The Good Samaritan

Mercedes flashed her toothless grin at the officer.

He offered a tight smile in return. They stood on her porch, across the street from what had been a discount store years ago. Now it was an overgrown lot filled with abandoned cars and dumpsters overflowing with trash. It was the nicest property for several blocks.

The breeze bringing diesel fumes from the truck route that passed by the south side of the block suddenly disappeared, and the officer took a deep breath at the reprieve—only to be assaulted by the odors of rotting food and old cat litter from inside the home. He swallowed quickly, trying to push the bile back down.

“Come on, come on.” Mercedes pointed through the doorway of her blue adobe home, its walls peppered with spider webs entangling cockroach carcasses.

When the officer hesitated, Mercedes wiped her palms down her stained floral house dress before grabbing his hand. She patted the back of his hand and signaled for him to follow her as she waddled inside, repeatedly mumbling, “I love you, I love you.”

She stepped through the entryway and stopped to light a Virgen de Guadalupe prayer candle. Once the flame burned strongly, she crossed herself, grabbed the officer’s hand, and continued into the interior of the home.

She opened the bedroom door, patted the officer’s hand, and repeated her “I love you, I love you” mumbles before stepping aside and flashing her toothless grin once more.

The officer ducked his head as he stepped through the doorway into a pristine bedroom. The recently painted walls hosted no spiderwebs, and there was not even a hint of dust on any surface. In the bed before him was an old man, his arms crossed over his chest. The man’s face was at peace.

A deep red stain covered the sheet under his hands.

The officer stepped forward, but Mercedes grabbed his hand and pulled him back, offering a spittled tsking.

“El diablo,” she whispered, crossing herself while nodding at the man in the bed.

Against her protests, the officer pulled his hand free and moved to check the man’s pulse. He was not surprised to find none. He turned back to Mercedes.

She stood at the foot of the bed, smoothing her hands over a ragged quilt folded over the dead man’s feet. She ran her hands over it again and again, never taking her eyes from the dead man’s face. “I love you, I love you.”

“Ma’am?” The officer’s voice cracked as he prompted her, hoping she would take his hint and explain. When she didn’t offer anything, he cleared his throat and adopted the most authoritative tone he could muster. “Is he … Is this your husband?”

She pulled something from her dress pocket and placed it atop the folded quilt. “El diablo,” she hissed. She scowled and tapped the bloodied knife she’d left on the quilt.

The officer held up a reassuring hand to her. Mercedes cocked her head at him. When he rested his other hand on the gun at his hip, she offered him a disappointed pout.

“El diablo.” She enunciated each syllable. When the officer still didn’t respond, she huffed and stomped her feet. She pointed at the dead man. “El diablo!”

The officer still held out his reassuring hand but the thumb on his other hand flicked open the safety latch on his gun holster.

Mercedes pulled her shoulders back and inhaled deeply, fully inflating her lungs as her chest lifted. “Come on! Come on!”

“Ma’am, did you do this?” The officer spoke firmly, but forced his voice to remain calm. “Did you kill your husband?”

She pointed to the dead man. “El diablo.” She patted her hand on her chest. “Lo mató.”

Mercedes flashed her toothless grin at the officer.