9
It’s the end of the afternoon when the Crime boy receives Nurit Iscar’s first dispatch from La Maravillosa, sent to Rinaldi and copied to him. He reads it. And feels a rush of hatred. A strong desire to kick something. He looks over to Jaime Brena’s desk, but Brena’s not there; he’s standing chatting at Karina Vives’ desk. The Crime boy walks towards them. Seriously, I’m absolutely fine, she’s saying. But you always come for a smoke, Brena says. It’s because of my allergy – nicotine would only make it worse, she’s saying as the boy reaches them. Jaime Brena, his back turned to the boy, says: Well, don’t smoke, then, but come and keep me company. She shakes her head. She knows that if she goes outside to smoke with Brena she’ll end up telling him about her pregnancy and she didn’t wake up today with the heart to announce her news, even to him, her best friend in El Tribuno’s newsroom. Why is she so full of doubts again today, when she was so sure in the shower yesterday of what she wanted to do? Unwittingly the boy comes to her rescue. Have you got a minute? he asks Brena. It seems so, Brena says, putting the box of Marlboros back into his shirt pocket with resignation and gesturing the boy over to his desk. The chick’s already sent in her piece, the boy tells him. What chick? Brena asks. That writer Rinaldi’s put in La Maravillosa. Nurit Iscar. Yes, Nurit Iscar, the boy confirms. Learn her name, Brena says. I know it, but I’m pissed off. What’s up? She’s come up with some theory that goes directly against mine, and we can’t run my piece alongside hers without looking schizophrenic. Well we are, a little bit. I mean it; I can’t publish what she’s sent. What points don’t you agree on? Jaime Brena asks. She’s saying, on the basis of some rubbish she’s heard in the supermarket, that Chazarreta’s death was a murder, and I’m absolutely clear that the man killed himself. Why so sure? He was holding the weapon in his hand. That’s not sufficient proof: it could have been planted. There are no signs of violence in the house. You don’t always get signs of violence in homicide, especially not if it’s been well planned. There are no defence wounds on Chazarreta’s hands. They could have cut his throat while he was sleeping in the armchair, all boozed up; you’re still not giving me anything solid. Does the forensic report say if the right hand was covered in blood? Brena asks. The boy’s surprised by the question. No, it doesn’t say anything about that – why? If it doesn’t mention it that must be because there wasn’t any blood: it’s a murder, kid. Internet news sites are leaning towards a probable suicide, and there have been loads of tweets and retweets, the Crime boy insists. In Spanish we call them tuits and retuits, admonishes Brena, adding: You know what your problem is, kid? Too much Internet and not enough legwork. A crime reporter is made in the street. How many times have you hidden behind a tree to watch something? How many times have you called a witness to a crime or a victim’s relation posing as Chief Inspector Bloggins? How many times have you disguised yourself in order to gain access to a place you’ve been barred from entering? The boy doesn’t answer, but it’s obvious that he’s done none of these things. Remember, kid, get out in the street, think on your feet, learn to assimilate: you have to be the thief, the murderer, the victim, the accomplice, whatever it takes to be inside their heads. And get away from the computer a bit; all that Google isn’t good for you. You know why the Chinese have banned it? The Internet’s going to be the new opium of the masses, the new religion. Come here, take a seat, Brena says, and offers the boy his own chair. He opens his desk drawer, pulls out an old twelve-inch wooden ruler and, standing behind the boy, holds it against his neck as though he were about to cut it but without making any movement. The boy shudders at the touch of the ruler on his skin. Brena asks him: What sort of cut was it? Parallel to the floor? Upwards? Downwards? Parallel to the floor, then slightly upwards at the end. Then he was murdered. Why? Brena hands him the ruler. Cut your own throat, he says. The boy stares at him without doing anything. Cut your throat, kid, Brena says again. Without much conviction, the boy moves the ruler from left to right. Where did your hand end up? Slightly downwards. If you’re slashing your own throat the action is inevitably downwards. It’s actually impossible to cut your own throat in an upward motion; it’s unnatural, kid. Find out if the right hand was bloody; when the blood starts spurting, it’s going to land there, on the hand that’s cutting the arteries. But there are no defence wounds on the hands, the boy insists. It doesn’t matter. The upwards slash and the absence of blood on the hand are stronger pieces of evidence. If there are no defence wounds it must be because Chazarreta didn’t have enough time to wake up and react. You’ll see when the definitive autopsy comes out – it’s going to say that there was a lot of alcohol in his blood, doubtless that he was asleep, drunk, and they may even have put something in his whisky, a tranquillizer, for example, or a cocktail of tranquillizers. So the chick could be right. Nurit Iscar, not the chick. Nurit Iscar, or Betty Boo. Or Betty Boo, yes, she must be right; does she have those notes from the preliminary autopsy that I sent to you? No, I didn’t give them to her; I was planning to use that info in my own piece. Fair enough, you have to be selfish with your material, Brena agrees. She’s basing her ideas on such stupid observations, like I said before, says the boy, things she overheard when she was buying yogurt in the supermarket, for example. Street, you see, kid? The Maravillosa supermarket may not seem very street to you, but in this case it counts. Can I read what she’s written? I’ll email it to you, says the boy. No, kid, print it out. I’m from the paper generation.
A few minutes later the boy comes over with a printout of Nurit Iscar’s piece and hands it to Jaime Brena, who reads it immediately:
All is calm in La Maravillosa. Walking around here, in the shade of its trees, smelling the scent of flowers and freshly cut grass, you might believe that nothing bad could ever happen to you behind these walls. Children walk around on their own, ride bikes, electric cars, even tricycles. People still leave their keys in the ignition and their houses unlocked. There’s no noise of screeching brakes or buses, no exhaust fumes to pollute the atmosphere. You won’t hear a car horn sound unless it’s one resident greeting another. And yet I am reminded how in Brian de Palma’s film Carrie (based on the novel by Stephen King), at the moment where serenity prevails and the unsuspecting viewer finally begins to relax, Carrie’s hand shoots through the earth, out of the grave, grabbing the wrist of the friend who was bringing flowers. Here too, even in such a bucolic setting, death bursts in, abruptly ending a life, this time the life of Pedro Chazarreta at his home in La Maravillosa. The setting says one thing, and the reality something else. Reality had already spoken, three years ago, when Gloria Echagüe was found dead. For a while we were led to believe that her death had been the result of an unfortunate accident, but it was murder, pure and simple. A murder like any other, with a murderer, a motive and a body. As simple, and as terrible, as that. The difference being that it happened in a place where these things don’t happen. Not here. Here in the same place where, three years later, with no culprit having been brought to justice, another crime has been committed. Another person’s throat has been cut. So far, so coincidental, but there’s more: let’s say that these two murder victims were husband and wife. And that the man had been accused of killing his wife. And that the case was dismissed for lack of evidence. For that reason perhaps, and because of their shock and surprise, the first response of La Maravillosa’s residents when they learned of Pedro Chazarreta’s death yesterday morning was that the widower of Gloria Echagüe must have committed suicide. This rumour sprang from a fundamentally weak piece of evidence: the deceased was holding the knife that had been used to inflict the wound in his right hand, as though he had wielded it himself. As though. But the rumour ran wild, until it reached some of the people who had known Chazarreta best. And these friends and relations are adamant that if the knife was in his hand it is because somebody put it there. In La Maravillosa’s grocery store, I heard two residents observing with total conviction, as they picked out yogurts from the chiller cabinet, that the death of P
edro Chazarreta was no suicide. And the reasons they gave were the ones that I heard repeated later at the newsagent and in the clubhouse bar. That there is absolutely no way it could have been a suicide. That only someone who didn’t know Chazarreta would credit that theory. Those close to him don’t need to wait for the results of the autopsy or for the secrecy order to be lifted. Why are they so sure? Simply, they say, because Pedro Chazarreta would never have left the Maravillosa Cup, a four-ball golf tournament played over two consecutive weekends, halfway through. Especially not if (as was the case) he and his partner had achieved on the first weekend the highest score ever registered in the ten years since La Maravillosa had opened its golf course. Nobody in this place of trees and flowers and freshly-mown grass cares if there was a knife in Chazarreta’s hand. All that matters to them is the certainty that he would never have abandoned a four-ball, let alone the club’s most important tournament, and especially not considering how well he was playing. Nobody would do such a thing, least of all Pedro Chazarreta. Consider that, three years ago, the Maravillosa Cup coincided with Gloria Echagüe’s funeral. The decision was made to hold it back a week, and the following weekend Chazarreta was there as usual.
I, like the residents, don’t believe the suicide hypothesis. I don’t know anything about golf, but I do know about character profiles. If Pedro Chazarreta were a character in one of my novels he wouldn’t have considered suicide, because pride and the urge to compete and win wouldn’t allow him to abandon a club tournament in which he was the clear front runner. Besides, from a psychological perspective, he was exhibiting none of the feelings that typically lead someone to that decision: guilt, depression or regret. Not even pain. He always presented himself as someone who was strong, calm and absolutely sure that he was right, either because he really did not kill his wife or for reasons of self-preservation: to protect his reputation and hers, the family’s honour, or simply his property. Pedro Chazarreta always gave the impression of knowing more than any of us, including the prosecutor and the judge. And by his attitude he also made it crystal clear that he didn’t believe that anyone had the right to demand explanations from him. Why would a man like that commit suicide? Especially now, when his case had just been dismissed once and for all due to lack of evidence? And when he’s on the point of winning the Cup again? No, if Pedro Chazarreta were a character in one of my novels, he certainly wouldn’t have killed himself. So why did someone try to make us believe he did by placing the murder weapon in his hand? Was it some kind of joke? A mistake? An underestimation of us all?
The two theories circulating La Maravillosa are that the motive was either revenge or the same motive – still unknown – that dispatched Echagüe. Thus:
1.Whoever killed him wanted Chazarreta to experience what his wife had gone through; in other words, the murderer considered him guilty, responsible or complicit in the murder of Gloria Echagüe and, for that reason, took justice into his own hands.
2.Both murders were committed by the same assassin, hence the same modus operandi. The knife was placed in Chazarreta’s hand to throw would-be sleuths off the scent.
It’s still too soon to incline towards one or the other of these two alternatives. Moreover, I suspect that once we have the autopsy report, and as the investigation progresses, other hypotheses will appear. As we walk beneath La Maravillosa’s trees, breathe her pure air and revel in her silence, more theories, inevitably, are going to come to light, like Carrie’s hand coming out of the grave.
It’s a question of patience, and waiting.
You’re in trouble, kid. Why? Because Iscar knows more than you. Change your article, tweak it a bit to say something like some people are still entertaining the suicide hypothesis but that “official sources” and different versions circulating inside La Maravillosa reject that idea. And then you pop in a cross reference to Iscar’s piece and everyone’s happy. OK? OK. You’re going to have to be her friend. Be intrepid, remember, and learn to pull together or Rinaldi will send you on to a better place. The boy is silent for a moment. He’d like to speak, but doesn’t dare. Go on, off you go and work, or you’ll never make the deadline, Brena says. Thank you, the boy says with an effort. Jaime Brena merely repeats: Off you go. I see you’ve adopted him, Karina Vives remarks, passing his desk at the end of the day on her way out. Orphan and halfwit, what else could I do? It’s in your nature, Brena; you’re generous and you like people to do good work. And I’m also a halfwit. That too, says Karina, and they laugh. Don’t forget, he tells her, that I want you to ask all your friends with children if it’s true that the boys cry more than the girls, since neither of us has the relevant experience. You can say that again, she says, straining to hide the emotion this remark provokes. Could that be the reason why adult women cry so much more than men – they’re redressing the balance? Oh, so you never cry? she asks. What do men do when they feel bad, then? Vegetate in front of the TV, he says. We lie in bed and channel-hop. Karina goes to hug him, more tightly than usual. Brena, though taken aback, lets himself be hugged. See you tomorrow, Brena. See you tomorrow, gorgeous.
Jaime Brena tidies his desk, gathers up his papers, switches off the computer then notices just as he’s about to go that the ruler with which he instructed the Crime boy to simulate his own throat-slashing is lying on the floor under his chair. Jaime Brena has had this ruler ever since he first came to work at El Tribuno. He has a tendency to form slightly fetishistic attachments to certain objects. He picks it up and puts it back in the drawer. Looking up, he sees that the Crime boy is still working at his desk, and he goes over to him. How’s it going? Fine, says the boy. I’m just finishing up. OK, I’ll see you tomorrow, then. See you tomorrow. Jaime Brena starts to walk away but after a few steps he turns back and says: Can I ask you something? Yes, of course, says the boy. Who would you like to be like? What? says the boy. Who would you like to be like, who’s your role model, your favourite journalist? Ah, from here, or anywhere? From here, kid, here, and in Crime, because if you’re going to write about crime that’s where you need to look for your role model. I don’t know, I’ve never really thought about it. I got into Crime a bit by chance; my role models are in other areas. It shows, kid. Not to bring you down, but it shows. Have you heard of GGG, the Crítica journalist? No, the boy says. Check him out: Gustavo Germán González. Find out who he was, how he worked. There’s probably something on the Internet about how he got into a morgue when he was investigating the assassination of the Radical party councillor, Carlos Rey, Brena goes on. The piece he wrote the next day was called “There is no cyanide”. You should read it. What a great title, kid. And read Osvaldo Aguirre’s The Undesirables, which is a novel that has GGG as its protagonist. Mark my words, you’re never going to get anywhere on the Internet alone – it’s not enough. So, lesson number one: read everything you can get your hands on about Gustavo Germán González. That’s an order, OK? OK, the Crime boy says. Jaime Brena takes his leave with his favourite gesture, raising his hand to his head as though tipping an imaginary hat. Then he goes.
The Crime boy watches him leave. He finishes his piece and gets it in just before the deadline. Before turning off his computer he types “GGG + Crítica newspaper” into Google and waits for the results. He suspects that Jaime Brena’s words constitute good advice. Never mind suspects; he knows it. What he doesn’t know is how to find out who Gustavo Germán González is, if not via the Internet.
10
In the following days it became clear that Chazarreta’s death had not been a suicide, just as the neighbours on whom Nurit had eavesdropped in front of the chiller cabinet suspected. The results of the autopsy confirmed (in more technical language) the details Comisario Venturini had advanced to Jaime Brena in his handwritten note: severing of the sternocleidomastoid muscle, severing of the common carotid artery about an inch below its bifurcation, severing of the jugular vein and complete severing of the larynx at the level of the cricothyroid membrane, with opening of the laryngeal vestibule, and
severing also of the inferior horn of the thyroid cartilage. Although there were no defence wounds on the victim’s hands, there was a small, shallow cut on his chin surely caused by an instinctive reaction on Chazarreta’s part to lower his head as he felt the knife at his neck. And there was indeed a high level of alcohol in his blood. It was also shown, crucially, that the slant of the cut was slightly upwards and that there was no blood on the hand that had been holding the knife when the body was discovered. Told you so, Jaime Brena says when the Crime boy confirms these details. So what theories are going around? Score-settling or avenging his wife’s death, the boy replies. Score-settling was also mooted as a motive for Gloria Echagüe’s death. When he sold the bank, Chazarreta got into loan collection, Brena explains. That must have made him a lot of enemies, says the boy. Yes, above all because of the way he operated, says Brena. He’d take on any debt and used some pretty ugly methods to recoup it. He had a posse of heavies, muscle-men, pack dogs who’d descend on some debtor, for example on his daughter’s fifteenth birthday, grab the microphone and announce to all the guests that the man paying for the party – assuming he was paying for it – owed them money. The guests would get antsy, the waiters would whisk away the wine, the disc jockey would demand payment in cash before he continued the set, and the poor girl whose birthday it was would end up in tears. I’ve heard that they could really put the screws on if necessary, but nobody ever reported them. What do you mean by “put the screws on”? Kneecapping, face-slashing, breaking the odd bone – fingers, for instance. Chazarreta couldn’t take his debtors to court because the people he was lending money to were involved in some pretty dubious or even illegal business: buying properties with dodgy paperwork, pornography, sex tourism, money laundering. I asked him about it when I interviewed him and he told me that his business was lending and collecting money; that what the other guy did with the cash didn’t concern him. But that wasn’t true, because while it might not interest him from an ethical point of view, it certainly interested him from an economic one; otherwise how could he evaluate the business’s ability to pay back the loan? I should have looked deeper into that side of things. If that question had been cleared up, we might have started disentangling the threads and found a clue to lead us to Gloria Echagüe’s killer. Because one version of events said that she had to be shut up, that she didn’t agree with some of these activities and that she was being very difficult about it, threatening to leave him or even report him. But I don’t know; sometimes I think that was a red herring. At any rate, Brena concludes, the score-settling motive keeps coming back, and if we have to go in that direction we’ll get bogged down again in a few days. And the other theory, someone taking the law into his own hands to avenge Chazarreta’s wife’s death, strikes me as too heroic for the cast of this movie we’re watching – no? So? asks the boy. We have to keep thinking. Sometimes we cling onto a hypothesis then can’t break free of it, says Brena, almost at the same moment as Rinaldi irrupts furiously into the newsroom and hurls a copy of La Primera de la Mañana onto the Crime boy’s desk. Jaime Brena moves aside; he’s not the object of this outburst, but for a long time now seeing Rinaldi furious with anyone has made him tense up. Would you like to explain to me why Zippo has got information on this story that we haven’t? The boy looks at the newspaper Rinaldi flung on his desk, picks it up and quickly scans Zippo’s article. I don’t know. I put in everything they gave me at the police station and in the district attorney’s office. Well they obviously gave him more; just as well we have Nurit Iscar’s pieces, says Rinaldo, and departs as furiously as he arrived. Only when Lorenzo Rinaldi is safely back in his office does Jaime Brena return to pick up the copy of La Primera from the boy’s desk and look for the article. Lesson number two, kid: where did Zippo get hold of this classified information? I don’t know, I swear I’m doing the best I can. Look at the piece and tell me where he got the information from. I read it just now and I don’t know. I didn’t say “read the piece and tell me”, I said “look at the piece and tell me”. Look at it, kid. Doesn’t anything jump out at you? No. Don’t just trust your eyes, assimilate, get inside his skin, inside Zippo’s skin. I swear I don’t know. The photo of the attorney is the same size as the text, see? With a big caption. Then Brena brings the paper close to his face and from under his glasses reads: District Attorney Atilio Pueyrredón making progress, thanks to his meticulous work and that of his team. I’ll ask you again, kid: Who gave Zippo his information? Attorney Pueyrredón. Exactly. Zippo’s doing his publicity, see? Yes, how weird. Zippo’s better than that. Times are hard for everyone, even the best people, says Brena. He must have some favour to repay; I always preferred to pay with an asado. Doing publicity for the police, judges and attorneys sticks in the craw, kid. It’s different with prisoners because they don’t have a voice. But, as for the others, if they’re after fame let them earn it on their own.
Betty Boo Page 9