Chapter Text
Spain, a country of joy, warmth, and above all great football clubs, Barcelona, Real Madrid, Atletico Madrid. A place where there was no room for evil, fear, or dread—at least that’s what most people said. In reality, Spain was not as beautiful and holiday-like as everyone described it. On the streets, the homeless and drug addicts spent their time, women of loose morals, gang members, and other dangerous organizations. In all this chaos, Carlos Alcaraz, a young officer of Spain’s criminal division, had found himself, running late for work. Without much thought he quickly answered a ringing phone, which by the way, threw him off balance. He already had serious trouble, and someone still dared to disturb him while he was trying to save his own ass.
“–Alcaraz? Get your ass over to Parque Infantil Urbanización Montevida,” came the commanding voice of the chief of the Murcia region. As soon as the black-haired man heard the order, a wave of strong, cold shivers passed through his body, despite the heat.
“–I’ll be there in a moment,” he replied, and instead of entering the gray, old office, he rushed back to the car parked in the station’s yard.
He was heading toward a nearby playground, which foreshadowed another victim of the rampaging brutal serial killer. The modus operandi was disgusting, as it involved small, defenseless children; their bodies were sexually abused in life and after death. On the limbs mysterious signs and numbers were carved, the neck was covered with thick, bloody bruises. Into the mouth a bloody piece of underwear was stuffed, the lips stretched into an artificial smile, and the stomach was marked with traces of cigarettes. Most often the leg bones were broken, one might even say crushed, and the intimate organs mutilated; on the wrists and ankles there were dark, almost purple marks from the thick rope they had been tied with. Carlos, in his entire career—even though it was not long—had never seen such cruelty and savagery. The whole of Spain was shaken by the cases of murdered children, whose killer was still unknown. Despite advanced technology, surveillance cameras, and databases, the police could not find any connection to other maniacs. The press exerted more and more pressure, and the forces to deal with public opinion were slowly exhausting their last reserves.
Commissioner Hernandez was crouching over another child’s body—it was already the seventh victim of the series, and the end of the case was nowhere in sight, as if it would ever come. Before him lay an eight-year-old boy, who had been brutally raped with a glass bottle, whose shards still stuck in the mutilated body. On the inside of the child’s thighs there were deep, serious cuts in the skin. The modus operandi matched one hundred percent with the previous crimes, the only difference was the arrangement of the corpse. Usually thrown on the ground, without much finesse, this time however, the child’s legs were spread, exposing the intimate parts of the body, and in the mouth, along with the underwear, a dirty note was stuffed.
Carlos arrived at the scene very quickly—even the chief was surprised at how fast he managed to get there. He didn’t want to know how many traffic laws he had broken along the way, so he left that subject aside and began to talk to the forensic technician.
Alcaraz, meanwhile, approached the child’s body, and after putting on gloves, pulled the cloth and paper from the boy’s mouth. Of course, beforehand he greeted everyone and reported to the commissioner what he intended to do—everything had to be documented so that there would be no mistakes or doubts in the investigation. The dark-eyed officer unfolded the crumpled paper, and its contents shocked the young policeman. In black pen were scrawled disgusting words: “He moaned like an old whore, just like my beloved son”... The world suddenly stopped and showed its brutal face—Carlos had never read anything so horrible before. How could anyone write such a thing about a small child, who had been deprived of life in the most unimaginably bloody way?
“–Boss!” he shouted, striding briskly toward the middle-aged man, balding at the crown. He handed him the note and waited for a reaction.
“–Secure this and take it to the lab,” he said emotionlessly. Carlos nodded energetically and once more glanced at the contents of the message—his attention was caught by one tiny detail.
“–Alcatraz, late again,” the forensic technician approached him, greeting him with a fist bump. He was older than the beginner Carlos, but treated him as an equal colleague. Rafael Nadal had been working in this position for over eleven years, and everyone at the station respected his opinion. The black-haired officer admired him and wanted to be as effective an investigator as his colleague.
“–Not true, I was on time, and I told you not to call me Alcatraz,” he muttered with a bright smile. “–What do we have?”
“–Same shit as always... You know, I have a kid myself, just a little younger than the victim... Some sick bastard did this,” Nadal sighed, rubbing his aching head. “–We have to catch this freak.”
“–There’s no other option.”
**
The black-haired man sat on an old creaking chair by an equally old desk, still holding the blood-stained note in his hands. The detail that had caught his attention earlier consumed his mind. “Amato”—a key word, because it contained a mistake; in Spanish you would say “amado,” but which language could be so similar? Or was the perpetrator dyslexic? Or maybe the killer was a kid with severe psychological disorders, or an immigrant?
It must be admitted that Carlos often had, colloquially speaking, brain fog, because any normal person would have already checked the meaning of the word in a translator, which, as we know, is generally available. However, Alcaraz forgot about this very useful tool.
“–Kid, what are you looking for in that scrap of paper?” came the cigarette-burned voice of Mrs. Sanchez, the old cleaning lady, who cared more about annoying the officers than about cleaning.
“–Mrs. Maria, please don’t interrupt, we’re trying to focus here!” muttered Perez, the thirty-six-year-old blond partner of Carlos. The woman, after his sharp remark, left the office full of resentment, leaving the investigators with the piece of paper. “–And you, kid, why are you staring at that letter? Found something?” he turned to the younger one, who raised his head from the note, stood up, and went to Mateo, showing him the paper.
“–Look, in this word there’s a mistake, instead of d there’s a t... But I don’t know which language this could be from... There aren’t many languages so similar to Spanish.” As soon as he finished speaking, he felt a light smack on the back of his head.
“–Idiot, it’s Italian!” shouted the older man. “–Didn’t you think to use a translator?” he asked rhetorically, shaking his head in resignation. “–Sometimes you’re really stupid,” he added, but seeing the remorse in his friend’s eyes, he only laughed. “–But great that you noticed, some would have ignored it. Did you tell Hernandez?” The younger man nodded. “–Give it to forensics, maybe they’ll lift fingerprints.” Suddenly, the sound of knocking spread through the room. “Come in!”
“Good morning,” a tall, fair-skinned boy entered the room, his face covered in freckles, curly red locks falling onto his flushed cheeks. In his hands he carried a large wicker basket of rolls, and as soon as he stepped into the office, the warm smell of a bakery filled the air. “I’m Jannik from the bakery La Famiglia, and we wanted to support the police officers who are working so devotedly in our region,” he said shyly, with a smile that revealed his adorable rabbit-like teeth. In his words there was warmth and support, but also a clearly audible Italian accent.
The moment Alcaraz saw the boy, the world suddenly stopped, and everything ceased to matter. He had never seen anyone so beautiful, with such unusual looks and such an extraordinarily pleasant voice. In Spain, black hair, deeply tanned skin, and a harsh accent were the norm, but in the case of this stranger, everything seemed reversed by 180 degrees.
“Thank you very much, you can’t imagine how much this means to us,” he said without hesitation, returning the smile while helping himself to the gifts. The unexpected guest only nodded and politely said goodbye to the other officer.
“Well, kid, you’re about to start drooling. Go to the boss,” Perez said with a laugh, taking a bite of the roll from his colleague. “By the way, delicious,” he added, snatching the bread from the younger one. When the black-haired man tried to protest and begin the most important fight of his life—for the roll—Mateo interrupted him: “You’ll have an excuse to go see him again,” he said with a mischievous grin, and seeing the blush on his friend’s cheeks, he chuckled once more. Then he sat back at his desk, while an embarrassed Carlos headed toward the chief’s office, glancing around in search of the beautiful stranger.