They arrive in San Martín and, leaving behind the station and the main square, stop in front of a building on Nueve de Julio Street with armed guards at the door. Some have already figured out where they are. They are at the District Police Department. The trip has lasted less than twenty minutes.
They stay seated in the bus for twenty minutes, maybe even half an hour more before they are told to get off. They see people leaving the nearest movie theater. Passersby look at them curiously. There are no signs of unrest anywhere.
At 12:11 a.m. on June 10, 1956, State Radio surprisingly resumes its broadcast on the official station, airing a selection of light music for the next twenty-one minutes. It is the first official sign that something serious is happening in the country.
In the meantime, the fateful house in Florida comes to claim two unexpected victims. Julio Troxler and Reinaldo Benavídez stop by looking for a friend who they think is there. They do nothing more than walk down the corridor and ring the bell at the back apartment—which is strangely silent and dark—before the door suddenly opens and a sergeant and two guards appear, pointing their guns at them.
Though surprised, Julio Troxler hardly bats an eye. He is a tall, athletic man who will demonstrate an extraordinary calm at every turn that night.
Troxler is twenty-nine years old. Two of his brothers are in the Army, one of whom carries the rank of major. He himself might feel a certain military calling, which he channels poorly, seeing how he ends up joining the Police Department of the Province of Buenos Aires. He is strict and austere, but still, he does not tolerate the “methods”—the brutality—that he is expected to employ, so he resigns when Peronism is in full bloom. From then on, he throws his discipline and his ability to work into technical studies. He reads as many books and magazines as he can find on specializations that interest him—motors, electricity, refrigeration. He actually begins to do quite well for himself with a refrigerator repair shop that he sets up in Munro.
Troxler is a Peronist, but he doesn’t talk much politics. Those who tried to describe him suggested that he is an extremely laconic and pensive man who resists arguments at all costs. One thing’s for sure: he is familiar with the police and knows how to deal with them.
The description we can give of Reinaldo Benavídez is even more superficial. Average height, around thirty years old, he has an honest and pleasant face. At that time he is co-running a grocery store in Belgrano and living with his parents. Something incredible is going to happen to Benavídez, something that, even on this night of extraordinary events and experiences, seems as though it was taken from some outrageous novel. But we’ll come back to that.
By an extraordinary coincidence—which will come up again later—Julio Troxler knows the sergeant who is facing him and pointing his gun at him. That may be why they have both stood still for a moment, observing each other.
—What happened? —Troxler asks.
—I don’t know. I’ve got to take you both with me.
—What do you mean you’ve got to take me with you? Don’t you remember me?
—Yes, sir. But I’ve got to take you with me. I have my orders.
The sergeant steps away for a moment. He goes to the apartment in front to ask for instructions over the phone. The two detained men are left alone with the guards. It’s true that they are unarmed, but if they set themselves to the task, they may be able to overpower them and escape. Hours later, in more difficult, nearly impossible circumstances, both of them will act with exceptional decisiveness and sangfroid. At the moment, they are calm. Clearly they don’t suspect anything too serious.
And they let themselves be taken away, just like that.
All police stations have been in a state of alarm since earlier in the day. In his office at Florida’s Second Precinct, Captain Pena has tuned in the receiver.