The press had given the crime a huge, nearly scandalous, amount of coverage. The fact that Umpiérrez's wife (Argentinian, originally from Córdoba) was an upper class widow and also a part of what is called the financial homeland in Río de la Plata, the story made an impression on the various social strata (Argentinians, Uruguayans) in Punta del Este.
The body had not been found in her lavish mansion, surrounded by a luxurious lawn, but rather chained to the stern of one of the yachts that fill and adorn the port's jetties in summer.
A fortnight had passed since what the journalists had called, like always, "a gruesome discovery." The police had followed a multitude of leads without the slightest result. In the police stations and at the newspapers in Maldonado, Punta del Este and Montevideo, calls came in every day providing information anonymously that was invariably false. In situations such as these, jokers come out of the woodwork and multiply like rabbits.
Eventually, Gonzalo Aguilar arrived from Buenos Aires. He was a famous private detective, to whom the distressed Umpiérrez family had handed over the responsibility of the case and its eventual resolution.
After two draining weeks of gathering information, paperwork, interviews, searches, analyses, investigations and speculation, the journalists pressured Gonzalo Aguilar to give a press conference. The meeting took place in a large conference in the most lavish hotel in the resort.
The reporters' relentless bombarrdment of questions did not bother the detective, who always accompanied his ambiguous answers with a sarcastic smile.
After two hours of exasperating discussion, a journalist from Buenos Aires - who was slightly more aggressive than the others - let slip a comment that approximated a judgement:
"I must confess that I find it disappointing that an investigator of your stature should have come to no conclusion on who committed the crime."
"Who told you that?"
"Perhaps you know who the killer is then?"
"Of course I know. At these professional heights, not knowing who it was would be a disaster that my professional reputation could not allow."
"So? Who is it then?"
"So, and take note, boy. I am the killer."
The detective opened his briefcase and took out an expensive revolver. Almost instinctively, the mass of journalists shrank back in a spasm of fear.
"Don't be afraid. I bought this beautiful gun in Zurich ten years ago. It was with this gun that I killed the poor lady, after a brief but disturbing spin on board her yacht, Neptune. Allow me, logically in the name of professional discretion, to spare you the motives of my attack. I do not wish to tarnish her memory or mine. And now: my pride cannot allow another colleague, especially if he is from the same country as me, to discover the identity of the architect of this mysterious death. Ah, and besides, as I have always liked the guilty person to suffer his punishment, I have decided to see that justice is done myself. In other words, you have a great front-page story. Please, do not be frightened when the gun goes off. And I'd also like to request an almost posthumous favour: may one of you make sure that this beautiful revolver accompanies my ashes."
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