Free Total Victim Theory by Ian Ballard Page A

itself over to weird coincidences . . . and we've just stumbled on another one.”
    “Meaning what?”
    “On the last two pages of the ledger—the pages that had the blood drops on them—there were twelve first names listed. Do you remember?”
    “Sure. They all had the last names cut out with a razor blade.”
    “Right . . . well, all six of the first names on this list here,” I gesture at the paper in my hand, “were also on the last two pages of the ledger.”

10
    Mexico
    The coincidence of the burns and the ledger names leaves me stunned. The fact seems to flutter about within me, as incongruous as a pigeon that flew into someone’s living room. The idea that this is merely a coincidence, apropos of nothing, seems unthinkable. But more unthinkable still is the notion there may be something behind it. But I resolve not to let that second option run rampant in my brain. Speculation, knowing as little as we do at this point, will do nothing but further unnerve me.
    And yet, there are one or two bleak hypotheses which, though they don’t bear repeating, I can't quite keep a muzzle on. In fact, I'm more flustered than I want to admit, and I keep catching myself scratching away at my scars or repeating the names from the last pages of the ledger as if they were some morbid mantra.
    But I can handle it. Everything’s under control.
    We remain in the dune about an hour longer. Silva and I briefly discuss the coincidence in hushed tones out of earshot of the other detectives. His demeanor suggests a generally skeptical stance on the topic and a reluctance to entertain conjecture without more facts. This muted response is, no doubt, the more prudent one and helps me to keep things in perspective and to steady my nerves.
    After the six bodies are loaded into a black paddy wagon and the other evidence is packed up, we adjourn from the dune for the night. Silva drives me and two other District C detectives back to Juárez. They're names are Montalvo and Luna. I ride shotgun with the two of them behind me in the backseat.
    Luna points out that they haven't eaten since arriving at the scene before noon and suggests we grab a bite and unwind before turning in. A rumble from my belly region shows my stomach to be in favor of the idea. Neither Silva nor I mentions the matching first names in front of the other detectives, thus establishing a tacit agreement to keep the matter between ourselves. I'm gradually feeling calmer, although I never manage to completely evict the matter from my mind.
    The restaurant where we end up, Diego's Taqueria, is the shape of a shoebox and not much bigger than one. It’s two blocks from the District C station at a giant, congested intersection. The only light comes from a few small windows looking out on the street and from the flickering candles in red jars on the tables. The air's humid with the smell of grilled meat, and onions, and cigarettes. The place is dirty, and I would bet there's a rat or two scurrying around in the corners, twitching inquisitive whiskers at scraps of fallen food and, occasionally, brushing past a patron’s unsuspecting ankle.
    Within minutes of ordering, our turnip-shaped waitress with runny mascara plops down four still-sizzling plates before us. We don't talk much as we inhale our
tacos al carbon
. Soon we've demolished the once-plentiful contents of our plates, and all that's left are bits of
pico de gallo
and smears of guacamole, like the carnage of some culinary battlefield.
    “Don't look so serious, Jake,” Silva says. “It's only your first day.”
    I glance up at Silva, dismayed to learn my face has betrayed my gloomy mood.
    Luna nods. “You've got to pace yourself,
Wey
. Learn to unwind. You're gonna see some raunchy stuff on this case. You can't let it get to you. I remember my first Ropes’ crime scene. There was this girl who—”
    Montalvo interrupts him. “And we've found it's good for digestion not to talk about Ropes at the table.”
    “I