“Then he turned to me and called me stupid. He said I had the wrong girl. That I was stupid.” He shook his head. “That spoiled brat.” He slapped fist to palm. “Why didn’t he just say Joy? I knew Joy. He had to say girl in the red gown. That coño.”
“Anyway, that other girl looked alright to me. She was stacked.” He raised claw-like hands to his chest and smacked his lips.
Tuason clenched her fists, and with amazing self-control, kept from punching the grin off his face.
“I can’t believe that girl. When she came to, she threw herself at Sam again. He got really pissed off. He took her by the shoulder and shook her. Then this girl said, ‘I’ll tell Joy, I’ll tell Joy,’ like a lunatic. He shook her harder, and she kept taunting him, in that high-pitched voice. That’s when he completely lost it. He strangled her. It was all too sudden. I didn’t know he was that strong. I mean we already had a lot to drink by then. But he was still pretty strong.”
“That happened inside the van?”
He nodded. “As usual, Sam asked me to clean up his mess while he partied. He told me to take him to the bar then take care of her.”
He was talking faster.
“When I was alone with the girl, we passed by Araneta. There was this grassy place near the abandoned spaceship house.” He chuckled. “How cool was that? Amidala and a spaceship. So I dumped her there.”
“Go on,” Tuason said.
His eyes flitted from Tuason to Joshua. “That’s it. I left her there.”
Tuason slammed her hand on the table. “Tell us everything. How did her gown get ripped?”
Rex looked to Joshua, who touched his holstered gun and said, “I’d do what she said, if I were you.”
He hung his head, not saying a word.
Joshua thwacked Rex’s ear with a flick of his middle finger. “Answer her!”
Rex flinched, perhaps surprised that the pain had been inflicted by the “good cop.” Then he exhaled loudly, his shoulders slumping, as though he had been crushed. “I was going to take her out of the Patrol.” He paused, then shoulders straightening, he looked at his interrogators with pebble eyes glistening. “She was still warm.” He was reliving the moment. “Her boobs were soft. She smelled nice too. I kissed her, and she didn’t resist. At last, someone who didn’t resist. I was finally going to get the girl, just like Sam.”
Tuason narrowed her eyes, fighting the urge to strangle him.
He mistook her look of disgust for something else. “Of course, I know I’m not Sam. I’m better-looking than him. Take away his Rolex and his father’s money, I bet the girls won’t even look at him.” Rex snorted.
He struck Tuason as someone who initially attracted, but subsequently repelled women. Pent-up anger at years of rejection hardened his voice.
“So, I embraced her again, but I had a hard time with the dress. I had to rip it. Then I ran my hands up her legs, and putang ina, paksyet, she was all cut up. Pwe! I wasn’t that desperate. So I just dumped her there. But it was Sam who killed her. I swear.”
When Tuason saw his smug face, it was as though her hand had a mind of its own, and before she knew it, she had punched him. Joshua pulled her away. She took a deep breath and said, “Cuff him.” She kneaded her temples and thought about their next course of action, steeling herself for an uphill battle. They were going to arrest the congressman’s son. Granted, he was an illegitimate child, but he was still his son.
The following day, while they were preparing to obtain a warrant for the arrest of Sam, the high-caliber lawyer Atty. Roldan Felipe visited Lakewood Station. He was a known associate of the congressman. Tall and fair, with chubby cheeks, round eyes, and brown curly hair, he could disarm people into thinking he was an oversized cherub. But he had a track record of successfully defending murderers and assorted criminals, sometimes even turning the tables on the plaintiffs. With much respect, he asked the desk sergeant if he could see his client, Rex Batungbakal.
Tuason narrowed her eyes upon hearing the request. How could Rex afford him? And why was a known associate of the congressman defending the person who had accused his son of murder? Her ears tingled. When the lawyer passed her desk and gave her a smile, she knew something awful was going to happen. She waited out the lawyer’s visit with dread.
After the visit, Rex recanted.
Tuason went to see Rex. Joshua trailed his partner, worried about what she would do to the prisoner.
Rex looked paler than the last time she saw him. His eyes had sunk deep into their sockets in a way that suggested he had been held prisoner for more than a day.
“I lied the first time,” he said.
Tuason cocked her head.
Rex continued, “Sam punched her and she fainted. But she was still alive when we dropped him off at the bar. When the girl and I were in Araneta, she came half awake. Remember the spaceship house? Yeah, That’s where I took her. I started to kiss her, but she pushed me away. She laughed to my face, and started walking back to the Patrol. I grabbed her gown and it ripped. She screamed, ‘You little little man, get away from me!’ Her nostrils flared as if she smelled something rotten. As if she had not practically thrown herself at me just minutes before.” His eyes were flat. “Then she laughed again. That was when I strangled her. I took care of her, alright.”
He spoke in a monotone, sans his lascivious glee.
“What did the lawyer tell you? Did he threaten you?” Tuason stared at him looking for further signs of a lie.
Rex shook his head.
“Listen and listen close, little man. You think you’re gonna be safe, knowing what you know? I bet someone will kill you inside bilibid. Maybe on the first day, maybe not, but they’ll be coming for you.” Tuason’s voice had deepened to a growl.
Rex cradled his face in his hands, as though trying to erase whatever the lawyer had told him, but failing dismally, because whatever it was, it had become indelible and was infinitely more frightening than the fate Tuason had just outlined for him.
Police learned later, that on the day of Roldan Felipe’s visit, Sam had left the country. Immigration records showed that he went to Hong Kong, and from there, he could go on to God knows where, some country without an extradition treaty. Tuason felt heat suffusing her body, as her muscles grew rigid with anger. Technically, Sam was not a fugitive since no charges had been filed against him. Rex had confessed to the murder. They could not even charge Sam with illegal detention because Sheena had gone with them voluntarily. Grave physical injuries would be a stretch, specially since the victim was dead, ergo, no complainant.
Big Mac seemed relieved. He called Tuason to his office just as she was about to get some lunch.
“At least we got one of them. All tied up with a neat little confession,” He made it sound like an accomplishment.
Her head throbbed. “With all due respect Sir, Rex Batumbakal didn’t do it.”
“As I said, he confessed, Tuason. What more do you want?” Big Mac unwrapped a double cheeseburger, its pungence overpowering the fragrance of sampaguitas on the Blessed Mother’s leis.
She shook her head and gripped the arms of the visitor’s chair so hard she could feel the grain of the wood. “So this Sam gets off because of an accident of birth. And meanwhile, his father continues to be the patron of law and order, giving people a false sense of safety.” Then as an afterthought, “With due respect, Sir.”
“Stop saying with ‘due respect’ then mouthing off.” Big Mac’s nostrils flared. “That Batumbakal is no saint. He’s sick in the head. He’ll kill someone in time, I’m sure of it. And remember, the congressman is one of the good guys. He is as much against crime as we are.” He attacked his double cheeseburger.
“As long as it’s other people’s crimes.”
“Enough.” He laid the burger on his desk. Bushy brows colliding, he said, “We go by law and evidence. There is nothing linking Sam Mendrez to the murder. And you know full well that he has a strong alibi.”
“But that ali
bi is from his friends. Are you defending Sam Mendrez because the congressman is your old classmate?” Tuason wanted to say, but the look on Big Mac’s face warned that her she was about a mouthful away from getting assigned to desk duty. The throbbing in her head intensified, and her jaws hurt from grinding her teeth to keep from talking back. She left Big Mac’s office feeling like her head was about to explode, wrestling with questions. Was their chief slipping, blinded by old school ties, or had he really believed he was doing the right thing?
As she approached her desk, Joshua said, “Lunch?”
She wrinkled her nose and sat, kneading her temples.
“Hey, don’t beat yourself up too much.”
“They’re getting away with it.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. “And tell me, are you still glad you voted for him?”
Joshua slowly shook his head. “But don’t forget, he’s one of the good ones.”
“Again with that ‘good ones’ shit.”
Joshua winced. It was the first time he heard Tuason curse.
“Why does everybody say it? Do you know it makes me feel worse? If the congressman is one of the good ones, what hope do we have?”
Joshua shrugged. “Maybe we just have to keep on believing in what we’re doing, and do it well. I believe in you, Tuason, for what it’s worth.”
She gave him a weak smile, thinking, when had a miscarriage of justice like this started amounting to a case closure?
That night, she could not muster the energy to go to the dojang. Instead, she worked on her latest elephant, sanding the wood, hoping that the rhythmic scratching sound would soothe her. Yet she still felt all knotted up. Next, she buffed the carving to a silky smoothness. She ran her fingers over the wall-like body and the pillar-like legs. Then she rubbed linseed oil over the elephant. But she could not even bring herself to smile or allow herself the satisfaction of admiring her work. Not while weighed down by her failure to obtain justice for Sheena. Her eyes trailed to the crucifix on the wall. “God, when will the meek inherit the earth?” She asked. “All these rich and powerful men are literally getting away with murder.” Then she bowed her head, remembering that Christ himself was murdered. She buffed the elephant anew, as if making it gleam would somehow dispel some of the darkness she felt.
A few days later, Joshua set a piece of paper on Tuason’s desk like he was offering a gift. “I finally got Sheena’s address.”
Tuason’s face crumpled.
Undeterred, Joshua said, “Come on, someone’s ‘gotta do it. At least, we can tell them that we’ve caught the guy.”
“The wrong guy, we both know it.”
Joshua shrugged. “He could change his statement again, you know. A lot of convicts ‘find God’ in prison.” He made air quotes.
“All this time, her folks never knew.” She sounded sad and weary. Sheena might have been an envious, conniving person, but someone, her family, relatives, must have cared, Tuason thought.
“Yeah. But you know what’s strange? Up to now, there’s no mispers report on her. Even after there were selfies posted in social media with her body in the background.”
Tuason puffed her cheeks then blew out air. “Those insensitive fools.” She balled her hands. “The mother must be too ill to make the report.” She nodded at Joshua and dragged herself out to the parking lot. She hoped that this time, they had the correct address.
It was a low-rise condominium along Visayas Avenue. A plastic bamboo plant in a faux terra cotta pot graced the tiny lobby like a tired receptionist. Security was lax. They went to the elevator to the fourth floor undisturbed. Joshua rang the bell to unit 404 repeatedly, but there was no answer. “Doesn’t her mother live with her?”
“She must be hard of hearing.”
After a few minutes, they went back to the lobby. There was still no one around, so they rang the service bell. The condo manager studied their badges and IDs before retrieving the spare key and ushering them to Sheena’s unit. “There’s no one there,” she volunteered.
“Where’s her mother?”
“What?”
“Her mother. She lives with her.”
“No, Sheena lives alone. Please leave the key at the reception on your way out.”
Before they could reply, the woman had left, probably eager to return to her napping.
Dust had accumulated in the musty living room, but it was reasonably tidy for a place without a maid. A beige love seat and coffee table stood close to a dinette with two chairs. The place was bare. No family photos, or vases, no knick-knacks at all. A hotel room had more personality. The adjoining kitchen was also bare. Only canned food and coffee filled the kitchen cabinet. The small refrigerator contained Styrofoam take-out containers with moldy leftovers. There was no stove. No oven. Not even a toaster. Just a small microwave. Maybe for reheating purposes. There was no way she could have cooked all those fancy dishes described by her officemates. Not in this kitchen.
The bedroom was the same bland space. Just a single bed. The closet contained neatly hung clothes, while the drawers held meticulously folded shirts and underwear. Everything was in Sheena’s size. There were no old-woman clothes. No trace that a sick, elderly person had ever lived there. Nor was there any sign of siblings. Again, no photo albums or mementos.
One of the drawers held an expensive camera with telephoto lenses. Professional gadgets. There was a hunting knife and a 45-caliber pistol. Tuason thought it was a rather big gun to keep for personal safety. An ID for a shooting range lay at the bottom of the drawer. Tuason puffed her cheeks then let the air out of them. She surveyed the room again. The curtains opposite the bed did not open to a window. Odd.
She drew them open. The wall behind the curtains was filled with pictures. But not of Sheena. They were of Sam and Joy. Having a quiet dinner together. Walking hand in hand, laughing. Having drinks. There were solo close-up pictures of Sam and Joy. At the center of the collage was a picture of a naked Sam, which was a little grainy, as if taken from afar. It was not difficult to imagine Sheena lying in bed alone and staring at those pictures.
“’Tang ina,” Joshua cursed under his breath, staring at the collage. Then his eyes flitted to Tuason. “You think, if she didn’t die, that we’d be looking at two murders instead of one?”
In the silence, Tuason kneaded her temples and walked to the door. Sheena had scars so deep, it was difficult to tell.
BRUISED
The rookie police officer heard moans as he patrolled the deserted street. They seemed to come from a pile of garbage heaped on the corner of Eskinita Ocho and Road 1. He stepped closer, nose wrinkled. His heart beat faster when he saw the trash move. Limb by limb, a woman with bruised arms and legs emerged from the trash. Her face was swollen, her hair plastered on sweaty scalp. Flies formed a dark buzzing cloud around her, then dove back into the trash.
“Ma’am, can you hear me?”
A weak nod.
“Who did this to you?”
She shook her head as if each movement pained her, as if she would sink back to the trash any second.
The rookie speed-dialed an ambulance, but he could not get through. The woman continued moaning. He hailed a tricycle that took them to Lakeview Station, officially known as Quezon City Police Station 13. Freshly repainted in white with blue trimming, it sat on a low hill and was surrounded by a mix of residential and commercial buildings. From there, the Iglesia Ni Kristo Central with its white and green spires was barely visible though the smog, like Sleeping Beauty’s castle through a mist. There was no lake or any body of water in view. The tricycle ride was bumpy and noisy, but mercifully short. The rookie turned the woman over to the Women’s Desk officer, Grace Vega.
Officer Vega took one look at the woman and shook her head. “Again, Sarya? When are you going to learn?”
Sarya bowed her head and looked at her dirty feet, at her rubber slippers whose thongs were about to give out. Even in her sorry state, it was easy to imagine that she was pretty in a china doll ki
nd of way. She was slant-eyed and fragile-looking, the kind whose fair complexion bruised easily.
Inspector SJ Tuason and the other personnel of Lakeside Station could only cluck their tongues at the now-familiar sight of a beaten-up Sarya. Poor girl, their eyes seemed to say.
The first time that patrol officers found her, she had been staggering from their house along Road 1 with lacerations on her arms. She said that she had accidentally cut herself. The police had found her brother in their house, passed out, a bloody knife in his hands.
Sarya had refused to press charges. She said her brother wrestled the knife away from her so that she could no longer hurt herself. The wounds were self-inflicted, she had insisted. It was the same story that Monday morning.
“You should be careful. Next time, you may not be so lucky,” Grace Vega said, her eyes surveying Sarya’s bruises. “You should leave him.”
“He’s a good man, Ma’am Grace. He just had some traumatic experience in Iraq.” Then she clamped her swollen lips, as if afraid that she had said too much.
“Are you saying he has PTSD?” The officer sounded alarmed.
Sarya shook her head and remained silent.
“She’s going to be your case in homicide sooner or later,” Grace told Tuason as she dunked a squid ball into the tangy brown sauce.
“Isn’t there anything you can do to the brother?” Tuason had surprised Grace by joining her for afternoon merienda, meaning Tuason sat on the visitor’s chair at the Women’s Desk and hoped that no victim would show up in the next fifteen minutes.
“She keeps saying her wounds were self-inflicted, that she’s clumsy and accidentally hurts herself. You know how it is.” She popped a squid ball into her mouth. As she chewed, she said, “A pity though, she has a nursing degree, but she just stays home to look after her brother. She told me the brother is a former OFW. He had a stint in Iraq. Maybe he saw things that messed with his mind.” She swallowed. Seeing that Tuason’s face had darkened, she added, “Please don’t go all Rambo on him. It might make matters worse.”
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