| Skin to skin, blood and bone, you're all by yourself but you're not alone. |
[Aug. 15th, 2010|09:09 pm] |
It was early evening, the end of a shift down at the Tláhuac police station. Patrol cars and bikes were in while the police downed cups of tasteless coffee and joked over their paperwork, pulling their sweaty collars away from their necks and rubbing the indentations on the bridges of their noses from where sunglasses had dug too deep for too long. Some were about to head out, shrugging into clean blues and hooking on their radios in the locker room while they yawned into the backs of their hands. It was going to be a long night. There were people sitting in lock-up, being processed and questioned by the detectives, and more would likely end up there by the time dawn began to brighten the eastern windows and the patrol cars rolled back in for the next shift to take over. In one of the greater suburbs of Mexico City, the nights were never as quiet as the nice neighborhood liked to pretend that they were. Maybe no one would get shot, maybe the house calls would all end peacefully. Maybe there would be no drug busts tonight. Maybe homicide would get to stay at their desk, working through their current files and sighing over old cases until they called it a night and headed home.
( However the night may have unfolded, the Tláhuac police force was never going to find out. ) |
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