The trail of blood that led through the front gates of the Policía Internacional was being diligently licked up by a German Shepard when the Investigator arrived that morning. He simply dodged the animal and entered through the glass front doors, never taking notice of the red stains on the ground, nor of those smeared next to the door handle. Inside, he passed the secretary at the front desk with a nod and a curt "buen día", and then proceeded down the hall into the office marked "Policía de Investigaciones de Chile."
Immediately upon entering the room, he was approached by a man dressed in a suit and eating a large piece of bread. He shook the Investigator's hand and spoke to him with a mouthful of food.
--No vas a creer lo que tengo para tí está mañana. You won't believe what I've got for you this morning.
--No? Di me. Tell me.
The man took another bite of his bread and waved for the Investigator to follow him. They passed a series of computer desks where foreigners, mostly Bolivian, where attempting to register their papers with bored officials. The man led the investigator to a corner office with glass walls where two other men in nylon jackets that had PDI in block letters across the back were standing conversing. The Investigator approached them and shook hands. The man in the suit pointed inside the office.
--Adentro. Inside.
One of the other PDI officers chuckled.
--Mira a este huevón. Es uno para los diarios. Look at this idiot. He's one for the papers.
The Investigator leaned past his companions and looked into the office. Sitting in a chair, staring into space, was a Chilean man dressed in a dirty, black leather jacket. His face was bloody and smeared with dark streaks of stained dust. Bulging out of his jacket was a blood soaked T-shirt he had bundled up against a wound on his side. He held it pressed to himself with one hand. Blood was dripping down his leg and pooling up on the tile floor beneath him.
--Él está arruinando mi piso. He's ruining my floor. The Inspector grumbled. His companions laughed.
--Qué quiere? What does he want?
--Dice que fue atacado por un gringo. Además, un profesor. He says that he was attacked by a gringo. Moreover, a teacher.
The Inspector wrinkled up his face in a look of extreme incredulity.
--Qué cosa?
The others exploded into laughter.
--Un gringo profesor po! Con un cuchillo! A gringo teacher! With a knife! The man in the suit managed to spit out through his laughter. Crumbs of bread flew out of his mouth and stuck to the glass of the office wall. The Inspector cringed.
--Está borracho? Is he drunk?
--Por supuesto! Este huevón probablemente lo hizo por sí mismo! Of course! This fool probably did it to himself.
The Investigator crossed him arms and studied the man in the room.
--Él realmente está arruinando mi piso. He really is ruining my floor. He muttered almost to himself.
Suddenly he uncrossed his arms and snapped his his fingers and made a throwing motion.
--Sáquenlo de aquí. Get him out of here.
He then turned to the man in the suit.
--Hay más pan? Is there more bread?
--Sí po. Vamos.
The two men turned on their heels and walked down the hall, disappearing into a back room. Meanwhile, the other two PDI officers grabbed hold of the bleeding man and proceeded to drag him out of the building as he cried and protested wildly.
He was dropped out into the street, where the pedestrian traffic simply passed around him, not even seeming to take notice. He had bled out considerably and his dark skin was noticeably lighter. He managed to haul himself to his feet and stumble away from the Policía Internacional building, turning the corner into a narrow one way street and running smack into a person. He bounced off and fell backwards, landing on his butt.
--Oye!
He cupped his hand over his eyes against the sun and looked up. Before him loomed the shadow of a person, casually swinging a length of pipe in one hand. The person knelt down into the shadow of the building and his face came into focus.
It was the Bolivian.
--No pareces bien. You don't look good. He drawled casually.
The man began to stammer, a look of terror consuming his face. With his free hand, the Bolivian grabbed the man by the collar of his jacket and hauled him up onto his feet.
--No entiendes! No les dije de ti! Tengo una hija! You don't understand! I didn't tell them about you! I have a daughter!
The Bolivian shoved the man into a narrow alley where angle of the buildings blocked the sun. He pushed the man up against the wall and held him there. A small, three-legged dog bolt from beneath a pile of garbage and hobbled away.
--Tengo tres. I have three. The Bolivian whispered.
The man opened his mouth to reply, but the pipe crashed into his face. Choking on his own teeth, the man dropped like a stone to the ground. With rhythmic swings, the Bolvian beat in the man's skull until the sound of squishing caused him to stop. He dropped the pipe onto the fresh corpse and wiped his hands off on his pants. Silence filled the alley, and he waited a moment to see if anyone would pass by. When he was sure he was clear, he stepped back out onto the main street and sauntered down the sidewalk and into a small almacen. He emerged a minute later with a bottle of Fanta, which he drank at his leisure as he slowly strolled towards the center of town.
After a while, when the Bolivian had been long gone, the three-legged dog returned to the alley and began to eat of the dead man's remains.
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