Midnight in Havana

by Peggy Blair

  Sanchez framed Ellis.

  He must have killed the boy and used his police car to transport the body. He claimed he was out of gas on Christmas Day after Ramirez told him the boy’s body had been found, probably to give himself enough time to clean up the car. It was Sanchez all along.

  Sanchez showed up at the address on Campanario a good ten minutes after Jones and Vasquez had arrived. He wasn’t following them, despite Ramirez’s orders to keep the Canadian lawyer under surveillance. Because he knew there was no need to. Because he knew Señor Ellis was innocent.

  Sanchez knew about the address on Campanario because he had been there before, was on his way there again for some unknown reason. He must have been surprised to find Celia Jones and Maria Vasquez there already but played along.

  Ramirez concentrated. Why would Sanchez go to Campanario?

  Probably to dispose of Miguel Artez, to remove any remaining link to his own crimes. The arrival of the lawyer and the jinetera had thrown off those plans, but Sanchez had recovered. He always was quick-witted.

  If Miguel Artez was telling the truth, Artez had no way of knowing who Sanchez was, had never seen him, could not possibly have known that the man who arrested him had lured him to Campanario, pretending to be Nasim so he could kill him. Sanchez had probably killed Rubinder too. Which meant Rodriguez Sanchez was the link to the drugs.

  “Hector, you must have Sanchez’s blood type on record.”

  All the police officers, even the detectives, gave the department blood samples and fingerprints to use for elimination purposes and in case of an emergency, when blood transfusions might be needed urgently.

  “Let me check.” Apiro went to a filing cabinet in the corner, rifled through some files, and pulled out the one he wanted. He flipped through it. “Yes. Sanchez is Type A. And a secretor.”

  “We need to find him right away,” said Ramirez. “I think he killed Nasim Rubinder. And covered up his involvement by making sure he went back to Rubinder’s hotel room on official business last night, so that his fingerprints and hair could be explained away.”

  He called his office and asked if Sanchez was there. But the detective he spoke to said no, Detective Sanchez had left an hour before, for Viñales.

  “Viñales?” Ramirez wondered out loud, still holding the phone. “Why would Sanchez drive all the way to Viñales?” Then he turned to Apiro. “I think I know the answer. My office says I have a message from Celia Jones. She went to Viñales today as well.”

  SIXTY-SIX

  Mike Ellis had just returned from his run and was planning what to do on his last day in Cuba when the phone rang. Inspector Ramirez was on the other end.

  “I am sorry to bother you, Señor Ellis, but this is an urgent situation. Do you know why Señora Jones has gone to Viñales today?”

  “She planned to visit a veterinary clinic there. Didn’t she call you?”

  “She only left a brief message. I was at Nasim Rubinder’s autopsy. When did you speak to her?”

  “This morning. Around nine, I think. She said the tour bus was leaving around a half-hour later. She was supposed to call you right after she got off the phone with me.”

  “She must have spoken to Sanchez.”

  Ramirez quickly explained to Ellis what he had learned. “Sanchez has left for Viñales. She must have found evidence to tie him to these crimes. Please, Detective Ellis, think carefully. Can you remember what she said about this clinic that relates to our investigation? Can you be more specific?”

  A pause while Ellis thought. “She was trying to track down the source of Rohypnol into Cuba. She mentioned the clinic. Apparently some drugs went missing from a delivery there last week. And before then, too.”

  Sanchez had told Ramirez there had been no deliveries of Rohypnol into Cuba for years. Another lie.

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  Think, Celia, think. He had brought her to this school and it was not easy to find, so overgrown and desolate, so he must have known about this place before. It had to mean something to him. Sanchez must have been shaped into what he had become, in these buildings, in these woods.

  Celia Jones tried to remember the training she had received with the RCMP so many years earlier. The first step was to make the hostage human. She could do that best by drawing her kidnapper out. Finding common ground. When the hostage-taker gets to know someone, it is harder to kill them.

  She took a chance. She walked over to the steps of the school and sat down. Hoped he wouldn’t shoot her for moving without his permission. Looked in his eyes as directly as she could, tried to pretend there was no gun. Kept her voice friendly, relaxed. She remembered her instructor’s voice. Always keep calm.

  “Do you want to talk about what happened in these buildings? Get it off your chest? There’s no rush. No one is going to find me, you said so yourself. They won’t even know I’m missing for another hour or more.”

  Prolong the situation. Stall.

  “I can’t go anywhere. And you have the gun. Take your time. I have the feeling that terrible things happened to you here. I’d really like to know what they are.”

  Sanchez considered this for what seemed like hours but was only a few minutes. Finally, he shrugged. He looked at the school and she could see him remembering.

  “It started there.” He pointed to the smaller building with the gun.

  “This was a school, wasn’t it?”

  He nodded. “I was sent here when I was eight years old. My parents had no choice in the matter.” Jones heard the tension in his voice. “The government had decided that children should be sent to rural residential boarding schools and indoctrinated into socialism properly. But it was really a child labour force for the agricultural sector. The Marxist-Leninist model. Children as working members of the proletariat.”

  He spat on the ground. “You must have heard the joke. A Marxist came up with a plan that would provide Cubans with all the food we needed, but it was rejected because it only worked in practice, not theory.” He laughed bitterly. “We worked in those tobacco fields down there every day.” He motioned towards the valley, hidden behind the trees.

  “What was it like, Rodriguez?” Focus the hostage-taker’s attention on small details. Keep him talking. Always use the hostage-taker’s first name.

  “What do you think it was like? We worked all day until we were exhausted. We were lonely, and the food was terrible. It was a government school run by Catholics. An American priest, O’Brien, was the principal. The other priests were mostly Spanish but there were some from other countries as well, even a few from Canada. They came and went over the years.”

  She had to keep him talking, draw him out. “And so what happened to you here? Please. I’d like to know.” Use open-ended questions. Build a relationship.

  He took several deep breaths before he spoke again. “One night, Father O’Brien invited a few of the children to have dinner in that building. It was the rectory. We found tables inside set with white plates on clean linens with beautifully polished silverware. All cooked by older students of course. We were all so hungry, so thin. I had my first sugar cake, a taste of ice cream. It was like a dream.”

  “I can imagine,” she said sympathetically. Show empathy.

  “You can imagine nothing,” he shouted, and waved the gun at her.

  Keep the hostage-taker calm. Shit, what was she supposed to do now? He was anything but calm. She grasped at straws.

  “There were schools like this in Canada once,” Jones said. “Indian residential schools. There are thousands of claims against them now by former students for physical and sexual abuse.” She guessed at what happened, willing to risk being wrong and making him angry. “Children were sexually abused here too, weren’t they?”

  It would fit the profile of these places. Young children, alone, frightened, far away from their families.

  “These dinners you describe, it sounds as if the children were being groomed by pedophiles. Am I right? It’s classic behaviour.
They usually ingratiate themselves with small gifts, outings. Build up trust, so it’s easier to take advantage of vulnerable children.”

  Be understanding. Use active listening. Feed information back so the hostage-taker knows he was heard.

  Sanchez snorted scornfully. “Little help to know that now.” He looked down at his feet, traced a line in the dirt with his shoe. He took out a package of cigarettes and lit one. Inhaled deeply, exhaled. The smoke curled above his head like a halo, where it was caught by the wind and carried away. She saw a shift in his body language, a sign that something traumatic had happened to him.

  “Tell me, Rodriguez. You need to tell someone. You can’t carry this burden alone.”

  He nodded slightly, his eyes distant. A few long minutes passed before he spoke again.

  “You have no idea what we went through. The beatings we suffered, just for talking to each other. Or not brushing our teeth quickly enough or well enough for the priests. Worse. And believe me, we were angry that our families let the government send us here. We missed them at first, then hated them for not coming to get us. But the priests told us to forget our families. Told us only God loved us.”

  He looked up at the trees, gathering his words. “I was at the school for less than a month when I was told I would be allowed to sleep at the rectory overnight, away from the dormitories. It was my reward for being good. Can you imagine how thrilled I was? A little boy, alone, separated from his mother and father, from his brothers, from his home.”

  He spat on the ground again, his body language even more agitated. Something had happened here, she was sure of it now. Which would relax him the most: talking about it, or not talking about it? If she wanted to survive, she needed to know.

  “You can tell me, Rodriguez. I won’t tell anyone.”

  He paused, and she saw tears form in his eyes. He swallowed a few times before he spoke.

  “There were three of us. After dinner, each of us was taken away by a different priest. Mine led me to a bathroom, to a hot tub. He washed me, made me clean even between my legs. He dried me with a soft towel, told me to put a nightshirt on. I can still feel it. The fabric was soft. All of our own clothes were second-hand, torn, faded. He took me to the bedroom. He picked me up and put me on my stomach on the bed, then pulled his pants down. He climbed on my back. He was heavy and he put his full weight on me. I remember, I could hardly breathe.

  “I lay there, not knowing what was going to happen. Starting to get frightened. He pulled my nightshirt up at the back. He began to thrust himself against me. I remember his sweat dripped on the back of my neck.” His voice cracked. “It hurt. I felt as if I had been torn in half. He moaned and rolled over. There was blood on the sheets. I started to cry. He slapped me and told me to be quiet. He made me get off the bed and kneel on the floor. He told me to beg God for forgiveness.”

  “You must have been so scared,” Jones said softly, her eyes wet with tears. “I can’t imagine how frightened and confused you must have been.” Never become emotionally involved with the hostage-taker. Don’t cross the line.

  Too fucking late. So she’d blown it for a second time. That was where she had screwed up before, with the man on the ledge holding a baby. She had watched the child spiral through the air like a football, head down, the baby’s jacket slipping through her fingers. And then he jumped.

  Pay attention.

  “After that, there was no cake or ice cream for me, or the others,” he said. Tears streaked his cheeks. “Although sometimes, as I grew older, he gave me wine. Or cigarettes.”

  “The abuse continued, then? Not just that once?”

  “Ah, no,” Sanchez said, spitting out the words. “I was there for seven years, Señora. That is a lot of cigarettes.”

  “Were others abused, too?” But she already knew the answer.

  Sanchez tossed the butt of his cigarette on the ground; let the gun drop just slightly. “We never spoke about it. Any one of us could be tapped on the shoulder at night and be taken into

  the darkness. The ones who were singled out would return later, trying hard not to cry. Sleep after that was impossible. One by one, we all became numbed to what was happening to us. Who could we tell? Our families were far away. These men were God’s representatives. Our families trusted the church with their very lives, with their afterlives, no less. Who would ever believe the things they did to us?”

  “What happened to you was unspeakably evil,” said Jones. “You were children. They were adults. They were supposed to protect you; that was their job.”

  Just like it was her job to protect the hostage, to talk the man down, to get him to put down the child. And then he did what she asked, and her police career was over.

  Sanchez ignored her, caught up in his own memories. “Years passed. When I turned fourteen and my voice began to deepen, the priest was no longer interested in me. It was the younger ones he wanted. And do you know how I felt?” he asked her, his brown eyes glistening. “Do you think I felt relieved? No, I felt betrayed. You understand? He replaced me with a younger child. Which meant I had no one, that I was completely alone in the world. Abandoned by my family first and then by the priest as well.”

  “What did you do?” she asked.

  He stamped out the dying embers of his cigarette. “What do you think I did? I was a good student. I became a monster, too.”

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  “Hector,” Inspector Ramirez called out in English, “get me the number for the veterinary clinic in Viñales, please. It’s probably the only one there. I need to find out if Señora Jones has arrived yet. Stay on the line, Señor Ellis,” he said into the phone.

  Ramirez pushed the second button on the wall phone for another line. He dialled the number Apiro handed him and identified himself to the manager of the clinic.

  “Señora Diaz, did you see a Canadian lawyer named Celia Jones today?”

  “Yes, Inspector, she was just here, actually. She asked about some drug shipments we received.”

  “Thefts of Rohypnol?”

  “Yes. How did you know?”

  “What did you tell her?”

  “That we’ve had thefts over the years, and that we were short four capsules that should have been in the package in our last delivery. On December 20.”

  Ramirez put his hand over the receiver and repeated the information to Apiro. “Four Rohypnol capsules were stolen last week.”

  “That was not enough to kill Rubinder,” Apiro said, shaking his head. “He had at least six doses in his system.”

  “Then there were more drugs stolen than just those four.”

  Ramirez took his hand from the receiver and asked the woman if the clinic had lost any supplies of Rohypnol before then.

  “Funny,” the woman declared, “that is exactly the same question Señora Jones asked. She wanted me to check our records going back as far as I could. I went back through all our records. We had several thefts between 2001 and 2005, then nothing until last week. That was the one that Señora Jones was most interested in.”

  “Do you have the forms there? The original manifests?”

  “Yes, they are right in front of me.”

  “Can you check the bottom right corner for the name of the officer who reviewed the manifests at the airport? Was it Rodriguez Sanchez?”

  “Yes,” said Diaz, surprised. “How did you know?”

  “When did Señora Jones leave your office?” Ramirez asked. He hoped he wasn’t too late.

  “Around ten minutes ago.”

  “Was she returning to the tour bus?” Perhaps Sanchez would miss her. Ramirez could always have a police car intercept the bus on the road.

  “I don’t think so, Inspector. I saw her get into a police car and drive away with someone. He was waiting for her outside. A detective, I would guess from his clothing. She seemed to know him.”

  Then Sanchez had her, which meant her chances of survival were non-existent. Ramirez thanked Diaz. He pushed down the button
for Ellis, still waiting on the other line.

  “Sanchez has her. She found evidence at the clinic that implicates him in these crimes.”

  “Then he’s going to kill her,” said Ellis. “For God’s sake, why aren’t you doing something to stop him?”

  “I do not know where he has taken her, Señor.”

  “Well, where else would he go?” said Apiro, standing behind his friend. “It seems perfectly obvious to me. He will take her to the residential school outside of town that he attended.”

  “Why there, Hector? Surely a busy school is the last place Sanchez is likely to kill someone.”

  “It is closed down now, Ricardo, so there will be no one there. And the schools were always remotely situated to deter the children from running away. A perfect location for his needs; completely isolated. Do you not remember? Castro closed those schools years ago, after parents complained about how different the children were when they came home, how sullen and unhappy. There were suspicions even then that the children might have been mistreated, maybe sexually abused. The Pope agreed that parents should be free to choose where to send their children for school. Castro closed all the country boarding schools down, including the one outside Viñales.”

  A second’s silence as Ramirez considered this information. Then he spoke to Ellis again.

  “Did you hear any of that?”

  “Yes. I heard everything.”

  “Dr. Apiro is right. That must be where they are.”

  “Listen,” Ellis said. “We have to get there before he kills her. I’m going with you. She’s my friend.”

  Ramirez thought quickly, then agreed. “Alright, then. Be in front of your hotel in five minutes, no more. We will take my car. It is faster than the patrol cars. I have a full tank of gas, so I probably have more fuel than any of them.”

  “Be careful,” Apiro said as Ramirez hung up the phone. “This is a very dangerous man. Highly organized, highly intelligent. Unpredictable.”