The Forgotten LATIN AMERICAN VICTIMS of Spain’s “Card Deck Killer”
While the media fixated on the sensational “Card Deck Killer,” several of his victims remained overshadowed by lurid headlines. Among them were immigrants seeking a better life in Spain. Their tragic stories, too often overlooked, illuminate a darker side of obsession.
A Murderer’s Upbringing and Warped Ambitions
They called him “El Asesino de la Baraja,” the playing-card killer—a moniker that seized Spain’s collective imagination in the early 2000s. Behind the macabre name was Alfredo Galán Sotillo, a former soldier who sowed terror by shooting unsuspecting victims at random, sometimes leaving a Spanish playing card near the scene. Although much has been written about Galán’s psyche and the sensational nature of his crimes, relatively little attention has been paid to those who died or were injured as he hunted across Madrid’s suburban enclaves. For some, life in Spain held the promise of safety and opportunity—yet they became statistics in a chilling murder spree.
This feature delves into the neglected perspectives and experiences of the victims, particularly the Latin Americans who found themselves caught in Galán’s crosshairs. As we unravel the narrative of how their stories unfolded—and were sometimes forgotten—we also examine the far-reaching consequences of the case, from the chaotic police investigation to the ultimate arrest of this self-styled serial killer.
Alfredo Galán Sotillo was born on December 22, 1977, in Puertollano, Spain. His mother died during childbirth when he was just eight years old, leaving him to be raised by a strict, hot-tempered father. Shy and underperforming in school, Galán felt more drawn to the military than to academia. By 18, he quit his studies and enlisted in the Spanish Army, a decision that would define much of his young adulthood.
Deployed twice to Bosnia, Galán built a reputation as a diligent soldier with strong marksmanship skills. However, in 2002, he encountered a turning point after being sent to clean the oil-stained coast of Galicia in the wake of the Prestige disaster. Resentful at being forced into these new duties, Galán spiraled: stealing a car, clashing with superiors, and ultimately ending up at the Gómez Ulla Military Hospital in Madrid. There, psychiatrists diagnosed him with neurosis and severe anxiety—issues that were exacerbated by heavy drinking against medical advice.
By early 2003, Galán’s once-promising military career lay in tatters. Discharged from the army that March, he took a job at a private security firm. Seemingly overnight, the ex-soldier embarked on a violent murder spree—one whose randomness both confounded the authorities and stirred a wave of fear across central Spain. Armed with a Tokarev TT-33 pistol smuggled from Bosnia, Galán set his sights on victims chosen entirely by chance.
Between late January and mid-March 2003, Galán killed six people and seriously wounded three more, leaving Madrid and its environs on edge. Newspapers dubbed him “El Asesino de la Baraja” after a playing card—an as de copas—was discovered near the second victim. Though police initially suspected the card’s presence to have a sinister meaning, it was merely a coincidence at first. Yet, as the tabloids amplified the story, the killer was all too happy to play along, using the sensational nickname to stoke fear and feed his delusions of power.
The Overlooked Stories: Latin Americans in the Crosshairs
As the gruesome details of Galán’s crimes seized national headlines, few reporters paused to consider the backgrounds or personal struggles of those he had attacked. For many, details about the killer’s early life, military record, and the shocking “card deck” signature overshadowed the victims’ identities and stories. Yet among his targets were at least two immigrant families—Latin American arrivals who had hoped to find security and prosperity in Spain.
One of the most heart-wrenching incidents occurred on March 7, 2003, in the municipality of Tres Cantos. Galán returned to a familiar area where he had once briefly lived. His victim that day was a 27-year-old immigrant from Ecuador named Santiago Eduardo Salas. With chilling composure, Galán shot Santiago in the face at close range while the young man stood chatting with his girlfriend, Anahid, along Avenida de Viñuelas.
The bullet went through Santiago’s cheek and came out near the back of his neck, leaving him seriously hurt but alive. When Galán pointed the gun at Anahid, it failed; she had a slim chance to avoid death. At that moment, she stopped and raised her arms next to see the killer’s eyes, which showed no feeling. In shock, Anahid later told investigators she had mentally said goodbye to her life, believing she was next. She watched as Galán dropped a playing card, a “dos de copas,” next to Santiago’s motionless body before slipping away.
Santiago, rushed to a local hospital, battled grave injuries. Though he survived, the traumatic encounter would haunt him physically and psychologically. Living as an immigrant laborer in Spain presented its own set of economic challenges; now, he faced mounting medical bills, limited social support, and the horror of having nearly been murdered by a man who treated his life as a trivial game. For weeks, Santiago’s plight garnered only minor coverage in the swirl of sensationalism around “El Asesino de la Baraja.”
Another pair of victims, George and Doina Magda, came from outside Spain as well (they were of Eastern European origins), falling prey to Galán on March 18, 2003, in Arganda del Rey. Their presence in the country—like so many immigrants—was tied to the promise of better prospects. Galán shot George in the head with no warning, then aimed his Tokarev at Doina, firing three shots. Two bullets struck her in the head. She died two days later, leaving behind a bitter testament to how easily newcomers could become collateral damage in a random, senseless crime spree.
The suffering of these victims from abroad is hidden by flashy headlines along with the account of a “card deck killer” and shows the serious lack of reports about stories without instant drama or scandal. In the aftermath, the immigrant community in Madrid felt a collective tremor of fear, recognizing that any of them, too, might cross paths with a predator looking for his next random target.
Inside a Frenzied Investigation
At the time, law enforcement faced mounting pressure. The media fixated on playing cards, the lack of clear purpose, plus the broad area of the attacks complicated the hunt for the shooter. Some investigators thought there were several attackers; others claimed the killings were not connected. The appearance, or lack, of the noted playing card at various crime scenes further confused the investigation.
After a second, as de copas surfaced—this time with a small dot scrawled in blue ink—tabloids splashed sensational headlines. Public anxiety soared, with citizens worried that the killer had no pattern, no logic, and no hesitation about shooting victims in broad daylight. Even the date range between murders felt random: sometimes twelve days elapsed, sometimes an hour.
On top of that, Galán’s brazen return to normalcy after each killing—eating lunch, taking a nap, or visiting his psychiatrist—infuriated law enforcement. A crucial breakthrough came only when the killer himself decided to surrender, apparently drunk and disillusioned by the “ineptitude” of the police.
On July 3, 2003, a heavily intoxicated Galán appeared at a local police office in Puertollano, his hometown, claiming to be “El Asesino de la Baraja.” Initially dismissed by one officer who thought he was just an inebriated man seeking attention, Galán persisted until he reached the National Police station. He admitted facts about the playing cards that were kept secret: the mark on each card, the order they were placed plus which victims received them. These details compared with hidden records, proved his admission.
But once in prison, Galán changed his story and denied involvement while blaming two neo-Nazi criminals. Yet they presented enough proof to link him to the killings. Besides bullet evidence, investigators located items that connected him to specific places; they also obtained clear statements from witnesses plus locals. Additionally, they knew about the Tokarev pistol he had smuggled from Bosnia. Regardless of his attempts to shift blame, the justice system deemed him fully culpable.
In 2005, the Spanish courts found Galán guilty of six murders and three counts of attempted murder, sentencing him to more than 140 years in prison. By law, however, he would not serve beyond 25 years. The press recounted these details, fixating again on the curiosity of the playing cards and the “chilling calm” with which Galán committed his crimes. Lost in much of the coverage was the ongoing suffering of those left behind—particularly the wounded or the families of immigrants who had died on Spanish soil.
Forgotten Victims in the Shadows
The monstrous aura surrounding “El Asesino de la Baraja” did not end with the trial. True crime aficionados, documentary series, and sensational articles continued to rehash the killer’s background: his troubled childhood, his dreams of being an “unstoppable soldier,” and the twisted satisfaction he found in random homicide. Meanwhile, the stories of individual victims—especially those from Latin America or other immigrant backgrounds—faded into the margins.
Those who survived, like Santiago Salas, had to face physical wounds as well as stress and money troubles. Migrants often do not have strong support groups, which worsens the pain of violent attacks. When the media paid less attention, public care and help from institutions also fell short, making it harder for them to start over. Families like George and Doina Magda’s were left to mourn without the kind of sweeping solidarity that often rallies around national tragedies.
Such outcomes reflect a broader trend in true crime: perpetrators frequently earn lasting infamy, while the complexities and tragedies of those who lost everything remain footnotes. The stigmatization of certain communities—whether because they’re immigrants, working-class, or living in precarious conditions—further distances them from mainstream public consciousness.
Even beyond the direct victims, entire neighborhoods of Madrid lived in fear during those months, uncertain whether they might become the next random target. Streets cleared early; parents felt uneasy about letting children go home alone, while many rumors spread. Several residents born outside the country worried that local officials or the news would doubt their words, pushing them further aside.
The record of the “Card Deck Killer” shows key issues for today’s Spain, such as its care of immigrants, mental health care, and the role of the media. Could more precise news have told each person’s story behind every loss so people feel the true hurt? Could early help or better support have stopped a weak soldier from becoming a killer? How might new rules treat the blend of mental illness, drug use, plus easy access to fatal guns?
Al final esas víctimas olvidadas tienen derecho a un lugar justo en la historia de uno de los casos de asesinatos más inquietantes de España. Su vida sus sueños y su dolor cuentan igual que los hechos que sorprendieron al pueblo. Aunque es probable que las acciones de Galán permanezcan en el recuerdo cultural español por el daño casual que causaron, la verdad completa de lo acontecido incluye también a los inmigrantes cuyas vidas se unieron a la decisión arbitraria de un asesino.
Years later, little time filled the empty space after these deaths. Survivors like Santiago carry body marks and inner pain, proof that a regular day may change into a fatal day. George and Doina Magda, with other victims from abroad, did not see their children or observe their growth. Their families cling to memories and photos, quietly commemorating the loved ones who came to Spain in search of a better life only to meet a horrifying end.
Though the “Card Deck Killer” has been locked away, and his story told repeatedly, we owe a measure of respect to those who have too often existed on the fringes of the tale. Their names and stories deserve to be repeated and remembered so that we do not dismiss victims by focusing solely on the macabre spectacle of a killer’s twisted aims. In a just world, understanding the plight of the forgotten is how we begin to ensure that no future tragedy leaves so many lost voices in its wake.
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In the end, remembering these victims is a powerful reminder of the fragility of life—how quickly innocence can shatter in a single violent moment, and how important it is that we acknowledge the dignity and experiences of those who perished. While the press focuses on the shocking parts of the crime, the true sorrow lies with the people left behind, especially those who traveled far for a better life. Their accounts, hidden by loud headlines, show the real damage in Spanish crime history – a part that calls for disapproval of the killer plus care for those who suffered as his unintended victims.
