Crimetime

by Maria L. M. Fres-Felix

  And what would it look like for her? The police will surely regard the affair as a motive for her to kill Henry. Gently, she replaced the recorder beside another one in the drawer. Her hand hovered over the second recorder. Even without playing it, she could hear Henry’s voice in her mind. A solitary tear slid down from her right eye. No way was she going to turn over that one to the police. She thought for a minute, then retrieved both recorders. She walked to the office safe and placed the recorders inside, with their land titles, contracts, and investment records.

  Tuason unlocked the door of her tiny apartment. A herd of elephants greeted her from a tanguile table by the entrance. Some of the elephants were finds from ukay-ukay shops, some were gifts from what few friends she had. The others she carved herself. After a dinner of reheated pakbet and day-old rice, she sat on her workbench. And with Bon Jovi’s husky voice singing “Shot through the heart…” in the background, she resumed work on her latest elephant. It was going to be an African male, one with floppy ears. It was more showy and more difficult to carve than the Asian elephants with smaller ears. She chose a carving knife from her toolbox and with careful strokes, carved the teak wood, steadying the knife between thumb and forefinger. She imagined what Quezon City must have been like when mammoths roamed its rolling forests. Must have been peaceful, no crime, she told herself, doubting it. There will always be strife anywhere man is around, she thought, and this is why the police exist, so that the weaker ones would be protected.

  As a child, she had vowed to become a police officer and help those in need, specially the downtrodden. She had been marked by her mother’s anguish when the police had ignored her repeated pleas for the closure of the illegal gambling den where her father threw away money they badly needed to survive. The police didn’t have time for a lowly seamstress and her woes. And most probably, were on the payroll of the illegal gambling operator. Then as now, newspaper reports alleged that some policemen not only protected syndicates, but at times were themselves the culprits. When Tuason failed the admission test to the Philippine National Police Academy where she would have received top notch police education plus free tuition and a monthly allowance, she enrolled in a downtown university and worked part-time to help finance her studies. She often felt that if she had graduated from the PNPA, her peers and superiors would have taken her more seriously.

  Then Henry Villa’s case intruded into her thoughts. He wasn’t someone you would call weak. In fact, he preyed on others. Does a victimizer deserve help? Look at the big picture, she told herself, as she sanded the elephant’s body. Don’t be like the blind men in the Indian folk tale. Bon Jovi continued to sing in the background. She smiled. He had a limited range, but she liked him. So what if some people dismissed his music as bubblegum rock? He organized a foundation to help poor families, instead of just going on with his life, rolling in his rock star money. The big picture that his critics missed.

  Armed with a search warrant, Tuason and Joshua returned to Henry’s office. Only the two conmen-in-training were there. The smell of rotting vegetables seemed to have been replaced by the odor of despair.

  “Alicia has not been coming since your last visit,” one of them said.

  “I think Mr. Villa fired her the day before he died. They were arguing,” the other one said.

  Tuason and Joshua exchanged looks. “And you’re telling us all of this only now?” Tuason tried to keep the exasperation from her voice. Both clerks looked down on their scuffed shoes. In the silence, Tuason said, “We’ll need the documents.”

  The two tried to help them, but Henry’s private room was locked, and so were the secretary’s drawers and filing cabinets. Tuason took two hairpins from her bun and worked the locks.

  “Ma’am, what should we do? We’re still owed our salaries.”

  Tuason puffed out her cheeks and exhaled. “Find another job. And stop sweet-talking gullible people into investing in pyramid schemes.”

  Henry’s private room was like a section of Payatas. The documents were helter skelter, some of them stuffed into black garbage bags. “She was no secretary,” Tuason frowned, just as a pile of papers teetered and crashed to the floor. The boxes from their last visit were nowhere in sight.

  Back at Lakeview Station, Tuason pored over the mountain of documents, grinding her teeth in frustration. Her speed-reading was not making any dent on the reams of paper.

  Joshua was tapping away at his keyboard, ignoring the piles of paper atop his desk.

  Tuason looked up from a report she was reading. “Anything from your end?”

  “Oh, I’m waiting for the lab results.”

  “And?”

  “Well, I thought I’d finish up on some paperwork first.” This from a man who abhorred report-writing.

  “And you’re doing this because…”

  Joshua shrugged. “As you said, he was a scam artist. He destroyed people’s lives. And now he’s dead. I’m betting hundreds, if not thousands of people are now rejoicing.”

  “He’s dead and it’s our job to look for his killer, not to pass judgment. Have you looked into the investor group that filed a case against him?”

  “Yes, well, most of the investors are in the provinces. The president is in the States. He’s a balikbayan who has a brother in Dumaguete. The brother enticed him to take out a second mortgage on his house in San Diego and invest with Henry. Now his house is under foreclosure.”

  Tuason fixed Joshua with dark eyes.

  He took a deep breath. His shoulders slumped. “I just found out, my father invested a large amount in Henry’s failed scam. I remember years ago, he sold some riceland, but he never talked about it till now. He saw a story on Henry’s death in the papers. He asked me if it was our case. Papa admitted to selling riceland and investing the proceeds in Henry’s scam.” Joshua shook his head. “He also admitted to selling more land to pay off the friends that he had convinced to invest.” Joshua’s face reddened. His jaws throbbed.

  Tuason swallowed her retort. This was the first time Joshua had ever talked about his father. She knew that there was some conflict between father and son because Joshua had decided on a career in the police force instead of the army where his father and grandfather had served. She remembered her partner’s father, Col. Edilberto Rios, one of the few highly regarded military men in the country. Beyond the financial losses, it must have been such an embarrassment for the Colonel to have been conned by Villa.

  She looked at the piles of paper from Henry’s office, then at the neatly stacked folders of her other cases. Did a scammer deserve as much justice as the other murder victims whose families she had helped? Hadn’t his death been a kind of vengeance for those he had cheated? She flipped through Henry’s files and winced at the endless columns of figures, projections and names. She puffed up her cheeks and blew out air with a pop. Were there powerful people in Henry’s lists? Powerful people who wanted him dead for scamming them? She shook her head then massaged her temples. Taking a break from the paper storm on her desk, Tuason called Zaldy Bernal, the forensic pathologist.

  “I was wondering why you hadn’t returned to haunt my lab,” Bernal said.

  “Did you miss me, or the chocolates?”

  “Don’t tempt me. I’m trying to lose weight.” Tuason imagined him in his lab in Crame, surrounded by bodies and an assortment of chemicals, looking down on his stomach straining against a black T-shirt, probably bearing the image of The Grateful Dead. By this time, his white laboratory gown would be smeared with blood and other bodily fluids. “Let me get the tox screen results. Here. We found strychnine in the victim’s blood, the same toxin on the icepick. That’s why he appeared to have had a heart attack and died before he exsanguinated.”

  “So that’s why he was unable to call for help.”

  “Exactly. Strychnine is a poisonous alkyd from the St. Ignatius beans. It’s a Philippine vine. It causes contraction of the respiratory muscles, leading to asphyxiation. But what made the death instantaneous
was that Strychnine was mixed with Beta Antiarin which paralyzes the muscles.”

  “Ooops, remember, no geek–speak between friends.”

  “Okay. So, this Beta Antiarin is from the Upas tree.”

  “The deadly Upas tree of Java has blighted him,” Tuason said, surprising herself that she remembered that obscure quote from Dickens.

  “So now, who’s geeking out?”

  Tuason chuckled.

  Zaldy continued, “You’re right. The tree is more popular in Java and India, but it is also grown here. And you know what? Our neighbors in Java, Sumatra, India and Malaysia have also been using those toxins on their arrows and blowguns since God knows when.”

  “Our very own pre-colonial biological weapons in South East Asia.” Tuason said.

  “Uhumm. There’s some damage to the liver.” Bernal went on full pathologist mode once more. “Victim had been beaten up a few days before he died. But the bruises were well concealed. Whoever beat him up knew what he was doing.”

  Tuason stared at the papers on her desk, digesting Bernal’s words. “Thanks, Zaldy,” she said and put the phone down. She attacked the documents once more.

  “No problem,” Zaldy Bernal said to the dead phone, knowing fully well that he could never thank Tuason enough for a past favor, even if he lived another lifetime.

  Joshua’s phone rang.

  “We have an ID for our photobomber.” He said.

  Tuason looked up from the riot of papers on her desk.

  “He’s one Boy Nunal. He was a suspect in two other stabbing incidents involving a poisoned icepick. He comes from the North.”

  Tuason nodded thoughtfully. Some tribes up North still used poisoned blowpipes. Using the poison on icepicks instead of darts wouldn’t be a long jump.

  Joshua looked uneasy. “But Boy Nunal was released due to lack of evidence.”

  “What do you mean lack of evidence? His face alone is one big evidence. How many killers have moles like his?”

  “No prints on the icepick. He lawyered up, and the witnesses recanted.”

  She puffed her cheeks and exhaled in exasperation. He had gotten away before. That probably explained why he dared kill in such a busy place. He was taunting the police. Or he was simply stupid with hubris.

  “You have to talk to media,” Big Mac Maquera said. “Some idiot usi posted a picture of the crime scene on social media. It’s trending now. I’ve had some calls from the networks asking questions.”

  “Sir, shouldn’t you be the one giving the statement?”

  “No, I don’t want this becoming overblown. Better if the chief inspector keeps out of this. You know how it’s playing out. The scammer as victim, his own victims crying for justice.”

  Tuason studied the chief inspector. He was nicknamed Big Mac not only because of his tank-like physique, but also because of his love of the eponymous burgers. A half-eaten burger lay on his desk. Big Mac, a telegenic mestizo, was not new to giving media interviews, so it was not public speaking jitters. She suspected that Big Mac was just covering his ass. He did not want to be put on the spot and say the wrong things, or be misquoted. She was the convenient scapegoat if things unraveled. But she knew she had to follow orders. This time. As one of only two token females in the force in Lakeview, she could not afford to mess up. She glanced at the other policemen. They were pretending to do some paperwork, but were listening in, observing what she will do.

  Just breathe deeply, she told herself. Imagine that you’re alone and the cameras are mere furniture. You’ll get through this. But still, she could not help but think that it was a set-up. Big Mac knew that public speaking was not her strong suit.

  The camera loved Tuason. Her high cheekbones and squarish jaws suggested just the right amount of toughness. Viewers seemed to overlook her oddly shaped ears. Her strange eyes managed to convey sincerity when she said, “The police are doing everything to find Mr. Villa’s killer. We are here to serve and protect, but we would also appreciate any assistance from the public. We have identified a suspect. If anyone has information, please get in touch with us.” She released a picture of Boy Nunal.

  Asked about the victims of Henry’s scams, she said, “We sympathize with them, and I suggest that they contact the proper authorities.”

  Lakeview was deluged with tips in the next few days, with Boy Nunal sightings from Camarin to San Franciso Del Monte and even as far as Piddig in Northern Philippines to Zamboanga in the South.

  Weeks passed and they still had no luck locating Boy Nunal. Meanwhile, Tuason was busy explaining why the investigation was slow. “You have to give us a break,” she told Ellen, one of the reporters who struck her as reasonable.

  “But the news doesn’t sleep, Ma’am Tuason,” Ellen said with a wink.

  Finally, with the help of informants who, like Boy Nunal were originally from the North, they tracked him down and he was brought to Lakeview for questioning.

  Boy Nunal was sinewy and tall. A hairy mole the size of a twenty-five centavo coin sat on his left chin. He had large, shockingly white teeth against brown skin. Eyes closed, he drummed dirty fingers on the table, as if he were a concert pianist playing the piano at the Cultural Center.

  “What is it now, Inspector?” he asked with a cockiness that betrayed previous brushes with the law.

  Tuason cast a sideway look at Rios, then turned to Boy Nunal. “Pretty cocky, are we?” She laid Henry’s ID photo on the table now marked with grease from Boy Nunal’s hands. “Tell us about this man.”

  He shook his head.

  “Try harder,” Tuason said, laying an enlarged print of the zumba lady’s selfie shot. It had become grainy because of enlargement. “That’s you, and that’s Henry. You two look cozy.”

  Boy Nunal shrugged. “That could be anybody. It’s a public park.”

  “Witnesses place you at the scene. They remember your mole.” It was not entirely a lie.

  After all, the taho vendor did say he remembered a wiry man at the scene.

  “I’m not the only person in the world with a mole.”

  “But you’re the only one investigated for other deaths by poisoning.”

  “No, see, those witnesses were mistaken. They all recanted, just like your witnesses surely will.” He remained cool under Tuason’s interrogation, something most suspects could not manage.

  “Look,” Tuason said, “You’re obviously not working alone. If you cooperate with us, we can help you.” She had a feeling that he was hired to kill Henry. That he had killed several times before, not all of them in the police records. He knew how to work the system. Or perhaps he was a police asset and so got a free pass. Then there was also the possibility that he was a hit man employed by some powerful entities, and that was why his previous cases had gotten thrown away.

  He caressed his hairy mole, smiling, as if he was considering that option. He grinned, showing those large white teeth. “Hmmm,” he said, still caressing his mole. “I want a lawyer.” He stared at Tuason, as if waiting for her to be surprised.

  If Tuason was taken off-guard, she hid it well. “Ok, we can get you someone from PAO.”

  “Oh, I have my own lawyer.”

  Tuason studied him. She was right about Boy Nunal working the system. Her suspicion about Boy Nunal working for the powerful intensified. She fisted her hands. Then after a calming breath, she said, “But you’re free to go. Just don’t leave QC anytime soon.”

  Boy Nunal almost fell off his chair. Joshua snapped his head at Tuason, an unspoken question in his wide eyes.

  “There’s just some paperwork that needs to be completed,” she said, with the smile that Joshua knew meant his partner was up to something that she wanted to keep to herself.

  Boy Nunal left Lakeview Station just in time for the reporters to catch a glimpse of the newly released suspect and file their reports about his release.

  Joshua looked betrayed. “Why are you releasing him? We’ve connected him to the victim and we have a chance to nail him. Ye
t you’re letting him get away?”

  In response, Tuason turned to him and said, “Tail him.”

  “You think the secretary got tired of waiting for Henry to make up his mind and hired him?” Or maybe the wife discovered the affair and ordered a hit?” But Tuason was already back at her desk.

  Just a few minutes before Boy Nunal’s release, Mrs. Villa was on the road to a client meeting when she heard the news.

  “Scoop,” said the reporter. “One Boy Nunal, prime suspect in the Henry Villa murder will be released soon. Reliable sources said that this was due to lack of evidence. This is Ellen Sanchez of DZEZ. You heard it first, on DZEZ. Stay tuned for updates.”

  Mrs. Villa could not believe her ears. They were releasing him? She swerved and gunned her car in the direction of Lakeview Station. How could they do that? He was in a picture with Henry shortly before he was killed. And he was previously involved in another lethal stabbing with the same MO. Hadn’t they said all those things on the news? As she parked near Lakeview Station, she saw Boy Nunal walking towards a cab, trailed by reporters brandishing mics. She caught sight of his smirking dark face with the hairy mole. Mrs. Villa shuddered. She returned to her car and tailed Boy Nunal’s cab. She clucked her tongue. She was not used to doing this and she prayed that he would not spot her. So intent was she on the cab that she had not noticed another car tailing her. On Quirino Highway, there was an unexpected thinning of vehicles on the road. The cab took off on a burst of speed. The other car trailing behind overtook Mrs. Villa, and it was immediately followed by other cars. She eventually lost sight of the cab. Teeth clenched, she beat her fists on the steering wheel.

  Alicia the secretary also heard the news about Boy Nunal’s release. She redoubled her speed in packing, making sure she had the most important papers with her. Discarded clothes lay in piles on the parquet floor of the apartment or draped on chairs and tables. She would have to get away from Kyusi. She screwed her eyes, trying to think straight. It would have to be somewhere far, far away. Maybe to Cebu or farther. If only Henry had fulfilled his promises, that cheat! He was all sweet promises and lies. How could she have let herself be fooled for so long? It’s good she caught on. Then she gritted her teeth, remembering the lady detective whose eyes seemed to bore into her and made her wince. She was the type who could discover even one’s darkest secret.