The Mictlan Murders

Chapter 1-3

I WAS RUNNING LATE for my 8 AM flight, stuck at a dead stop in formidable Los Angeles traffic. I’d left my apartment early enough but that’s how it goes in the big city, unpredictable. As I sat in a parking lot on I405 I hoped this slow and unfortunate stream of molasses would not set the tone for my entire business trip. This was a long four day and three-night haul away from home, and to make things more interesting, I was headed to El Paso.

But first, a two-leg flight. A pick up and drop off in Albuquerque then off to my final destination. An unusual coincidence I thought as I inched my way towards the airport. The last time I made this same trip, there was my stop in Lourdsburg. I couldn’t help but think how far I’ve come since then and how things have changed. Or so I thought.

By now I had become a full-fledged independent investigative journalist. My route to such a career took many detours, was self-taught and very “DIY.” Academics for me ended abruptly after high school and getting any kind of college degree was not only out of reach, but because of my financial situation, simply out of the question. As I watched all of my high school friends ship off to universities, I kept to what my passion has always been, letting my curiosities get the best of me. I spent most of my time snooping around the town talking with people looking for something interesting to write about. This would also include irritating local law enforcement much to their dismay. I was never part of any high school newspaper, skipped the entire college scene but there I was selling my reports to local newspapers and many independent third parties. Fast forward to today, I was on assignment heading to El Paso to cover the (alleged) growing drug problem at UTEP. Not exactly ground-breaking stuff, but a gig, nonetheless. And a paying one to boot.

Finally, after making my way through the madness of LAX —and literally running to my gate, I was the last passenger to board. The general seating arrangements meant I was stuck in a middle seat squeezed in between a portly older gentleman and a younger man. Despite this unfortunate seating, at least I made my flight and thus would be on time for my business in El Paso. I leaned back and settled in for takeoff, dozing off during the safety briefing. I awoke just before touch down.

Sleeping on flights is a luxury I rarely enjoy however this first leg was an exception. I was more tired than expected. Fitting, since my wife and I were still grappling with a restless five-year-old. Although by now my son was exiting his toddler years, a good night’s sleep still seemed to elude him. Perhaps his autistic brain firing off intensive thoughts and commands all day had difficulty entering stand-by mode once bed time rolled around. Whatever the case my wife and I also endured broken sleep alongside him. So here on my flight I was enjoying a high altitude, low pressure snooze.

As the New Mexico passengers deplaned, additional cabin seating opened up. I took advantage of the lull to find a window seat closer towards the front of the airplane. Once I did, and as our new passengers began to board, I settled in and quickly dozed off again.

I was sharply awakened by a hand grasping my wrist. It was a young woman sitting next to me. I looked over as she let go of her grip, apologizing to me in the process. Apparently, this was her first time flying and had never experienced the reckless pressures of a 737 in take-off acceleration. I realized how numb I had become to this after hundreds of flights and an equal amount of business trips. I told her no worries about the wrist grab and settled back into my seat, but not before I noticed her bracelet. Dangling from the small chain, a Virgin Mary skeleton figure. A Santa Muerte.

The last time I’d seen one was back during my trip to Juarez when I was twelve. I thought it interesting that I would see one again during another pilgrimage to El Paso. I started thinking about those ghost stories my cousins had told me, and seeing this again sitting next to me, I felt compelled to ask about it. I decided to introduce myself. What I didn’t know at the time was what I was inadvertently introducing myself to, and the darkness that followed it.

Her name was Elisa. A very petite but tough young woman I’d say in her late teens, perhaps early twenties. She was bundled up in her black hoodie, wearing it like armor against the elements, or the world perhaps. The hood hung low over her head with her long black hair barely peeking through the lower sides. She spoke with a tone well beyond her years from a tough life I’d expect. Her heavy eyeliner kept reminding me of the girl inside hiding underneath the hood.

We exchanged a few basic conversation starters. She spoke to me at first in Spanish assuming, like most, that I spoke it as well. Once she realized I did not she switched to her clear and perfect English. I explained my business in El Paso —interviewing students about their drug habits. “Rich kids” she scoffed. With that remark I was instantly drawn into Elisa’s world. Although the same age as the students at UTEP, her path veered in a very different direction. One that took her far away from any sorority or frat party. A path that would bring her across the border into the US from her hometown of Chihuahua Mexico.

Elisa had a much more urgent reason for her trip, to see her grandmother who had fallen ill. The trek was long and dangerous. Starting in El Paso, then into Juarez Mexico to which she would catch a bus heading south for the remainder of the trip. She was hoping to cross the border early enough as to not need a one-night stay in Juarez. As tough as her exterior suggested I could tell she was afraid, especially as we got closer to El Paso.

She hated Juarez. Or more to the point, what it had become. As she put it “like that Walking Dead show on TV.” She explained to me that good, decent people are not only suffering at the hands of the drug cartels but also the “beast.” I asked her to elaborate. La Mano de La Muerte she said. Murders. Lots of murders.

But these murders were different then the mark of a common homicide. They were specific. Bodies would turn up mutilated with the eyes removed or the heart cut out. Sometimes just the intestines removed. She had even heard of a body discovered with all of its veins peeled out. To me, what she was describing sounded like drug cartel retaliations or punishments, something Elisa strongly disagreed with. To her, blaming this on the cartel was just a way to steer people away from what was really happening. I asked her what she thought was occurring.

“The devil worshipers” as she called them, building an army. She elaborated with a few stories of people she either knew personally or acquaintances that had gone missing then would turn up “acting weird.” They would not be themselves, behaving strangely, not making sense when they spoke or sometimes speaking a different language altogether.

I had heard of these types of things before but never paid much attention. The majority of my subjects dealt with drugs and the company it generally keeps. Most often, a person deep within a chemical induced threshold is capable of anything. Up to this point I assumed I had heard and seen it all. However, there was a certain type of conviction embedded within her storytelling. It reminded me of those ghost stories I’d heard as a kid during my trip to El Paso. There were stark similarities, which I thought strange as it had been at least twenty years prior. Maybe they were just that, ghost stories passed down through generations to keep the young on a straight path. A cultural mechanism of sorts. But as we began our initial decent, they were as real to Elisa as the seat she was sitting in.

I eventually got around to asking her about the bracelet, more specifically the Santa Muerte. “I pray to my Santa Muerte for protection” she replied. There was a certain air of relief in her voice, lightly stroking the tiny pewter rendition as it dangled from the chain around her wrist. She explained to me that on the mean streets of Albuquerque lots of people pray to Santa Muerte, or “Our Lady Saint of Death” as she called it, for any and all kinds of needs. Notably wealth and good fortune but mostly for protection. Apparently, as I would later discover, she was one of the millions of followers that pray to Santa Muerte here in the United States alone. Millions more in Mexico (over five million at the time of this writing).

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AS THE WHEEL WELLS of the airplane opened, the entire cabin rocked with a rush of Texas air rumbling beneath our feet. For Elisa, our landing was just as ferocious as the take-off from Albuquerque. It’s not just the mere fact of one hundred and seventy-four thousand pounds of airplane touching asphalt, but our wheels down meant the beginning of her second leg, the trek into Mexico.

We sat quietly, waiting to taxi into the terminal. I could tell her patience was waning as we finally docked, and each row started to slowly exit before us. She was clearly losing precious time. I asked if she had any friends or family in Juarez. She did not. Acquaintances mostly. Any of her close friends or family had moved further south into Mexico in an attempt to get away from the violence. But as she explained, the violence was spreading throughout the different regions. The ‘hand of death’ apparently reaching further and further, especially here in the US (as I would later discover).

It was finally our turn to exit. I gathered my backpack at my feet and squeezed into the main aisle. Elisa did the same. We filtered out of the airplane and started our walk up the jetway eventually into the very small El Paso International airport.

It was time to say goodbye. I asked if she had any luggage at baggage claim, but all her needs were packed in a carry on. Fitting, I thought as we exchanged parting pleasantries. Almost like a soldier, traveling light as they head into a battle zone. When we shook hands, I noticed a small tattoo on the underside of her wrist, the Spanish word esperanza. I would later learn, it means “hope.”

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