Chapter 4 - The Poisoner’s Web
By eight o’clock on Christmas morning, while families across Mexico City were opening gifts and celebrating, the third floor of Hospital Ángeles had been transformed into an armed command center.
Two heavily armed state police officers stood guard outside the glass doors of the Intensive Care Unit. Inside, Doña Carmen remained in a medically induced coma, her vitals slowly stabilizing thanks to round-the-clock dialysis designed to purge the Digoxin and bacterial toxins from her system.
In a private conference room down the hall, Julián sat at a long glass table opposite Inspector Valenzuela—a weathered homicide detective with sharp grey eyes and a mustache dusted with white—and Licenciado Morales, Julián’s formidable corporate attorney.
Spread across the table were the contents of Doña Carmen’s metal box, along with the preliminary forensics report from the state toxicology laboratory.
“The lab results came back an hour ago, Don Julián,” Inspector Valenzuela said, laying a sheet of paper onto the table. “The broth recovered from your dining room contained over eight hundred milligrams of pure, pulverized Digoxin. That is nearly twenty times the lethal dose for an elderly patient with mild renal insufficiency.”
“Where did she get pharmaceutical-grade Digoxin?” Licenciado Morales asked, tapping his golden pen against his notepad. “Neither Don Julián nor Doña Carmen have ever been prescribed heart medication.”
Inspector Valenzuela pulled out a plastic evidence bag containing a pharmacy log printout. “We executed a search warrant on your mansion’s private guest house at six this morning. Inside your wife’s personal safe, we found three empty bottles of Lanoxin—the brand name for Digoxin—prescribed to Renata’s father, Don Héctor Santillán, by a private clinic in Cuernavaca.”
Julián’s eyes narrowed into terrifying slits. “She stole her father’s medication to poison my mother.”
“It gets worse,” Valenzuela continued, leaning forward. “We interviewed your kitchen staff. The house cook, Maria, gave a sworn statement. She testified that two days ago, Renata explicitly ordered the kitchen staff to leave a pot of beef bone broth sitting out on the warm stove for seventy-two hours without refrigeration until it began to putrefy. Renata told the staff she needed it for a ‘traditional medicinal recipe’ her family used.”
Morales let out a low whistle. “Premeditated murder. She intentionally cultured lethal strains of Clostridium and Salmonella bacteria in spoiled broth, mixed it with a fatal dose of heart medication, and physically forced it down an eighty-two-year-old woman’s throat.”
“It is attempted aggravated homicide with cruelty and premeditation,” Valenzuela stated grimly. “Under the penal code of the Federal District, she is looking at up to forty years in a maximum-security prison.”
Before Julián could speak, the glass door of the conference room swung open.
Julián’s head of security, Marcos, stepped inside, looking grim. “Don Julián, you need to see the news. Right now.”
Marcos turned on the wall-mounted television monitor and switched the channel to Televisa News.
The screen displayed a live broadcast from outside the grand gates of the Santillán private estate in San Ángel. Standing in front of a horde of news cameras was Renata, dressed in a black wool coat, weeping delicately into a silk handkerchief. Beside her stood her father, Don Héctor Santillán—a tall, arrogant man in his late seventies with silver hair, wearing an immaculate tailored suit.
“...I am breaking my silence today because my heart is broken,” Renata’s voice wavered dramatically through the TV speakers, her tears looking entirely convincing to the millions watching across the country. “My husband, Julián Aranda, has suffered a severe mental breakdown brought on by the stress of his corporate expansion. Last night, his elderly mother, who suffers from severe advanced dementia, tragically attempted to take her own life by ingesting old medication.”
The reporters pushed their microphones forward, shouting questions.
“Señora Renata, is it true that your husband threw you out of the house?”
“Yes!” Renata sobbed loudly, resting her head against her father’s shoulder. “When I tried to stop his mother from harming herself, Julián became violent! He attacked me! He has locked me out of our home and is using his wealth to bribe hospital staff into keeping his mother isolated so he can frame me for this tragic accident! He is keeping me away from my husband because he wants to steal my family’s heritage!”
Don Héctor Santillán stepped toward the microphones, his voice booming with aristocratic authority. “My family will not stand by while this upstart businessman slanders my daughter’s character to cover up his own domestic abuse! We have already filed a petition with the Supreme Court to place Julián Aranda under mental conservatorship and freeze all assets associated with his logistics firm!”
In the hospital conference room, silence fell like a heavy stone.
Licenciado Morales turned to Julián, his face grave. “They are launching a preemptive public relations strike. In Mexico, if they secure an emergency conservatorship order from a corrupt judge—which Héctor Santillán certainly has the connections to pull off—they can freeze your accounts, take control of your company, and strip you of your legal standing to represent Doña Carmen within forty-eight hours.”
Julián stared at the screen, watching Renata wipe away her fake tears for the camera. A cold, terrifying smile slowly spread across his lips—a smile that sent a shiver down the spine of even Inspector Valenzuela.
“They think they are playing a political game,” Julián said softly, standing up from his chair. “They think because they have an old name and corrupt friends, they can turn my mother into a footnote and me into a madman.”
He walked over to Inspector Valenzuela. “Inspector, hold off on arresting Renata for another twenty-four hours.”
Valenzuela frowned. “Why? We have enough evidence for an arrest warrant right now.”
“Because an arrest right now allows her father’s lawyers to post bail, claim a medical deferment, and hide behind their political connections in a private trial,” Julián replied, his voice ringing with absolute clarity. “I don't just want Renata in handcuffs, Inspector. I want her father, her lawyers, and their entire fraudulent dynasty destroyed in front of the whole world.”
Julián turned to Morales. “Call the board of directors of Aranda Logistics. Call the press secretaries of every major media outlet in Latin America. Tell them that on New Year’s Eve, three days from now, I will be holding an emergency global shareholder summit at the St. Regis Hotel in Polanco.”
“And what will you be presenting at this summit, Don Julián?” Morales asked.
May you like
Julián held up the silver medallion of Saint Jude, the light catching its worn, tarnished edges.
“I am going to present the true heir of the Santillán empire,” Julián whispered. “And I am going to play a movie that Renata Santillán never knew was recorded.”
