“Hey, what’s up?” he said.
“You do realize I’m pretty pissed off with you?”
“Look, Kraken—”
“It’s Unai. My name is Unai. I’m one of your oldest friends. You’ve known me since we were children, remember? I’m not the celebrity your headlines are turning me into.”
“Whatever. Look, Unai, I’m just doing my job. I saw you and Tasio Ortiz de Zárate together, locking horns. How could I let that story go? People need to know that he’s back and that he has something to do with these murders.”
“Watch it, Lutxo. Who said Tasio had anything to do with these murders? Have you already forgotten that the guy was falsely convicted and spent twenty years in prison? Are you going to turn public opinion against him again? Okay, he’s an asshole, a real asshole, but if you make him out to be more than that, you are no better. What’s this all about? Do you have some sort of problem with me? You don’t even know what he and I were talking about. Our conversation had nothing to do with this investigation, or these murders. You’ve put your foot in it now, Lutxo, big time. Tasio is going to be furious with you. Now he can’t even come to Vitoria to attend a funeral without being accused of murder. What kind of a life is that?”
“So tell me. Explain what he was doing so I won’t feel obliged to speculate.”
“So now you’re blackmailing me: either I tell you what you want to know, or you use my image to spread vicious rumors. Don’t you see how that might interfere with how I do my job? Or maybe you do see, maybe the problem is that you don’t give a damn.”
“Do you honestly think I’m going to stop doing my job just because we belong to the same cuadrilla? I don’t see you treating me with more consideration because I’m your friend. So what’s the difference? Because I don’t see one.”
“The difference is that every time you sneak behind a cypress tree to secretly take my picture in a cemetery you wreck my life—you steal another piece of my privacy in Vitoria.”
“There’s an easy way out of that,” he said, shrugging as he stirred his espresso.
I sighed. There was no arguing with him.
“Things are going to end very badly between us, Lutxo, and it won’t matter that you’re in my cuadrilla. I’m going to ask the judge to extend the gag order on this case so you won’t be able to publish anything remotely related to it.”
“You wouldn’t dare. And you know why? Because if you do, I’ll just keep writing about your personal life.”
I suppressed my urge to unleash the Kraken inside me and throttle him right then and there. Instead, I fired my parting shot.
“Exactly when did you sell your soul, my friend?”
As I stood up to go, I heard “Lau teilatu.” Alba was calling. I’m not sure how well I managed to conceal how eager I was to speak with her, how much I wanted to bring her up to speed. I walked away from Lutxo and his ridiculous goatee, leaving his anger behind.
To find some privacy, I descended the wooden stairs to the bathrooms. I glanced around; both doors were open, so I could share my news discreetly.
“Estíbaliz has been calling me because you won’t pick up,” she said. “Forensics has confirmed that the samples of the wood from the barrel MatuSalem was found in match those taken from the casks in the abandoned bodega. French oak, used for aging wine. Rare nowadays. We’re still waiting for the test results on the bags.”
“I have news, too,” I said, my voice hushed. “I think I know who wrote the novel and murdered all those people.”
“What?”
“I can’t tell you much right now. What I can tell you is that The Lords of Time is a retelling of an unpublished twelfth-century chronicle by Count Vela. The person who wrote it must have a copy of the original text penned by the count, which is worth several million euros—”
“Estíbaliz is in charge of the investigation. Why don’t you tell her?” Alba cut in.
Because I’m afraid Estíbaliz has fallen in love with our mysterious author’s murderous alter, I wanted to tell him.
But I kept quiet.
I had other plans.
26
ANP
UNAI
October 2019
I dialed the number for the tower and Claudia, the guide, answered.
“Good morning, I’d like to visit the tower,” I said. “What time are your guided tours?”
“There’s one in an hour, and another at six this evening.”
“Perfect, I’ll come at six.”
“Please try to be punctual.”
I drove to Ugarte and parked next to an abandoned lot. I walked toward the tower, keeping an eye on the time. As soon as I saw people milling around the entrance, I joined them. Claudia was ushering visitors through the inner courtyard. I indicated that I was going up to the apartment.
As I pressed the intercom, I said a quiet prayer.
“Hello?”
“Good evening, Ramiro Alvar. It’s Unai, may I come up?”
“Of course, please.”
I was in luck; the person waiting for me in the blue hallway was Ramiro Alvar. He was wearing slacks and his glasses. He looked tense.
“I don’t want you to think I’m not pleased to see you, but is something the matter?” he asked in his wispy voice.
“Why do you ask?”
“Well, you’ve been coming here quite a bit,” he replied with a shrug.
“Could we go into the library?” I said.
“Of course, the library is my favorite room.”
“If I had one like yours, it would be mine, too.”
He sat in his reading chair and gestured for me to take a seat next to his walnut desk.
“So, what’s this all about?”
“Let’s not play games,” I began. “Something strange is going on around you.”
“Please explain.”
“After you wrote a novel based closely on a twelfth-century diary, people have started to die in the same ways as the characters in your book.”
I hadn’t arrived unprepared. My gun was in my shoulder holster, and the safety was off. I leaned forward so I would be able to reach it more easily.
But Ramiro Alvar simply stared at his hands as if they were someone else’s.
“So you’ve figured out that much….I tried…I did my best to keep everything under control, but obviously I failed.”
“Of course, you’re free to call your lawyer, but if you want to make a confession, I’ll have to take you to the police station.”
“That won’t be necessary. I don’t intend to confess to anything, Unai. I didn’t kill anyone. I’m incapable of violence. I literally couldn’t hurt a fly. Call me soft, if you’d like, you wouldn’t be the first. But yes, I admit: I did write my own version of Don Vela’s chronicle. It was something private, therapeutic. I never intended for it to be published, for obvious reasons.”
“One of which is that Don Vela’s descendants might demand you return the copy of the chronicle. Your ancestors stole their property.”
Ramiro Alvar lowered his head in shame, as if the ancient sin weighed on his conscience.
“It’s true. I was horrified when I saw your copy of The Lords of Time. I realized that my manuscript had been stolen and published under a pseudonym.”
“So the novel is your manuscript, word for word?”
“Yes, it’s unchanged.”
“Can you prove it?”
He went over to the desk and turned on his laptop.
“Here, see for yourself.”
I approached cautiously and stayed well out of his way just in case he tried to poison me with a medieval powder.
He opened a document and showed me the date of his last revision. It was over a year ago.
“Writing this was cathartic, and for a whil
e I thought the therapy had worked. At one point, I printed a copy, but I destroyed it because I wanted to move on. I have no idea who hacked into my computer and stole the manuscript. Of course, it should be intellectual-property theft, but because I never registered the manuscript, I don’t own the copyright. Although I don’t want or need the money, this story was never meant to be seen. Now thousands of people are reading it….And four have died. I don’t understand what’s going on.”
“Then help me by telling me what you do understand. You admit to writing the novel, and you insist you didn’t publish it or kill anybody. But you must suspect someone. You’ve also concealed your diagnosis from me. It’s time for you to tell me the truth, because I have evidence linking you to every one of the crimes: At the scene of the first murder, there was an intruder dressed in a Dominican’s habit like the one from your collection. Samples of wood taken from the barrel that contained the young man and animals drowned in the river match the barrels in your abandoned bodega. We also found plastic bags there that are identical to the ones used to transport the sisters who were trapped in the wall.”
Ramiro Alvar looked at me, aghast.
“Do you have fingerprints, DNA, footprints, other evidence…?” he asked.
“Physical evidence linking you to the victims and the crime scene? Not yet. But we’re still looking. Tell me: Why did you rewrite the chronicle, and why did you change some of the events?”
“Because I wanted to kill my alter and any others who might follow him! I never meant for anyone to die. I just wanted to cure myself, and I thought I’d succeeded. Alvar disappeared for an entire year, and I was able to live in peace. Then when you came here the other day to pick up the novel and I didn’t recognize you, I realized that he must have met you the day before. It meant he was back. I hadn’t killed him off after all. Since then, I’ve been terrified. I have no memory of what happens when he’s here, and I’m afraid of what he might do to keep me from killing him.”
“So you confirm that you have dissociative identity disorder. Is that why you studied psychology?”
“I’m not the first Lord of Nograro to suffer from this condition. There’s something I want to show you.”
I followed somewhat warily to the floor below. This was a room I hadn’t seen. Stretching across all four walls were blue canvases depicting a magnificent cityscape. The effect was dizzying. Dozens of old photos were displayed on an upright piano.
“Carnival,” I whispered.
“Carnival?” He laughed hollowly. “A festival for the villagers, and for the lord of the tower, who could openly dress up as one of his alters: the aging countess, the boy, the abbess, the soldier, the priest. The day was a torment for the rest of the family who stoically endured the silent ridicule. I have fond memories of my parents in their old age. They didn’t really have the energy to raise me, but my father was dutiful and affectionate, and my mother gave me all the love and support a child needs. However, my father suffered from the illness that afflicts Nograro men, known as multiple personality disorder back then. Although he saw several psychiatrists, no one was able to cure him. When my parents died tragically, my brother and I had to identify their bodies at the Santiago Hospital morgue. We had to experience the shame of seeing our dead father dressed in a maid’s uniform, complete with cap, apron, stockings, and high heels.”
“What happened to your brother?”
“He died of a hereditary blood disorder. He was a priest, but after our parents died, he came back to live at the tower. I was still a minor, so he became my legal guardian. We were very close. He was a wonderful brother, quite brilliant. I miss him every day.”
“I have a degree in criminal profiling,” I said, “and I’ve been in touch with a specialist in dissociative identity disorder, one of the few people in the country who has successfully treated people with the condition. I told her about you, and she helped me understand DID a bit better. She told me that this disorder is rare, so not many incidence studies have been conducted, but there’s nothing to indicate that it’s hereditary.”
“Really? So what do you think these are?” he snapped, gesturing emphatically at the photographs. “People in costumes? Wake up, Unai. These pictures weren’t taken during Carnival. The men in my family dressed up like this every day. The condition always started as a childish prank, but as they grew up, they developed several alters. These men didn’t know how to deal with their multiple personalities, so they hid them away from the rest of the world. The family became known for being reclusive. But how could they go out dressed like someone different every day without ending up in an asylum?”
“Doctor Leiva believes she can help you integrate your alter if you agree to therapy with her. You’re the apparently normal personality, the ANP, aren’t you?”
“I believe so. This is the personality I’ve had since I was young, and this is how others remember me as well. My disorder came later.”
“Why did you rewrite the chronicle?”
“I associate it with them: my father, my grandfather, my brother. It’s our family’s hidden gem, the spoils of an ancestral feud. It paints a vivid portrait of our forefathers’ day-to-day lives, describing how they confronted the events of 1199. We were all familiar with it. I remember gathering around the hearth with my family—my mother, siblings, uncles—and listening to my father read it aloud. He brought his ancestors’ voices to life in the very library I showed you the other day.”
“So you rewrote it as a form of therapy,” I said. “You created a character who reminded you of your alter, changed a few details, and then killed him. Even though, in the real chronicle, in Victoria’s real history, that person didn’t die.”
“I believe Alvar read the book, realized he was going to die, and started to target the people he thinks correspond to the characters in the novel. He’s killing them to avoid being killed himself.”
“In other words, he’s doing what alters do—trying to survive.”
“I’m not sure, Unai. It’s just a theory. Whenever Alvar appears, he takes over. The next thing I know, there’s a crumpled cassock in my wardrobe and a hole in my memory. It’s as though he unplugs my consciousness. He switches me off entirely.”
“And you think he’s the murderer?”
Ramiro Alvar looked at me helplessly.
“Is there really no DNA linking these crimes to me?” he asked again.
“No, which is why I can’t present this to the judge. She’d think I was crazy.”
All I have is circumstantial evidence. Any defense lawyer would immediately have it thrown out, I thought.
“Besides, you can’t be a witness to something you can’t remember. I really believe that the only solution is for you to meet Doctor Leiva and start therapy with her. She’ll know how to activate Alvar.”
He flipped up his jacket collar, as though a shiver had just run down his spine.
“You don’t know what you’re asking me to do. I’m scared. I’m scared that Alvar is mad at me for writing that novel and trying to kill him off.”
“Alvar can’t hurt you physically. You’re the ANP; without you, he doesn’t exist. I have one more question: Did you see us from your window?”
“I’m sorry?”
“I assume you can see the road and the parking lot from your library window. Do you remember seeing Inspector Gauna and me the first time we visited you here?”
“Now that you mention it, I think I remember seeing you both get out of the car. But I have no recollection of meeting her. Did she come upstairs with you?”
Yes, and you stayed out all night with her, Casanova, I was tempted to quip.
“Yes, she did. I suspect it’s my colleague, Estíbaliz, who triggers Alvar.”
All of a sudden, Ramiro ripped off his glasses as though they pained him. When he spoke, his voice was imperious.
“N
o more talk of psychiatrists, Inspector. This visit has gone on long enough. Allow me to show you out.”
I looked at him, and my reptilian brain, the ancient part of us that alerts us to danger, ordered my right hand to reach for my gun.
“Of course, I was just leaving.”
I let him walk out first. I didn’t want to turn my back on him. We walked shoulder to shoulder along the faded corridors. With a smug grin on his face, Alvar held his head high, hands clasped behind his back. He was like a child, keeping a secret inside his wooden castle.
“Will you give my regards to your colleague?”
“Naturally. We both have her best interests at heart, don’t we?” I asked pointedly.
“Indeed. You can’t imagine the ways in which my chance encounter with that extraordinary woman has turned my life upside down.”
“Enough to make you leave the priesthood?”
I swallowed hard. I knew I was talking to Alvar, but his gestures were as real as Ramiro Alvar’s.
His gaze wandered off, as though he were thinking of a pleasant memory.
“If anybody were worth doing that for, it would, of course, be her.”
“We’re agreed on that,” I said, nodding.
“Put in a good word for me, will you?” he asked, a touch of desperation coming through his golden voice.
I leaned closer. No one could hear us, but I needed to win him over, to create a certain complicity between us, so I whispered, “Come on, Alvar. You know that isn’t necessary.”
With that I walked down the stairs, away from him. Okay, I thought, taking stock. Alvar monitors the phone and the road, and he’s isolating Ramiro Alvar in his tower. That’s easy enough to do. Ramiro Alvar has become agoraphobic because he’s afraid people will find out about his condition. At the mere mention of Estíbaliz today, Alvar took over. He is alert to when his ANP is present, and he can take over whenever he wants. Ramiro Alvar has no memory of what his alter does.
* * *
—
I walked back to the village, knowing that Alvar was watching my every move from the library window.
The Lords of Time Page 22