Jerome and Saenz exchange looks. “Didn’t anybody complain about Gorospe?”
The mechanic sighs and shrugs, and they know what he would have said anyway: Complain about what? To whom? We didn’t want any trouble.
“Thank you, Emong,” Saenz says gently.
Valdes, who hasn’t spoken for a while, asks: “Did you hear about what happened to Gorospe, then? After Alex came by?”
Emong shakes his head. “No. Why? What happened?”
“He was found murdered in his apartment.”
44
At the laboratory the next evening, Valdes is holding the file on Isabelo Gorospe, dead at age forty-nine, former PE instructor at the Payatas District High School. “It says here the heart was cut out and the face removed.”
“Any other details?”
“Well, no other injuries, but it was a messy job, blood all over the bed and the bedroom.”
“Signs of forced entry?”
Saenz waits while Valdes scans the documents.
“No, the front door was unlocked, and there were bottles of beer on a table in the sala. His television set, his wallet, some money and other valuables were still in the apartment, so it couldn’t have been a burglary. The investigators assumed Gorospe knew the killer, let him in, drank a couple of beers with him. They got drunk, had an argument; one of them ended up dead.” He hands the file over to Saenz, who quickly flips through it.
“But they never found the killer?”
“No. There were no witnesses, and all the beer bottles had been wiped clean.”
“Did they find the heart?” Jerome asks.
“No,” Saenz says, still reading the file. “Whoever killed him must have taken it away.”
He stands and moves to the whiteboard and its information grid. He takes a marker and draws a long, black line from top to bottom, to the left of the first column on the grid, creating a new column. At the top, he writes Gorospe, then molester, and ticks off the boxes for heart and face appearing in the leftmost column under the heading, mutilations.
“So he killed Gorospe, with two of the major characteristics of the seven recent murders.” Saenz draws large circles around the two tick marks. “Which means the removal of the face and the heart is the central symbolic act. They antedate all the other mutilations—”
“Which are simply refinements of his technique. Or an elaboration of his rage.” Jerome squints so that all he can see are the tick marks inside the circles. “Emong says Alex was Gorospe’s favorite, his special little boy. But Alex didn’t want to be special. He wanted to—”
“Erase himself.” Saenz moves closer to the whiteboard, pushing his glasses lower on the bridge of his nose. “Become ordinary. If he couldn’t help being a victim, he wanted at least to be like the ordinary victims, like Emong and the rest. And then of course, there’s the fact that he didn’t like being looked at by the others.”
“So maybe that’s why he’s killing these boys. Killing Gorospe wasn’t enough; the others were still alive.”
Valdes stands beside Saenz in front of the whiteboard. “They still knew he was ‘special.’”
Saenz nods. “But he couldn’t kill them as adults. In his mind, the other boys stayed the same age, still too small for their early teens. In some perverse way, he blames them—”
“For being ordinary. For abetting Gorospe’s special attentions toward him. For simply knowing.” Jerome starts to pace back and forth. “You know what disturbs me about our conversation with Emong?”
Saenz nods. “There were seven or eight boys in the group.”
“Exactly. He’s at number seven. He could go for eight, but if he doesn’t—”
“He could just drop out of sight? No, I don’t think so. He’s at a symbolic age—twenty years, give or take, past the trauma. He’s escalating to a resolution, but I think at the end of it he’ll realize that he still isn’t satisfied.”
“So he’ll repeat the cycle?” Valdes asks.
“I’m more inclined to think he’ll destroy the one thing that keeps reminding him of the trauma.” Saenz draws a small stick figure thoughtfully on the whiteboard. “Himself.”
“But surely not suicide?”
“No,” Saenz says, “probably not. But he might place himself, consciously or unconsciously, in a position to end the violence one way or another—”
“By getting caught or getting killed.” Jerome picks up another whiteboard marker and draws triangles under the arms of the stick figure; it is no longer a person but a set of balance scales. “And just as an authority figure started this whole mess, he’s looking to an authority figure—the police, maybe even you—to bring it to an end. He knows he has to answer to society’s justice, but only after he’s exacted his own personal justice.” Jerome caps the marker.
“So you’re saying he’s got nothing to lose.” Valdes stands back, looking at the drawing, and then back at Saenz and Jerome. “That makes him a very dangerous man.”
The telephone rings, and Saenz frowns. “Who on earth could that be at this hour?” Jerome tosses the marker onto the whiteboard’s ledge and runs to answer the call.
“Hello.” When there’s no response, he asks, “Who is this?” Still no answer, so he hangs up.
“Who was that?” Saenz asks.
“I’m not—” Jerome begins, but the phone rings again. “Hello.”
The person at the other end of the line doesn’t speak, but Jerome can hear his breathing and the vague sound of human activity in the background. “Hello, I can’t hear you very well,” he says, and something in the way he says it alerts Saenz and Valdes. They come closer as he turns on the speaker. “You’ll have to speak up, please.”
Nothing, just the person’s breathing and indeterminate background sounds. Saenz grabs the whiteboard marker, scribbles pay phone? on the whiteboard, makes a circular motion with his hand, a signal to Jerome to keep the other party talking. Jerome nods, then says, “Who is this? How can I help you?”
Then, the very faint sound of eight musical notes played in quick succession, the first four notes ascending, the last four descending, followed one or two seconds later by the muffled but unmistakable sound of a human voice echoing in a very large space. Saenz’s brows knit together in fierce concentration; then his face brightens in recognition and he writes again—this time the word mall.
Again, he makes the circular motion, and Jerome says, “Look, it’s difficult to know how to help you if you won’t talk to me.”
Valdes turns to Saenz. “Who do you think it is?” he whispers.
“Someone who doesn’t want to be traced,” Saenz whispers back. Then he writes parents, points to the word for Jerome’s benefit.
Jerome nods again, understanding.
“If this is who I think it is,” he says, “your parents are very worried about you.”
They hear the person’s breathing quickening, then the same eight notes again, and the muffled human voice—now recognizable as being female. It’s the sequence of sounds when an announcement is made—usually by female sales staff—via the public address system at one of the country’s more popular mall chains.
“You wouldn’t be calling us if you didn’t want to tell us something,” Jerome says gently. “Your parents want nothing more than to have you back safely with them. Let us help you.”
There’s a loud crack, and then the line goes dead.
Leave them alone. Leave them alone or I’ll kill you. I will. I’ll kill all of you.
45
Alex Carlos is dressed and ready to go to work. But the minute he steps out of the gate of his apartment row, he senses, as a mouse senses the presence of a cat, that he is being watched.
He does not bother to look up, to scan the sidewalks and hedges for an unfamiliar face or vehicle, or anything else out of the ordinary.
Thinking quickly now. He rummages through his dental kit and pretends that he has forgotten something, shoves a free hand into his jeans pocket and fishes out his house keys. Then, he heads back inside the gate, back to his apartment.
He closes the door behind him, locks and bolts it. He drops the kit to the floor, runs his fingers repeatedly through his hair, smoothing it, rumpling it, then smoothing it again. He starts pacing, back and forth, bouncing on the balls of his feet, thumbs drumming a nervous rhythm on either thigh.
The feeling below his belt, between his thighs is familiar, all tense and loose at the same time.
Now the fear and the hate again, down deep in his stomach where the blood and darkness live, and then a wet stain spreading slowly from his crotch down the inside of the legs of his jeans. He does not seem to notice; the bouncing becomes increasingly agitated, up and down and back and forth, up and down and back and forth.
Watching me again, always watching me, he says in his mind to no one in particular. Well, come and get it. Come and get it.
He takes his kit and bounds up the stairs two steps at a time; he is light on his feet and can go very fast when necessary. He enters his bedroom, heaves the kit onto the bed, and throws open the closet doors.
No. I don’t need anything. Not anymore.
He turns to the kit on the bed and opens it. The shiny metallic things comfort him; he begins to hum, no particular song, just a little here and a little there, and then he stops and then begins again.
He takes out a dental instrument and a thin knife from the kit. The handle is made from black, heavy-duty rubber molded to fit either right hand or left, the six-inch blade of excellent stainless steel; the whole thing is perfectly balanced from blade to handle. Its cutting edge is straight and fine and razor-sharp; Alex whets and polishes it after every use. He shelled out a lot of money for this German-made beauty, and she has served him well, effortlessly negotiating the curves and angles of bone beneath yielding flesh.
He turns and rips a shirt from its hanger in the closet, wraps the instruments up in it. He stuffs the bundle down the small of his back, in the waistband of his jeans.
Okay. Come on now. Come to me.
His mind is so sharp, so focused. He can see the way before him so clearly.
Sometimes he fantasizes that he is a cat, because he is so light and quiet on his feet. He throws the bedroom window open and jumps out, onto the roof of an adjacent bungalow. He lands on his feet with a dull thud, crouched compactly with his knees to his chest. He looks around, satisfies himself that he is hidden from view by a taller building.
He walks easily, silently over the galvanized iron, toward the edge, then bends low for a moment before swinging soundlessly onto the front lawn. The sidewalk is only a few feet away.
He looks up and down the street. All clear; nobody watching on this side.
Not so smart after all, Priest.
Saenz and Jerome are among the last to arrive at Alex Carlos’s apartment in the quiet, low-rise, lower-middle-class neighborhood of UP Village. It’s on a pleasant-looking street, with shady trees on the sidewalk every ten to fifteen meters.
As Jerome parks the car, Saenz rummages through his utility kit, takes out two pairs of thin latex surgical gloves, shoves them into the pockets of his jeans.
From inside the car, Jerome is gratified to observe that Arcinas has had the place cordoned off according to Saenz’s instructions. The media is in a small, irate huddle on the other side of the street, and curious onlookers are politely but firmly kept away. It is the most orderly crime or crime-related scene he has ever seen, and he takes a few moments to get used to it.
When the two men get out of the car, somebody shouts, and a gaggle of reporters and photographers surges against the human barricade of police officers. Jerome hears Saenz’s name called out several times, followed by the usual string of uninformed questions. He smirks and privately thanks God that he is not as famous as his teacher; he knows he cannot muster the older priest’s equanimity in the face of ignorance.
Then he spots Joanna Bonifacio on the fringes of the media crowd.
Unlike the rest of the reporters, photographers and cameramen, who are shouting and pushing and shoving against the police barricade for a better view, she is standing quietly with her hands deep in the pockets of her slacks, tall and solid and calm as a stone angel, a hint of amusement touching the corners of her mouth. She is watching their progress toward the apartment. Behind her, Leo is standing with his camera mounted on a tripod.
Their eyes meet, and Jerome acknowledges her presence with a barely noticeable movement of his hand. The tiny gesture is enough to catch her attention; she gives him the merest nod in response, then turns to give Leo instructions. Jerome quickens his pace to catch up with Saenz.
Arcinas meets the two priests at the door. His face is pale, eyes ringed with dark circles, as though he hasn’t gotten enough sleep. There is none of the swaggering self-confidence of the last few months, and when Jerome glances down at the lawyer’s fingers, he notices that the nails are ragged at the ends, as though from repeated gnawing.
“I haven’t let anyone in yet.” The tone is hopeful, seeking approval.
Saenz pats the lawyer’s arm. “Good man.” He turns to Jerome, hands him a pair of gloves, snaps his own over his hands. “Let’s go.”
Arcinas has an NBI photographer on standby—yet another of Saenz’s instructions. The photographer follows the two priests into the apartment.
The living and dining area is small, uncluttered. Jerome and Saenz open cabinets and drawers. Nothing out of the ordinary: books, china, bric-a-brac. As if by some unspoken consensus, all three men go about their work wordlessly, quietly, except for the clicking of the photographer’s camera.
Jerome feels a certain tension, as though the atmosphere inside the apartment were electrically charged, as though someone has just passed through the room and they can still sense his presence in the displaced air.
He glances over his shoulder at Saenz, finds him staring back.
Jerome spots a small writing desk in one corner. He walks over to it, opens the drawers. Bills for electricity and water, receipts from groceries and drugstores. Income tax returns.
He opens the last drawer and finds cream linen stationery and envelopes. He takes out a few envelopes.
“Gus,” he calls out and waves them in the air for Saenz to see.
Saenz nods, a look of understanding passing between them. He heads for the kitchen, and Jerome follows. Then they both begin opening drawers and cabinets once more.
Plates, pots and pans, canned goods, a coffee maker.
A strange smell—like old meat, old blood—permeating the room.
In the cabinet under the sink, Jerome finds several pairs of black rubber rain boots. He calls out to Saenz, and he comes, bending forward to take a quick look over Jerome’s shoulder.
“Let’s have the SOCO boys bag those.”
Saenz straightens up and then notices the avocado-green refrigerator. It is one of those American-made monsters, with two doors and a built-in ice dispenser. It is easily the most expensive thing in the apartment. Must have bought it from a surplus supply store, he thinks to himself. And then: it’s too big for a man living alone in such a small place.
He opens the freezer door, finds nothing but a large bag of tube ice. Next, one of the refrigerator doors. The racks are empty, except for a few beers, a jar of peanut butter, and a small, black plastic tray filled with wilted lettuce and what looks to be watery Thousand Island dressing.
He takes a deep breath, says a brief, silent prayer, then opens the second door.
The two of them remain quiet as they survey the contents, then step back so the photographer can take pictures. The only sound in the kitchen is the whir of film through the mechanism of the camera as he clicks away.
After about a
minute, the photographer stops. He brings the camera down to his chest and looks first at Saenz, then at Jerome. His face is pale, and he’s clearly upset. He shakes his head.
Before they can stop him, he runs out of the apartment.
46
This is not how he usually hunts. But tonight is different.
He waits in the shadows, behind huge stacks of water containers made from blue, industrial plastic. Running water is a rarity here, and people have to buy containers in which to store it when the communal taps grudgingly yield it. The owner of the stall has closed shop for the day. Alex saw the man heading home around seven o’clock. He has been waiting here ever since. Someone is bound to turn up.
The rock is wrapped with a rag, to keep it from slipping from his grasp at the crucial moment.
He hears footsteps. Crouching low behind the stacks, he catches a glimpse of a young boy.
He could be eight or nine or twelve. Alex does not care. He’ll do.
Dennis does not scream when he wakes up. He whimpers a little. The pain in his head is intense, throbbing. Something warm and wet trickles across his forehead, pulsing from his temple. He feels like throwing up.
He realizes he is being carried, slung over the shoulder of a man. They are headed in the direction of the dump.
Fighting panic, Dennis remembers all the talk about the monster that wanders the dumpsite and the dark streets of the shantytown. His meager dinner of rice and salted fish bubbles up from his gut in an acidic gruel, and he has to swallow it back.
He clenches his fists and begins to pummel the man’s back as hard as he can.
The man only grunts.
Harder still Dennis pounds on his back, hoping he will be dropped on the ground and he can make his getaway. He feels now more than ever in his whole miserable life the need for a voice, for the ability to speak, scream, shout. A deformity of his palate and upper lips has made it impossible for him to do more than grunt or moan. His mouth, his wretched mouth.
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