He is checking the balance in his bank account and calculating how much he will need to draw from it to pay Tato and the utilities bills when Jerome sticks his head in the door. A quick glance at Saenz’s desk and his face brightens.
“Otap!” he cries in delight. He makes a beeline for a small pack of the flaky, sugary cookies, which are buried under a pile of newspapers.
Saenz looks incensed. “You mean you came here just for that? And how did you even know that I had them on my desk?” he demands.
It’s Tuesday—Jerome’s busiest teaching day—so Saenz knows he has not had lunch in between classes. This explains why he is already reaching for two or three more cookies even before he has had a chance to finish the one in his mouth.
“You always have otap on your desk,” Jerome says, a few flakes of the cookie falling from his mouth onto his shirt. “Or barquillos. Or paciencia. Or lenguas de gato.” It’s true: Saenz’s wilderness of a desk is a treasure trove of snacks for the person who knows where to look. And Jerome—who, barring inclement weather, emergency meetings and other acts of God, always turns up on Tuesday afternoons at four thirty sharp, half-starved and ravenous—knows exactly where to look.
“You could go to the cafeteria for a change, you know. They have real food there. Things you can eat with a spoon and a fork. Things you actually have to pay for.”
Jerome pauses in mid-chew, looking perplexed. “But why on earth would I deny myself the pleasure of eating at your expense?”
Saenz sighs. “And here I thought you enjoyed my company.”
“Oh, but I do!” Jerome replies earnestly. “Because your company always involves free food.”
They share a laugh at this private, long-running joke, and then Saenz turns serious. He waves a sheaf of papers at Jerome. “Look at this. We’re short again this month.”
“Eh?” Jerome licks the cookie sugar and grease from his fingers, wipes them on his jeans and then takes the papers and studies them. “I thought you were going to get the third tranche of funding from that Japanese foundation last week.”
“So did I. That would have kept us going for at least another six months. But I called Mrs. Iwasaki on Friday, and she said the release was delayed.”
“Any idea when it’s going to happen?”
Saenz shakes his head. “Worse still, it could be an indication that future tranches are being reassessed.”
“What?” Jerome’s eyes widen. “Can they do that? Aren’t those already committed under some kind of memorandum of understanding between the foundation and the university?”
“Well, there’s any number of ways out of an MOU.”
“Hmmm. Any expense items you can shuffle around in the meantime?”
“I’ve done all the shuffling around I can do this month. But Tato needs to get paid, and so do the power and water bills. I also need to give Susan her allowance from the lab for helping out with administrative duties here and there.”
“Will Tato take a promissory note?”
“On principle, I would rather not do that. I never have, and I’m not about to start now.”
Jerome leans forward. “I hate to float this idea, but . . . what about the diocese?”
Saenz draws his lips into a thin, tight line. “After what happened with Cardinal Meneses? I don’t think the diocese would give me a strand of used dental floss if I asked for it.”
They sit in glum silence for a while; then Saenz forces himself to smile cheerfully. “Ah, well. It’s not as though I have a wife and four children to feed.” He snatches the pack of otap from Jerome’s hand, feigning annoyance. “Certainly I’ll have to rethink this whole free food policy over the long term.”
Jerome looks at the cookies—now beyond his reach—dejectedly. “You do realize that austerity measures imposed without consultation are often met with protest?”
The phone rings, and Saenz picks up.
“Good morning, Father.”
“Good morning, sir.” At this, Jerome looks up. Director Valdes, Saenz mouths silently. Jerome immediately stands and moves closer. “What can I do for you?”
“Listen, I’ve got my hands full with the Miss Teen Philippines scandal today. Seems like everyone is baying for blood.”
Saenz chuckles. Two nights ago, one young woman was crowned the winner in a beauty pageant; the next day, one of the judges was crying foul, saying that the name announced on coronation night was the wrong one. He accused the other judges of conspiring with the host to falsely bestow the crown on the wrong contestant. It’s yet another ridiculous scenario playing out on the country’s evening news programs and the front pages of newspapers.
“I’ll be tied up all day trying to organize this new task force the mayor has convened to investigate the incident. But I think you need to see Attorney Arcinas as soon as possible. Today, if you can make it.”
“Why? What’s going on?”
“He’s tried to keep me out of the loop, but someone has told me that he’s moving on the Payatas case independently. Apparently he’s pulled up a list of previous sex offenders in the area, and he’s begun rounding up possible suspects for questioning. Normally, that’s exactly what we’d do, but in this particular case . . . well, I don’t need to tell you what that means.”
It means that he’s drawing unwanted and unnecessary attention in the community. Saenz sighs. “I still have another class to teach and counseling at night. How about tomorrow?”
“The sooner the better, Father.” Saenz hears the fatigue in Director Valdes’s voice. “And when you do see him, I’d appreciate it if you kept my name out of it. The man has Director Mapa’s ear, and with Director Lastimosa indisposed, my position here is vulnerable. Besides, I think I can continue to be more useful to you if I appear to be impartial.”
“I understand, sir. I’ll make an appointment to see him tomorrow morning.”
“If you ask me, I wouldn’t bother making an appointment—I’m quite sure he’ll refuse. I’m also sure that he’ll be at the office all morning. He won’t miss a chance to chair the morning media conference. I suggest you simply turn up at his door unannounced. He wouldn’t dare make a scene in front of the reporters and draw attention to your presence.” A beat. “Although, if you ask me, Father, you would draw attention just by walking through the door.”
The deputy director ends the call, and Saenz puts the phone back in the cradle.
“Problem?”
“What’s your schedule looking like tomorrow morning?”
“Nothing on it that I can’t clear. Why?”
“It looks like we need to pay a certain task force chief a visit.”
13
Attorney Benjamin Arcinas has always reminded Jerome of a rattlesnake, small brained and venomous. He has a heavy-lidded, reptilian look about him. His face has a layer of expertly applied foundation, and his well-manicured nails are covered in a coat of sheer polish.
It’s been less than a week since the director’s health problems first came to light, but already Arcinas has grown ever more audacious. Whereas initially he had intended to divert resources and manpower from the Payatas investigation to other cases from which he could gain media exposure—a Binondo businessman’s kidnapping, the arrest of an army lieutenant for alleged drug trafficking—he has now apparently seen the value in milking the Payatas killings for media mileage.
“Hmmm . . . this is very interesting, Father Saenz . . . all very interesting . . .”
The stubby fingers with their ridiculously polished nails keep flipping, flipping through the pages of a report that the two priests had prepared for Director Lastimosa prior to his departure for the US, and Jerome is certain that the blank snake eyes are not really taking anything in. He shifts impatiently in his seat twice, fidgets with the wooden crucifix hanging from a cord around his neck, sighs audibly in exasperation until Saenz puts o
ut a hand to gesture for him to calm down.
“We believe the killings take place during the first weekend of every month. Statistically, the odds are that the suspect is male. From the blows to the head and the wound slicing patterns on the body, it’s likely that he’s right-handed—”
“Oh, well. That eliminates the ten to twelve percent of the population that’s left-handed and makes things so much easier for us, Father.”
The older priest ignores the lawyer’s sarcasm and chooses a gentler, more patient tone.
“I urge you to take a look at the other details of the report, Ben. We’ve tried to create as accurate a profile of this killer as possible, using physical evidence from the bodies as well as what we know from the community. I can understand your reluctance to undertake this kind of psychological profiling of criminals—even in the developed world, it’s still an evolving science. But it’s produced a significant number of arrests and convictions. Most of your people have a solid legal background, and that’s all very good. But I’m sure you recognize that this situation demands far more of you and the bureau than just legal expertise.”
“You forget, Father, that this institution has been around since 1947.” Arcinas opens a drawer in his desk, then sits back in his chair and puts both feet up on the drawer, his body language calculated to convey the appearance of relaxed authority. “Even further back to 1936, if you count the creation of the Division of Investigation under the Justice Department. We’ve accomplished a great deal all these years by doing things the same way we’ve always done them.”
“Of course you have.” Saenz leans forward in his seat, putting his arms on the edge of Arcinas’s desk and threading his fingers together. “Listen, Ben, I’m not trashing your efforts here. But I don’t need to tell you of the successes that have been attained with these techniques. You’re far more up-to-date on developments in the international law enforcement community than I am.”
There is a momentary gleam in the lawyer’s snake eyes. Saenz catches it, identifies it as the pleasure a bureaucrat takes when he knows he has authority over someone else. When he knows that someone is trying to obtain his cooperation.
“Work with us here, Ben,” the priest continues in as persuasive a tone as he can muster. “As far as we can tell, the mutilations are significant. They are not random or gratuitous. This man is erasing his victims’ faces. He is carving out their organs, their hearts. If we believe that every act is symbolic, he appears to be removing everything that makes them human. We are dealing with a man—”
“Yes, yes. I know. A serial killer.” The lawyer says the word slowly, with a mocking gravity: seeer-yal. A corner of his mouth curls up in an expression of mildly amused sarcasm.
It is all too much for Jerome. The younger priest rises so forcefully from his seat that it is almost knocked over backward onto the dingy, mustard-yellow carpet.
“Come on, Gus. We’re wasting time. This man clearly has no grasp of how serious this case is, or worse still, he doesn’t care. All he cares about is getting his face on television.”
Arcinas gets up as well, hands bunched into fists and wedged against either side of his potbelly. A vein in his left temple bulges like a fat, green worm.
“No, no, this isn’t the way—” Saenz begins, but Jerome is not about to be stopped.
“Look at the profile, Arcinas. Your killer is a man at most about five feet five inches tall—not stocky, someone who doesn’t trust himself with a conscious victim. Someone the kids in the area would know, or even trust, someone whose presence in the community wouldn’t arouse suspicion.”
“Really, Father Lucero, my men are one step ahead of you. We may actually nab our suspect within days.”
The two priests are momentarily stunned into silence
It’s Saenz who finds his voice first. “What did you say?”
Arcinas gives them a self-satisfied smile, the lashes feathering over his eyes almost coquettishly. “You’ve both been very helpful, but I think we can take it from here.”
Saenz brushes aside the implied dismissal. “You have a suspect. Is he in custody now? How? Where?”
The lawyer is now busy shuffling papers on his desk, and his tone is brisk, almost cheerily official. “Now, Father, you know I can’t tell you that.”
“Why not?”
“Procedural restrictions. Yes, yes. Certain technicalities. But we’re very grateful for your assistance. Very grateful, really. We’ll make sure you’re given due recognition when we’re done.”
“We were asked to assist in this case by the director himself,” Saenz says quietly.
“It’s too bad the director is overseas, but if he were here, I’m sure he would agree with me that the bureau can handle the situation on its own from this point on. Of course, you will both be paid for your services.”
Saenz starts to walk to the door. But midway he stops and turns back. This time the tone of persuasive rationality is gone, and in its place pure menace.
“For your sake, Attorney Arcinas, I hope you do get the right man.”
14
Jerome is grading papers on a Saturday morning. He’s comfortable in an old T-shirt and even older striped pajamas, sitting at his desk, mug of steaming hot coffee within reach and sunlight streaming in through the windows. The monsoons have taken the day off, and the first unequivocal sunshine in two weeks is spreading over the metropolis.
When he hears the knock on the door, he doesn’t answer it immediately; perhaps whoever it is will go away. The papers need to be graded by Monday, and there are other things to prepare for next week’s classes. But when he doesn’t respond, the person knocks again, and this time it is with the rhythmic pattern that Jerome associates with only one person. With a sigh, he leaves his comfortable seat and his hot coffee and his papers and opens the door.
“It’s the weekend,” he grumbles.
“Happy weekend!” Saenz chirps.
“I have papers to grade.”
“So do I.” The older priest breezes in through the open doorway.
“Yet here you are. No, wait, don’t. I just made that coffee—” But it’s too late; Saenz has already taken possession of the mug and proceeded to drink down the contents.
“And very good coffee it was,” he says.
“Don’t you have any other friends?”
“None who will come with me to Payatas on a Saturday morning.”
At the mention of the dumpsite, Jerome turns serious. “Payatas? Why? What’s up?”
Saenz leans against Jerome’s desk. “We determined it was likely that the murders were committed on the first Saturday of every month since February. Something’s been nagging at me all this time, but there’s been so much happening these last few days that I kept getting distracted. I knew there was something about the first Saturday of the month that rang a bell, but I couldn’t pin it down.” He thrusts his hand into one of the pockets of his jeans and fishes out a small notebook, opens the cover and flips through the pages. When he finds what he’s looking for, he hands it to Jerome. “My notes. From when I spoke to Jon-jon Mendoza’s parents.”
Jerome takes the notebook and studies the open page. Saturday—parish—free food. He looks up at Saenz. “Payatas it is, then.”
Jerome and Saenz arrive at the parish church in time to see Father Emil bent over a huge, bubbling pot of arroz caldo. A look of surprise crosses his face, but it’s quickly replaced by cheerfulness. He raises the ladle in welcome, spraying his shirt as well as a few kids with drops of the thick, yellow porridge.
“Hello! What brings you two here today?” he greets them, while dispensing bowl after bowl and keeping the more aggressive children in line. “Here you are; don’t spill it—Wait! You’ll get your share; don’t push.”
Saenz laughs, then deeply inhales the aroma of gingery broth and toasted garlic layered with the scent of f
reshly cut spring onions. “This is exactly how I pictured you, Emil. Knee-deep in arroz caldo and children.”
“Sorry, Father Gus.” The parish priest hands over rationing duties to a pair of nuns hovering close by. “Saturday is always a busy day in the parish.”
“Nothing to apologize for,” Saenz says. “We just thought we’d have a look around.”
For a moment, Emil seems worried. “It’s about the case, isn’t it?” He looks at Jerome, then back at Saenz. “But you’ve been here before.”
“Not on a Saturday.”
“A Saturday.” Emil is even more concerned now. “What does it have to do with Saturdays?”
“We don’t know yet.” Jerome looks around the church grounds.
Saenz puts an arm around the parish priest’s shoulders and leads him away from the hubbub of children gathered around the massive pot. Jerome follows close behind.
“The parents of one of the boys we’ve identified say that the last time they saw their son, he’d said he was coming here,” Saenz says in a low voice. “To the parish. On a Saturday.”
Emil is taken aback. “Wait. Wait a minute. Do you think—”
Saenz holds both hands up to placate him. “We don’t think anything yet, Emil. Honestly. It’s a lead to follow up, that’s all. That’s why we came here. We wanted to see what happens at the parish on weekends.”
Jerome steps forward. “If you could give us some idea of what goes on here, especially on Saturdays, we might be able to pick up something.”
Emil’s brow is furrowed with worry lines. “Everything that goes on here on the weekends is above board, and highly visible to everyone who comes here. I’ve never had any problems or any reason to . . . You mean, you think . . .”
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