The faint tick of a wall clock marked the seconds like a countdown in the silence of the interrogation room. Officer Raimon sat calmly, his tailored black coat folded neatly behind him, spectacles glinting beneath the flickering fluorescent light. His gaze, sharp and unblinking, was fixed on the woman settling into the metal chair across from him. She moved slowly, not from resistance but from age—Sister Elena Martinez, a woman of seventy-two, wrapped in a faded grey habit, her silver hair tucked tightly beneath her coif. Her wrinkled hands, liver-spotted and thin, clutched a rosary so tightly the beads left imprints in her skin. She kissed the crucifix softly and whispered a prayer in Spanish, her voice a breath of something older than time. Raimon opened his worn case folder. The red light blinked alive on the tape recorder. "You may begin when ready, Sister," he said gently.
"I was a teacher," Elena began, voice gentle and weathered, "in the Sagrado Corazón school. Little children, their eyes full of questions, their mouths full of mischief. I loved them like they were my own." Her fingers fidgeted with the beads as she spoke. "For many years, life was peaceful. I taught, I prayed, I served. But about two years ago, something changed. I started getting... strange pains in my lower abdomen. Bloating. Fatigue that clung to my bones like fog. I'd bleed between cycles, even though those days should've been long gone." She blinked slowly. "I feared the worst. A doctor confirmed it—ovarian cancer. Stage II. That word... cancer... it wrapped around me like a snake. I began to drift into despair." She swallowed hard, glancing down. "But then... the Mayor of San Paloma, Señor Esteban Grimaldo, came to visit. A pious man, or so he claimed. He told me I had strayed. That illness was a punishment. He said no physician could cure what only faith could heal. That medicine was man's arrogance... and sin. He told me to reject treatment. To chant prayers, to purify my soul. I... I didn't want to believe him. So I prayed. But I also found a physician—Dr. Ricardo Almeida."
Dr. Almeida, she said, was not like the others. "He was patient. Gentle. Always smiling behind that salt-and-pepper beard. His eyes were kind. He never wore the white coat with arrogance. Just slacks, a sweater vest, and a leather notebook tucked under his arm." Elena smiled faintly, a ghost of a better time. "He was about my age—early seventies—but strong. He made house visits, checked my vitals, gave me medication. Said we were making progress." But then, the doubt crept in. "I started feeling weaker, more tired. My faith began to argue with his science. And Esteban... he was always there. 'God is testing you,' he said. 'You're being punished for trusting a man, not the Lord.'" Her voice lowered. "I believed him. Slowly, I began to see Ricardo's help as interference. I thought he was prolonging my suffering, not healing it. The more I listened to the mayor, the more... fractured I became. I stopped sleeping. I started hearing things."
She leaned closer, whispering now. "It happened on the 13th. I found his notebook on my desk—open. His neat handwriting marked every dosage, every visit. Always the 13th of the month. And suddenly I thought... That's the Devil's number. A sign from God. I couldn't sleep that night. The voice... the voice said, 'He is harvesting souls before their time. He sins in the name of science.' I prayed, but the voice wouldn't stop. So I prepared." Her voice was eerily calm now. "I bought a potassium chloride injection. Enough to stop the heart. When he came that evening, carrying his bag like always, I smiled. I made tea. Then, when he looked down to check my pulse, I struck him with a ceramic vase. He collapsed. No scream. Just silence. I said one last prayer... and gave him the injection. He didn't even twitch."
Elena stopped speaking. Her hands clasped the rosary tighter than ever. Outside of her mind, reality had moved on. The police had come days later after a neighbor, curious about a strange shape in her backyard, caught her digging. When questioned, Elena confessed everything with quiet pride. The autopsy confirmed the potassium overdose. Toxicology reports revealed that Dr. Almeida had been helping her—her cell regeneration markers were improving, the medications working. But her paranoia had overridden truth. As for Mayor Esteban Grimaldo—investigators found no evidence linking him to any wrongdoing. No audio, no documents, no witnesses willing to speak. Just Elena's testimony... and her madness. As she stood up, escorted by two officers, Raimon turned the recorder off. The room fell silent once more.
Later that night, Officer Raimon stood by the tall window of his office, a mug of bitter coffee in hand. The city lights blinked like artificial stars below, neon and distant. He watched them quietly, thinking of the mayor—Esteban Grimaldo—still out there. Perhaps giving another sermon. Perhaps whispering poison in someone else's ear. The investigation said he was clean. But Raimon had learned long ago: not all devils have horns. Some wear crosses.