It was relaxing to see the filigree appear on the white skin, much more than on the paper
She was like an Ophelia, floating in the green water of the La Maruquesa dock. She was found by some people from Madrid who were walking through the charming chicken coops of the Confederation after tasting some lamb skewers. They ended up vomiting among the reeds when they realized that that kind of flowery raft that ran through the canal in their direction was not an advertisement for the coolest gastrobars on the left side, but a real death. Very pretty, but very dead.
When he arrived, the body was already on the shore and a raincoat had been fitted to hide his face from prying eyes. Before the municipal police cordoned off the fun, the parishioners of the terraces had taken the opportunity to lower their masks, put on little faces and immortalize themselves on Instagram.
“You have to be a wimp and a little psychopath to get the selfie stick here,” the inspector muttered.
He didn’t need to lift the garment to know who it was. The long, wavy red lock that had escaped from the makeshift shroud, and the dancing sandals that peeked out as if they were going to perform the last twist, owned. Just imagining her on the track (one two three, five six seven), happy in his arms, made him feel sick. The green tattoo on his shoulder had not lost its sensuality. On the contrary, it shone in his mind like the neon of El Gato Negro, there on the far-off Malecón.
«You have to be a wimp and a little psychopath to get the selfie stick here»
She was the second Girl in three days. One more and it would be serial murder. Although he always told his Criminology students that in Spain, what is called serial crimes, as in the United States, were a rarity, if one could speak of serial killers. “In Spain we are not so upset and here, as in Italy, and I quote the maestro Camilleri on our knees, we are simpler: they kill themselves out of hunger and out of love which, after all, is nothing more than hunger”.
With the first Girl they ran into some ‘scouts’ in the Fuente del Sol. They were playing track-tracking near the viewpoint when one of the groups of children who was ahead saw a flowery mound, like a May cross, which called them the attention on the Paseo de los Almendros, under one of the newly planted trees. Someone had hung two pacifiers on one of the branches. The little ones called out loud to their monitors and began to investigate, excited.
– But what damage has Geronimo Stilton done, worse than ‘CSI’ in our generation. They all want to be detectives, ”the policemen whispered as they pulled the tape to narrow the area.
In fact, there were more flowers in the burial mound than dirt, as in Monet’s brushstrokes, and practically nothing had to be excavated to reach it. The red hair, gathered in a sensual Italian bun, revealed a tattoo of green ink right on the jugular. It was relaxing to see the filigree sprout on the white skin, much more than on the paper. Undoubtedly.
What a good place to die, the inspector thought when he reached Urueña. The third Girl was lying on the floor at the foot of the motley bookcase, on her side and looking like someone who falls asleep in the middle of reading. Her red hair rested on page 29 of ‘The Long Goodbye’. He already liked him just for that. And because she had a green tattoo, simulating a bracelet on her left ankle, that quickly brought to mind that slave girl that shone on the Stanwick’s left ankle as she walked down the stairs of the best movie doom. The Villa of the Books. What a good place to die for a lover of words. Although she did not die alone, she was murdered.
«It had to be done now, without them suffering, with the same green ink, but let them die beautiful»
He loved them so much that he had to. Because he could and because they were his, because they were all the Girl who, imitating Jessica Rabbit, faced him with a deep voice, raising her eyebrow: “It’s not my fault, you have made me like that.” They weren’t to blame, just that they had gotten out of hand. It couldn’t be that they ended up taking over history, my entire life. Mary Shelley was poisoned by her Prometheus. So it had to be done now, without them suffering, with the same green ink, but dying beautiful. Just with the green watermark on the white skin, just like on paper. Infinitely better.
– They were taking over me. Suddenly I woke up painting a picture in Campo Grande, I, who have not picked up a brush in my life; in the Moreras, reciting Baudelaire in French, my God, I, who have not gone beyond “with two guns per side …” Or was it three? And worst of all: dancing salsa with strangers at the Porta Caeli. He had to kill them. Sir Arthur would understand me, wouldn’t he, doctor? He tried a thousand times with Sherlock. But I have succeeded and they have suffered nothing, nothing.