The Beggar's Opera

by Peggy Blair

  Ramirez pulled a document from his inside jacket pocket and put it on the table. “His conclusions are at the bottom. He used to be a famous plastic surgeon, known internationally for his analysis of skin injuries and facial wounds. You have seen for yourself how detailed his work is. Let me translate his conclusion for you: ‘The tentative, hesitant, start to the cut down the subject’s forehead and the lack of defensive wounds to his hands make it virtually certain that the wounds were self-inflicted.’ I asked myself, Why would a man cut himself while his partner is bleeding to death? There is only one explanation. That is if you shot him and were covering up your crime.”

  “You’re guessing,” Ellis said. “You can’t prove any of this.”

  “I don’t need to, Señor Ellis. I can’t charge you with a murder that took place outside of Cuba. I have no jurisdiction over this crime. We have no extradition treaty with Canada. And as I told you before, confessions are worthless in Cuba. I am just curious because I do not like unfinished business. But I am certain that you were responsible for your friend’s death, make no mistake. You may feel better telling someone. Even Rodriguez Sanchez wanted someone to share his burden, to understand his actions. But it is entirely up to you.”

  Mike Ellis shook his head. He tried once again to wipe away the memory of Steve Sloan’s face as they walked up the stairs to the “trouble with man” call. Hillary had told him that morning she was pregnant. He spent the whole day brooding about it, knowing the child couldn’t possibly be his.

  He sat back further on his chair, took a deep breath, and finally let it all out.

  “I never told Hillary about the test results. But I told Steve. And then Hillary got pregnant. Steve and I were working the night shift.” Ellis paused, remembering a night he had tried to erase with liquor for months. “It was about two in the morning. Communications, that’s our Dispatch, told us to be careful. A man on the third floor was schizophrenic, off his meds. That was all the information we had. No one mentioned he had a knife. We were pulling up in front when I told Steve that Hillary was pregnant. I saw the guilt in his face. I couldn’t believe it. That someone I loved so much had betrayed me.”

  They walked up the stairs to the dingy hallway leading to the apartment. Ellis rapped on the door with his flashlight. The hall smelled of urine. There were stains on the walls. The linoleum was cracked, filthy. The hallway light was out, the bulb broken. Ellis had his gun in one hand, his flashlight in the other. Sloan unbuttoned his holster and moved to the right-hand side of the door. He motioned Ellis to the left as he pulled out his gun.

  Ellis stood on the other side of the door frame, facing the door, furious.

  “Aw, shit, Mike. I’m sorry. It just happened, just that one time. She seduced me, honest to God.”

  The door swung open and a dishevelled man in his twenties lunged at them with a hunting knife. “Holy shit,” Sloan said, “he’s got a knife.” Sloan shot the man once in the chest.

  “Like hell she did.” Ellis turned and shot Sloan in the groin, just below his police vest. Sloan groaned and slumped to the ground. Ellis saw the arterial blood spurt and knew immediately what he’d done.

  It was pitch black, the only light the beams from the two flashlights. Sloan’s had rolled on the floor, highlighting the pain in his eyes. Ellis knelt beside him. He saw how badly Sloan was hurt; already too late for paramedics. He took his partner in his arms, held Sloan’s head in his hands.

  “It didn’t mean anything,” Sloan said, his voice barely audible.

  “It meant something to me. Fuck, Steve, what were you thinking? Why did you sleep with her? I can’t believe you did that.”

  “I don’t know. Just to know, I guess. I couldn’t figure out why you couldn’t just up and leave her. But we’re even, buddy. I can’t believe you just shot me either.” He smiled weakly and then his eyes rolled back. Ellis was still holding him when his body went slack.

  Ellis lifted his head up and looked Ramirez in the eyes. His hands were cupped in front of him as he once again cradled the back of Steve Sloan’s head.

  Ramirez nodded sympathetically. “We Cubans are Latinos. A cuckolded man, a faithless woman. It is an age-old story. Your rage is understandable. Most men in Cuba would have killed the wife, not the friend. But that is our Latino culture. How did you get away with it?”

  “I knew I’d screwed up. I had one chance to save myself, whatever was left of my life, my marriage. And there was the baby to think of. That was all I had left. The suspect was dead: I took his knife and pulled it down my face. It was almost a relief that it hurt so much.”

  “What about the gun?”

  “I switched mine with Steve’s. Put his in my holster and mine in the suspect’s hand, pressed his fingerprints on the grip and the trigger. I pulled out my portable and called Communications. I said we had a dead suspect and an officer down. I told them I was badly hurt, that I thought Steve was dead.”

  “No one examined the guns?”

  Ellis shook his head. “They were test-fired, but no one checked to make sure they were the same ones issued to us.”

  “We would have done that,” Ramirez said. “Apiro would have insisted on it.”

  “Yes. I’ve learned how good he is.” Ellis took a deep breath. “What will you do about it, now that you know?”

  “Me? Nothing. I told you, whatever happened to you in Canada has nothing to do with Cuba. But it must have been hard for you, keeping this to yourself. Our secrets destroy us from inside when we cannot speak about them openly.”

  “Yes,” Ellis said. “I know exactly what that’s like.”

  SEVENTY - FIVE

  Inspector Ramirez handed Señor Ellis his passport and walked him to the front door. Then he returned to the second floor and opened the door to the anteroom. Hector Apiro stood by the window, still looking through the mirrored glass. He handed the small tape recorder to Ramirez.

  “It’s all there, Ricardo. Interesting. So it turns out the Canadian is a cold-blooded murderer after all.”

  “Even more cold-blooded than we imagined. Or perhaps more hot-blooded.”

  “But I never examined his scars professionally,” said Apiro. “Where did you come up with all that nonsense about the width of the scars and the swing of the knife? I know nothing about golf. I have never once played it.”

  “I made it up,” Ramirez admitted. “There was no expert report. I used a copy of the departmental order form for supplies. He can’t read Spanish. I knew he couldn’t tell the difference.”

  “You are a rascal, Ricardo,” Apiro chuckled. “Some day that trick won’t work, and you will get caught. But you know, I could have fixed those scars for him, and made him rather handsome.

  You were right; when it came to the knife, he was an amateur.” He laughed his staccato laugh. “Can the Canadian authorities use that information?”

  “I’ll find out soon enough. I forgot to tell you,” said Ramirez. “I had a call last night from the Rideau Police in Canada. Chief Miles O’Malley. His government is trying to get a special authorization for me to go to Canada to assist in an investigation. They think that some of the perpetrators of abuse at our residential schools were transferred to theirs, as part of a cover-up by the Catholic Church. The Catholic brother that Sanchez named may have abused children in Canada also. Chief O’Malley says he was arrested recently for possession of child pornography at the Ottawa airport.”

  It was the least Ramirez could do for Rodriguez, his poor, tormented friend. He would help the Canadian police and see the man face justice. A short trip, Chief O’Malley had promised, no more than a week. Ramirez didn’t want to lose any more time than that with his family, not when he wasn’t sure how much, or how little, he had left.

  The second call, the one he didn’t disclose to his small friend, was from the Minister of the Interior.

  “Castro has heard a policeman died in action,” the minister said. “He wants a full military funeral. It will be good for morale. Your r
eport will emphasize Detective Sanchez’s courage in exposing the prior abuses of the Catholic Church towards Cuban children. It will conclude that he died accidentally in an abandoned school while searching for evidence to support an international investigation into historic crimes against our children. He was accompanied at the time by a Canadian lawyer who personally witnessed his heroism. She will attest to this, in writing. You will get your special authorization to ensure that this story is told. Do you understand, Inspector?”

  Ramirez understood exactly how much his trip to Canada would cost.

  “That’s exciting,” Hector Apiro exclaimed. “You have not been off this island since you went to Russia.”

  “No, I haven’t, although I imagine Canada will be much the same as Moscow when it comes to weather. It’s winter there now. Chief O’Malley wants me to come as soon as possible.”

  “How will the unit manage with both you and Sanchez gone?”

  “They will be busy,” Ramirez agreed, “but we have a new member. That officer from Patrol, the one from the first day of the investigation. The clever one. Espinoza. I had him transferred today to replace Sanchez.”

  “The lad must be thrilled.”

  “He is very happy about the raise in pay, yes.” Twenty-five dollars a month was a lot of money, even more than the salary of a plastic surgeon.

  “Will you turn the tape over to Señora Jones when you go to Canada, then?”

  “Most likely,” Ramirez said. But not right away. When he needed to secure her written statement, the small tape in his pocket could be helpful. He had learned that from Señora Jones on the drive back to Havana. In negotiations, you had to have something valuable to exchange.

  “It’s funny that the Canadians have homosexuals on their police force,” Apiro mused. “They must be far ahead of us in that sense.”

  “Who do you mean, Hector?”

  “Señor Ellis, of course.”

  “You think Michael Ellis is gay?” asked Ramirez.

  “It seems obvious. Most men whose wives have been unfaithful get divorced rather than shooting their wife’s lover in the cojones. And to show such concern for his friend’s baby? Describe it as all he had left? All he had left of Señor Sloan is what I think he meant. I think it was not the fact that Hillary Ellis slept with another man that enraged Señor Ellis but who she slept with. His own lover. Steve Sloan.”

  SEVENTY - SIX

  It was just after 11 P.M. on New Year’s Eve. After his discussion with Hector Apiro, Inspector Ramirez spent the rest of the day preparing his reports for the Attorney General and the Minister of the Interior.

  He dropped by Apiro’s office, hoping to discuss the political trade-offs he’d negotiated, but Maria Vasquez was there. It could wait, he decided, smiling at the pink lipstick on Apiro’s face. The pair seemed very happy in each other’s company and that made him happy. Apiro poured them each a glass of rum and they toasted each other and the coming New Year. Ramirez lit a cigar.

  “So I’m not sure you ever did tell me how you met,” Ramirez reminded them.

  “I was a patient of Hector’s once, long ago,” Maria explained. “And then the night that Señor Ellis was released from your custody, I came here to see him. Señor Ellis had mentioned Hector’s name to me in connection with your investigation and I realized he was still working in Havana.”

  “Yes, Maria came by for coffee. And one thing led to another,” Apiro said with a wide smile.

  Ramirez felt the small boy’s presence again. The dead boy stood behind Maria’s chair, his arms around her neck. Looking closely at the two of them together, Ramirez realized Maria Vasquez could easily pass for Arturo’s mother. The resemblance was striking. But Señora Montenegro had mentioned no older sister, only the son who went missing in 1998.

  Ramirez remembered the photograph of Rubén Montenegro in his file. “The priests told us he fell down the mountainside trying to get home,” the mother had said. But there had been no body, no burial. Ramirez looked at the two of them together again, and then he saw it. He realized for the first time just how good a plastic surgeon Apiro really was.

  So the street child that Maria Vasquez protected was her own little brother. She could not have told Arturo who she really was. He was just a child and would not have understood how a brother he had never known could somehow be his sister. But Maria knew where Arturo Montenegro lived. She knew exactly who he was. No wonder she had been so worried for his safety.

  Señora Montenegro believed her older son was dead; that Rubén had vanished, had died in the hills years earlier. She had no idea that he was alive, that he now lived as a woman. But the similarities between the two siblings, once one saw through the surgery, were startling, unmistakable.

  The boy walked over and put his small hand in Ramirez’s. The boy nodded, then smiled, and Ramirez saw the dimples for himself. He felt the small fingers slipping from his hand as the boy once again showed the inspector his empty palms.

  Why was he still here instead of playing wherever dead boys played? thought Ramirez. Ramirez had apparently missed something important, but what? And why does he keep showing me his empty hands? And then Ramirez finally understood what the boy was trying to convey.

  Michael Ellis gave Arturo Montenegro a lot of money. It wasn’t on the body. Where had the boy spent it? He’d never thought to check.

  The boy smiled a final time and skipped away, as if someone waited outside the door.

  “I am very pleased for both of you,” Ramirez said and raised his glass to Hector and Maria again. “Trust me, there is nothing like having a strong woman on your side. The secret is learning how to fight and how to forgive. It is time, Hector, that you visited my home. Francesca will welcome having another girlfriend to complain to about my bad habits. Like me coming home late again, on New Year’s Eve.”

  Ramirez looked at his watch and stood up. It was almost midnight. It was time to go home and have a difficult discussion with his wife. He owed it to Francesca to finally tell her about his illness. To share with her the bad news he had tried to protect her from for too long.

  Francesca would be terrified, livid that he had kept such a secret to himself. He rubbed the side of his face, anticipating her slap and the angry tears that would follow. But together, they would face whatever happened. They always did; they had no choice.

  “Thank you,” Apiro said, inclining his head. “You are absolutely right. I have lived like a hermit crab for too long, cramped in my small shell. I swear, Ricardo, I have grown a few inches already.”

  “And that’s just his height,” Maria said, and the three of them laughed, Apiro the loudest, with his raspy caw.

  Ramirez put down his empty glass. As he did, his hand quivered. He saw Apiro, always thoughtful, swivel his head like a parrot to focus on the movement.

  He was several steps down the narrow hallway when he heard Apiro’s door squeak open, the sound of Apiro scuttling after him. He turned to see his small friend waving a piece of paper.

  “I have something for you, Ricardo. My sincere apologies: I completely forgot with all the excitement this week. Our medical records are computerized now. I finally found the results of that autopsy that I promised to get for you so long ago. Your grandmother’s. Here.” He handed Ramirez the sheet of paper. “Look. Not a single Lewy body in her brain; no signs of plaque. No dementia of any kind. She died of old age.”

  Ramirez skimmed through the document. The autopsy report listed “natural causes” as the reason for his grandmother’s death. “There was nothing wrong with her?”

  “Not quite,” said Apiro. “She suffered from hyperthyroidism, a hereditary illness. I couldn’t help but notice your hand was shaking again tonight. And how out of breath you were this week. These can be symptoms of that disease. I’d like to arrange an iodine scan for you. If I’m right, a single dose of radioactive isotope will put you back to normal in no time. And the good news, Ricardo, is that we have the supplies.”

  SEVE
NTY - SEVEN

  Ricardo Ramirez walked slowly through the lobby, savouring the news. The burdens he’d carried for so long lifted from his shoulders. Hector Apiro had given him the greatest gift of all for Christmas: a future. But if I’m not dying, he thought, then what in heaven’s name have I been seeing all these years?

  He cast his mind back to his grandmother’s last words. Could his visions truly be spirits, sentinels from the other side? He had treated them as mere distractions, as games played by his subconscious. He had even ordered the apparitions out of sight when they annoyed him.

  As Ramirez thought back on it, the dead man had provided him with all the clues he needed to solve the boy’s death, if he had just paid more attention.

  In the hotel room, the dead man tried to warn him that Sanchez had planted the capsule. When Sanchez pointed to it, the dead man pointed at him. He had shown Ramirez just how Sanchez had pulled the photographs and CD from his pant pockets, but once again Ramirez misunderstood.

  In the back of the car, he had pretended to hold a collection plate, representing the Church. The dead man had even demonstrated how Sanchez would kill himself with a bullet to his own head, with his own gun.

  Ramirez’s subconscious mind could not possibly have invented those details. The man was real, Ramirez realized, astonished. Or at least as real as any ghost could ever be.

  Ramirez recalled the other clues the dead man provided. The circles he drew with his hands when they drove past the Ferris wheel as children screamed. The boy had done the same; Ramirez had seen his fascination with the hamster wheel but paid it little attention. What did all that mean? And why had the dead man appeared in relation to the child’s death instead of his own?

  The man had drowned; Ramirez was sure of that, he had seen foam spill from his mouth. Yet if he was murdered, Ramirez had no way to solve his death. He still had no name for the man, not even a missing persons report.