Tuason drank the rest of her sago’t gulaman, patted the top of Grace’s desk and stood up. In her mind’s eye, she could still see Sarya, like a refugee from a war-torn area, when in truth, she came from a part of Kyusi where places of worship congregated. There was the Iglesia Ni Kristo in the corner of Tandang Sora and Commonwealth Avenue, the Our Lady of Consolation Church in Alondras, off Tandang Sora, and the Muslim Mosque in Culiat, also off Tandang Sora. If only the residents of Kyusi heeded their teachings of love and peace. She shook her head. Damascus in Asia.
“Hey, aren’t you gonna finish that?” Without waiting for a reply, Grace popped the remaining squid ball into her mouth. Dealing with women like Sarya made her ravenous. Tuason, of all people should know that from her own days with Women’s Desk.
As Tuason strode on long legs back to her desk, her partner Joshua Rios approached and said, “Dead body in Chico Street.”
The body sat propped by the wall of an abandoned warehouse. Her left temple had been bashed in, and her face smashed beyond recognition. There were no obvious signs of sexual abuse. She wore a short-sleeved gray blouse with matching skirt and black pumps. She looked like an office worker. There was no bag, cell phone or ID of any kind. She still had her watch, but was missing one earring. Tuason told the SOCO to be on the lookout for the earring, a small ruby surrounded by diamond chips.
“No one saw anything,” Joshua Rios said. “Those kids,” he pointed his lips to a group of teenage boys loitering on the sidewalk, about a block away, staring blankly at the crime scene, as if unable to muster the energy to saunter over and gawk at the body. “They must have been high on rugby. Still high, in fact. I got nothing from them.” He flipped his notebook shut.
Scene Of the Crime Operatives were collecting evidence, some of them plastic bags with traces of the brown glue. As was her wont, Tuason knelt to check the dress for a label. There was no label. She puffed her cheeks and exhaled. “This couldn’t have been a simple mugging. A lot of anger here. Beating someone up like this means the rage is personal.” She turned to the SOCO. “Any luck with the earring?” The SOCO shook his head.
“The perp must have taken it as a trophy.” Tuason said. Then she lifted the left arm. “Could be a needle mark.” The SOCO nodded, took out his fingerprinting kit and carefully took the victim’s prints. Tuason stood up. Her gray green eyes swept the scene looking for additional clues. She speed dialed her friend, Zaldy Bernal the forensic anthropologist.
Zaldy Bernal, in a black The Grateful Dead T-shirt, which emphasized his flabby body, sat hunched over his computer, his bushy brows knitted in concentration. His lab gown was draped over the back of his chair, like a tired guardian angel.
“Slow night?” Tuason placed a Toblerone atop his desk.
“Not by a long shot.” He rubbed his sun worn face with surprisingly smooth hands. “I just wanted a break from all those bodies.”
Tuason kept quiet. Bernal sighed and focused reddish eyes on her. “Your latest body is a mess. But you already know that. So, pending consent from relatives for an autopsy, here’s what we have.” He consulted his notes. “Cause of death is blunt force trauma. Initial blow to the left temple, several blows to the face. Time of death around 9:30 am, yesterday, give or take one to two hours. She was still fresh when you found her in the afternoon. I’d say the perp is right handed.” Tuason knew better than to question how he surmised those things even without an autopsy.
“Any identifying marks?”
Bernal shook his head. “Not even gunk under the nails. Though there were some wood splinters on the wounds. I’ll know more later.”
“Fingerprints?”
“Being processed. Let’s hope she’s in the system.” He brightened up a bit. “But we did find hair other than the victim’s.” He showed her strands of short curly hair.
“Pubic?”
“No, you naughty girl.” He chuckled. “We’ll see what DNA Division can do.” He looked doubtful. Even in Crame, they did not have a database to compare the DNA with. They had to refer any findings to NBI. Even fingerprints. Tuason could almost hear Joshua Rios’ wishful thinking about the crime detection gadgets he had seen on TV cop shows.
She tore off the wrapper from her Hershey’s bar and bit into the dark chocolate almost savagely.
“Easy, you’ll get diabetes.”
“Better that than cirrhosis,” she said, alluding to a number of cops who drowned their stress in alcohol. “I’d rather be a chocoholic than an alcoholic,” she added and left the lab.
Zaldy grinned. He was pleased that in her, he had found a kindred soul with a sweet tooth, whose sharp mind easily grasped the significance of his findings and acted upon them. As a bonus, she also knew about art, music, fine dining, and other matters not related to crime detection. Still grinning, he returned his attention to his computer monitor.
Sarya alighted from the tricycle. She took a calming breath before entering the house that she shared with her brother Kadyo. At three storeys, their house loomed over the other houses in the project. It was their parents’ and they had renovated it using remittance from her brother’s posting in Iraq. It looked nothing like the cookie cutter houses in the neighborhood. Though a civilian employee in an oil refinery, her brother had been caught in crossfire and sustained a head wound. He was sent home with a sizeable settlement. But he was never the same again. He became irritable and borderline paranoid. He refused to get another job and concentrated only in bulking up, exercising to reduce anxiety. “As per doctor’s orders,” he would emphasize.
Since he had gone to college years before on a baseball scholarship, he tried coaching at the nearby high school, but that had not worked out. He started drinking soon after. He guzzled San Miguel Beer and Ginebra San Miguel with equal zeal. “I’m asking for the Archangel’s intercession,” he would say. “He will deliver me from all anxiety,” he would add with a glassy smile. “No more exercise or coaching for me.”
Sarya often wondered how horrible it could be to work in an oil refinery, earning dollars. Was it worse than being confined to the house, caring after an ailing mother? Doing all the backbreaking tasks, all that lifting needed to look after her? Not being able to work outside of the house, and practically wasting her education? Kadyo had taken care of sending her to school, where she took up nursing. When their mother fell ill while he was still in Iraq, he told her to take care of their mother, instead of working in a hospital.
“Inay needs personalized care,” he had insisted.
Despite the personalized care, their mother died. And when he returned broken from Iraq, Kadyo told her to take care of him while he recovered. Sarya did as she was told, out of a deep-seated belief that she owed him a debt of gratitude. He had been the family breadwinner for as long as she could remember.
Kadyo took one look at his sister’s bandaged arm and cringed. “I’m sorry, Sarya. Did I do that to you? I’m sorry. I must have blacked out again.”
Sarya looked at him with fearful eyes. She took uncertain steps into the house, holding on to the console table on the foyer for support. She almost knocked down the bronze Buddha head that adorned the table. She avoided looking at the foyer mirror which reflected a frightened, bedraggled creature that not even a cat would drag home.
“Does it hurt?”
She flinched at his touch.
“Not as bad as before,” her voice was just above a whisper.
“I swear, I won’t hurt you again. I’m so sorry. It’s just these images in my mind. I can’t get rid of them.” He clamped his hands over his head, fingers digging into his mop of curly hair.
The first time it happened, Kadyo was reading the papers while Sarya was serving him coffee, brewed, two sugars, and one cream. Though they could afford to get a maid, he had insisted that they needed privacy. Sarya was consigned to making his coffee, preparing his meals, and doing the marketing. Thankfully, Kadyo had agreed for a woman from the nearby slums to come once a week to clean the house and do the
laundry.
“I miss the way you brew and mix coffee,” he had said. “Coffee in Iraq is so bitter.” He gave her a warm smile. Kadyo could be charming when sober.
It was the morning when the DPWH started road repair on their street. Sarya carried an aluminum tray from the kitchen to the living room. She glanced out of the window and saw a worker poised to drill the asphalt with a jackhammer. She shook her head. DPWH projects took forever, the workers moving as though half-asleep. What an inconvenience, specially on market days. She would have to use planks to get the car out of the garage.
The staccato sound of the drill on concrete pierced through the windows like rapid fire.
“Take cover! Enemy fire!” Kadyo shouted and ducked behind the sofa.
Sarya was startled by the guttural sound of his voice. The tray slid from her hands, the cup and saucer fell, spilling coffee on Kadyo before clattering and shattering on the crazy-cut marble floor.
“Enemy!” He lunged at Sarya. He pummeled her with rock hard fists, not heeding her cries. “Take cover! Take cover! Oh God, this is not happening again. They’re gonna take us!” He said, then clutched his head, curled up like a fetus. He lost consciousness.
Kadyo woke up with a massive headache. He could hardly get up. He realized he was on the living room floor and Sarya was cowering in the corner near the stairs. Red welts had bloomed on her face and her daster was torn. He looked around, alarmed at the thought that they had been robbed. With difficulty, he rose and approached Sarya. She winced and wrapped her arms tightly around herself, as if she wanted to curl into invisibility.
“What happened?”
“You don’t remember?”
He shook his head. “Who did this to you?”
“You really don’t remember, Kuya? You did this. You flew into a rage.” She wiped blood from her mouth and felt her front teeth come loose.
“I could never hurt you. Remember I used to baby sit you when you were young? How could you think I’d beat you up like that?” he gestured with his hands. Then he saw his bloody knuckles. He fell silent for a few seconds. With a cracked voice, he said, “Sorry, Sarya, sorry. Cross my heart. I don’t remember a thing. Please forgive me.”
“Are you taking your medicines?” She asked hesitantly.
He nodded.
“Maybe you should see another doctor, Kuya,” her voice trembled.
“I don’t need another doctor. I’ll be fine.”
He walked to the cabinet and poured some whiskey. Johnny Walker had joined St. Michael the Archangel as Kadyo’s go-to guys. “I just need to calm my nerves. I’ll be okay.”
“But Kuya, the doctor said . . .” The expression on her brother’s face silenced her.
She stood up on wobbly legs and went to her room, wondering if her brother’s tears were real.
Kadyo tipped his glass and poured another round. “Why is this happening,” he asked himself. “Why am I blacking out?” He clenched the whiskey glass.
The police had not known about this beating, and a couple more after that.
There was also the time when they argued over the investment solicitor. He had met her somewhere but he would not say where. Sarya had become suspicious. The woman had not looked like someone who worked in finance, she had said. Not unless they now hired beautiful women in tight clothes to lure male investors. Kadyo was furious. She had no right to question him. He was the older brother, or had she forgotten?
He was very sorry after that, and bought her a pair of pearl earrings as a peace offering. They were lustrous and pretty, but Sarya felt a pang of sadness, instead of joy. They reminded her of their mother. When she was alive, she used to say, “Pearls mean tears.” Sarya shuddered. The lustrous pearls looked like freshly shed tears.
Then there was the time they argued over the masseuse who did some home service. Sarya could not say exactly why, but she knew there was something going on between her brother and the long limbed masseuse. Many times she serviced him while Sarya was out marketing. She feared that these women will just break her brother’s heart.
The kickbag seemed to groan under Tuason’s attack. She hit it so hard her knees ached. She gritted her teeth, squinting, as if that could erase the image of the broken woman in Chico Street and others before her, that were imprinted in her brain. Had they cried for help and were left unheard? She unleashed a flurry of kicks and punches. What good had she done all these years? Women were still getting hurt. How she hated running into a brick wall so early in a case. No identity, no suspect, no motive. Just a mangled corpse and a missing earring. She had been guardedly optimistic about finding the identity of the girl in gray through the remaining earring. But like most jewelry worn by the middle class, it was not branded. Just a generic piece that could have come from any of so many anonymous shops in Binondo or Bulacan and points in between, even some backyard operations. She worked the bag until her legs felt sore, and most of the other people had left the gym. A number of them must have thought she was preparing for a tournament.
A week after they found the unidentified body in gray, another body with similar wounds was discovered, this time in Duhat Street. It was lying on the floor of an unfinished townhouse. The boards on the windows were rotting and the doors had either been stolen or had never been installed at all. It would have been so easy to gain access into the unit. It was a wonder that squatters . . . informal settlers, Tuason corrected herself, had not occupied them. She shrugged. Why bother squatting in an out-of-the-way street when they can squat right beneath the Tandang Sora Flyover, in the heart of Commonwealth Avenue?
Like the first victim, the corpse in Duhat had no ID. An earring was missing, a simple gold stud. Maggots had feasted on the body, and there were signs that small animals had gnawed at it too. Tuason guessed that she had died earlier than the girl in gray. The victim wore a physical therapist’s uniform—the V-neck shirt and straight cut pants that some yayas also wore. The logo on the shirt pocket was still intact. “She didn’t die here,” Tuason said. “She was dragged.” There was a faint trail of blood from the entrance.
While the SOCO was busy collecting evidence and taking pictures, Joshua whipped out his cellphone and took pictures of the logo: a stylized rose with the words “Wellness Center” around it. Tuason was not a fan of wellness centers. These establishments had sprouted all over the city offering massages and other beauty treatments. She considered them a waste of money, some kind of passive exercise when sports or jogging could do the same trick. The cheaper alternative, the hilots, had not appealed to her either. And she couldn’t understand why the wellness center where this victim worked, wouldn’t spell out its name. Was it some sort of snob advertising?
“I’ll see what IT can come up with.” Joshua said it as though there was an IT Division in Lakeview, when it was just the one staff—sent on a training a year ago—a skeletal young man who had been updating his skills on his own, “por la Patria,” he would say, using one of Tuason’s favorite phrases.
Tuason nodded. Joshua was showing some initiative. There was hope for her partner, after all. “Also, check if the owner of this townhouse is the same as the owner of the warehouse.”
Sarya lay awake in bed, listening to her brother’s footsteps. She stared at the locked bedroom door and hoped that the silence meant her brother had fallen asleep. It was the eve of their parish fiesta and there will be fireworks. She prayed that he wouldn’t be awakened by the noise. He might get agitated again. She had reminded him to take his medicines several times and she hoped that he had taken them.
Tuason had just finished carving her latest after-work project, an Asian elephant with a head ornament. She found herself sanding it rather vigorously. They had nothing. With no IDs, they could not even begin to look for a connection between the two victims. All they had were the splinters and the curly hair. And with no data base. She rubbed the wood carving almost fiercely, nearly breaking the elephant’s ear. She paused, examined the elephant’s ear, closed her eyes and ra
n a finger over it to make sure that there were no cracks. If I were one of the blind men in the Indian folktale, she thought, I would swear that the elephant was like a fan. Then she sanded the body, more restrained this time. Or maybe a wall. Yes, like the wall they had hit with those two Jane Does. Wood carving used to relax her. Carving elephants was a constant reminder of the role of perception in seeking the truth. But this time, she realized that she was taking out her frustration on the poor elephant. With a sigh, she put away her carving equipment and went out to what passed for their front yard. The night air was cool. She flexed her bruised hands. They were as badly battered as the kickbag at the dojang. She looked up at the starless night. Into the dark vastness of the sky, she sent a prayer. Please, don’t let another mangled body with one missing earring turn up. One victim, look for a motive. Two victims, look for a connection. Three victims, look for a serial killer.
She puffed her cheeks and exhaled air with a pop. She’d rather not look for a serial killer. God bless us all, she murmured, doubtful that God could hear her over the screams of the dying and the dead. With a sigh, she reminded herself why she did what she did. There was that day, in the midst of an investigation, when she was so irritated by Inspector Sison, an overbearing colleague with bad breath and matching attitude. He was among those cops who considered the mere act of writing down the details of a crime in a report—without identifying the culprit—as an accomplishment. Tuason wouldn’t be surprised if he also coddled criminals, given his dismal solve rate. Rumor was that he owed his promotion to the rank of inspector to an influential relative.
Sison kept pestering her about her long hours. “You’re making us all look bad, SJ,” he had said, taunting her. He knew that she preferred to be called Tuason. Only Zaldy Bernal was allowed to use her first name. “Why are you doing this? You think you’ll be promoted ahead of all of us?”
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