MARISOL

"They found her! They found her!" shouts an excited voice that liberates me from my reverie; I poke my head outside my cubicle. "They found who, Fidel?" I ask. He is both judge and jury in his articles. Z's photos provide irrefutable evidence that the culprit is guilty. "Marisol. She's dead. They found her naked body near the road to the beach." "How long has she been dead?" "The authorities are saying that they killed her the same night. I'm heading out there right now. Are you coming?" "Fuck no! The last thing I want to see is the decomposed body of a once beautiful girl. When will you be back?" "I should return in two hours. Are you going to want pictures for the Herald?" "You know that the Herald doesn't want anything over-the-top. My bosses prohibit me from writing graphically for starters. I need the information, though." "It's going to cost you." "When doesn't it cost me? Fortunately, you're not bad company, cabrón. It's almost noon. You figure to be back by two?" "I'll have almost everything I need for tomorrow's story in an hour. Two should be no problem. I'll see you then." "Z isn't going to treat us to maggots where her pretty eyes once were?" "We have a demanding public. They not only want to read about the facts, they want to see the facts. Maybe if your press printed more photos of the dead, your country wouldn't be fighting wars for a few barrels of oil." "You can save your sermons and your rationales for your horrible photos until I buy you dinner. Get the fuck out of here. I can't make my deadline if you don't make yours." I have written several stories about the disappearance of Marisol Miraflores. She has hosted Mis Amiguitos y Yo, a Mexican TV show in Matamoros for children the last two years. She plays guitar, sings and handles puppets. I had never heard of her until her disappearance. Fidel gave me one of her promotional pictures. Nineteen-years-old and gorgeous, Marisol had ended her relationship with a boyfriend, but he would follow her around Matamoros when she would entertain at private birthday parties for the children who adored Marisol and her puppets. Two weeks ago at the university students witnessed the ex and an another male pull her into a car and drive away. The boyfriend was arrested a few days later and blood was discovered in the car, but he had admitted nothing and the accomplice had remained at large. Fidel had brought me photos of the boyfriend and I dashed off an article. I convinced Fidel to arrange an interview with the parents. I met with the father and mother at their home and I have never sat with two more heart-broken people in my life. Marisol, the youngest of four daughters, had been their dream child. Her pictures hung from every room. They knew that she must be dead, but who could accept that such perfection and innocence had been ruthlessly wiped from the planet. I forwarded the piece with Z's pictures of the parents and a stuffed kangaroo waiting on her neatly made bed. Since submitting the article, I have been writing follow-ups detailing the ongoing investigation and the search for Marisol and the accomplice. I am not looking forward to writing the conclusion, but I will be above the fold tomorrow.