Para enero 1995, me encontraba en Caracas-Venezuela, cumplía una labor social conjuntamente con Los Misioneros de Maryknoll, Padres Salvatorianos y Las Hermanas del Santo Ángel Custodio. Convivía con la comunidad, vivía con mis padres y hermanos. Era miembro del equipo docente de la U.E. San José, era catequista... Tenía la Cátedra de Matemáticas I y II en la Facultad de Ciencias de la Universidad Central de Venezuela, donde me gradué cuatro años antes.

Pero todo no es fragancia a flores. El 13 de diciembre 1994, una joven vecina desaparece bajo circunstancias que me señalan directamente. Como en todo movimiento policial, se iniciaron las investigaciones del caso. Me enteré al visitar la familia afectada, que la joven comentó el día que desapareció, que saldría conmigo y supuestamente visitaríamos las instalaciones de la U.C.V., donde se esperaba ella cursara estudios.

Sobre el hecho, se comentaron muchas cosas en redes sociales. Una secta satánica, contrabando de órganos, que se había fugado con el novio..., y pare de contar. Fue así, como el sábado 21 de enero 1995, siendo aproximadamente las 2 de la tarde, recibí la visita muy amable de una Comisión de Captura, quienes me pidieron que les acompañara a la Comisaría de Parque Carabobo, para hacerme una preguntas de interés en el caso, tal cual la seria Escena del Crimen. Me subí a la Unidad y allí empezó mi calvario.

Esa noche la pasé esposado a una viga, de pie, no me podía sentar. Siendo las 10 pm, se inicia un movimiento en la Comisaría, gente entraba y salía, los códigos policiales retumbaban en los radios transmisores, la noche se hizo interminable. Al día siguiente, cuando el silencio ahogaba todo, especulo las 6 am, fui llevado a una oficina donde por fin empezaron a hacerme preguntas. Sobre el escritorio me pusieron dos arepas con queso amarillo y una taza de café con leche, lo que ingerí mientras daba mi declaración a todo lo que me inquirieron. En este punto es importante señalar, que fui despojado de trenzas de zapatos, de correa, de los lentes correctivos y de contacto, literalmente quedé a ciegas... El funcionario leyó las tres hojas de mi declaración y como todo estaba en orden, firmé cada una, estampé mis pulgares a ambos lados de las firmas.

Durante una semana sin visita, estuve en una celda de unos tres por tres metros acompañado de otros dos ciudadanos. Esa era la única celda que no poseía un candado, yo podía salir al baño ante que los demás, las otras tres celdas tenía que esperar a que el funcionario se las abriera para que hicieran lo propio. Al apagar la luz, todo quedaba en oscuridad total, y cuando digo total, es total.

El lunes 30 de ese penoso enero 1995, se me trasladó, en mi contra, a La Planta que quedaba en El Paraíso, pero no era un paraíso. Abatido y entregado a las autoridades del Retén, me reseñaron y me ubicaron en una especie de patio de espera, allí éramos como cincuenta; miento si afirmo el número exacto. Esa noche pasó algo extraño, unos compañeros me brindaron cama, que no era más que cartones tirados en el piso, claro, se les agradece, pero se rumoraba que esa noche correría sangre. Hice mi oración como buen católico y me acosté sobre aquellos duros, peros cálidos cartones... Nada pasó y por primera vez "pasé número", una especie de conteo rutinario que se hacía dos veces al día como mínimo. ¿Cuántas veces pasé número?, pues supera los ocho mil veces...

El miércoles primero de febrero 1995, recibí por fin la anhelada visita de mis padres, hermanos y amigos. Solo dejaron pasar a mis padres y a un fulano abogado público que a esta altura desconozco su nombre. Lo primero que hizo mamá fue abrazarme y tocarme por todo el cuerpo, mientras el llanto se apoderaba de ella, una media hora después del encuentro entre lágrimas, besos y abrazos, me contaron todo lo que estaba sucediendo afuera. Resulta que, supuestamente, las autoridades recibieron una llamada telefónica de una voz femenina no identificada, quien aportó la información del paradero del cuerpo de la joven e indicó que yo era el culpable. Ese fue el movimiento o simulacro de movimiento que observé el 21 de enero en la Comisaría. Esa noche del primero de febrero 1995, sentí que verdaderamente había tocado fondo, cuando por mí menté pasó suicidadarme.

👉 Continúa...

PREAMBLE

To put you in context, a brief cautionary introduction to my writing. The story I am about to tell you is a true story, it happened to me and I know, it has happened to many on this great planet. Yes, I hit the true bottom of a septic tank and after eleven years, standing tall and tall, I live in peace. Please read with an open mind, don't jump to conclusions and infer facts, after reading carefully, you can judge me in the comments.

In January 1995, I was in Caracas-Venezuela, doing social work together with Maryknoll Missionaries, Salvatorian Fathers and Sisters of the Holy Guardian Angel. I lived with the community, with my parents and siblings. I was a member of the teaching staff at U.E. San José, I was a catechist…. Furthermore, I had the Chair of Mathematics I and II in the Faculty of Sciences at the Central University of Venezuela, where I graduated four years earlier.

But not everything is fragrant with flowers. On 13 December 1994, a young woman from my neighbourhood disappeared under circumstances that point directly to me. As with any police movement, investigations into the case were launched. I found out when I visited the family concerned that the young woman had said on the day she disappeared that she was going out with me and that we were supposed to visit the U.C.V., where she was expected to study.

Many things were said about the incident on social networks. A satanic sect, organ smuggling, that she had eloped with her boyfriend..., and so on and so forth. So it was that on Saturday 21st January 1995, at approximately 2pm, I received a very kind visit from a Capture Commission. Who asked me to accompany them to the Parque Carabobo Police Station, to ask me some questions of interest in the case, such as the serious Crime Scene. I got into the unit and there my ordeal began.

That night I spent handcuffed to a beam, standing up, I couldn't sit down. At 10 pm, there was movement in the police station, people were coming in and out, police codes were blaring on the radio transmitters, and the night became endless. The next day, when the silence drowned everything, I guess it was 6 am, I was taken to an office where they finally started to ask me questions. On the desk, they put two arepas with yellow cheese and a cup of coffee with milk, which I ate while I gave my statement to everything they asked me. At this point it is important to point out that I was stripped of my shoe braids, my belt, my corrective lenses and contact lenses, I was literally blind…. The official read the three sheets of my statement and as everything was in order, I signed each one, stamping my thumbs on both sides of the signatures.

For a week without visits, I was in a cell of about three by three metres with two other citizens. That was the only cell that did not have a lock, I could go to the toilet before the others, the other three cells I had to wait for the official to open them for them to do the same. When the light was turned off, everything was in total darkness, and when I say total, I mean total.

On Monday 30th of that painful January 1995, I was transferred, against my will, to La Planta, which was in El Paraíso, but it was not a paradise. I was beaten and handed over to the authorities at the prison, they searched me and placed me in a sort of waiting yard, where there were about fifty of us; I'm lying if I say the exact number. That night something strange happened, some comrades gave me a bed, which was nothing more than cardboard lying on the floor, of course, they were grateful, but rumour had it that there would be bloodshed that night. I said my prayer like a good Catholic and lay down on those hard but warm cardboards…. Nothing happened and for the first time I “passed number”, a kind of routine count that was done at least twice a day. How many times did I pass number, well, more than eight thousand times…

On Wednesday, February 1, 1995, I finally received the long-awaited visit from my parents, siblings, and friends. They only let in my parents and a public lawyer, whose name I don't know at this point. The first thing my mother did was to hug me and touch me all over my body, while she was crying. Half an hour after the meeting, between tears, kisses and hugs, they told me everything that was happening outside. It turns out that, supposedly, the authorities received a phone call from an unidentified female voice, who provided information about the whereabouts of the young woman's body and indicated that I was the culprit. That was the movement or simulacrum of movement that I observed on 21 January at the police station. That night on the first of February 1995, I felt that I had really hit rock bottom, when I thought I had committed suicide.

That night I collapsed in tears; first, a young girl I had known since birth had disappeared and her body was found lifeless; second, according to the public prosecutor, everything pointed to me as the planner and executioner; third, my parents, old men of fifty years with this burden on them; and me, who being innocent was in the mire of the pit.

I fell asleep and had a beautiful dream. I dreamt of the murdered young woman, who in her words said to me “… if the sun doesn't come out, take advantage of the rain…”. Furthermore, I woke up crying like a child, and everyone in the courtyard had something to whisper about me, but none of them attacked me, and certainly none of them treated me badly. After having a sort of cold, dairy-free fororo for breakfast, I was taken to the management of the prison. There I met two journalists, a young woman from RCTV and a young man from Venevisión. Both offered me an exclusive contract to sell them the story. Something similar to the case of “Macu, la Mujer del policía”, the Ledezma case, who sold the supposed story on which the film is based.

I took both contracts and wrote on them: “**Out of respect for the memory of the deceased young woman, I refrain from making any statements to you. I ask you not to bother me again”. And so it was, I never heard from them again…. That same day, the Director of the prison offered me a job in the Department of Transfers. A very strange job, because there, in that office, I would make the lists of those who would go to court, I would give the custody the loads of ammunition, the handcuffs, and keys, I would keep a record of the use of what was delivered and the return… Handling ammunition, a prison inmate, that was not common, but I did it for almost a year.

I had so many experiences in that prison, the most worrying of which was when a cell caught fire and twenty-five people died, including a minor and two foreigners…. The prison went on strike and in order to hand over the facilities, the media had to enter first. That's how it happened, and that's why the news and the images of it went all over the world.

Gracias a la Comunidad de Hive account@holos-lotus, permitirme publicar este post como parte de la iniciativa convocado por la amiga Hive account@charjaim, el patrocinio de Hive account@ecency, Hive account@crisch23 y Hive account@susurrodmisterio.

Aprovecho la oportunidad para invitar a Hive account@josegilberto, Hive account@trascendente y Hive account@lecumberre, en espera de su visita y su participoación. Por acá les dejo el link de la convocatoria:

Thanks to the Hive account@holos-lotus Community, allowing me to publish this post as part of the initiative convened by the friend Hive account@charjaim, sponsored by Hive account@ecency, Hive account@crisch23, and Hive account@susurrodmisterio.

I take this opportunity to invite Hive account@josegilberto, Hive account@trascendente and Hive account@lecumberre, looking forward to their visit and participation. Here is the link to the event: