Smaller and Smaller Circles

by F. H. Batacan

  He dozes off and is startled awake by the sound of the door in the outer room banging closed. There is a sharp rap on his own door, and it opens seconds later, his visitor not bothering to wait to be asked to come in.

  “Good evening, Ben.”

  “Sir. I have some papers for you to sign.” Attorney Benjamin Arcinas holds the papers aloft as he crosses the room. It’s been a long day, and his hair—often artfully arranged in large curls and dyed a shade of red that does not occur naturally on this earth—is limp and greasy.

  The director imagines that the air in the room has been rendered immediately noxious by Arcinas’s barely masked hostility. “Yes. You can leave them on my desk. But please, have a seat.”

  Arcinas ignores the request and instead taps the sheaf of papers with one forefinger. “I need them by tomorrow morning.”

  “And you will have them by tomorrow morning,” the director says. After more than a year of working with him, he’s no longer surprised at being ignored by Arcinas. So he adds, more firmly this time, “But please. Have a seat. I need to discuss something with you.”

  The other man takes a step forward, then stops. “Discuss? Or have you already decided?” When the director doesn’t respond at once, he arrives at his own conclusions. “You have. And you just called me in to tell me.”

  “We have to do what is necessary.”

  Arcinas arches an eyebrow. “Well. Of course, if you think it’s necessary . . .”

  The attorney has been with the NBI for most of his working life. He is ambitious and self-serving and does not trust outsiders. When Director Lastimosa was new to the bureau, he quickly sized up who was allied with whom within the organizational hierarchy. Arcinas was, and is, a fiercely loyal ally of Assistant Director Philip Mapa, the man who had been tipped to head the bureau before Director Lastimosa’s surprise appointment was announced. Had Mapa been chosen, Arcinas would likely have been his deputy. To the director, it’s clear that this thwarted ambition is the key reason Arcinas has been so antagonistic toward him since he took the helm of the bureau. That antagonism has only been amplified by this plan to consult with another outsider—Saenz, a man with whom Arcinas has locked horns before and whom he clearly considers a threat to his reputation and standing in the law enforcement community.

  “Ben, I need you to cooperate with me on this. We need all the help we can get. You’re swamped with work as it is. Everyone else has too much on their plate already, and we can hardly keep up.”

  “Oh, of course I understand the rationale, sir,” he says, unable—unwilling—to rein in his sarcasm. “I just hope you’ve considered the impact of this move on the morale of your people.”

  “I have. And I am quite certain that our people want to get to the bottom of this.” The director stands and looks directly at him. “You most of all, Ben. Am I right?”

  There’s nothing else Arcinas can do, for now. He puts the papers on the desk and walks out.

  4

  The following week, Saenz begins work on the case. The boy was about thirteen. His facial skin was completely peeled off and his internal organs neatly carved out of his body.

  Saenz has been consulted because of his expertise as a forensic anthropologist, one of only three in the country who have trained under the famous American expert Clyde Snow. He earned his doctorate from a French university in the late seventies, specializing in physical and medical anthropology.

  As a rule, forensic anthropologists are primarily consulted on problems with the identification of skeletal remains. However, Saenz’s skills extend considerably into other aspects of forensic science, including advanced training in forensic pathology, which enables him to perform autopsies on persons who have died of unnatural causes.

  Through consulting with various branches of the police and other law enforcement agencies, Saenz has gained an intimate knowledge of their investigative methods and techniques, as well as their frustrating inadequacy. Over the past few years he has formed a theory about murder in the Philippines that would prove highly controversial if he ever went public with it.

  Unlike police in the United States or Europe, Philippine police and law enforcement authorities do not compile statistics on missing persons on a nationwide basis. Most people with a missing relative are advised to turn to a local radio or television station to issue a panawagan—an appeal to the public for help or information to locate the person. Often, that’s as far as things go; little police effort, if any, is expended toward following up on the cases after that—unless, of course, the victims are wealthy or influential.

  The police do not bother to systematically record how many of these persons do turn up later, whether dead or alive—or how many people remain missing and for how long. Indeed, the recording of all crime is largely inadequate and sloppy. Little attention is paid to determining patterns: a missing person’s physical type or age, the geographic area in which he or she disappeared or reappeared, the condition in which he or she has been found.

  Saenz surmises that the country’s hidden murder rate is probably far above the numbers reported as part of Philippine National Police’s annual murder statistics.

  Taking this logic one step further, he also concludes that serial killing is not as impossible a phenomenon in the country as popular perception and opinion seem to suggest, but one that local law enforcement has barely any capability or inclination to detect. This is because little, if any, comparison is ever made between the particulars of murders committed at different times or places. Here, again, the poor recording of crime information comes into play, as well as the ineffectual communication and coordination between agencies and even units within the same agencies.

  Whenever he finds himself at a social occasion that brings him into contact with law enforcement officials, Saenz tentatively trots out his theory. It is quickly withdrawn when some police general smiles patronizingly and says, “You’ve been watching too many foreign movies, Father Saenz; there are no serial killers in the Philippines.” The reasons offered simultaneously amuse and anger Saenz. “Our neighborhoods are too congested, our neighbors too nosy, our families too tightly knit for secrets to be kept and allowed to fester. We have too many ways to blow off steam—the nightclub, the karaoke bar, the after-work drinking binges with our fun-loving barkada. We’re too Catholic, too God-fearing, too fearful of scandal.”

  Saenz wants to tell these men, No, sir, it is you who have been watching too many foreign movies. Such killers can be found all over the world, not just in the West—in China, India, Indonesia, Pakistan, South Korea, Hong Kong. Japan has a fairly long list of them, as does South Africa. What makes you think the Philippines is so blessed by God that we would be exempt from this kind of evil? It isn’t. It simply hasn’t developed the necessary frameworks, the physical infrastructure and human skill sets, required to recognize and track down such killers.

  Saenz knows only too well that if he wants to change the collective mind of local law enforcement, he has to present data. The police are quite happy to argue theory with a priest, but they are intimidated by statistics, by hard facts, by numbers. Saenz feels that effective policing and law enforcement requires the proper collection, storage and processing of information.

  These particular murders are another opportunity to begin compiling that data.

  When Saenz arrives at the bureau, he is escorted to a drab, windowless office where one of Director Lastimosa’s deputy directors, Jake Valdes, is waiting.

  Valdes is in his midforties but looks easily ten years younger—like a graduate student, with his straight, black hair, wire-rim glasses and plaid shirt.

  “Good morning, Father,” he says, extending his hand to shake Saenz’s.

  “Director Valdes,” Saenz replies.

  “We’re just waiting for Director Lastimosa and Attorney Ben Arcinas.”

  “Ah, yes. Ben.” Saenz has encountered Arcina
s in two cases before, and he is well aware that he is not the good attorney’s favorite person.

  Valdes’s gaze settles upon the priest. “Director Lastimosa is aware—”

  The door opens. Benjamin Arcinas saunters in, and the atmosphere fairly crackles with the force of his antipathy. He throws a folded newspaper down on the table in the center of the room, drags a chair out and sits facing Valdes, pointedly ignoring Saenz.

  “Can’t stay long,” he says, tilting his head toward the newspaper. Saenz knows the front-page headline is about a brazen bank robbery that took place in broad daylight three days before; a security guard and a passing cigarette vendor ended up dead. “Have my hands full with Agribank today.”

  Of course you do, Saenz thinks to himself. It’s a high-profile case that everyone’s watching, and the chairman of the bank is a known golf buddy of your padrino, Mapa.

  Saenz doesn’t say a word, though, merely watches with growing interest the dynamic between the two other men. Valdes, he notices, has gone from friendly to distant, not even sparing Arcinas’s newspaper a glance.

  “Regardless of what you have on your plate today, you’ll have to wait for Director Lastimosa.”

  “He knows I have no patience for these long meetings,” Arcinas retorts sourly.

  “I guess you’ll just have to find some,” Valdes answers, his face unsettling in its blankness. They hear footsteps outside the open door, and then the director looks into the room.

  “Good. You’re all here.” The director walks in and closes the door behind him. Saenz and Valdes both give him respectful nods of acknowledgment, but Arcinas fishes the lifestyle section out of the newspaper and leans back in his chair, pretending to read.

  Director Lastimosa pulls up another chair and sits down. “Anything good in the cinemas, Ben?” he inquires. It’s a gentle, veiled rebuke, but unmistakable nevertheless. Saenz notes the barely there smile that plays on Arcinas’s lips as he folds up the newspaper again, satisfied that he managed to get a mild rise out of Director Lastimosa. He slides the newspaper back toward the center of the table, then stretches his short legs out in front of him, the feigned casualness calibrated to indicate disdain for the meeting’s other participants.

  Director Lastimosa draws his lips together in a tight line but says nothing. Valdes pulls up two chairs, one for Saenz and one for himself. “Thank you,” Saenz murmurs as he takes his seat.

  “Shouldn’t Director Mapa be at this meeting?” Arcinas asks.

  Valdes takes off his glasses, wipes the lenses with a handkerchief. “Emergency leave.” Without the glasses, his eyes seem very small.

  Arcinas looks from him to Director Lastimosa and back again. “Really?” When he receives no answer, his eyes dart from person to person once more, settling finally on Saenz. “How convenient.”

  “He was told about the meeting, and he said he would come. He changed his plans at the last minute.” Valdes puts his glasses back on, and his eyes appear sharper somehow. “Golf,” he adds, and he makes the word sound like an obscenity.

  “All right, let’s get down to it,” Director Lastimosa says. There’s a hint of impatience in his voice, and all three of them involuntarily straighten up in their seats—even Arcinas. “Ben, you know Father Saenz, of course.” Arcinas merely grunts in reply. “We’ve asked him to take a second look at what we have on the two Payatas murders. Jake?”

  At the mention of his name, Valdes nods, stands and walks to a small filing cabinet in one corner of the room. He opens the top drawer and takes out a set of pink folders, then returns to the table and hands the folders to Saenz.

  Saenz lays them down on the table in front of him, then quickly leafs through the contents. He ignores Arcinas’s heavy sigh of boredom. After a few moments, he looks up at the director. “There’s not much in here.”

  Arcinas bristles. “The second body was found just last week. These things take time, as you very well know.”

  “It’s an observation, Ben, not a judgment,” Director Lastimosa says, then turns to Saenz. “But yes. There isn’t much beyond what the local police have given us. Those are mostly their notes and reports.”

  Saenz is dismayed, but he’s seen this too many times before to be surprised. “I’ll look through these again more thoroughly. I suppose you’ve considered revisiting the site where the second boy was found?”

  “Thought you might want us to do that,” Jake says. He glances at the director. “Shall I put Rustia on it?”

  “As soon as possible, please. Today if he can manage it.”

  Arcinas has removed a pen from his pocket and is twiddling it through his fingers idly. “It’s probably just some drunken or drug-crazed pervert who got angry when he couldn’t get his way. We see it all the time, especially in slums like Payatas.” When there’s no reaction, he forges on. “I’m not saying that we shouldn’t investigate this, but I don’t get the extreme focus on it. We’ve got bigger, more pressing things to take care of.”

  Valdes opens his mouth to say something, but decides against it. Saenz can think of many things he’d like to say, but he knows it’s not his place to say them, so he waits for the director to speak.

  “I know you’re not that naïve, Ben, so there must be another reason why you refuse to see how important these cases are. Is it because you think the victims themselves are unimportant?” The director leans forward, glaring at Arcinas. “Or is it because you have a problem with me?”

  Arcinas breaks eye contact, his defiance giving way to an almost childish sullenness. He slumps back in his chair and stares at the wall opposite him. Saenz catches Valdes and Director Lastimosa exchanging glances. The room is quiet for a while.

  The director clears his throat. “Father?”

  Saenz turns a page to study a photograph of the second boy’s body. “I can’t say with finality from just looking at pictures, but . . . these injuries do not look like the work of someone who was drunk or drugged or otherwise not in control of his faculties. And the fact that they are so similar to injuries inflicted on another victim . . .”

  Valdes folds his arms on top of the table. “So you’re confident it’s the same person?”

  “I can’t be completely sure at this point; I’ve just started. But from what I can see here, in these reports, they look too similar for us not to consider the possibility of a single perpetrator.”

  Arcinas snickers but says nothing.

  Valdes looks at him. “It’s not unthinkable. In the past we’ve had bodies popping up all over the city that look like serial vigilante killings. Heads wrapped in shirts, hands tied behind their backs. Cardboard signs on the bodies that identify the victim as a drug pusher or a rapist or a carnapper. Similar injuries, similar methods of disposal, similar staging.”

  “Any luck finding the killers?” Saenz asks.

  Valdes shakes his head.

  Saenz heaves a sigh of resignation. “With this one . . . as you yourself told me earlier, sir, if you have two bodies now, there may be more. You just haven’t found them yet. And there may be even more of them down the road.”

  “Now that’s just scaremongering,” Arcinas begins to protest, but the director holds up a hand to shush him.

  Saenz continues. “We may have to look at other deaths in the area—compare the injuries and the circumstances, see if there are parallels.”

  Valdes shifts uneasily in his seat. “That could take a while. And how far back do you want to go? We don’t have infinite resources.”

  “How far back can we go, given your current resources?” Saenz asks.

  Valdes turns to Director Lastimosa. The director considers the question a few moments. “Realistically, I’d say six months to a year. That’s manageable, Jake?”

  “Should be. We’d need to realign some staff temporarily.”

  Saenz doesn’t want to have to say this, but he has no ch
oice. “I’m afraid we may need to dig all the way down to blotter level, sir.”

  It’s an unpleasant prospect, but Valdes and the director know as soon as Saenz says it that it’s necessary. Crime statistics are chronically underreported or misreported across the country, as law enforcement officials at every level try to massage the numbers to create the illusion of better performance. Discrepancies have been estimated in as many as 60 percent of crime incidents, with some station commanders seemingly more interested in staying in office or snagging promotions than in presenting a true picture of criminal activity in their areas of responsibility. Discrepancies also arise when authorities at the level of the barangay—the country’s smallest administrative unit—neglect to submit incident reports, or submit selective or whitewashed reports. So Saenz doesn’t trust the completeness of police reports at the station level.

  Arcinas stands. “I don’t know about you, but I don’t have the time to dig through blotters.”

  “Sit down, Ben.”

  “What he’s asking us to do is—”

  “Sit down.” Director Lastimosa is not usually one to bark at his subordinates, but it’s obvious to Saenz that Arcinas is working on his last nerve here. “We won’t take shortcuts here. These children are just as important as your celebrities and politicians and bankers. This case falls within your purview, so I expect you to do what needs to be done.”

  Arcinas slides back into his chair, sulking. “You can’t even be sure you’ll get the police or barangay to cooperate.”

  “We’ll find a way.” Valdes turns to Saenz. “I’ve had those files photocopied for you. I’ll arrange for Rustia to come and see you before you leave this morning. And we’ll let you know soon how we’re progressing on the blotters.”

  “Thank you.”

  Arcinas looks around at everyone. “So we’re done here? I can go?”

  Director Lastimosa waves his hand to dismiss Arcinas. The director seems very tired now; Saenz notes the lines of strain on his forehead, around his eyes and mouth, the ashen tinge of his skin. Arcinas forcefully pushes his chair out from underneath him, its legs scraping loudly on the cement floor. He leaves the room, allowing the door to bang shut behind him.