Smaller and Smaller Circles (9 page)

 

 

The sun's come out today. I have to go to work.

 

Sometimes I wonder if the people I work so hard for appreciate me enough. They come to me suffering, in pain. I do what I do and make it better. Then they go away and never give me a second thought. They pass by me in the streets, and the most that some of them can do is nod. Almost all of them fail to recognize me.

 

When I think about it, though, I guess that's okay. I don't want them to

recognize me. It's really better that they don't.

11

The voice assails
Director Lastimosa as he drifts back into consciousness. Its owner is issuing instructions over a cell phone in a tone simultaneously languid and imperious. Ben
Arcinas does not bother to take down his volume a notch even though the director is resting. A slight lift of one eyebrow is all that he can muster to acknowledge that the director is awake. He rattles off a laundry list of things for the person on the other end of the line to do.

When he's finally done, he turns to the director. “
Oh
,” he begins, “you're still not looking so well. When are you going to be released?” As always, his aftershave is overpowering, a wall of scent so dense that one could bounce a coin off it.

Who let you in here?
the director asks, but only in his mind. “Thanks for coming, Ben,” he says instead. “Looks like your day is packed.” His smile is wan.

If Arcinas notices that his question has gone unanswered, he doesn't let on. He moves a bit closer to the bed. “It always is. Oh, by the way. I came here to tell you that Director Mapa has given me the green light to proceed in a parallel direction with the Payatas case.” It's delivered with an obvious relish that borders on delight.

“I see.” Underneath his blanket, the director clenches his fists. “He hasn't cleared this with me.”

“I think he'll tell you when he drops by tomorrow,” Arcinas says airily. “Maybe he was afraid you were too sick. Anyway, he's officer in charge while you're away, so he—”

“Being OIC does not give him blanket authority over critical matters such as this. He knows this.
You
know this.”

Arcinas shrugs. “I just do what I'm told.”

“What you're told? Or what you tell Director Mapa you want to do?”

Arcinas barrels on. “You'll be pleased to know that we'll be questioning suspects soon. And before you have another heart attack, I can assure you that it's all being done very methodically. Father Saenz himself couldn't possibly do better.”

“Ben,” the director says, tension surging through his chest, bubbling up his throat like bile, “is this really more important to you? The recognition, the credit? Would you really put it above finding whoever is responsible for these killings?”

“I don't know if it's your medication or your sickness that keeps you from seeing this, but that's exactly what I'm trying to do. Except that you have more faith in your priest than you do in your own people.”

“If you move with as much”—he pauses to find a suitable word, but fails—“fanfare as I fear you will, we might lose him.”

Arcinas steps back. He seems genuinely hurt by this, his face wearing a look that the director has seen on dogs that have just been kicked.
“Fanfare,”
he repeats softly.

“You know what I mean, Ben.”

“You must think we're all clowns,” he says, still in that same small, quiet voice. “Why did you even accept the directorship, I wonder? You're too good for this bureau, or any of us.”

“Ben,” Director Lastimosa says, as gently as he can. “You're an intelligent man. You know that certain things need to change. That the things that used to work for us before won't always work anymore—that in fact, they're already working less and less. You know that we can do so much better.”

“I know it was better before you came along.” His face is shuttered now, the eyes cold. “But we've survived worse crises, and we'll survive you. You're a political appointee. If you don't die before the next presidential election, you'll be replaced.”

“You'd better stop talking, Ben, before you say anything you'll truly regret later.”

“I've said all that I'm going to say. Enjoy your stay here, sir.” He turns and leaves.

The room is still and silent now, but the director's insides are churning. He lies back on his pillows and tries to relax, closing his eyes and taking deep breaths. But he knows it's coming; he can feel it, that same sense that all control is slipping rapidly, inexorably away.

He reaches for the call button and presses it while he still can.

12

The Monday after
the director is rushed to the US for treatment, Saenz is poring over his expense records for the month with some concern. The laboratory is funded largely by
grants and donations; although Saenz runs it as efficiently and frugally as possible, there are times when it overshoots its monthly budget and he has to dip into his own pocket to bridge the gap. Over the last few years, as the number of consultations has increased and the level of external funding has fluctuated, those gaps have grown larger and emerged more frequently.

He is checking the balance in his bank account and calculating how much he will need to draw from it to pay Tato and the utilities bills when Jerome sticks his head in the door. A quick glance at Saenz's desk and his face brightens.

“Otap!”
he cries in delight. He makes a beeline for a small pack of the flaky, sugary cookies, which are buried under a pile of newspapers.

Saenz looks incensed. “You mean you came here just for that? And how did you even know that I had them on my desk?” he demands.

It's Tuesday—Jerome's busiest teaching day—so Saenz knows he has not had lunch in between classes. This explains why he is already reaching for two or three more cookies even before he has had a chance to finish the one in his mouth.

“You always have
otap
on your desk,” Jerome says, a few flakes of the cookie falling from his mouth onto his shirt. “Or
barquillos
. Or
paciencia
. Or
lenguas de gato
.” It's true: Saenz's wilderness of a desk is a treasure trove of snacks for the person who knows where to look. And Jerome—who, barring inclement weather, emergency meetings and other acts of God, always turns up on Tuesday afternoons at four thirty sharp, half-starved and ravenous—knows exactly where to look.

“You could go to the cafeteria for a change, you know. They have real food there. Things you can eat with a spoon and a fork. Things you actually have to pay for.”

Jerome pauses in mid-chew, looking perplexed. “But why on earth would I deny myself the pleasure of eating at your expense?”

Saenz sighs. “And here I thought you enjoyed my company.”

“Oh, but I do!” Jerome replies earnestly. “Because your company always involves free food.”

They share a laugh at this private, long-running joke, and then Saenz turns serious. He waves a sheaf of papers at Jerome. “Look at this. We're short again this month.”

“Eh?” Jerome licks the cookie sugar and grease from his fingers, wipes them on his jeans and then takes the papers and studies them. “I thought you were going to get the third tranche of funding from that Japanese foundation last week.”

“So did I. That would have kept us going for at least another six months. But I called Mrs. Iwasaki on Friday, and she said the release was delayed.”

“Any idea when it's going to happen?”

Saenz shakes his head. “Worse still, it could be an indication that future tranches are being reassessed.”

“What?” Jerome's eyes widen. “Can they do that? Aren't those already committed under some kind of memorandum of understanding between the foundation and the university?”

“Well, there's any number of ways out of an MOU.”

“Hmmm. Any expense items you can shuffle around in the meantime?”

“I've done all the shuffling around I can do this month. But Tato needs to get paid, and so do the power and water bills. I also need to give Susan her allowance from the lab for helping out with administrative duties here and there.”

“Will Tato take a promissory note?”

“On principle, I would rather not do that. I never have, and I'm not about to start now.”

Jerome leans forward. “I hate to float this idea, but
. . .
what about the diocese?”

Saenz draws his lips into a thin, tight line. “After what happened with Cardinal Meneses? I don't think the diocese would give me a strand of used dental floss if I asked for it.”

They sit in glum silence for a while; then Saenz forces himself to smile cheerfully. “Ah, well. It's not as though I have a wife and four children to feed.” He snatches the pack of
otap
from Jerome's hand, feigning annoyance. “Certainly I'll have to rethink this whole free food policy over the long term.”

Jerome looks at the cookies—now beyond his reach—dejectedly. “You do realize that austerity measures imposed without consultation are often met with protest?”

The phone rings, and Saenz picks up.

“Good morning, Father.”

“Good morning, sir.” At this, Jerome looks up.
Director Valdes
, Saenz mouths silently. Jerome immediately stands and moves closer. “What can I do for you?”

“Listen, I've got my hands full with the Miss Teen Philippines scandal today. Seems like everyone is baying for blood.”

Saenz chuckles. Two nights ago, one young woman was crowned the winner in a beauty pageant; the next day, one of the judges was crying foul, saying that the name announced on coronation night was the wrong one. He accused the other judges of conspiring with the host to falsely bestow the crown on the wrong contestant. It's yet another ridiculous scenario playing out on the country's evening news programs and the front pages of newspapers.

“I'll be tied up all day trying to organize this new task force the mayor has convened to investigate the incident. But I think you need to see Attorney Arcinas as soon as possible. Today, if you can make it.”

“Why? What's going on?”

“He's tried to keep me out of the loop, but someone has told me that he's moving on the Payatas case independently. Apparently he's pulled up a list of previous sex offenders in the area, and he's begun rounding up possible suspects for questioning. Normally, that's exactly what we'd do, but in this particular case
. . .
well, I don't need to tell you what that means.”

It means that he's drawing unwanted and unnecessary attention in the community.
Saenz sighs. “I still have another class to teach and counseling at night. How about tomorrow?”

“The sooner the better, Father.” Saenz hears the fatigue in Director Valdes's voice. “And when you do see him, I'd appreciate it if you kept my name out of it. The man has Director Mapa's ear, and with Director Lastimosa indisposed, my position here is vulnerable. Besides, I think I can continue to be more useful to you if I appear to be impartial.”

“I understand, sir. I'll make an appointment to see him tomorrow morning.”

“If you ask me, I wouldn't bother making an appointment—I'm quite sure he'll refuse. I'm also sure that he'll be at the office all morning. He won't miss a chance to chair the morning media conference. I suggest you simply turn up at his door unannounced. He wouldn't dare make a scene in front of the reporters and draw attention to your presence.” A beat. “Although, if you ask me, Father, you would draw attention just by walking through the door.”

The deputy director ends the call, and Saenz puts the phone back in the cradle.

“Problem?”

“What's your schedule looking like tomorrow morning?”

“Nothing on it that I can't clear. Why?”

“It looks like we need to pay a certain task force chief a visit.”

13

Attorney Benjamin Arcinas
has always reminded Jerome of a rattlesnake, small brained and venomous. He has a heavy-lidded, reptilian look about him. His face has a layer of expertly applied foundation, and his well-manicured nails are covered in a coat of sheer polish.

It's been less than a week since the director's health problems first came to light, but already Arcinas has grown ever more audacious. Whereas initially he had intended to divert resources and manpower from the Payatas investigation to
other cases from which he could gain media exposure—a Binondo businessman's kidnapping, the arrest of an army lieutenant for alleged drug trafficking—he has now apparently seen the value in milking the Payatas killings for media mileage.

“Hmmm
. . .
this is very interesting, Father Saenz
. . .
all very interesting
. . .
”

The stubby fingers with their ridiculously polished nails keep flipping, flipping through the pages of a report that the two priests had prepared for Director Lastimosa prior to his departure for the US, and Jerome is certain that the blank snake eyes are not really taking anything in. He shifts impatiently in his seat twice, fidgets with the wooden crucifix hanging from a cord around his neck, sighs audibly in exasperation until Saenz puts out a hand to gesture for him to calm down.

“We believe the killings take place during the first weekend of every month. Statistically, the odds are that the suspect is male. From the blows to the head and the wound slicing patterns on the body, it's likely that he's right-handed—”

“Oh, well. That eliminates the ten to twelve percent of the population that's left-handed and makes things so much easier for us, Father.”

The older priest ignores the lawyer's sarcasm and chooses a gentler, more patient tone.

“I urge you to take a look at the other details of the report, Ben. We've tried to create as accurate a profile of this killer as possible, using physical evidence from the bodies as well as what we know from the community. I can understand your
reluctance to undertake this kind of psychological profiling of criminals—even in the developed world, it's still an evolving science. But it's produced a significant number of arrests and convictions. Most of your people have a solid legal background, and that's all very good. But I'm sure you recognize that this situation demands far more of you and the bureau than just legal expertise.”

“You forget, Father, that this institution has been around since 1947.” Arcinas opens a drawer in his desk, then sits back in his chair and puts both feet up on the drawer, his body language calculated to convey the appearance of relaxed authority. “Even further back to 1936, if you count the creation of the Division of Investigation under the Justice Department. We've accomplished a great deal all these years by doing things the same way we've always done them.”

“Of course you have.” Saenz leans forward in his seat, putting his arms on the edge of Arcinas's desk and threading his fingers together. “Listen, Ben, I'm not trashing your efforts here. But I don't need to tell you of the successes that have been attained with these techniques. You're far more up-to-date on developments in the international law enforcement community than I am.”

There is a momentary gleam in the lawyer's snake eyes. Saenz catches it, identifies it as the pleasure a bureaucrat takes when he knows he has authority over someone else. When he knows that someone is trying to obtain his cooperation.

“Work with us here, Ben,” the priest continues in as persuasive a tone as he can muster. “As far as we can tell, the mutilations are significant. They are not random or gratuitous. This man is erasing his victims' faces. He is carving out their organs, their hearts. If we believe that every act is symbolic, he appears to be removing everything that makes them human. We are dealing with a man—”

“Yes, yes. I know. A serial killer.” The lawyer says the word slowly, with a mocking gravity:
seeer-yal
. A corner of his mouth curls up in an expression of mildly amused sarcasm.

It is all too much for Jerome. The younger priest rises so forcefully from his seat that it is almost knocked over backward onto the dingy, mustard-yellow carpet.

“Come on, Gus. We're wasting time. This man clearly has no grasp of how serious this case is, or worse still, he doesn't care. All he cares about is getting his face on television.”

Arcinas gets up as well, hands bunched into fists and wedged against either side of his potbelly. A vein in his left temple bulges like a fat, green worm.

“No, no, this isn't the way—” Saenz begins, but Jerome is not about to be stopped.

“Look at the profile, Arcinas. Your killer is a man at most about five feet five inches tall—not stocky, someone who doesn't trust himself with a conscious victim. Someone the kids in the area would know, or even trust, someone whose presence in the community wouldn't arouse suspicion.”

“Really, Father Lucero, my men are one step ahead of you. We may actually nab our suspect within days.”

The two priests are momentarily stunned into silence

It's Saenz who finds his voice first. “What did you say?”

Arcinas gives them a self-satisfied smile, the lashes feathering over his eyes almost coquettishly. “You've both been very helpful, but I think we can take it from here.”

Saenz brushes aside the implied dismissal. “You have a suspect. Is he in custody now? How? Where?”

The lawyer is now busy shuffling papers on his desk, and his tone is brisk, almost cheerily official. “Now, Father, you know I can't tell you that.”

“Why not?”

“Procedural restrictions. Yes, yes. Certain technicalities. But we're very grateful for your assistance. Very grateful, really. We'll make sure you're given due recognition when we're done.”

“We were asked to assist in this case by the director himself,” Saenz says quietly.

“It's too bad the director is overseas, but if he were here, I'm sure he would agree with me that the bureau can handle the situation on its own from this point on. Of course, you will both be paid for your services.”

Saenz starts to walk to the door. But midway he stops and turns back. This time the tone of persuasive rationality is gone, and in its place pure menace.

“For your sake, Attorney Arcinas, I hope you do get the right man.”