Smaller and Smaller Circles (18 page)

Saenz frowns. “I'm not sure I understand.”

“Surely you're no stranger to these high-society matrons, with their pet priests and pet cardinals? They underwrite their projects, they fund their charities, they bask in the reflected glory when the priests are elevated to the higher echelons of the Church.”

“You mean—you heard all that?”

“Jonathan and I were right behind you. And Mrs. Urrutia is not exactly a quiet woman.” The director grasps Saenz's hand and shakes it vigorously, as though by doing so, he will be able to jolt him out of his black mood. “Come now, Father Saenz. The old bat may have won this round. But people like you and me—we win simply by surviving yet another day.”

He motions to his son, indicating that he wishes to be pushed toward the theater entrance. “Come, gentlemen. The Queen of the Night awaits.”

30

A tropical storm
has brought heavy rains to Metro Manila and other parts of Luzon. Quezon City is a commuter's nightmare, with floods hitting waist-high levels in certain areas, and creeks have overflowed all over the city. Many streets are impassable, and traffic is snarled nearly everywhere. The road outside the university is packed with vehicles.

Saenz and Jerome have decided to wait at the laboratory for the traffic to ease before heading off on personal errands. Saenz is scribbling notes on his examination of the salvage victim's remains. Jerome is curled up on the lab's hideous but comfortable brown velour couch, reading for Monday's classes. They go about their respective tasks in companionable silence.

The peace is disturbed by a knock on the door. They exchange glances, and then Jerome unfolds himself and rises from the couch. He walks to the door, opens it a crack at first and then wider, framing a damp and disheveled Ben Arcinas in the doorway. He is carrying a folded, dripping umbrella in one hand and a blue plastic bag in the other.

“Father,” he says to Jerome. Then he looks over at Saenz. “Father.”

“Ben!” Saenz says in surprise, getting up to greet him.

Arcinas hands him the bag. Saenz looks inside and finds about a dozen small
monay
, chewy bread rolls with a pale brown crust and soft white insides. Saenz is touched by the gesture and waves Arcinas inside. “Come in, come in.” He waits a moment while Arcinas opens up his umbrella and sets it down near the door to dry. “Thank you for these. What brings you here in this weather?”

Saenz hands Jerome the bag, but Jerome eyes it with mild suspicion and sets it down on the couch beside him. Since the murder that came after Carding Navato's arrest, Arcinas has been unusually subdued and cooperative. For Jerome, who deeply dislikes the lawyer, it has been like dealing with a completely different person.

“You asked me to get my people to check Rommel Salustiano's background and to question him about his whereabouts on the night of the last killing.”

“Yes.”

Arcinas takes the seat that Jerome offers him, then looks around the laboratory for a moment.

“It's a lot
. . .
smaller than I thought it would be.” He says it softly, with neither rancor nor condescension.

Saenz chuckles. “We've a lot less money than you might think.”

“But don't you—I mean
. . .
”

“We're good at begging for funds, if that helps,” Jerome offers.

The lawyer is silent for a while, as though weighing what to say next and how to say it.

“We don't think Rommel is involved in the killings, Father. Aside from the fact that he doesn't fit your profile—”

“Which we've conceded from the outset.”

“.
. .
and that his feet are too big for the imprint we found at the scene of the sixth murder, he has an alibi for that night. And pretty much every night one of our kids was killed.”

“And that is?”

“His mother. Apparently, they're busiest on weekends, and they'll take any job they can get. Guy wants to go and have a life, hang out with friends, maybe meet a girl. But he's pressed into service all day, Friday, Saturday and Sunday, driving, helping load and unload, helping set up and dismantle for catering jobs. The night of the last murder, he was helping at a wedding.”

Jerome leans back on the couch, folding his arms over his chest. “That's not just the mother covering for her son, is it?”

“We don't think so,” Arcinas says. “My boys talked to several people at the wedding—guests, members of the family, even some of the waiters hired by the Salustianos. He was seen manning the food warmers the whole night. And I mean the whole night—there was dancing and karaoke up until the wee hours.”

Saenz frowns. “Just because he was seen doesn't mean he was there the whole night. He could have left, killed the boy and then come back just in time for karaoke.”

“The event was in Santa Rosa, Laguna. On a rainy Saturday night. And you know what a little rain does to the traffic on the South Super Highway.”

Both priests sigh. “From Santa Rosa to Quezon City and back? In slow-moving traffic, with a murder in between?” Jerome calculates. “Easily three, four hours.” He turns to Arcinas. “What else did you find out about him?”

“He's got a university degree but hasn't held a paying job in the last four years. So he helps out with the mother's business instead. Last relationship was more than six years ago. He has a few friends, and they all like to hang out and play video games.” Arcinas slides a hand in the pocket of his jeans and draws out a small notebook. He leafs through it until he finds what he's looking for. “He's an only child. The family used to be pretty well off, but the father left them to start a family with another woman when Rommel was in the sixth grade. So the mother had to work to make ends meet. From all accounts, she's been very bitter about things for years.”

Jerome looks at Saenz. “I guess that explains the whole ‘good-for-nothing father of yours' bit.”

“It also explains how a house that big could end up looking so run-down and dilapidated.”

Arcinas nods. “Rommel and the business are all she has. And she's got her fingers closed really tight around both of them.”

“Did he say why he came here? Twice? And threatened Father Saenz the last time?”

“He says he was curious, and that he wasn't intending to threaten him. He said he got excited that you came by to ask about Carding. And then he got even more excited when
. . .
” Here Arcinas pauses, clearly trying to phrase the next part correctly. “When the last boy turned up just after we'd announced Carding's arrest.”

Jerome looks skeptical. “That's it? He was curious? Excited?”

Arcinas lifts his hands in a gesture of helplessness:
that's all I have for you
. “To be honest, the way he talked—it seemed like you were the coolest thing to happen to him in years.”

Saenz nods. “Okay. I guess that's as far as we can go in that direction.”

“You sure?” Jerome asks.

“Until we find something more solid to connect him to the murders, there's nothing to justify pursuing this any further.” Saenz extends his hand to Arcinas. “Thank you, Ben. I really appreciate your looking into this for us, and your coming all the way out here to tell us what you found out.”

Arcinas stands, shakes the priest's hand. “Thank you for seeing me.” He reaches out to shake Jerome's hand as well. Jerome sees him to the door, but Arcinas pauses.

“Look, I don't want you to think that I
. . .
” It's not quite right, so he begins again. “I honestly thought that I
. . .
”

Saenz knows what he is trying to say. “Ben, I understand. Look, it's a tough situation all around, and I know you and your boys all have so much to do—”

“No, Father,” Arcinas says, shaking his head. “When I found out about the last boy, I just
. . .
It's not
. . .
acceptable. And I didn't want you to think that it didn't matter to me.” He looks at Jerome. “Both of you.” He picks up his umbrella and quickly folds it up. “Well, good night.”

Jerome closes the door behind him.

“Well, what do you think?” Saenz tosses Jerome the frayed, green tennis ball he regularly uses as a stress ball, and Jerome catches it deftly with one hand.

“I guess that's a dead end, then? And we're back to square one?” Jerome sits down on one of the couch's armrests and begins bouncing the ball off the big whiteboard opposite him, with its table of facts about the murders. “What I still can't figure out is, why one victim every month? Why not every week, every two weeks?”

Saenz slides his glasses lower along the bridge of his nose. “We've hypothesized that some circumstance, some aspect of his monthly routine, brings him in contact with his prospective victims during the first week of every month.”

Jerome shakes his head. “But he could go back anytime if he wanted to.”

Saenz stands and draws closer to the whiteboard, removing his glasses altogether. Absentmindedly, he cleans the lenses with the edge of his shirt. “Or maybe it's some kind of inaugural ritual. You know. Something to start the month off right.” He folds up the glasses and slips them into his shirt pocket. “After all, you've already posited the idea that he's able to function normally in society. Maybe he needs to get it done so he can—well, maintain that normalcy for the rest of the month.”

Jerome thinks about this and decides that it is plausible. For a few minutes, the
donk-donk-donk
of the tennis ball on the whiteboard is the only other sound in the room, save for the rain.

Saenz moves to the couch and flops down on it with a heavy sigh. Then he sees the bag of
monay
that Arcinas brought with him. He fishes two of the rolls out of the bag, motioning to Jerome to take one and biting into the other. That first bite sends a shock of pain through his right lower jaw as the hard crust presses down on his weak tooth, and he moans, abandoning the roll and rubbing his jaw where the pain is worst.

Jerome shakes his head in exasperation. “What did I tell you about that tooth?”

The older man is rubbing his cheek in a circular motion with the heel of his left hand. “Nothing I didn't already know.”

“How bad is it?”

“Bad enough. I hate hospitals and dental clinics. They give me—” He pauses and then stands. “Wait a minute.”

Jerome is concerned. “What's wrong? Is it very bad?”

Saenz hushes him with a wave of the hand. “No, I'm all right. Listen. The police, the NBI have assumed all along that there was nothing by which to identify the other victims, right?”

“No clothing, no parents coming forward, no dental records.”

“Yes, but consider this: when Tato and I made casts of the boys' teeth, we found they weren't completely wanting in dental care. Some had rather old fillings; some had undergone proper tooth extractions.”

“Right. You told the police and the NBI.” Jerome pauses. “But they never followed up because
. . .
”

Saenz's shoulders sag, and he doesn't need to explain further: it's because these boys were throwaway victims, and the police weren't going to expend more than the barest minimum of effort to find out their identities or who was responsible for their deaths. As for the NBI, Arcinas had frittered away already limited resources on his own ill-conceived investigation.

Saenz continues. “But when we last saw Emil—do you remember? They had one of those community mobile clinics on the church grounds. A clinic that he said had been operating even before he'd been assigned to the parish.”

“So you're saying
. . .
?”

Saenz is almost vibrating. “I'm saying there's a chance they may have treated our boys”—he takes a whiteboard marker and begins ticking off squares on the matrix—“two, three, five and six.”

Jerome stands beside him, concentrating hard on the whiteboard. “Community clinics, free services. Free services, poor clients. Poor clients
. . .
” He looks at Saenz, his eyes wide as he comes to the end of his free-associating. “The boys might have dental records after all.”

“A service to the living, an unintended service to the dead.” The other man has already begun bustling around the room. “I'll get the casts. You bring the car around front.”

Jerome is halfway through the door, but then he stops. “Wait a minute. Who are we going to talk to at this time of night?”

Saenz pauses from the task of piling the plaster casts of the victims' teeth into a black leather bag and smiles. “Our friendly neighborhood city councillor.”

Jerome grimaces. “He's not going to buy the fundraiser story anymore.”

“Then we'll just have to tell him the truth.”

Joanna watches as
Jerome Lucero strides purposefully to his car, climbs in and swings it deftly out of its parking space.
Ah, finally.
She grins to herself. She sits up straight and shakes her head to clear the drowsiness.

Jerome pulls up toward the building entrance and waits, the engine idling. Joanna sees him looking out the car window, surveying the parking area. She is far enough away that he cannot see her.

Now Saenz is coming out of the building with a large black bag. He gets into the passenger seat; the door slams shut, and the car roars away.

Not yet time for Leo
, she decides. But she starts up her engine, the blood racing through her brain. The rush is better than any drug.