The Satyr of San Isidro
most shocking thing about serial killers is that, many times, they have a life that we could call “normal” until, at a certain point, some wire crosses them and turns into monsters. This is the case of Francisco Laureana, also known as “the satyr of San Isidro”.
Francisco had a family we could call “ideal” and worked as a craftsman at the San Isidro. Those who met him say his crafts were beautiful. They also say he was a serious, introverted, hurtful, but most of all very shy guy. Before going to work, every day, he recommended his wife not to take out the three children they had because “there are many degenerates.” Perhaps that is why it was so surprised what the police were going to inform them at the end of February 1975: in the last ten months Francisco had raped fifteen women and girls and killed 11 of them.
Psychiatric analyses revealed that he suffered from a pathology that caused him to split his personality, a form of schizophrenia. The modus operandi was very basic: on the way back from the fair, if the occasion arose, he attacked. He raped his victims and hung them with a rope. If he didn’t have any rope, he’d strangle them with his hands. In only three of the eleven shots fired.
The starting point of the researchers was a curiosity: all the murders were committed between 6 and 7 o’clock in the Late. And all the corpses were missing something distinctive (a ring, a necklace), but they were not robbed. To be honest, they didn’t have much more leads.
The beginning of the end of the satyr
But everything changed in January ’75. He went into a house and raped and killed his owner. When I was escaping through the ground bottoms, in the house next door a gardener named Ramirez was finishing his working hours. Surprised, he stared at Laureana, who got nervous, pulled a revolver out of his purse and shot him. It seems he didn’t have very good aim: missed the shot. But the biggest mistake wasn’t that. The error biggest was to meet a gardener with very good visual memory. He identikit that armed with the detectives was very accurate.
A month later, a teenage girl, warned by her father (who had stuck the identikit in the fridge of the house), thought she recognized him. In five minutes the police had deployed an operation around the neighborhood. They identified him. They tried to stop him and Laureana fought back. He was shot in the shoulder, but managed to escape. Even if it seemed like a film, his luck was beginning to seal: from his shoulder there was a lot of blood, enough to stain the floor every step he took. As long as the police could follow the trail. When the trail had disappeared and the police were about to face a new defeat, they heard screams of pain. Laureana had gone into the garden of a house to disorient the police. But I had not taken into account that in the house there was a pe 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.
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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