“But with the removal of the genitals, Jerome—there must nevertheless be some sexual dimension to the killings.”
“I’m not discounting the possibility of that, no. I’m just stating the fact that there is no trace evidence that indicates that he violated the boys before or after death.” Jerome taps the folders against the edge of Saenz’s desk. “In accounts of serial killings throughout the world, the removal of hearts and other organs isn’t new.”
“But neither is the excision of genitals or the mutilation of faces.”
“No. But in these cases we’re looking at, the mutilation of the faces is very specific. He slits the throat just under the chin, from ear to ear. He slips his fingers into the slit and peels the skin back over the bones, with the aid of a knife and some other instrument.” Jerome shakes his head. “The flaying of the face is not a random act. It’s significant to him; he’s done it consistently over time, with six different victims. In most killings similar to ours, this is an act of depersonalization.”
“So you think that’s what he’s doing?”
“Yes.” Jerome bites his lower lip, his forehead creased in concentration. “But is he depersonalizing his victim? Or is he, in some way, projecting himself onto the victim? Is he depersonalizing himself through the victim?”
Saenz stops to consider this, and then turns to the board and writes it down: DEPERSONALIZING VICTIM? OR SELF?
Jerome waits for Saenz to finish scribbling, then slumps forward more heavily, like someone coming out of a trance exhausted. He puts his hands over his face. His eyeballs are throbbing, blotches of dull red pulsing through the black behind his closed eyelids.
“Tell me again, Gus, why do we do this?” he asks aloud, not really expecting an answer, palms cold against his warm forehead.
Saenz caps his pen and tosses it, along with the yellow pad, on top of the papers on his desk. He leans back in his seat and folds his long-fingered hands together. “Boredom?”
The younger priest spins himself around slowly in his chair. “I have an interesting life.”
“You think you have an interesting life. And for the most part, you do. You teach, you say Mass, you conduct research, see patients. Travel. Lecture. You do everything you’re supposed to do the way it’s supposed to be done. Once in a while, there’s a chance to do more. And you take it.”
Jerome snickers. “Right. I get it. My life can’t just be interesting. It has to be meaningful.” He feigns a kind of wounded solemnity, as though he were baring his soul to a sympathetic talk show host, and Saenz cannot help but chuckle.
“Something like that, yes.”
Jerome stops his slow spinning and looks at Saenz, at the planes and angles of his face, the grey advancing against the once-blue-blackness of his hair. Odd how this familiar face can calm him, even now that he is no longer a schoolboy.
“I’m no crusader, Gus,” Jerome mumbles, then presses the heels of his palms against his aching eyeballs to relieve the strain.
Saenz shakes his head. “No, my boy,” he says, so quietly that the other man does not hear him. “You’re just an ordinary man.”
8
The director arrives at the television network with little fanfare—so little that his vehicle is held up at the gate while security checks take place. He waits patiently in the back seat, but his driver is bristling.
“They shouldn’t make you wait like this,” he grumbles.
“Relax, Peping. I’m sure it won’t take long.”
Peping used to drive the director’s predecessor around; he’s used to having an armed escort, to gates and doors opening without question—to basking in reflected glory. What’s that old saying? Ang langaw na nakatuntong sa kalabaw, the fly standing on the water buffalo’s back.
“Maybe, sir, you should consider reinstating your escort. After all, you’re an important official, doing a dangerous job. Bad things have happened to people less important than you. It’s like tempting fate.”
This is not the first time Peping has made this most helpful recommendation; the day the director told him he would be doing away with the escort and using his own personal vehicle, Peping looked as though the sky had caved in on his head. Over the last few months, the driver has continued to put forward his view, gently at first, then with increasing zeal.
“It’s just a suggestion, of course. I mean, who am I to tell you what you should and shouldn’t do? I’m just a driver. You’re the one who knows best. You—”
“Tell me, Peping, has Human Resources given you a date for your transfer?” The director has known for several weeks that Peping has applied for a transfer to the staff of one of his deputies, a holdover from the previous administration. That deputy has an armed escort and a nice, sleek, government-issue vehicle—much more Peping’s speed.
The trouble is, the director isn’t supposed to know about the transfer application. The idea was that a new driver would simply turn up at his home before work one day. Peping goes pale, then beet red.
“Sir, I—well, they haven’t . . . I hope you—”
At this moment, a woman in a wildly flowered blouse and black leggings rushes over to the gate and begins to berate the security guard on duty. The director recognizes her—Lally or Lilly—as one of the producers of the talk show he will be appearing on in about half an hour’s time. She waves frantically to Peping, then ducks her head to peer through a window and into the back seat. When she sees the director, her face brightens in recognition, and she waves even more frantically, then turns back to the security guard. He scurries to draw the gates open for the director’s vehicle to pass.
When they draw up level to the woman, she motions for Peping to roll down the window on his side, and she peers into the car.
“Naku, sir, I’m so sorry!” she says, breathless with exertion. “I already sent a visitor advisory to security, but this guard is new; he’s not familiar with procedure.”
“That’s all right,” the director replies calmly.
She turns to Peping. “Boss, you can park in the visitors’ parking area behind Studio Two. You remember where that is, right?”
Peping nods.
“Okay, sir, I’ll see you inside!” she sings out as the car begins to move away. “Sorry that you had to wait!”
“It’s not a problem.”
They drive to the back of the studio in silence. When the director steps out of the car, Peping is quick to offer assistance with his briefcase.
“By the way, sir—about my transfer . . .” he starts.
The director wordlessly declines the offer of help and begins to walk away. “Don’t worry, Peping. I won’t stop you. You should work with people who understand you.”
Peping watches as the director disappears into the studio. Then the driver whips out his cell phone and dials a number.
“Old man’s in the studio now.”
Even though this isn’t his first time, he’s still a bit intimidated by the lights, the equipment, the flurry of activity in a television studio just minutes before the start of a live program.
“Director Lastimosa?”
He glances up. “Your Eminence.”
Cardinal Rafael Meneses clasps the director’s hand with both of his own. “I was very pleased to hear that they’d invited you tonight as well. How are you?”
“I am good, thank you.”
“Awfully busy, I suppose?”
“As I imagine you are.”
Cardinal Meneses is a small, rotund man in his late sixties. As a prominent religious leader, he is powerful, charismatic, well loved. His public persona is benevolent and jovial, and he is always ready with a smile, a joke, a pat on the back. But the director knows that beneath the affable exterior is a cunning mind and a steel backbone. Along with other cardinals and members of the Church hierarchy, he has stood up to a dictator and witnessed hi
s downfall. As one of the Church’s most influential voices, he denounced the regime’s excesses from the pulpit in carefully crafted sermons and pastoral letters.
But as an old-school cleric with extremely conservative views, he has also smilingly held off advocates of church reform and reproductive health. And, if gossip and speculation are to be believed, he has spearheaded the Church’s damage control efforts in the wake of allegations of sexual abuse and misconduct by several of its priests all over the country.
The cardinal comes closer to Director Lastimosa now, gently tugging on his arm and leaning in so that he can speak without being heard by anyone else.
“I understand that one of our brothers is assisting you with a case.”
Ah, there it is. He had wondered if it was going to come up in conversation, and now it has. “Yes, indeed.”
That smile now—kind, but with a hint of displeasure at the edges of the mouth. “Gus Saenz is one of our best minds. You couldn’t have chosen a better man.”
The director nods. “So I’ve gathered. He has quite a solid reputation, here and overseas.”
“Hmmm, yes. We’re very proud of him.”
The director blinks once, slowly, as though he’s putting the Cardinal into sharper focus. “I suspect that certain events of the last few months have given him cause to doubt that.”
“Events of the last . . . I’m sorry?” The smile fades from Cardinal Meneses’s face. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
The director looks down at him sadly. “Neither do I, Your Eminence. Neither do I.”
But before the cleric can say another word, Lally rushes toward them, a panting ball of relentless energy. She turns first to the director, then to the cardinal. “Sir, Your Holiness, makeup first and then places on the set!”
The cardinal tears his gaze away from the director and puts on his usual kindly smile for Lally’s benefit. “You’ve promoted me,” he jokes. “I’m not the Pope.”
“Not yet,” the director says under his breath as he walks away, heading to the makeup room.
The talk show is Harap-harapan, and tonight’s discussion revolves around the case of a German priest who had been arrested for the sexual abuse of several children in Palawan several months before. By the second segment, the discussion has turned to how the Catholic Church disciplines errant priests.
“Well, you have to understand that there are well-defined processes and procedures for reporting cases of misconduct by our priests to the Vatican,” the cardinal says.
The host, veteran anchor Vergel “Gil” Salceda, seems unconvinced. “But Cardinal, how do you address concerns that such incidents are ignored by Church authorities, or possibly even covered up?”
Director Lastimosa has come to expect it: the way the smile stays plastered on Cardinal Meneses’s face but leaches out of his eyes when he’s forced to talk about something he finds disagreeable. “Well, Gil, I admit that it may seem that way because most investigations conducted within the Church are confidential. But I want to assure you and your viewers that the Church authorities—the superiors of the priests involved, our bishops, our cardinals—we are all obliged to report such incidents to Rome.”
Other guests chime in—one, a lawyer, expressing agreement with the need for confidentiality in such cases; the other, a representative from a women’s advocacy group, demanding that the German be denied extradition and tried in the country.
Gil then turns to the director and asks for his opinion. He considers the question a moment and then says, “You know, I’ve always believed that the Church—well, any church, not just the Roman Catholic Church—is entitled to discipline members of its hierarchy or its flock for misconduct in a manner consistent with the principles of the faith.”
He sees, out of the corner of his eye, a broad smile spreading over the Cardinal’s face. “However, I think there is a clear difference between mere misconduct and crime.” Within the span of a single sentence, the smile turns sour: a not-smile. “I think as soon as a priest crosses the line into molestation and sexual abuse, it becomes a civil matter, a law enforcement matter, and a matter for the country’s courts. That’s the best way, I think, to put an end to these accusations, these concerns of any cover-up.”
The cardinal clasps his hands together on top of his belly. “Oh, come now, Director Lastimosa. You think putting such cases through the mill of the justice system will allay such fears? If anything, it will make them worse.” His eyes narrow, even as the not-smile remains fixed on his face. “The Church enjoys the trust and confidence of many Filipinos. It has its defects, its failings—no institution is without them—but it has credibility. Certainly more, I think you will agree, than our courts or our law enforcers, no?”
The director crosses his long, thin legs and clasps his hands together in a perfect though unintended imitation of the Cardinal’s pose, no doubt angering him even more. “But Your Eminence, is it a credibility built on what people don’t know, rather than what they do know? If it is, that isn’t really credibility at all, is it? When you quietly move a priest from a diocese where he has victimized two or three young parishioners to a new diocese where he is at liberty to do the same thing again, you’re not building up your credibility; you’re just postponing the day when you lose it.”
“Well, Director Lastimosa, if you’re speaking of any specific cases, I would be happy to discuss them with you after this program and demonstrate to you that we are doing our best to address any transgressions that are brought to our attention.”
It’s a veiled challenge.
Director Lastimosa looks down at his clasped hands. “Forgive me, Your Eminence. I was speaking in generalities. But I think, and I’m sure you will agree, that some things are better dealt with in the cleansing light of transparency and openness rather than in the darkness of secrecy. What’s true of the government is also true of the Church, yes?”
The cardinal shifts restlessly in his seat. “What you call secrecy, Director, we call confidentiality, and it is aimed at protecting the innocent. And the innocent can either be the victims or the wrongly accused.”
At this point, Gil calls the last commercial break, and the smile disappears completely from the cardinal’s face. Without looking up, he pretends to fiddle with the cord of his lapel mic as the other guests exchange banal pleasantries with Gil.
It’s during the end of the commercial break that the director notices the studio has grown unbearably cold—which is strange because he finds that he is sweating. He fishes out a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and wipes away the tiny beads of sweat that have formed on his brow. By the time the program is in its last few minutes, his mouth is dry, and he is short of breath. Gil is asking questions of the panel, and they answer one by one, beginning with the cardinal. The director can barely comprehend what they’re saying; the studio lights seem terribly intense, and he is now feeling a sharp pain, similar to indigestion.
Gil turns to him last, and he manages to crank out a suitable response without stalling or stammering. But he knows that he is in serious trouble when he begins to feel pain shooting down his left arm. He grips the armrests of his chair and struggles to hold on until Gil wraps up the show. The theme music comes on, and the credits roll.
He’s vaguely aware of Gil and the other guests rising to their feet and shaking one another’s hands. The cardinal turns to him and holds out his hand.
“Director, always a pleasure.” His tone of voice indicates that the past hour was anything but a pleasure for him.
The director rises unsteadily to his feet, fingertips still touching the armrests. For a split second, he allows himself to think that it is going to be all right, that he remains fully in control of his aging body. He lifts his right arm to take the cardinal’s hand, but the studio lights begin to dim, until they dwindle into little pinpricks of light, until they fade into the darkest of nothing.
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9
Saenz gets Jerome’s call at around half past midnight.
“Seen the late night news?”
Saenz sits up in bed. “No, why?”
“Director Lastimosa. Keeled over after appearing on Harap-harapan. Looks like a heart attack.”
Saenz swings his long legs over the side of the bed and feels around the floor with his feet for his slippers. “Just what we need,” he sighs. “Which hospital?”
“St. Luke’s.”
“Ready in half an hour.”
“Got it,” Jerome says. “Hey, could you have some coffee ready for me when I get there? I get the feeling this is going to be a long night.”
“I have nothing against hospitals,” Jerome is saying as they walk down the hall.
“Nonsense,” Saenz replies, waving a hand in the air. “You hate hospitals. The only way you would be caught dead in a hospital is if you were actually dead.”
“Not true. I was in a hospital just last year, and, as I recall, I was very much alive.”
“Yes. With acute dyspepsia. Which developed into acute dyspepsia because you refused to go to a hospital while it was just plain, old, non-acute dyspepsia.”
Jerome smirks at him. “Yes. I should listen to a cranky old man who won’t come within a five-kilometer radius of a dentist’s office.”
Saenz opens his mouth to protest, then closes it again without saying another word. At that moment, Jerome puts a hand on his arm to stop him and nods toward the end of the hall.
Immediately, Saenz’s face darkens. It’s Cardinal Meneses, speaking in hushed tones with a small clutch of people outside the hospital’s intensive care unit.
“What’s he doing here, of all places?” Saenz whispers.
“He was a guest on the show too.” Jerome studies Saenz’s grim face. “Look, we could come back later in the morning. We probably won’t be able to see the director anyway, at least not until visiting hours start.”
“I’ll not be scared away from doing what I came all the way here to do.”
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