Quietly luxurious halls leading me down to a wooden door, a gold plaque next to it, his name engraved on it in swooping, elegant letters. It reminds me of those Victorian-era plaques, the same kind he's twisted for his own macabre pleasure in another location.
I go in without knocking and find myself in a small lobby housing a single desk. His secretary looks like something straight out of a teenager's wet dream. She asks how she can help, but I ignore her. I stride through the room and pull open the door, the horrified secretary dashing after me but not daring to shout or do anything else to disturb the polished, quiet atmosphere.
El Dandy watches me from his desk. An elegant office, one wall all windows. The desk he's sitting at is long and curved, a pure line of immaculate steel and glass housing only a computer monitor. Thick volumes on law on the bookshelves on the wall.
'It's all right. You can leave,' he says to the woman. 'Tell everyone appointments are cancelled. I'll reschedule.'
I didn't even notice anyone in the waiting room.
'Pardon?'
'Please ask everyone to leave. I have a few private matters to discuss with the commissioner. You can leave for today, too.'
She nods obediently and closes the door behind her.
'Commissioner! You should have told me you were coming.'
He gets up and walks over to me slowly, smoothly doing up his jacket button. He's wearing a suit so dark it looks black. A blue tie lightens the look; his shoes are so highly polished they put the parquet floors to shame. He stretches out his hand. I can't bring myself to touch it.
He turns and says,
'Though I don't know if this visit is the most appropriate thing, under the circumstances. That's why I told everyone to leave. I suppose what happened may have come as a bit of a shock and I wouldn't want anyone to overhear, just to avoid any witnesses we don't want. I don't want to make things any more difficult for you than they already are.
I hear a few noises from behind the door and moments later El Dandy's office is completely silent. We're alone.
'Please, have a seat,' he says, undoing his jacket button again and having a seat himself, across from me.
I can't take my eyes off him. I'm perplexed.
'Now, Commissioner. Before you say anything you may regret, you should know I've already had a word with the prosecutor. He's very fond of you, by the way. We both agreed that Vicente Lapuerta, my client, is a troublemaker. And we also agreed that the report I filed against you on behalf of Lapuerta will be dismissed in... let's say no longer than a month. We both understand the pressure you were under at that point in the inquiry and... well, it's understandable that you went a bit too far. I'll tell my client that was all I could get and he'll forget about it.'
'That's not why I'm here,' I say calmly.
I'd forgotten all about Lapuerta. The Ripper and his crimes have blotted everything else out of my mind. The urgency of seeing his face, now I know. I can't get over my surprise as I see that same face, those same features, those same mannerisms. As if deep down I'd expected the Beast to come out, nothing left of the man. I don't know whether to be surprised or scared.
In my mind's eye, I see myself standing up, the Glock in my firm, untrembling hand, aiming at his face, squeezing the trigger softly, and the image of his face exploding brings me a sense of peace. There he is, insultingly well put-together, undeservedly blessed by nature, and yet the author - for some incomprehensible reason - of some of the most horrible crimes ever committed. I waver between fright and a psychotic attack of hysterical laughter, the kind you can't shake in moments of unbearable terror.
'I know,' I hear myself say, almost pleadingly, like a pupil realising his teacher is a paedophile.
'What is it that you know, Commissioner?" he answers, smiling, looking me in the eye firmly with no room for doubt or hesitation. He doesn't even blink. His coldness chills me to the bone, despite the waves of heat breaking over my body, the sweat gathering on my skin.
'You're the killer. You're the Ripper.'
Gonzalo Santana. El Dandy. The hotshot, always in the best cars, with the best women, class and culture personified. He looks at me slowly, lazily, as if bored by my accusation, me, the commissioner, a fly he could swat away.
He pushes a button on the computer keyboard and looks back at me. Strains of violins, a tune I recognise immediately.
'Recognise it, Commissioner?'
El Dandy gets up. He moves over to a liquor cabinet on the other side of the room and opens the doors. I reach for the Glock, but when he turns around he's got a a bottle of whiskey, a couple of tumblers and a box of cigars.
'I put this on when I left the house today. Tartini. The Devil's Trill sonata. I love it. Do you know why?'
I stare at him as he pours himself, then me, a whiskey, pushing the tumbler smoothly across the desk. Then, slowly, deliberately, he lights a cigar.
'Won't you join me, Comissioner?'
He exhales slowly, savouring it, as if he were all alone in the world.
'I like it,' he goes on, 'because, unlike what some might think, it's not a sad piece, not gloomy. It's the exact opposite, in fact. Some passages are... sweet, joyful, almost exulting. Violently... beautiful.'
He takes a sip of his whiskey.
'Like evil itself.'
He clicks his tongue, then carries on.
'I put it on at home because I think it's a wonderful welcome. And I somehow felt I wasn't home alone earlier today. You wouldn't happen to have been going through my things at home, would you, Commissioner?'
He smiles as he looks me straight in the eye, so unwavering that I feel a shiver run down my spine. The man we all thought was an affected snob, an arriviste, an aristocrat by vocation, sometimes ridiculous in his arrogance, has shown us all up as fools. Pulled the wool over the world's eyes, wearing a mask that made what lay beneath unimaginable. The words in his diary flash through my mind: When did I discover my true nature? I remember his sheer delight when his real nature shone through, the killer, Mr Hyde without a conscience. I feel my palms sweating, ice-cold.
'Though knowing you, Commissioner, that'll just be the latest in your string of crimes, eh? Heh! It's no bother. I'll consider it... a compliment. Thinking I've been smart enough to come up with and execute a whole plan... well, what can I say? Perfect. Yes. Perfect! No doubt about it.'
He takes a sip, puffs on his cigar, lets his eyes flick lazily over the scenery unfolding outside the window.
'Anyway - back to the here and now. Our respective roles... don't go getting any big ideas, Commissioner. You have a culprit. Someone with no alibi. You have his confession, no less. And conclusive evidence has been found in his possession. Luckily, we live in a country where there's no death penalty. Otherwise...' he makes a throat-slitting motion and clicks his tongue again.
The mocking gesture cuts me like a knife. It torments me so much I finally start to feel what I have to feel: hatred.
'Why do you say that? I'd give anything to know.' 'Because, apparently, Commissioner, if I were guilty, not that I'm admitting to any such thing, I would have committed the perfect crime. Not only would I have got off scot-free - the other man would be guilty in the eyes of the law and pay the price for me.'
'Abdón Pascua is incapable of harming anyone. He's just a poor schizophrenic who's been manipulated. Who you're still manipulating.'
'You don't manipulate someone by telling them what to do, Commissioner. Rather unsubtle of you to say so. You disappoint me. You manipulate someone by making suggestions, not giving them orders. But I must insist: I need to know why you think I'm behind all this.'
'You visited the house where you murdered Cristiana Stoicescu. You had a convenient excuse - pretending to be interested in buying it. What you wanted was the check it out. You stayed at the Caravan Hotel prior to the crimes for that very same reason. And you hated Rita Oehlen.'
'Ha, ha, ha. Is that all you've got? Are you done?'
He laughs so hard tears of mirth fill his eyes.
'I also know what you and your friend Damián and his cousin Javier got up to when you were kids. Your relationship. You were the third kid. They're both dead.
'A silly childhood friendship. That's all.'
'Damián's notebook. He wrote about you.'
He thinks for a minute and then smiles.
'I don't think so.'
'And you were recognised.'
Now he's paying attention. He turns to ice too.
'Radu didn't go to that party alone, the one where you played the Ripper for the first time. There was another guy in the car. You didn't see him. But he saw you. He's far, far out of your reach. And prepared to swear on the Bible.'
For the first time, doubt flickers across his suddenly straight face. He furrows his brow, no longer mocking me, but aggressive now, wary. He sets his glass down on the desk, still smoking, but all trace of that languid enjoyment is gone.
'Are you here to arrest me?'
Now I'm the one who's smiling. I can't tell him I can't arrest him because I have no proof. I lied. Bogdan can't swear it was him he saw. And even if he could, he saw him filming a tape, not committing a crime.
Santana must have realised it, too, because he seems to recover.
'No, Commissioner. You're lying. You have nothing. You wouldn't have come alone otherwise. You'd have burst in here with every last man. The Seventh Cavalry. And the TV cameras to see your man in action. Ha, ha, ha. No, Commissioner, you have nothing.'
He pours himself another whiskey.
'Won't you join me?'
'I've got nothing to celebrate. Many people are dead.'
'Don't be fooled, Chief. Living is just postponing death.'
'Call me Chief one more time, I'll kill you.'
He opens his arms in a cynical apology.
'Why?'
'Why what?'
'Why do something like that?'
He watches me. Laughing silently. Then sips his drink.
'What I'm about to say is pure speculation.' 'Are you recording me, Commissioner? Ha ha. Well... since it's pure speculation, let me venture an... authorized opinion, let's put it that way.'
He's so pleased with himself, now someone has finally uncovered the truth, now he thinks he has someone to admire his work, that I see - with disgust - his almost sexual enjoyment of it.
'Evil is as necessary to society as bacteria are to our bodies. Ask any doctor if they want a body with no germs. Bacteria integrate our bodies, shape them. Evil opens up a conversation with society. Hence its fascination. Evil is a symptom, excess, an abscess. Evil, Commissioner, is a metaphor. Haven't you noticed how chaotic, how irrational love is? But evil is order and sanity. Prometheus gave fire to humankind and people like the Ripper light the way forward for us. The Ripper is a symbol, a myth that explains and gives vent to our buried evil, the darkness all around. The killer is a scapegoat. Seeing him punished heals society. He's as necessary as a monk. What can we expect nowadays, when no one believes in anything, no one fears anything, no one thinks about anything, no one loves anything and no one cries over anything? D....'
He sweeps his arm up over his head dramatically, as if to show the whole horizon, the sky above, everything.
'Ahh! Desire! Desire! Desire.'
Another long sip of whiskey.
- 'Nothing is more powerful than desire, Commissioner. It's so powerful it can't be relieved with just one act. When that desire is... metaphysical... it requires something magical, grandiose, definitive. Something...
He places the tumbler on the table, tents his fingertips and then opens them again, suddenly and softly. In my mind's eye, I see those fingers holding Rita Oehlen's entrails.
'Evanescent! Sublime!'
He picks up his tumbler and necks the rest of the whiskey. Then puffs at the cigar, drawing deeply to get it going again, then blows out the smoke languidly.
'People kill to live, Commissioner. Life - that which is most valuable - is destroyed, and death, the greatest mystery of all, is created.'
He meets my gaze, though there's a faraway look in his eyes. I almost think I can see something there - a plea, a need to be understood,
'Remember what Ted Bundy said. I want to possess life. And I want to possess death.'
'That's bullshit!' I shout. 'You will answer for your crimes.'
'Answer to whom? To God? Don't disappoint me, Commissioner.'
'To justice, to society, to your family, to your siblings, to your neighbours.'
'You're wrong,' he retorts. 'To no one. I will answer to no one. You're all so tiny, so.... insignificant. Sometimes, I hate to tell you this, you answer to no one. Especially if you're clever enough. Look out of that window,' he gestures towards the horizon. 'What do you see, Commissioner? I'm sure all you see is land and sea. Houses, cars, people. But some of us see more. We see that not one of those people down below has the power to stop time, even by a fraction of a second. Their deaths are insignificant. Just like these cigatettes and cigars we're smoking now. Perhaps... the man who committed these crimes sees beyond, to Infinity and Nothingness.’
‘It’s our lives, our breath, our emotions, that give the world meaning and sense. Your bullshit philosophy is just a way for you to justify your actions to yourself. You're trash. A freak of nature.'
'No need to go so far. This is conjecture, Commissioner. Remember - I haven't admitted to being the Ripper.'
'I don't care what you admit to. I know.'
My mind is so ful of hatred for the man that I can't think straight; can't feel anything other than the pleasure that will flood me when I end his life.
El Dandy refreshes his drink once again. His eyes drift away again, lost in thought, as we sit in silence.
'Are you willing to confess here and now? I'll give you one chance.'
I place my phone on the desk between us. He looks at me for a long time, but without seeing me, still lost in thought. For a fleeting moment I feel a flicker of hope that he'll confess, admit to the terrible crimes he's committed. I'm almost sorry, because in my gut I know there's only one fair punishment for him.
'I'm a man of the law, Commissioner,' he begins. This time, his voice is slow, measured, not the exulted arrogance of a few minutes earlier. 'And I know how futile the law really is. The only true law is our flesh and blood. The only creed, the brains in our heads.'
I lose all hope of getting a confession out of him. This new train of throught is the same shit in a different tone, the same evil drivel from that malignant brain. As he speaks, I look at him, this man I'm going to kill. I've shot other men, wounded a few. But I've never taken a life.
'When someone has it all, they don't know what else to do with their life,' he rambles on. 'The object of our desire always plays tricks on us, toys with us like a mirage. When finally it's within reach and you try and brush your lips against it, it vanishes into thin air.' He makes a vanishing flourish with his fingers.
I swear I'll cut those fingers off.
'Just because the world is unfair, that doesn't justify what you've done.'
'Haven't you noticed how our decaying society has lapped up the crimes, revelled in the spectacle, sated with pleasure? It's obscene, Commissioner. Can you imagine something like this in a remote corner of Africa ruined by famine and the permanent fear of war and massacres? It wouldn't be anything more than a random story in the papers. Our society, revelling in violence and humiliation, glued to the crimes, seeking redemption - deep down, we like it. It excites us. No, Commissioner. You won't make me confess. Life will go on. And this conversation will be forever lost, to time, to memory. As everything is.'
'Life won't go on for you. If I arrest you, all of this will be over. Your luxury office, your prestige, your villas and cars, your women.'
He smiles. That confident, uppity look again. He shrugs.
'I've got money, Commissioner. All that wo
uld happen is you'd force me to move away. But there are lots of places in the world that are better than here. Where I can... shall we say... devote myself to my hobbies with less risk of running into people like yourself.'
'You'll go on killing.' A statement, not a question.
Another whiskey. He lights the cigar again, his face serious.
'Commissioner, the Ripper was unable to fully enjoy his crimes. Perhaps the last one. They were committed too quickly - it was too much of a rush, too great a risk. Maybe something more... leisurely.'
He pauses, a thoughtful look on his face, then goes on.
'I like imitation. Remember the Zodiac Killer? He was never caught. Yet another legend. But the one who got the most pleasure out of his crimes was BTK Rader, don't you think? He got so sloppy in the end, they caught him. But he enjoyed his murders for years. And took his time, every time.' 'I can believe that. Binding, torturing, killing, his motto. Less of a legend, all the same, as he got caught... Tee hee.'
That giggle he used to send me in his WhatsApp messages.
'Bind, torture, kill. Men, women, children. With no difference, no limits. Majestic!'
I have to hold back from retching. I won't give him the satisfaction of my horror.
'Don't make that face, Commissioner. This conversation is just a game, just conjecture, quite... unreal. Remember we're just hypothesizing, exchanging repartee. None of this...'
'I can't hear you.' I'm talking to a dead man.
I get up. Soon, he'll be just another body. I'm not sure how much he'll suffer before he dies. But I am sure he'll die. Inexorably, completely sure.
You can seek me - when I come for you - but you won't find.
Do you know what I discovered in them
As I disembowelled them, Chief?
Beauty. The beauty they never had
It's inner beauty that counts
Hahahahahahaha
I'm so weary of my respectable role
Bloody Dr Jekyll
One day I'll kill you, too
Before them all... when they know...
The Ripper Page 51