Caballero

by Pablo Poveda

  “Yes,” I interrupted, “it seems you don’t want to dig deeper, do you?”

  “There’s nothing else I can do, dear friend.” He said and glanced at the glass he was holding with his fingers. “I can sense a dark future for me, for the university... for everybody. I would have preferred losing and being left alone. I’m sure they’ll go after me.”

  “Are you suspicious of anybody?”

  “You are the one who asked.”

  We tasted the octopus and the delicious tartare and then ordered a second bottle of wine. Drinking sat well with us and made Hidalgo relax. The waiter filled our glasses and we ordered some black rice with grouper as our first dish. The other dishes were insignificant on the plate.

  “What do you know about someone called Alejandro Maciá?”

  The first critical hit. He choked on the wine in his throat.

  “I’ve seen him prowling around the university lately,” he replied sounding very unconvincing. “It seems he and Llopis were friends.”

  “Yesterday he was also at the hall,” I said.

  “How do you know him?” He asked intrigued. The sun was shining orange through the window. It was beautiful. Unique.

  “Working on Llopis’ profile, I saw his face on several official photos,” I explained. “I didn’t know who he was until I saw him again in the conference room. When Llopis had the heart attack and the paramedics arrived, the idiot got the hell out of there.”

  “Did you talk to him?

  “No.”

  “How do you know his name?”

  “I followed him,” I replied. “I got his plate number.”

  “You’re gonna get your ass kicked one day, Caballero.”

  “No pain, no gain.”

  Hidalgo laughed. “I don’t know what they were plotting, Llopis and that arrogant idiot,” Hidalgo blurted, irritated. As the wine had an effect in his blood, Antonio became more vulnerable and let out what he actually felt, “because that is what he is, Gabriel, an arrogant idiot... but not like us. He is a jerk, one of those who wants to take advantage of people at any cost.”

  The way he made it all personal woke up my curiosity.

  “What relationship did you have with her?”

  “I already told you.”

  “Come on, man. I know you.”

  “Merely professional, Gabriel.” He said staring at my eyes. “What happened is a tragedy and that’s why I feel like this. I’m worried by the thought of having a ghost walking down the university corridors next Monday... I’m not religious, but those things give me the creeps.”

  “You could call the ghosts busters, couldn’t you?” Hidalgo looked me in the eye again. This time it was him, the real him, and he blurted a laugh. We toasted again, to us, to the beautiful women walking next to the ships. Summer was about to come, but the sun felt as if it had already arrived. I took several mental notes to use later and decided to leave the topic aside, enjoy my friend’s company and have a good time beyond the mess that was about to be unleashed for us.

  We got our rice, coffee and whisky served. Once again, like two breathless birds, we let ourselves go with the Mediterranean breeze and the sunset dragged us with it to the inhospitable spots of the city.

  I HAD SLEPT IN MY STREET clothes again. A dense film covered my teeth as a result of the alcohol. The night with Hidalgo... it got out of hand. I looked at the alarm clock next to the bed. It was five in the morning. I had slept three hours. Patricia hadn’t come back and that scared me. The absence of heat under the sheets woke me up. My body was synchronized with hers so much that, when she didn’t get home before midnight, sleeping turned into a challenge.

  I slipped my hand in the pocket of my jeans and grabbed my cell phone. My temples were swollen and I felt a bit dizzy. The alcohol started to transform into a hangover. I needed a shower and to drink some water. I took a deep breath and glanced at the phone display. There weren’t any missed calls from Patricia. “Where are you?” I thought aloud.

  Suddenly, the phone vibrated and fell out of my hands. I picked it up thinking it would be Patricia with a plausible excuse or her drunk cracked voice. Both would calm me down. But, when I answered, I heard a male’s voice.

  “Gabriel Caballero?” Said the voice, reverberating on the other side.

  “Detective Botella?” I said back. It was five in the morning. I was definitely screwed.

  “Sorry to bother you so late... or early, it depends.” He said. “I thought you’d be at work. You know what they say about the press...” He was wrong.

  “How can I help you?” I asked.

  “I’m calling you because I’d like to meet up with you,” he said, “in a neutral place, if possible. I believe you can help me with something and I can help you.”

  “I already told you I didn’t know Ms. Llopis.”

  “Listen, Caballero.” He said firmly. “It’s not about that, don’t worry. However, I know that you have recently requested confidential information about a private car, and that has caught my attention. You know? Between you and me, we are talking about something illegal here.”

  I put my hand on my forehead. I was burning hot. My body was distilling alcohol and Detective Botella was blackmailing me at five in the morning.

  “I’ll see you at La Perla at seven.” I told him, thinking of a place near my apartment. “It’s by Plaza de España, in front of the bullring. You can’t miss it.”

  “Got it. Thank you for your collaboration, Caballero.” He replied. “I knew I could count on you.”

  The rabbit hole was getting deeper and deeper.

  6

  DETECTIVE BOTELLA WAITED inside the café, seated on a foam rubber stool with his arms on the metal bar. He was sipping on his coffee. It was seven in the morning and La Perla looked as if it had been open for hours. Spanish bars are like that, always running. The morning customers, the taxi drivers and the local workers stopped by before work began. I ordered a double black coffee and shook the detective’s hand.

  “Thank you for coming.” He said, observing my eyes. The shower had given me some energy, but my pupils still burned. “Looks like you had a rough night.”

  “It’s part of the job.” I replied. “Well, detective...”

  The man laughed timidly. In his eyes, I found the character of a man who suffered from something, whether it was due to the weather, his old age, work or family problems, I didn’t know. He was married —I knew that from his golden wedding ring, however, he didn’t seem completely happy. Botella was one of those men who had been born during Franco’s time and had seen the arrival of democracy. Like him, my father, his friends and many other people, they were fading away among the new generation. They were people with solid values that had been forged under the obligatory military service, people with limited and stoical views who didn’t hesitate solving problems with their fists.

  Botella was dressed in street clothes, jeans and a black polo shirt. On the bar, there was a blue folder he opened and pulled out several documents.

  “Before we start, I’d like everything said here to be off the recording,” in a botched attempt to use the English expression.

  “You mean off the record,” I corrected. He didn’t seem to like that.

  “Whatever.” He responded. “Between you and me, I mean. What I’m about to tell you is confidential and if you open your mouth before I say so, I’ll lock you up. Understood?”

  “So why are you telling me then?”

  “Keep your questions for later, will you?” He replied, showing me one of the documents. It was the non-official autopsy report about Llopis’ death. “The district attorney’s office has decided to close the case since there isn’t any evidence of a... murder. They want to avoid an unnecessary scandal and protect the good image of the city from going down the drain. However, I’m not sure that’s the case... and it seems you aren’t either.”

  “Why do you think so?”

  “I was sent there by chance, since the President
was concerned about the coffee having arsenic,” he explained and laughed, “so I went there to see what was going on and calm things down a little. When something like that happens, the General Courts might begin to burn some documents, you follow?”

  “Yes, sure.”

  “At first glance it looked like one of the tragedies you see on the news,” he continued, “but, to my surprise, when I checked the profiles of the guest list, I found something.”

  The policeman took another document out of his folder. In this case, it was a police report for disorderly conduct. The accused was Antonio Maciá who had punched someone while trying to intercede in an altercation in the middle of the street.

  “I visited the scene and searched the security camera recordings,” he said with a copy of the report in his hand. He took out another piece of paper with printed photos of very bad quality. On them, it was Antonio Maciá, Monica Llopis and an unknown person at a cafe’s front door. “And boom! There they were.”

  “It could be a coincidence.” I said. The officer suspected the same. “That just makes him a possible suspect.”

  “Don’t give me that crap!” He exclaimed. “I only had to make a phone call and get his driver’s record for Romero to tell me the press was already being a pain in the ass.”

  “It could have been anybody.”

  “Anybody who had a brother-in-law working in the DMV,” he observed. “Since when are you suspicious of him?”

  “I asked my boss to find the plate number to identify the owner,” I explained. “I saw him leaving the conference room in a hurry after what happened.”

  “Did you two know each other?”

  “No,” I replied, “but his face appeared in several photos with Llopis.”

  “That could also be a coincidence, don’t you think?” He mocked me. “You know? The difference between you and me is that your hypotheses are just that, theories that take you nowhere due to your lack of resources. On the other hand, mine can be investigated and that’s what I did.”

  I didn’t much like those arrogant outbursts, but I had no choice other than to keep listening.

  “Surprise me.”

  The man grabbed the autopsy report again and placed it under my nose.

  “We found DNA rests from two different people on Llopis’ body.” He explained. “We don’t have the final report yet.”

  “This is getting more interesting,” I said. And it was. It seemed my journalist’s nose was on fire. I had to get to the bottom of this story, it would be the key to national press.

  “I’d like you to come with me and meet a little friend of mine who’s helping in all this. Are you free now?”

  “It depends,” I replied, thinking of Ortiz and pulling out my cell phone for Detective Botella to make the phone call. He wasn’t going to like the news. “If Homicide requests Gabriel Caballero’s services, I don’t think there’s anything more important, don’t you think?”

  “Cut the crap”, he said with half a smile. “I don’t want you to be under the illusion that I need you. I’m just looking for a third party opinion to help solve the puzzle. As I said, this is off the recording.”

  I laughed but kept my mouth shut. Getting up early had been worth it. Somehow, that man trusted my intuition. The situation was getting more complex. If everything Botella had told me was true, Monica Llopis’ natural death could turn out to be something different, a good story typical of Russian intelligence services, but why? Who would have any interest in ending the dean’s life? The questions piled up in my mind like feathers inside a duvet.

  I needed answers. That would give me a break with Ortiz, Patricia and my financial situation. The winds would soon be favorable. The officer picked up his phone, took out a five-euro bill and paid for the coffees. Later, we walked, got in an old navy blue Ford Sierra and headed for the university.

  WHEN WE ARRIVED AT San Vicente del Raspeig University campus, we left the car at the public parking lot and followed a white brick road towards the Faculty of Science. The sun invited the students to sit on the fresh grass, forgetting about the final exams for a while. Some girls carried folders in their arms and wore short dresses that left nobody indifferent. Others drank and played cards at the cafeteria. I reminisced when, a few years back, I was also here, surrounded by beer bottles and the perfume of youth. Those years were behind me now, from the moment I received my diploma and started to work. By then, I had also said goodbye to vacation time, dignity, and the ambition to conquer the world. Those were the best years of my life and, once they were over, it was better not to think about them.

  The detective stopped in front of a brown two-story building. Two steps connected the ground to the first floor entrance.

  “My friend is a good guy,” the detective explained, “a bit weird, but very nice. Don’t be scared of his peculiarities, but don’t be too cheeky either.”

  “I’m bombproof, detective.”

  “Don’t tell me I didn’t warn you,” he replied.

  We went down the corridor to another one full of classrooms and laboratories. The detective walked firmly and I just followed him.

  “Casavieja, I have some company...” he said at the threshold to one of the labs. When I moved closer, I saw someone I didn’t expect.

  “Wow, it’s you.” The man in the white coat said.

  That familiar tone proved the close relationship there was between them. It was the same man that had asked me for a cigarette when I left the university hall.

  “What are you doing with a journalist?”

  “Casavieja?” I asked.

  “Two old Galician dogs.”

  “Did you know each other?” He asked with astonishment. “Small world, indeed... Caballero is here to collaborate in the investigation, but you know, off the recording.”

  “You mean off the record,” Doctor Casavieja corrected.

  “Whatever!” The detective exclaimed. “Who cares? You understand what I mean.”

  I couldn’t help laughing. The doctor, who seemed to lack social skills, was still wondering what he had done wrong.

  “I’m just here to shed some light on all this, that’s all.” I said.

  “Although Casavieja has a PhD in Biology,” the detective explained.

  “Biotechnology, Botella.” He corrected again. “It ain’t the same.”

  “Whatever...” He sighed. “The thing is he has connections everywhere, especially with the forensics in town.”

  “That’s true.” The doctor agreed. “Let’s just say I’m a frustrated forensic...”

  “I asked him to get us a second autopsy of Ms. Llopis, a non-official one. The current one seems to have been manipulated by the media.”

  “With all due respect”, said the doctor, “Ms. Llopis was too young to die of a heart attack. Of course, anything is possible, but here in the department she never showed symptoms of bad habits.”

  “See, Caballero? Just what we were thinking...”

  “Monica was loved by everybody, both students and staff,” he continued, “despite our relationship being only a professional one, we had known each other for twenty years. In fact, I’m here thanks to her.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “You hadn’t told me that,” the policeman muttered.

  “I assumed it wasn’t important, Botella.” He replied, pushing up the frame of his glasses. “Before working at the university, Monica and I had worked together at a pharmaceutical lab in Valencia. She left first, then there was a purge and we all got fired, but Monica didn’t forget about us and pulled some strings to get us working here as researchers and professors. Thanks to that, we have been able to carry out one of the most promising research projects worldwide. Thanks to everybody’s work, the final tests turned out quite positive.”

  “Interesting.” I said.

  “It is,” he replied, “If it wasn’t for her, my life would have taken a totally different turn.”

  “What can you tell us about th
e evidence found in her body?”

  “There are two people, as I said.” The doctor confirmed. “We don’t know their identities. However, I can assure you that one of them had a much more intimate encounter with her...”

  “Explain that.” I requested.

  “There was physical contact.”

  “Well, that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.” I added. “Maybe, Ms. Llopis wanted to keep her personal life private.”

  “Maybe,” replied Dr. Casavieja, “although, I must admit that it seems a bit suspicious when the context is an investiture.”

  “Did she have any enemies?” I inquired.

  “Not that I know of... Maybe that was her mistake, don’t you think?”

  “Casavieja, tell me the truth.” The detective interrupted. “Tell us why we should believe this is a homicide and not a natural death.”

  The doctor looked surprised, as if we had overlooked something important in the report.

  “I thought you had read the autopsy report,” he said. “We found As3 under her fingernails and in her hair, besides the DNA findings.”

  “What’s that?” The inspector asked.

  “Arsphenamine,” Casavieja clarified. “An organic component of arsenic, the most famous poison.”

  The doctor’s words turned the investigation upside down. If that were true, what had happened could have been premeditated murder. I felt sick to my stomach just imagining how serious this case was getting. I glanced at the detective, overwhelmed by what he had just heard. These sort of cases weren’t his thing, he wasn’t ready for that. Asking to reopen the case would only get them in trouble, but it was obvious there was some kind of interest in Llopis not becoming the dean.

  “I don’t want to seem ignorant, but...” I began to say, breaking the silence, “who the hell has access to arsenic? I doubt you can get it in the shops.”

  “You can find arsenic in many places,” the doctor replied, “however, you must calculate the dose. It all depends on the effect you’re looking for in the victim.”

  “This is outrageous!” the detective exclaimed. “What does Maciá have to do with all this?”