innocent bystanders that died every year in the drug wars, so why was this one different? Nothing made sense. Nothing—including those cigarettes.
     
    Lombardo put away his notes. He had arrived home.
     
     
    Part 2 : Day 2
    Chapter 11: A Visit to the Medical Examiner’s Office
     
    Lombardo had no hangover the next day because he had learned from his father that to avoid one you had to take two Alka-Seltzers and an aspirin before going to bed.
     
    As he shaved, he frowned at how his face seemed even more haggard and worn of late. “Damned cigarettes are killing me,” he said aloud and put out the one that was burning in the ashtray on the toilette’s lid. He looked at his slight, thin frame with its too prominent collarbones, and light brown, leathery skin. When he was a student in the University they had called him La Agonía , the agony. Everybody had a nickname, which one usually got around secondary school or a bit later. It usually stuck for life. Lots of conversations started with questions like “Do you remember La Güera ? or, “Have you seen La Marrana lately?” The blonde one or the sow—funny how most nicknames were of the feminine gender. He moved his shaving mirror so he could look at his back. There were red spots where the shoulder strap of the holster rubbed against his back. He reached back to dab some of the antiseptic cream he had bought at a discount pharmacy. “It’ll ease the itching,” the young woman behind the counter had said, “but it won’t cure anything.”
     
    A couple of years ago he had relented and gone to see a doctor in the Social Security Health Center. He had had a nagging cough for weeks and wanted something to get rid of it.
     
    “ There’s no medicine that will cure it,” the doctor had said, “it’s just your lungs protesting against all the filth you insist on putting into them. You’ll have these fits of cough the rest of your life—what little there will probably be of it if you keep smoking and eating badly the way you do.”
     
    “ Well, thank you, Doctor,” he said aloud and relit the stubbed out cigarette.
     
    Lombardo went into the bedroom to get a fresh set of underwear. He looked at his body in the full-length mirror on the closet door. “It certainly does show the wear and tear,” he said. He looked at the ugly scar on his left shoulder—a hastily sewn rip that a piece of shrapnel had made in Viet Nam; his right knee had scars on both sides, too—souvenirs from a car crash he had suffered as he and a former partner chased two suspects. He had survived it, his partner had not. The skin of his upper arm was starting to sag as was the skin on his neck. He had a small pot belly in spite of his overall thinness. He said, “Not too many kilometers left on this old wagon.”
     
    After his shower, he dressed slowly, putting