THE STORY OF AN MEXICAN ASSASSIN
This
is a very long article but I assure you that you will find it very
interesting.
In
1969, I drove my car from Ontario, though the United States, through Mexico
from the north to the south and through the central part of Mexico then to the
eastern part of Mexico and I exited at the south eastern part of Mexico when I entered
into what was then called British Honduras and is now called Belize which is at
the northern part of Central America.
All the time I was in Mexico, I
had no reason to be afraid of being harmed. The drug cartels existed then but
they didn`t kill many people in those days. The drug wars in Mexico began in
the year 2006 and every year after that, the number of murders
increased cand got more gruesome.
What follows is information that
was gleaned from an assassin working for one of the drug cartels in Mexico.
The recruit froze. The instructor
waited, then walked up behind the terrified recruit and fired a bullet into his
head, killing him. Next, he passed the blade to a lanky teenager while the
others watched, dumbfounded.
The teenager didn’t hesitate.
Offered the chance to prove that he could be an assassin — a sicario — he
seized it. t was a chance at money,
power and what he craved most, respect and to be feared in a place where fear was currency.
He wanted to be a psychopath, to kill without
mercy and be the most feared sicario in the world,” he said when describing the scene.
Like the other recruits, he had
been sent by a drug cartel known as Guerreros Unidos to a training camp in the
mountains. He envisioned field exercises, morning runs, target practice. Now,
standing over the body of the young man who was just killed, , he was just
trying to suppress an urge to vomit.
He closed his eyes and fired the
gun blindly. To survive, he needed to
stay the course. The training would do the rest, purging him of fear and
empathy. “They took away everything left in me that was human and made me a
monster,” he said.
Within a few years, he became one
of the deadliest assassins in the Mexican state of Morelos, an instrument of
the cartels tearing the nation apart. By 2017, at only 22 years old, he had
taken part in more than 100 murders, he said. The authorities have confirmed
nearly two dozen of his murders in
Morelos alone.
When the
police caught him that year, he could have faced more than 200 years in prison.
But instead of prosecuting him, the authorities saw an opportunity, a chance to
pick apart the cartel he served from the inside. They made him the centerpiece
of an off-the-books police operation that dismantled the cartel in southern
Morelos, resulting in the arrest and conviction of dozens of its operatives.
For investigators, he was a gold
mine, a complete reference book on the state’s murder industry. For this
particular assassin, the government offered him lifeline to escape the life he was living in
the cartel he served.
Of course, Mexico’s legal system
wasn’t set up for this kind of arrangement. The nation has only one official
witness protection program, at the federal level, and few in law enforcement
actually trust it. Leaks, corruption and incompetence have left it in shambles.
The police chief in Morelos at the
time, Alberto Capella, wanted a witness protection program that worked, one he
could use to smash organized crime in his state. So he simply created a
clandestine one of his own — an improvised strategy that former justice
officials describe as a legal stretch.
But if working around the edges of
the law was the only way to tackle the scourge of organized crime, Mr. Capella
figured, it seemed a small price to pay for justice.
“We had to try something,” said
Mr. Capella, who had survived an all-out gun battle with assassins years
earlier, hardening his resolve. “We couldn’t just sit there and do nothing.”
The assassin`s’
journey from hit man to state witness — drawn from public records, at least a
dozen visits to the program and 17 months of interviews with him, his family,
officials and other assassins had offered a rare glimpse into the world of
Mexico’s ultraviolent killers and the lengths to which the authorities will go
to stop them.
More killings take place in Mexico even in 2017 than at any time in the last two decades, when the nation started collecting
homicide statistics. Cartels fight one another for control of local drug sales
and smuggling routes to the United States, while Mexico’s armed forces battle
them all.
The violence is the worst it has
been since the American-backed drug war began 13
years ago, and assassins like the one Mr. Capella built his program around
embody the crisis, responsible for a disproportionate share of murders
nationwide.
Killings have become so common, so
expected, that the country has grown increasingly numb to them. Each passing
year brings record levels of violence — with more harrowing expressions of it —
and the nation’s institutions are so ill-equipped to stem the tide that Mr.
Capella felt he had little choice but to invent a workaround to the country’s
broken rule of law.
The deal was simple: The assassin
testified against his former comrades and bosses, detailing the inner workings
of a notoriously ruthless cartel. In return, he could walk free, without facing
any charges.
No paperwork. There were no
signatures. no legislation authorizing a witness protection program in the
state. What there was just a gentleman’s
agreement, those involved called it.
“
There was
nothing to think about,” the assassin recalled. “I didn’t want to spend my
whole life in prison.”
Through early 2019, the assassin proved
so valuable that the police erected an even bigger wildcat program around him,
recruiting more than a dozen cartel henchmen and housing them in a small,
worn-down building attached to the local prison.
Together, their testimony led to
100 convictions and helped cut homicides, kidnappings and extortion in the
state, at least for a time, officials said. Even as violence soared across
Mexico, it was not so prevalent in
southern Morelos.
Countrywide, nearly 100 people
were being killed every day, often in horrible ways that stretched the bounds
of human imagination. Fewer than 5 percent of those cases were ever solved.
With such dismal conviction rates,
Mr. Capella felt, Mexico was practically issuing licenses to kill cartel
members. His program, was also explicitly
authorized by law and was a chance to do what hundreds of other officers could
only dream of: pinpoint and lock up the assassins driving the country’s
homicide crisis.
The unchecked power of organized
crime was on full display when hundreds of gunmen for the Sinaloa Cartel laid siege to the city of Culiacán in
broad daylight, forcing the government to surrender a notable cartel figure —
the son of Joaquín Guzmán Loera, the drug lord known as “El Chapo” and set him loose, right back into the
underworld.
Soon after, a different
cartel gunned down nine Mormon mothers and children,
another haunting reminder of the toll taken on innocent civilians. In the
aftermath, President Trump then threatened to designate the
cartels as terrorist groups.
Mr. Capella was well aware that
his own solution to the cartels was dangerous, particularly because it relied
on the unsavory prospect of setting a prolific killer --The assassin in this
article. free.
“It’s something few have dared to
do,” the police chief acknowledged, “but it is worth the risk. ”But no one,
least of all the assassin in this article expected how the arrangement would
end.
Mr. Capellamoved on to another job
almost 1,000 miles away, and the program slowly collapsed. With no legal
mandate or official support, it buckled this year under the change in political
winds. Some of the witnesses left and returned to lives of crime. At least one
was murdered.
The assassin
stayed until the summer when, fearful the police were going to hand him over to
his cartel enemies, he fled.
Cartel Gunmen were not far behind. His brother — who studiously avoided
crime and had enlisted in Mexico’s armed forces He was killed days later. His parents found a
note attached to the body: This is what happens to snitches` it warned.
“This is
the way things work in Mexico,” the assassin
sid while on the run. “And I want the world to see it.”
The cartel bosses huddled in a small
group, taunting him. Sure, he could rob, even fight, his fellow gangsters
teased him. But he couldn’t kill, they said. He didn’t have the heart.
They snickered, pushing to see how
far he would go. He knew it was a test.
He was 17 and working for Guerreros
Unidos, a cartel that operated across several states and smuggled heroin to the
United States. Right away, he distinguished himself as smart and naturally
violent. A prospect in their world.
He snapped back. They didn’t know
what he was capable of, he said. In truth, he didn’t either.
His fellow gangsters pointed down
the street at two young men — a pair of unwitting targets. He took off toward
them, wondering if his bosses were right, that he couldn’t take a life. Then,
as if someone else was controlling his movements, he pulled a small knife from
his pocket and, without any warning, slit the throat of the young man closest
to him.
As the
blood spewed, he recalled, he buried his fear, determined to prove he was
merciless, the essence of a sicario
I blocked myself, my own emotions,
and told myself it was someone else doing it,” he said.
He later discovered that the two
men were innocent, part of a game his bosses were playing. They hadn’t expected
him to actually kill anyone.
When word spread, and the glow of
admiration came from friends and others, his guilt subsided. No one would
question him again. He was on the path now, brutal and immutable, to becoming a
professional killer. “They liked this,” he recalled. “This opened up a career
for me.”
In more than a dozen interviews,
the assassin said that his childhood was normal, even good. His parents were
together. They taught him to care for others.
“I was taught values, principles,” he said.
Tall and slender, with a round
face and hooded eyes, he moved with the economy of an athlete, which he was. He
once hoped to play professional soccer, but he skipped school to hang out with
a small gang, smoking pot and getting into fights. Eventually, he dropped out
of school
Some days, he followed his father to
work, joining him on his rounds for the local water company. For a while, he
thought about making a life of such work, however mundane and underpaid.
Then his
father lost his job, plunging the family toward financial ruin. His mother
began working from dusk until dawn for a few dollars a day. With growing
resentment, he watched the humiliation and low pay of day labor, while local
gangsters made big money, enjoying a respect that bordered on him being a
member of the cartel.
“That’s when I chose to live day
by day,” he said. “I became a criminal.”
He worked his way up, from a
small-time lookout for Guerreros Unidos to robbery and drug sales. The leaders
noticed his ambition. After that first killing, the cartel leader offered him a
slot in the sicario ( assassin ) training camp.
It was 2012, and Mexico’s war on
drugs was in its sixth year. Violence had reached record highs as the military
took to the streets to combat organized crime and the cartels battled one
another for supremacy.
Murder became a form of messaging,
a spectacle of sadism — bodies hanging from bridges, chopped in pieces,
deposited in public plazas, each grisly crime scene a warning, a way of saying
the cartel’s violence knew no limits.
As the drug market churned, with
new players rising and falling, training camps became academies for the
industry’s enforcers. The sicario saw an opportunity.
For six months, he lived in
austerity with dozens of other men in the mountains of southern Mexico, he
said, through terror, starvation and cold. Everywhere the specter of death.
They hunted and killed rival
cartel members, and were killed themselves, often by their own trainers who
disposed of them for disobeying orders or showing hesitation, he said. Trainees
who ran afoul of the instructors were strung up from trees and used for target
practice, he recalled — a claim that experts on cartels found plausible.
Knowing he
might die for failing to follow orders — whether killing a farmer, cutting up a
body or torturing a friend — was all the incentive he needed to do the
unthinkable. At least that’s how he justified it.
In a year, he had transformed into
a skilled assassin — battle-tested and not yet 20 years old.
After the training camp, he was
sent to Acapulco, he said, to fight other cartels for the lucrative drug market
in tourist districts.
A year or so later, he returned,
but to a very different Morelos. His old boss had been gunned down and his old
cartel, Guerreros Unidos, was nearly vanquished there, swallowed up by its
one-time allies, Los Rojos.
The assassin no longer had a
champion, or any allegiance at all. Some of his old comrades had switched
sides, which happened in cartel warfare, the winners subsuming the losers.
The Rojos leader, Santiago Mazari
Hernández, known on the street as El Carrete, sent an emissary to recruit the assaain.
He wanted him to help set up drug operations across southern Morelos state.
“It was join them or be killed,”
the assassin recalled. They began
selling drugs in Jojutla, then spread to Tlaltizapan, Tlaquiltenango,
Zacatepec, fighting off other groups in the small towns across southern
Morelos.
As their business expanded, so did
their influence, especially on local government. They had local officials
everywhere on the payroll, the assassin said, to prevent surprises like arrests or
seizures.
Expanding operations meant
cleaning out the competition, not just other cartels, but also local criminals such
as thieves, rapists, small-time drug
dealers and snitches. Anyone who drew police scrutiny.
Murder was rarely for sport, the assassin
said. He studied his victims at length, investigating the complaints against
them. Once confirmed, he warned them to stop, mostly to keep them from drawing
too much attention from the authorities. If they didn’t, he planned the
killings meticulously, carrying them out only with approval from above.
“For me to kill someone, I had to
have permission,” he explained. “Why do I want to kill that person? Not because
I just don’t like them. That’s not how it works.”
He followed a code, he said. He
didn’t recruit children, and wouldn’t harm women or working people, if he could
avoid it. But the workings of organized crime were rarely orderly. He did kill
women and innocent civilians. For all the talk of honoring a code, it was often
just that: talk. Business always came first.
The New York Times confirmed many of his homicides with the authorities
and attempted to speak with the victims’ families in several cases. All
refused. Having lost their daughters, sons and fathers to the cartel, they were
fearful of reprisals.
Of all the
people the assassin killed in his five-year run, only a few haunted him, he
said. One in particular.
It was during a routine operation,
he recalled, when his bosses sent him to eliminate a group of local kidnappers.
After he arrived, he said, he found a college student with them. The assassin said
he knew instantly the student was innocent: the look of terror on his face, his
body language, even his clothes. They were all wrong.
Following protocol, the assasin tied everyone
up and called his boss. He wanted to let the young man go. He was unaffiliated.
There was no need to kill him. But the boss said no. Any witness was a
liability.
As the boy begged for his life,
the assassin said he looked away and
told him he was sorry before slitting his throat.
“That
student still haunts me,” he said, weeping. “I see his face, that kid begging
me for his life. I will never forget his eyes. He was the only one who ever
looked at me that way.”
sometimes, in the dark, the assassin’s
mother quietly knelt beside his bed, whispering over him as he slept. She knew
he worked for the cartels, even if she didn’t know how exactly. Prayer was all
she had left.
“Stop doing that,” he recalled
telling her one night. “Your God can’t save me.”
By late
2016, he had grown numb to killing, hunting for targets with a mechanical
indifference. Life mattered even less to him, his own included.
received a promotion, which
brought higher pay, more responsibilities and the envy of others. He still
worked for El Carrete, who ran Los Rojos cartel, but he was consumed by
paranoia, and for good reason.
The deeper he descended into the
underworld, the more he understood the petty rivalries among the leadership.
Their lives were steeped in mistrust. The work demanded it. Friends betrayed
friends, right-hand men killed bosses.
He was told to kill members of his
own team by leaders who worried they were growing too influential or
undisciplined. He said he killed so many that he began to reconsider whom he
hired.
“I almost never recruited within
my friendship circles,” he said. “I would recruit whatever guy wanted easy
money.”
But that left him vulnerable,
unable to trust his team. It proved to be his undoing.
In May of
2017, the police took one of his partners into custody. To avoid prison, he
promised them theassassin.
On May 15, the partner called the assassin. They had work to
do, he said. It was bright outside, odd working hours for the men, but there
was an emergency, his partner said
They met up at a safe house and
left together, heading toward their motorcycles parked down the street. The assassin
heard the police before he saw them, the screech of tires, the revved engines.
It was over in less than a minute.
He cursed himself on the way to
the station. For years, he had survived on suspicion, yet somehow missed this
easy setup. He wondered whether dumb luck alone had saved him all these years.
At the station in Jojutla, a small
white building facing the district prison, police commanders confiscated his
phone. It contained enough evidence to put him away for life.
While he sat handcuffed to a
chair, the officers watched a snuff film of his work, which he had recorded on
his phone. In it, one of the cartel’s lawyers, who had gone missing, sat in the
shallow eddy of a river, bloody and terror-stricken, confessing a betrayal.
The police called his mother, who
refused to believe them. Yes, she knew her son was a criminal, she recalled.
But she refused to believe he was a killer — until an officer made her watch an
interview in which her son confessed to his myriad homicides.
“We never taught him these
things,” she said, sobbing. “He didn’t learn that malice from us. We gave him
love and support.”
The police
began adding up what they knew, starting with several homicides that traced
back to him. He faced 240 years in prison for those crimes alone.
However, the police chief, Mr. Capella, had grown weary
of the state’s limited tools and ambitions. Sloppy forensics, corrupt officers
and haphazard investigations left few cases solved.
He had previously been a police
chief in Tijuana, where the local press nicknamed him Rambo in 2007 for
fighting off dozens of cartel assassins in an all-out battle that riddled his
home with bullets.
Now, as the commander in Morelos,
he wanted results. As the sicario sat in a ripped vinyl chair in the precinct,
one that one of . Capella’s deputies explained the arrangement.
The assassin was go testify against his former comrades,
detailing the many murders they had committed. But instead of describing the assassin
in court or in case files as one of the killers or main conspirators, the state
authorities listed him as a witness — someone with no real involvement in the
crime.
The assassin, then 22, agreed to
live in a building next to the prison for his own protection and be shuttled to
public hearings. The state authorities did not charge him with any of the
killings, choosing to wait until he was done testifying. Then, they could
decide how to prosecute him, if at all.
By law, cartel cases in Mexico are
supposed to be handled at the federal level, by a division tasked with
investigating organized crime. The group can use its plea bargain powers to
persuade witnesses to come forward, though few do. It is widely distrusted.
At the
state level, no such program exists, and officials have often found their own
ways of chasing justice, sometimes by breaking the law entirely. Many have held
suspects in detention for years before trial as a form of punishment, knowing
they didn’t have the evidence for a conviction. Others have opted for a more
brutal solution: the extrajudicial killing of suspected criminals.
Mr. Capella tried a very different
approach — looking for convictions in court, and ginning up a new set of rules
to secure them. Tired of Mexico’s feeble rule of law, Mr. Capella decided to
create his own version of it.
His unorthodox methods and
unapologetic manner have brought him controversy, and plenty of enemies. The
current government of Morelos has accused him of misappropriating funds in a
separate matter, which he strongly denies.
Some former justice officials in
Mexico call his witness protection program a stretch, operating well outside of
legal norms. Others say it is so unusual that they are not quite sure. Even
state officials in Morelos who supported the program acknowledged that it
operated in a legal gray area, though, like Mr. Capella, they called it legal,
defensible — and highly effective.
“I’d
rather make a big mistake than be guilty of inaction,” Mr. Capella said.
“Mexico is tired of this institutional paralysis.”
For five years, the assassin lived
as two different people: the son who dropped off groceries for his mother and
had a baby of his own with his girlfriend; and the “monster,” as he called
himself, who killed for a few hundred dollars a week.
After his
arrest, the wall between them began to crack. He suffered what seemed like
psychotic episodes, he said, sleepless nights of strange voices and shadows
collapsing on him. He knew he deserved no pity, that he alone was to blame. He
took some comfort in that.
“I was at the point of going
crazy,” he said. “I would spend two or three days crying.”
Eventually, a pastor — an
uneducated, reformed convict himself — came to see him. At first, the sicario
worried the man was a spy sent by his enemies. Eventually, he began to speak to
him and, before long, could hardly stop.
The pastor was caught off guard by
the torrent of confessions as the sicario gave himself over to the Bible with a
fervor he once held for violence, a conversion so common it is almost a cliché
in the world of gangs and cartels.
“That other person is dead,” the
sicario said as if, with repetition, it might become true.
He found new purpose in
confinement, helping solve cold cases, testifying against cartel players and
paving the way for some two dozen convictions. The police said they saw a real
transformation in him, though they had their own reasons to believe it, too.
By October of 2018, the police had
expanded the program to include a dozen cooperating witnesses. With no other
place to put them, the authorities housed the young men right next door to the
jail that held the cartel members they were testifying against. Every few
weeks, the police ferried them to court to provide evidence in cases.
The witnesses slept on thin
mattresses on the floor, ate at a cracked plastic table and sat in chairs shorn
of their backs. Large blue tubs overflowed with water used for bathing and
flushing.
There were small comforts — a
television, a microwave and an electric keyboard on which the sicario taught
himself to play the theme song to the movie “Titanic.” And every weekday, the
makeshift wing of the prison turned into an evangelical revival.
A pastor
strummed an old guitar and led them in hymns. When the singing stopped, they
took turns confessing — the soulless acts of violence they had committed, their
temptation to return, their gratitude for having been saved.
“Sixteen years ago, I was like you
boys,” the pastor said, the guitar resting against his belly. “It’s a miracle I
survived.” Several began to cry unprompted.
The assasin, whose crimes far
exceeded those of the others, was the natural leader. He became a parental
figure for the group, and enforced his will by wielding a large wooden stick.
Eventually, the young men earned
the trust of their wardens, and were allowed an almost comic level of autonomy.
By early 2019, they were running their own security, locking and unlocking the
barred entry for visitors, monitoring comings and goings in the ward. A few
even started their own business, washing the government cars in the lot.
The police knew the risks were
big, as was the possibility of failure. But their confidence grew by the day.
Mr. Capella, the police chief, boasted of the change the sicario’s testimony
had made on the streets. One deputy said the sicario would walk free with a
clean rap sheet.
“We have
achieved what we set out to achieve,” Mr. Capella said
The unwinding came sooner than
expected. More than a year into the program, Mr. Capella got a new job as
police chief in the state of Quintana Roo. Home to the neon hum of Cancún and
boho-chic of Tulum, it was a much bigger post than Morelos.
With his
departure, the witness protection program lost its steward. It was expensive,
and off the books. No one wanted to oversee someone else’s pet project.
The young men continued to attend
their court dates, the pastor kept turning up and the assassin’s girlfriend
gave birth to their second child, a girl. But the energy of even a few months
earlier began to vanish.
Nearly half of the witnesses were
gone. Some had finished their court appearances and left of their own volition.
Others had skipped out, content to risk the death sentence that awaited them on
the street. Many had grown accustomed to the idea of an early death. To them, the program was a brief
respite.
The assassin talked less about
what came next. Before, he practically counted the days until his departure.
Now he merely shrugged when asked.
In truth, he had grown used to the
facility. He liked the respect from the guards, the prosecutors and his fellow
witnesses. It was a sanctuary from the outside world, which frightened him. Not
only did he worry about the cartel and a life on the run, but he also feared
the temptation — that for all his talk of change, he would wind up right back
where he started.
“I know that being released and
forming part of society again is harder than being locked up in here,” he said
after a prayer session. “The truth is, I’d rather be in here, in pain, for 10
years than out there on my own.”
By the summer of 2019, the program
was in rank disrepair — dirty dishes piled up, water pooled on the floor,
toilets were left uncleaned. The lights didn’t even function properly anymore.
“Everything
is coming to an end,” he said one day. “Just take a look around you. The world
is upside down.”
He was practically alone now. Only
one other witness remained. His friends came by periodically, to smoke weed or
listen to music in the dark. He used them to ferry messages to people on the
outside, including drug dealers.
The police had all but abandoned
the program. Most officials were happy to see it empty out, eager to be done
with the burden.
In the void, the sicario returned
to what he knew: selling drugs. While still inside, he recruited former
witnesses who had left the program, forming a team of marijuana dealers from
the same youth he had once vowed to rescue.
The pastor found out and pressed
him to stop.“I realized how many people I was dragging to their doom again,”
the assassin said. “I led my friends toward the Bible, and now I’m making them
sell drugs.”
His relapse seemed almost
inevitable. How could the state expect to change someone so stripped of his
humanity in just two years, with an unpaid, uneducated pastor as his only
source of inspiration?
Perhaps it never intended to. The
sicario had helped dismantle his former cartel, leaving it in shambles. He was
no longer of much use to the police.
On the
outside, his enemies would see him as weak, no longer under the protection of
the police. He liked to claim that his reputation on the streets kept his
family safe, but that wasn’t entirely true, either. Even the police knew as
much. The sicario had softened since joining the program. He cared about his
family, his children, the prospect of a new life. Hope was a liability in his
old world.
One of the police officers had
warned him about leaving.“‘You won’t stand a chance out there,’” he recalled
the officer saying. “‘You aren’t the same person anymore.’”
“He got it
right,” the sicario said. “It’s true.”
In a sunny afternoon in August, the assassin fled. A tipster
warned him that the police were planning to arrest him and bring charges. True
or not, he didn’t take the chance.
He had been careless before, when
he was caught the first time. But now, after all the people he had helped lock
up, going to prison for real — with inmates, not cooperating witnesses — would
mean certain death. He would be killed the moment he entered.
He slipped out of the facility and
checked into a small roadside hotel. After nearly two years under police
protection, he was on his own.
A few days later, on Aug. 5, a
pair of gunmen posing as customers came to his parents’ taco stand and shot his
brother four times. As the killers fled, they left a note: “Let’s see if you
all learn this way.”
The
brothers looked alike, so the gunmen may have thought they had killed the assassin.
When he found out about the shooting, he wished they had.
AD
His brother was innocent, the
family insisted. He had never associated with organized crime, on the assassin’s
orders. He finished high school, lived at home with his parents, had enlisted
to join the Mexican armed forces and was scheduled to head out soon, his mother
said.
The assassin knew he didn’t
deserve freedom. “Justice for me,” he
sometimes said, “would be death.”
But his brother was different.
“They hit me where it hurt most,”
the sicario said, crying, not long after the murder. “The thing I loved most in
the world, they took from me.”
Still, he insisted that he would
not seek revenge. Nothing would change because of it. His brother would still
be dead. The killings would continue, even escalate, sucking in the rest of his
family, in the kind of unending cycle Mexico itself is trapped in. Murder was
inevitable, he said. His involvement didn’t have to be.
“This will
never end, no matter what I do,” he said. “But I just won’t be a part of it
anymore.”
I don`t know what has happened
to the assassin since he made
that statement.
one ting I do know and that is the drug Cartels are still murdering people often in gruesome ways.
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