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She said the state prosecutors are saturated with cases and carry out very few investigations. Police lack the resources to order DNA tests and are untrained in the basics of investigative practice.
Sometimes the children of victims are sold. This swath of Ecatepec is said to be a redoubt for gangs of armed robbers, where every business establishment and form of transport is subject to the derecho de piso, an illegal tax imposed by a dozen-odd local mafias—some old-school, some newer—working under the aegis of two or three major cartels, predominantly the CJNG. I decided to take him up on the offer one day in mid-September. We met at the Mexicable station on the south side of Ecatepec, the farthest that an Uber would venture. He wore a long T-shirt thoroughly stained with engine grease, equally greasy sweatpants, and disintegrating sneakers.
Monsters of Ecatepec - Wikipedia
He had a tattoo of the evil clown from the movie It on one forearm, the drawing skillfully done but incomplete. His sixteen-year-old niece went missing a few years ago. There are many industrial sites in Ecatepec—including canning and bottling facilities, a limestone mine, and a thermoelectric plant—but none smell as bad as the meat-processing facilities, they told me. I spotted only one police vehicle, stationed at an intersection: an armored truck with a machine-gun turret that looked like it had been through battle. The main avenues were bleak expanses of concrete, lined with billboards.
Monsters of Ecatepec
There were gas stations every few blocks, and the sky was smudged with brown exhaust. The pedestrians looked like the working class anywhere in Mexico: wearing jeans and sneakers, carrying backpacks or plastic bags, trudging to the bus stop or buying food from street vendors. Robbery is the most pervasive crime around here. Whole blocks were closed off by barred gates, and in the parking lots, cars were locked in cages.
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I saw only one drug dealer, an old man in filthy clothes crouched on the sidewalk methodically wrapping rocks of crack cocaine in aluminum foil. We passed a series of pulque stands, a soap factory, auto shops and garages, and an overpopulated graveyard where faded pinwheels spun. Other than palms, the only trees were invasive eucalypti and chinaberries that looked dusty and sick.
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Bougainvillea was a colorful relief, as were the street murals. Now in Jardines de Morelos, we slowed to a stop in front of a plain concrete house near a vacant lot. On the sidewalk down the street was a taco stand where a man in a soiled apron was chopping raw chicken on a table. As we got out of the vehicle, my guides traded jokes about cannibalism. The pair killed at least twenty women—the real number may be closer to fifty—some of whom they cooked and ate. We stood on the far side of the street, wary of getting any closer.
We had all read about the Monster of Ecatepec in the tabloids. Long before he was arrested, in October , the neighbors had noticed strange things about Juan Carlos and Patricia. They had almost no furniture, just cardboard boxes and black plastic bags. They came and went at odd hours, sometimes pushing a stroller. A bad smell hung over the empty lot nearby.
Reeking fluids sometimes trickled into the gutter. They made money selling secondhand clothes and used cell phones. Then they saw her for five minutes and told her to come back the next morning. Three months of bureaucracy, delay, and inaction followed. The mothers of the victims and the reporter took the information they had gathered to the police. Arrest him. It must have been clear that they were serious, because the police finally sent officers to check out the house.
When they arrived, they happened to catch the pair outside pushing their baby stroller. Inside were chopped-up body parts. Both husband and wife were swiftly convicted on multiple counts of femicide and murder. While I was in Mexico, they were sentenced to a combined years in prison. The Monster of Ecatepec is stocky, moreno. He sits in a chair, handcuffed, wearing faded jeans and a black T-shirt. He said he hates women. Because his mother did very ugly things, and at times his girlfriends had cheated on him. He said it in open court. Photographs by Sonia Madrigal from the series La muerte sale por el oriente.
On a cloudy afternoon later in September, I knocked on the door of a publishing house in La Condesa, a tranquil and tree-lined enclave of Mexico City. Part of their ethos is not to discuss the collective, but they agreed to talk about their individual participation in the protests that had disrupted downtown Mexico City over the previous two months. We settled into a lamp-lit conference room, where they arranged themselves on a couple of couches. They were fashionably attired in baggy sweaters and jackets, ripped jeans, and chunky boots and sneakers.
The largest demonstration of the summer had taken place on August 12, incited by the rape of a seventeen-year-old girl by four Mexico City police officers. What appeared to be one or two thousand self-described radical feminists had shown up, mostly college-age women, many of them hooded or masked, wearing the green bandannas that symbolize the movement. They marched to Paseo de la Reforma carrying portraits of murdered women, tagged sidewalks and walls with spray paint, and left broken glass everywhere they went.
Fires were set. The riot culminated in the vandalism of the Angel of Independence, a grand obelisk at the city center. It took the city weeks to clean up. Aleida Salazar, a thirty-year-old director of content at a software company, said it was the first time she had ever seen a group of men move out of her way with fear in their eyes. I asked if they could rightly compare the dangers and annoyances they face here in the city to the horrors stalking poor working women in the surrounding state. The rest of the group chimed in. Even rich women are at risk in their mansions, they told me.
The others murmured knowingly. Femicide is distinct from the cartel violence that constitutes the bulk of homicides in Mexico, according to Sujaila Miranda Moreno, who was twenty-three and had recently completed a degree in literature. Second, they annul you completely as a person, by murdering you. Third, they mutilate your body, as a final objectification. They believe that femicide is only the most extreme manifestation of Mexican machismo, an attitude of exaggerated masculinity, virility, and dominance over women.
At its most quotidian, machismo manifests as street harassment, which is pervasive in Mexico City. I interrupted, slightly skeptical, and asked what had happened today, for example. Why were you walking by yourself? In the case of the rape that provoked the August 12 march, the four accused police officers were initially put on leave but were ultimately allowed to return to the force.
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They must properly classify them. Just this first step will require a great deal. Mexico remains socially conservative, in the grim Iberian tradition. Women with tattoos and dyed hair marching in the street are seen as importing a global culture that is alien to traditional values.