However that may be, her rereading of “Pie Jesu,” intercalated into Bishop Perugorría’s sermon, had made quite an impression on the sisters of the community. When the chorus finished its performance, a contemplative, reverent silence filled the Santa Agata Chapel, which contrasted with the droning of the increasingly heavy rain that buffeted the church windows. An almost palpable sentiment of gratitude and admiration had settled among the Capuchins of Sarrià. Sister Concepció remained standing, arms at her sides and head bowed, as if she had exhausted all the strength in her young body. Sister Anunciació, one of the members of the choir, wiped tears from her eyes. The rotund sisters Benedicció, Dormició and Visitació—exempted from kneeling during the service because they had to be helped back to their feet (on one occasion, this had caused the mother abbess to sprain her wrist)—could scarcely suppress shrieks of awe. And the bishop himself appeared like a flame—lit from within—as he exchanged an odd look with the mother abbess, one that could be read either as amazement or as complicity.
No one dared utter a word. For several moments a prolonged silence filled the chapel, until Sister Adoració, stooped over her walking cane, murmured with a toothless voice: “Thank you, child.”
Sister Concepció emerged from her reverie and gave the one-hundred-year-old sister a frank smile; she appeared to be on the point of responding appreciatively to the old woman’s show of courtesy when a loud, thunder-like clap made everyone whirl around toward the back of the chapel. For a fraction of a second the same fear ran down everyone’s spine, but then calm quickly reasserted itself: it was only the wind that had thrown open the two leaves of the door, banging them loudly against the massive walls. A gust of cool air swirled into the chapel, and the rain streamed in through the portal, bringing with it a handful of hail like tiny glass balls.
“It was only a scare,” said the mother abbess in an attempt to calm everyone. “Anything has the ability to frighten us these days, isn’t that so? Let us congratulate our beloved Sister Adoració on her one hundred years, a true privilege that Our Lord has granted her and all of our community, and we thank His Excellency the bishop, humbly and in the fear of God, for his magnificent, enlightening sermon.”
“Amen,” responded all the voices.
The mother abbess added, a gentle glow in her eyes: “We would also like to thank our sisters in the choir, and especially young Sister Concepció for the beauty of her piece.”
“Amen,” chimed the voices.
Sister Concepció folded her hands at chest level and bowed her head, embarrassed by the laudatory remarks. Inopportune and faraway, the strident sound of a squawking seagull drifted in through the open doors of the chapel.
“May God have mercy on us,” mumbled a worried Brother Plana, folding his arms as if seeking refuge in prayer.
“God? I can assure you God has nothing to do with this. And if you want my opinion, that suits me just fine. That would just be adding insult to injury . . .”
It was Superintendent Gregori Muñoz speaking, and his gruff manner matched his appearance, which recalled a peddler or a Gypsy—or both.
“Dammit . . .” said the police officer who had arrived with Superintendent Muñoz, purely for the sake of saying something. He was a red-haired youth with a pockmarked face whom his boss called Sirga. Or idiot, depending on his mood.
“Don’t speak unless spoken to, idiot,” Superintendent Muñoz snapped, cutting him off.
“Yes, sir,” Sirga replied dutifully.
A fourth man, the towering, rather forbidding Judge Miquel Carbonissa, joined his arms behind his back and clicked his tongue.
The men had gathered around Doctor Humbert Pellicer, who nodded in agreement and cleared his throat as he squatted to examine the body of the murdered child. The corpse was lying on a stretcher that the Red Cross nurses would load into the ambulance as soon as the doctor had finished the preliminary examination before the autopsy. Inside the vehicle was the boy’s mother, a wasted, consumptive-looking woman, who had had to be treated for a nervous attack. The father—a squat automobile mechanic still in his work smock—was aimlessly pacing the alley by the entrance to Pension Capell, an expression of infinite stupidity on his face, as if someone had slugged him with a sledgehammer. Every now and then he spotted a coagulated mass of blood on the ground, and using the tip of his shoe, he broke up a clod of earth and covered the blood with it.
The nurses also had to tend to Doña Gertrudis, the woman who had found the two bodies. That of Brother Gendrau, splayed in the middle of the kitchen with his mouth open and a his throat gashed, and the child, whose body she had stumbled upon in the alleyway as she raced from Pension Capell, so horrified she had not even cried for help. The boy was curled up on the ground with his eyes closed and, had it not been for the ugly, complicated laceration on his neck, he might have been sleeping peacefully. Beneath his head was a pool of blood that had curdled into lumps as it came into contact with the dirt and gravel; there were splotches all around him, as if the blood had gushed from a sprinkler. Doña Gertrudis had been so stunned that it was all she could do to let out a terror-stricken howl that attracted the attention of some passersby before she collapsed beside the little corpse. She was now seated in a wicker chair by the open door to Pension Capell, her eyes fixed on a section of floor tile with traces of Brother Gendrau’s blood. Following Judge Carbonissa’s orders, the medics were removing the body as Doña Gertrudis stared at the palms of her hands, mumbling and ruminating like an alfalfa-chewing goat.
Doctor Pellicer rose from the child’s side with all the ease his age and excess weight permitted and signaled to the nurses, who immediately loaded the stretcher into the ambulance, sending the mother again into hysterics. The blasphemies that spewed from her mouth would have rattled even the most dispassionate of agnostics, and Brothers Plana, Darder, and Lacunza pretended not to understand her as she clipped her words, offering her death in place of her son’s, swearing to kill a multitude of people, and then regurgitated them in the form of drawn-out, disturbing bellows. In the end she had to be removed in a straightjacket, trussed up with leather straps. Her husband, completely oblivious to the state she was in, refused to get in the ambulance and chose to remain in the alley where the boy’s body had been discovered, as if intent on standing guard. He plodded up and down the lane, absorbed, hands deep in his smock, eaten up by the absurdity of it all.
Doctor Pellicer covered his face with his hands and gently massaged the spot above his eyebrows, as he let out a disgruntled sigh. He exchanged a fleeting glance with Judge Carbonissa; the two men nodded to each other in resignation or, perhaps, agreement. The ambulance—a Ford model delivered a few weeks earlier together with three others, a gift from the American Friends of Spanish Democracy—cranked up amid a cloud of smoke that left a taste of burning gasoline in everyone’s mouths. It was shortly after noon and a drizzle was starting to fall; no one could think of anything to say. It was Sirga, wringing his police cap with both hands, who finally spoke.
“It’s like there’s an epidemic of priest-killings,” he said with an ugly smile that showed at least two rotten teeth.
“Shut up, you idiot,” Superintendent Muñoz barked, not bothering to look at him.
“Yes sir, superintendent,” Sirga replied, lowering his head.
Silence again elongated itself, even more uncomfortable than before. The three religious exchanged brief, anxious looks. Oblivious to everything, the father of the murdered boy sat in a corner by the weedy strip that ran along the side of the alley, his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands. Suddenly the wailing of a factory siren sounded from afar. A comforting sound, thought Brother Darder, unlike the strident affront of the air-raid warnings. Factory sirens heralded decency and announced fair wages for work well done. It occurred to him that that far-away siren was like a lament or an apology for the horror that his eyes were seeing. But whose apology? Finally, with an alm
ost trembling voice, he posed the question he hardly dared to formulate.
“If I may ask, why did you make that comment about . . . about priests?”
He had addressed Sirga, but it was Superintendent Muñoz who responded: “He made the comment because the dead man is obviously a religious. Like the three of you,” he said, pointing to each of the Marists. “You may dress in plainclothes, but it’s written all over your faces, brothers. You are brothers, aren’t you?”
Brother Darder turned scarlet, and Brother Plana gulped with such vehemence that everyone heard him swallowing. Brother Lacunza stared at the ground as if he had lost something valuable. Under the ongoing drizzle they were beginning to be soaked through, making them appear even more helpless.
Superintendent Muñoz gave a little laugh. “Relax, I’m not here to arrest you. In my report I won’t even mention that you are . . . how should I put it—friars away on leave?” He waved his hand in a gesture of disdain. “In any case, there’s no need to worry.”
The three religious studied the police officer in silent distrust.
“Don’t give me that look!” exclaimed the superintendent. “I mean it. To report you—and everything that would entail—would be too much trouble. Not worth it. And as for Sirga,” he said, turning to the redheaded officer and slapping him on the back, “he’s not seen a thing either, right?”
“Whatever you say, Chief.”
Judge Carbonissa observed the exchange with a look of satisfaction, and Doctor Pellicer started rolling a cigarette.
“Very well then,” concluded Superintendent Muñoz. “I’m much more interested in what’s taken place here. Not only do we have a dead priest, but also a dead boy. I don’t know what you think,” he said addressing the doctor and the judge, “but this doesn’t look like the work of anarchists to me.”
Doctor Pellicer lit his cigarette, took two heavy drags and exhaled a thick, coiled shaft of smoke. Then he said: “I am of the same opinion, superintendent. Besides, the manner in which these deaths occurred has nothing in common with the execution of religious that we’ve seen these last weeks. Clearly no firearms were used in this case. The victim’s throats were slashed. The priest’s with a kitchen knife; as for the child, the gash on his neck suggests a bite wound from some animal that also chewed on the boy’s face. This does not appear to be the work of a squad, but of one man, accompanied perhaps by a large dog.”
“Good Lord!” Judge Carbonissa muttered, overwhelmed.
“We have checked the gravel for footprints,” Superintendent Muñoz said. “Nothing. Every track has been erased. There’s also no trace of a dog or any other animal.”
“Are you quite sure?” Doctor Pellicer said, blowing smoke out of his nose.
“Is it absolutely necessary that you smoke?” the police officer spat at him. “Of course I’m sure, you think I’m not able to recognize dog tracks when I see them?”
“No need to get worked up,” the doctor said in a conciliatory tone as he took another drag on his cigarette. “What else did you uncover when you canvassed the scene? Anything worth mentioning?”
Superintendent Muñoz fixed his eyes on Sirga, signaling his turn to speak.
“A t-top . . . a spinning top,” Sirga stammered nervously. “It was . . . right there on the ground, by the boy’s body.”
At that moment there was a guttural sound that recalled a cat in heat. The child’s father, whom they had completely forgotten about, apparently emerging from his stupor at the mention of the toy. He stood, spread his arms and legs wide, and with his head tilted back let out a half-smothered groan. Seemingly unaware of the group of men observing him, he headed out of the alley into the drizzle and tottered away toward La Rambla along some imaginary route. He wobbled with each step, as though carrying a tremendous weight on his back. His work smock billowed from a gust of air, as if no one inhabited it.
“Poor devil.”
“I’ll need to examine the spinning top,” said Doctor Pellicer, thinking aloud. “We might find a hair stuck to it, or a drop of the dog’s saliva . . .”
“Why this insistence on the dog, all this damn dog malarkey?” Superintendent Muñoz snapped.
Brother Darder—unlike Brothers Lacunza and Plana—finally dared to open his mouth. “In any event, it strikes me as premature to discard the war-crime hypothesis straightaway. Since the beginning of the conflict we have suffered the terrible loss of dozens of brothers, and that is only within the Marist institution . . .”
Superintendent Muñoz cut him off. “Pardon me, Father,” he said, “but you’re not from around here, are you? I mean you aren’t from Barcelona.”
“No,” replied the disconcerted religious with some hesitation. “I was born in Palma and lived there until the family sent me to Barcelona to finish my studies at the Conciliar Seminary.”
“Palma de Mallorca, huh?” The officer’s tone was sarcastic. “I hear people there are really easy going, no? So I would ask you to kindly simmer down and stop getting ahead of yourself.”
Like a scalded cat, Sirga surreptitiously inched away from his increasingly hostile superior. Judge Carbonissa raised his eyebrows and Doctor Pellicer blew a puff of smoke directly in the superintendent’s face.
“Goddammit!” roared the officer, fanning his face with his hands. “What are you trying to do, asphyxiate me?”
The superintendent’s cursing didn’t seem to have reached the ears of Brothers Plana and Lacunza, who were staring at the ground, dejected. Brother Darder, however, intervened again, annoyed by the comment.
“Listen, superintendent, what exactly did you mean by . . .”
“No, you listen to me, brother. I represent the Law here, and you can rest assured that I will track down the man who murdered this poor boy and your . . . associate—or whatever I’m supposed to call him—and I will apprehend him and give him the works. I’ve already told you, and I will repeat it: I am not going to report you. But I warn you, if I hear one more word with that friarly petulance of yours as to how to conduct this investigation, I will use whatever cooked-up excuse comes to mind to report you, and I will personally see to it that you piss yourself with more holy water than you have seen in your whole miserable life. Are we clear?! We already have a forensic pathologist, a judge, and two police officers here—as for you, aren’t we led to believe that your kingdom lies beyond this world? So go hear the pious confess and let people get on with their jobs, dammit!”
Everyone froze, except Sirga, who was biting his lip to keep from laughing; he had always had a taste for bombastic invectives directed at the clergy, but he wanted to avoid being called an idiot again. Suddenly the rain thickened, its sound the only counterpoint to the silence that had settled among the circle of men.
“Come on, Sirga, let’s get moving. We don’t have all day,” Superintendent Muñoz finally said. “Bible thumpers,” he muttered.
Brother Darder had a look of sour grapes, but he accepted the officer’s invective meekly. A drop of rain trembled at the tip of his nose and fell to his shoe. Doctor Pellicer marveled at the priest’s self-control, for Brother Darder was still a young man, no more than thirty, tall and heavy-set, with the appearance of a farmer, and black, penetrating eyes. Superintendent Muñoz, on the other hand, was short and scrawny, probably around forty, though his sunken cheeks made him appear older. Were it not for the vaguely distinguished look his uniform gave him he could have easily passed for a kitchen helper with the haughty airs of a gamecock—habits born of ill-breeding, thought the doctor, the lap dog barking at the big dog.
He tossed the cigarette butt on the ground and decided to head to the morgue, where work awaited: the autopsies on the child and Brother Gendrau. But at that moment Judge Carbonissa approached him and took him by the shoulder; Doctor Pellicer glanced at the judge and nodded by way of response.
The judge then turned to the two policemen, who w
ere moving away. “Superintendent! Excuse me, superintendent!”
Superintendent Muñoz reluctantly turned around. “What is it, Judge Carbonissa? Tell me fast or we’ll be drenched like two farm chickens.”
“Right. It’s just that something just occurred to me . . .” He hesitated. “Regarding what the doctor was suggesting, about a dog’s involvement in the death of the boy . . .”
“Not that again!”
“No, no!” Judge Carbonissa barreled on. “What I wanted to say is that . . . well, it’s appalling to even think about . . . but could the wounds on the child’s neck have been caused not by an animal but by a man?”
The superintendent studied the judge with the curiosity of an entomologist. He would have liked to come up with a lapidary response, but at that moment the rain turned into a downpour and a few seconds later it began to hail. Everyone scattered, scurrying down Carrer Ferran as fast as they could.
“It was Escorza. He says he’s on his way here,” said Antoni Ordaz, replacing the telephone earpiece.
“Shit,” grunted Aureli Fernández.
One of the heads of the Defense Committee of the Barcelona neighborhood of Sant Martí de Provençals, a clandestine military group with anarcho-syndicalism ties, Ordaz was also a founding member of the Central Committee of Antifascist Militias of the CNT-FAI, the anarchist labor union. He was a slight man, short and chubby and grim-faced, but when he thought it could play in his benefit he tried to put on a show of cordiality and frankness. Sadly, he never succeeded.
“I spoke with Gil Portela from Safe-Conducts this morning,” Ordaz said. “It’s all under control.”
“Excellent,” murmured Aureli Fernández. “Collonut.”
Ordaz, who always tried to ingratiate himself with his superior, was dismayed by the fact that Fernández’s replies inevitably included something to do with collons—balls. It was also true that Fernández had quite a lot on his plate: he was as involved as Ordaz in the Committee of Antifascist Militias and had been put in charge of the Department of Investigations, whose mission was to revamp the group’s security policy and create a secret police that would collaborate with surveillance patrols. The aim of the department was to persecute the enemies of the new revolutionary order, clamp down on fascist activities in Catalunya, and control the flow of merchandise, goods, and people across land and maritime borders. It was a herculean task that Fernández had to coordinate without a single slipup if he wanted to avoid falling victim to the brutality of Escorza, the Cripple of Sant Elies—a brutality which, if it were up to FAI kingpin Escorza, would be swiftly and diligently meted out. This was the reason Aureli Fernández went about with a downcast, worried air.
Blood Crime Page 3