between rival mafia gangs that could be the story he had been searching for for so long: one that would kick-start his career and reawaken in the average citizen the passion to return to reading; to return to following a case from the independent perspective of a mature journalist who no longer had anything to lose. It was at that moment he jumped, as the phone on his desk began to ring.
“Sancho here, who’s speaking?”
José Antonio waited a moment. It was strange that he was being called on a landline, in an age where the whole world used their mobile phones. For a few seconds, he thought it might be Amador, the personnel manager, about to let him know he’d been fired.
“José Antonio, this is Liliana, from reception. There’s a call from somebody. They’re really nervous. I don’t know if it’s somebody just messing around... They’re saying that there are some strange things going on in the outskirts of Guadalajara. They want to talk to an unprejudiced journalist about the events, and I thought of you...”
Good old Liliana: always so attentive. Instead of transferring the call to the editor in chief, she had passed it on to him. This was an opportunity: even if it were just the ramblings of a nutcase he was dealing with here; but his intuition was telling him that this was just the thing he had been looking for.
“Put the call through to me. And thank you, I owe you another one...”
A few seconds later, he could hear the agitated breathing of an older man on the other end of the line.
“This is the enterprise journalist from Las Noticias , José Antonio Sancho speaking,” he said in his best neutral, professional tone
“S...sir...”
“Yes?”
“Listen, I’m calling from Zapotlanejo, Jalisco, near Guadalajara...”
“Yes, yes, I know the city. I’ve been there on a couple of occasions.”
The man seemed to calm down upon hearing that José Antonio knew where he was. He sounded afraid, and his speech was faltering.
“Strange things are happening...”
“Please, go on.”
“Possessions... too many possessions...”
Sancho felt himself sink down a little in his seat. Possessions? Liliana was right: just another crackpot who, disturbed as a result of having doused his bloodstream in beer and tequila, was calling to share his nightmares with the first person who would listen.
“Possessions? Could you be a little more precise...?”
“The Devil. We believe the Devil is behind all of this. Here in Zapotlanejo, there are already three possessed little girls; but the fact is that in Tonalá there are another three cases, in Puente Grande there are another two, and in El Salto, yet another two...”
The man talking to him did not seem like an idiot. Although a little confused, his tone of voice and mode of expression showed a certain level of education.
“And how have you come to know about these cases?”
“I’m a doctor. I belong to the IMSS-Oportunidades , the Mexican organisation that deals with bringing healthcare to those who would otherwise have no access to it, and I attend to the poorest and most troubled neighbourhoods... All of these girls are from humble families, living in virtual poverty. I have personally tended to seven of these children now. They’re all presenting similar symptoms, and in the end the cases have been falling into my hands. It’s horrible...”
“But, why turn to a journalist?”
“Because I’m a doctor! How can I go around telling people that I think a group of little girls is possessed? You don’t understand!”
José Antonio waited for a few seconds. His instinct was telling him that there was a story behind all this. Perhaps the Big Story he needed. If he went out in his car right now, by the beginning of the afternoon he could be in Zapotlanejo easily, if he took the Federal 15 road.
“I need to see you in person. I need you to provide your information and corroborate this story face to face.”
“I’m prepared to co-operate. But
“Sancho here, who’s speaking?”
José Antonio waited a moment. It was strange that he was being called on a landline, in an age where the whole world used their mobile phones. For a few seconds, he thought it might be Amador, the personnel manager, about to let him know he’d been fired.
“José Antonio, this is Liliana, from reception. There’s a call from somebody. They’re really nervous. I don’t know if it’s somebody just messing around... They’re saying that there are some strange things going on in the outskirts of Guadalajara. They want to talk to an unprejudiced journalist about the events, and I thought of you...”
Good old Liliana: always so attentive. Instead of transferring the call to the editor in chief, she had passed it on to him. This was an opportunity: even if it were just the ramblings of a nutcase he was dealing with here; but his intuition was telling him that this was just the thing he had been looking for.
“Put the call through to me. And thank you, I owe you another one...”
A few seconds later, he could hear the agitated breathing of an older man on the other end of the line.
“This is the enterprise journalist from Las Noticias , José Antonio Sancho speaking,” he said in his best neutral, professional tone
“S...sir...”
“Yes?”
“Listen, I’m calling from Zapotlanejo, Jalisco, near Guadalajara...”
“Yes, yes, I know the city. I’ve been there on a couple of occasions.”
The man seemed to calm down upon hearing that José Antonio knew where he was. He sounded afraid, and his speech was faltering.
“Strange things are happening...”
“Please, go on.”
“Possessions... too many possessions...”
Sancho felt himself sink down a little in his seat. Possessions? Liliana was right: just another crackpot who, disturbed as a result of having doused his bloodstream in beer and tequila, was calling to share his nightmares with the first person who would listen.
“Possessions? Could you be a little more precise...?”
“The Devil. We believe the Devil is behind all of this. Here in Zapotlanejo, there are already three possessed little girls; but the fact is that in Tonalá there are another three cases, in Puente Grande there are another two, and in El Salto, yet another two...”
The man talking to him did not seem like an idiot. Although a little confused, his tone of voice and mode of expression showed a certain level of education.
“And how have you come to know about these cases?”
“I’m a doctor. I belong to the IMSS-Oportunidades , the Mexican organisation that deals with bringing healthcare to those who would otherwise have no access to it, and I attend to the poorest and most troubled neighbourhoods... All of these girls are from humble families, living in virtual poverty. I have personally tended to seven of these children now. They’re all presenting similar symptoms, and in the end the cases have been falling into my hands. It’s horrible...”
“But, why turn to a journalist?”
“Because I’m a doctor! How can I go around telling people that I think a group of little girls is possessed? You don’t understand!”
José Antonio waited for a few seconds. His instinct was telling him that there was a story behind all this. Perhaps the Big Story he needed. If he went out in his car right now, by the beginning of the afternoon he could be in Zapotlanejo easily, if he took the Federal 15 road.
“I need to see you in person. I need you to provide your information and corroborate this story face to face.”
“I’m prepared to co-operate. But
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