Red April (7 page)

“Good evening, Captain! I didn't know you were here. The prosecutor came to the office to …”

“Shut up, damn it. Go in, Chacaltana. You want to talk? We'll talk.”

The Associate District Prosecutor followed him into the office, victory shining in his smile. Captain Pacheco sat down heavily behind his desk, beside the national flag, beneath the photograph of the president. On the wall hung the coat-of-arms of the police with its motto: “Honor is their shield.”

“Before you begin, allow me to say that you are really a pain in the balls,” he said by way of official greeting. “What happened to your head?”

The prosecutor was afraid to say that he had been beaten. He would not be respected if he said that.

“Nothing, I fell. And I am sorry for recent events, Captain, but I have sent a brief to your off …”

“Yes, yes, yes. Mayta Carazo. I've seen it.”

“Unfortunately, your response in this regard seems to have been lost and never came into my possession …”

“I didn't send you a response, Chacaltana. And I'm not going to send you one. Is that what you wanted to hear?”

“No, Captain. I need your cooperation and collaboration to close the case of …”

“Chacaltana, are you an Aprista or an imbecile?”

“Excuse me, Captain?”

“Didn't you hear Commander Carrión when he spoke to you?”

“Yes, Captain. And I believe, in fact, that I have found confirmation of his suspicions … I have evidence that indicates that the aforementioned Justino …”

“I don't want to know what evidence you have. I don't want to know anything having to do with this case. Elections are just around the corner. Nobody wants to hear about terrorists in Ayacucho.”

“Permit me to express my surprise at your words …”

“Look, Chacaltana, I'll be totally frank with you, and I hope this is the last time we talk about this subject. The police are controlled by the Ministry of the Interior, and the interior minister is a military man. Doesn't that tell you something?”

“That does not constitute an irregularity. Members of the armed forces are authorized to …”

“I'll try to say it so even you can understand: They make the decisions here. If they don't want an investigation, there's no investigation.”

“But it is our duty …”

“Our duty is to shut up and do what we're told! Is it so difficult for you to get that into your head? Listen, I have no interest in helping you because I don't feel like it. But even if I did want to help you, I couldn't. So don't get me involved in this because you'll fuck up my promotion. Please, I'm begging you! I have a family! I want to go back to Lima! I can't be bothering Commander Carrión.”

In the hierarchical gears that constituted the mind of Associate District Prosecutor Félix Chacaltana Saldívar, there was no place
for the possibility of not being promoted because of following procedures. To the contrary. He tried to explain the point, but the captain interrupted him:

“Why don't you write a report and close the case once and for all? Attribute it to a fire or a car accident … And everybody's happy.”

Chacaltana opened his eyes in genuine surprise.

“But I … I cannot do that … Doing that without the police report is illegal, Captain.”

The captain buried his head in his hands. He closed his eyes. He moved his lips gently, as if counting to one hundred in silence. When he was calmer, he said:

“Chacaltana, this is an emergency zone. A large part of the department is still classified as a red zone. Laws are legally suspended.”

“Moreover, the survivors of the deceased could demand …”

“He has no survivors! Nobody knows who he is! The case has not been leaked to the press. Nobody will complain, the Indians never complain. They don't care. And neither do I.”

The picture of the president seemed to tremble at his back when he said that. Then the office sank into silence. On his desk, the captain had national ID-size photographs of his family, two children and a wife. Chacaltana liked families. But at that moment he rose to his feet in genuine indignation.

“I also want to close this case as soon as I can, Captain, but your report has to reach me because procedure demands it. I cannot conclude the process without a report. I am keeping a record of how the details of the proceedings are being executed.”

Chacaltana walked with dignity toward the exit. The captain leaned back in his chair. Just before Chacaltana opened the door, the captain said:

“Is that all?”

Chacaltana stopped. He did not turn around. He knew he had won.

“It is why I have come.”

Chacaltana said this in a firm tone of voice, standing rigid beside the door. The captain demanded confirmation:

“If I give you a report written by my experts and signed by me, there won't be any more problems?”

“The only problem we have is the administrative irregularity that does not allow us to close the case.”

The captain sketched a smile. Then he stopped. He frowned. Chacaltana maintained the imperturbable face of the professional prosecutor. The captain gave a clear laugh.

“Fine, Chacaltana, I understand. I'll speak to my people and get my men together. You'll have your report tomorrow first thing in your office. Thanks for the visit.”

In reality, that was the only thing the Associate District Prosecutor was waiting to hear.

He left police headquarters with the feeling that he had engaged in a great battle and won. Still, he understood the misgivings of the police. He should not forget they were living in a red zone, and that always made people more suspicious.

At that hour everything in the city was closed. No one was in the streets except for an occasional patrol, a leftover of the curfews. He walked through the silent blue night to his house, breathing the clean provincial air. When he reached his house he went to his mother's room. It was cold because the window had been open all day. He apologized as he closed it.

“I'm sorry, Mamacita. I left you alone all day. It's just that this case is very difficult, Mamacita. Very sad. The deceased has no survivors. Can you imagine? How sad.”

Still speaking, he took from a drawer the warmest wool pajamas and laid them out on the sheets.

“If you die without anyone to remember you it's like dying twice. Where can this man's family be? Who'll remember something nice about him, or turn down his bed at night, or give him his pajamas? Nobody at all, Mamacita. Nobody to look at his
photograph or say his name at night. Do you see how it is? When someone ceases to exist like that, it's as if he never had existed, as if he had been a ray of sunlight that leaves no trace afterward, when night falls.”

He caressed the pajamas and the sheet. Then he picked up a photograph from the bureau, the one of his mother alone, with her sweet young gaze. He carried it to his room and put it on the table beside his bed, to feel less alone after he closed his eyes.

The next morning, in fact, the police report was lying on his desk. The prosecutor opened it and looked it over. It was very badly written, full of redundancies and spelling mistakes, but the content was simple and legally valid. The police version differed from his hypothesis but contributed definitive proofs suggested by their experience in the investigation of malefactors and homicides. Throughout the day he verified certain data. They were correct. He called police headquarters, where Captain Pacheco answered the phone personally, certified his procedures, and offered all the cooperation at his disposal.

The prosecutor had no ambition to play a leading role. He did not want to engage in controversy or doubt the good faith of institutions. If the competent authorities offered a more solid version of events than his, he accepted it. His job was to facilitate the operation of the forces of law and order, not stand in their way. True, he did feel proud about the change in attitude he had caused in Captain Pacheco, who had overcome his resistance and collaborated, finally, with the greatest efficiency. In the long run, the captain would realize the advantages of cooperation among institutions in times of peace. And thank him.

He accepted the police report as valid and decided to close the case with the information at his disposal. He wrote a report that did not satisfy him on account of its excessive length. He threw it in the wastebasket. He wrote another page but found it full of simplifications and omissions. Again he threw it out and wrote a third page, being especially careful about syntax and punctuation:
simple, nothing excessive, sober. As he corrected the commas and tildes, he felt relieved. Images of the burned man would not bother him again. And above all, the channels of inter-institutional communication had proved themselves effective. One more sign of progress.

On Tuesday, the seventh day of March, 2000, when festivities to celebrate Carnival were in progress, an electrical storm was pragmatically verified visually in the highlands of Huancavelica, producing a significant amount of material and personal damage in unpopulated areas.

Subsequently, the aforementioned meteorological phenomenon moved in the direction of the province of Huamanga, where its verification has not been duly corroborated as a consequence of the alcoholic condition of the inhabitants of said province during the abovementioned celebration.

The deceased in question, a one-armed man whose identity could not be established, demonstrating that this is a matter of a traveler and/or foreign tourist, presented himself, due to the abovementioned meteorological conditions, to take shelter for the night in the residence of Nemesio Limanta Huamán (41), who refused the aforesaid permission, although due to the fraternizing that took place on the above-referenced dates, he has no memory in this regard.

Despite the refusal of Nemesio Limanta Huamán (41), the deceased in question had recourse to his prerogative to take shelter for the night, thus committing the crime of breaking and entering and unlawful use of private property, entering the hayloft, said appurtenance serving as well as a repository of kerosene and other combustible liquids utilized in the process of small-scale farming and animal husbandry.

The deceased in question remained in the environs of the
hayloft for a period of two days when, in an effort to evade the consequences of his crime, he hid in the straw to avoid being seen by the inhabitants of Quinua, a reason that contributes to the explanation of the general lack of memory with respect to his presence in this locality.

On Wednesday, the eighth day of March, 2000, at approximately the hour of dawn, an electrical charge, caused by unfavorable meteorological conditions, produced in the form of a lightning bolt a fire in the residence of Nemesio Limanta Huamán, precisely in the locale of the hayloft where the abovementioned deceased in question was taking shelter for the night. Struck on his shoulder by the meteorological phenomenon, which opened a wound, and bursting into flames, the deceased in question revealed his ignorance of rural customs when he attempted to extinguish the fire with certain combustible liquids, which, combined with the action of the electrical charge, intensified the process of combustion and deteriorated into a blaze of considerable proportions which, however, due to the dampness of the element of straw, did not spread to other structures on the aforementioned property.

In conclusion, in the corresponding fall to the ground of the aforementioned deceased, his face hit the hay harrows, producing a sharp cruciform puncture wound on the frontal cranial area.

In witness whereof this is signed, on Friday, the seventeenth day of March …

Now it was perfect, with appropriate conjugations and correct pauses. Along with the relief of seeing the report completed, there was also the knowledge that there was no murderer loose in the province. No terrorists. The war was over. Not even a crime of passion. Certainly, concerned with the consequences of his being discovered, Justino Mayta Carazo had fled the prosecutor, who did not believe it necessary to denounce him because of that. His fear was also normal.

The prosecutor made the necessary copies and placed them in their respective envelopes. He sent them with the satisfaction of a job well done. He thought about his mother. She would be proud of him. He thought about Edith. In the turmoil of the case, he had forgotten to seek her out during the past week. He ought to stop by the restaurant. He suddenly felt his appetite return.

“First of all, I want you to know we are very proud of you, Prosecutor Chacaltana. And that the Armed Forces of this Nation count on your Tireless Efforts on behalf of Law and Order.”

It seemed to Prosecutor Chacaltana that all those words were spoken in capital letters, like the certificates, not to mention the medals and flags, covering the walls of Commander Carrión's office behind his immense desk chair. While a lieutenant served two cups of
mate
, Chacaltana noticed that the commander looked taller from the small armchair where the prosecutor had been seated.

“Thank you, Señor.”

“I must confess we had our doubts as to whether civil justice could contend with a case of this kind. If you don't mind my saying so, not all bureaucrats are prepared to understand what goes on here. Those from Lima, even less so.”