There’s no perfect crime
On this occasion, ladies and gentlemen, I am going to tell you about a news story that happened in the neighborhood of San Jorge de Posadas, Misiones. The subject is like this: a lady moves, arranges her petates, takes some mates and keeps each little thing in its place. Those who have experienced moves know that this process is not exactly easy, neither short nor pleasant. But, well, this woman does it. When she has the curtains installed and she is ready to enjoy the home, she decides to take a step further on the path of pleasure and starts to remove a little soil from the bottom to set up a little garden. Shortly after the goal that gets you there with the shovel and the rake, find a pot. “Well”, he must have thought (this I imagine, of course) “the house came with kitchen elements as a gift”. He keeps hitting the earth and finds a blanket. As he stretched it, he noticed that there were bones inside. When he looked at them closer, they seemed human to him. She was no longer so happy.
So she spent several days with the bones in the blanket, because she couldn’t react to the scare. One of her sons visited her to see the house and the lady took the opportunity to tell him what she had found. This son, a little more proactive, put everything in a bag and took it to the police.
The investigation produced some chilling results. In the house where this good lady now lives, the only thing she wanted was to have some tomatoes and eggplants in the background, until not long ago there was a family made up of adults and several minors. And here is where it gets ugly because the police, after the surveys, determined that the bones belong to a child and that they would have been buried between 6 months and a year ago. That is the approximate date on which, according to the neighbors, the previous family would have retired.
Crime? Accident? Rite? I don’t know if we can know. The only thing I would like is for that gurí to rest in peace. And if the family didn’t say anything because the pain silenced them, let them also find peace. But if death was for another reason, let them pay. That is all I ask.
Hipólito Azema nació en Buenos Aires, en los comienzos de la década del 80. No se sabe desde cuándo, porque esas cosas son difíciles de determinar, le gusta contar historias, pero más le gusta que se las cuenten: quizás por eso transitó los inefables pasillos de la Facultad de Filosofía y Letras de la Universidad de Buenos Aires. Una vez escuchó que donde existe una necesidad nace un derecho y se lo creyó.
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