Smaller and Smaller Circles (3 page)

Director Lastimosa likewise stops and then glances at Saenz. “Your Monsignor Ramirez.” He watches in mild amusement as the blood drains slowly from Saenz's face. “You seem surprised, Father Saenz. Did you not think anyone else knew?”

“Certainly no one else seems to care,” the priest says, and it comes out angrier, more bitter than he had intended. “And he's not
my
Monsignor Ramirez.”

The old man shoves his hands in the pockets of his trousers and begins walking again. “I'm reminded of Ecclesiastes three, Father. Surely you know it?”

Saenz takes a deep breath. “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven.”

“A time to keep silence, and a time to speak,” the man continues.

“What are you trying to tell me, sir?”

“Perhaps you've forgotten verse seventeen, Father.”

“I said in mine heart, God shall judge the righteous and the wicked: for there is a time there for every purpose and for every work.” Saenz reflects on the verse for a moment, then sighs. “I've been at it for years, sir.”

“You're a man of God. You of all people must have faith in the possibility of a satisfactory outcome. Even if, sadly, long delayed.”

“Faith in God, yes. Faith in man—to be honest, I sometimes
. . .
” Saenz's voice trails off.

“Ah. Faith in man.” He sighs. “You and I both, Father.” They walk again in silence for a minute or two. “While you await God's time for the monsignor, Father, I ask you to devote some of your time and your considerable intellect to a problem that I have brought to you.” When he smiles, it is a sad and weary smile. “I believe, in light of your recent disappointment, you will find this a suitable undertaking.”

“I'm listening.”

3

“We have the
remains of a boy, Father Saenz. He was found this Monday in the Payatas dumpsite. The injuries are quite
. . .
horrific.” Director Lastimosa shakes his head vigorously, as though by doing so he can rub out the memory of what he's seen. “Most of the internal organs have been carved out. The penis, severed. The face, mutilated beyond recognition.”

They both look up when they hear voices coming from the opposite direction. Two seminarians, one with a breviary in hand, are coming down the path, talking and laughing. When they see Saenz, they smile and nod respectfully, extending the same courtesy to the director. The path is narrow, so the two men step aside to allow the seminarians to pass.

When he's satisfied that they're out of earshot, the director continues. “The case comes to us from the local police. Apparently they found another corpse in February with very similar injuries. In both cases, they could not find any witnesses who had seen anything unusual that might have been related to the killings.”

“Let me guess. That's as far as the investigations went.”

The director nods. “Life is cheap in that part of the city. Just yesterday, a market vendor was stabbed to death in a fight at Litex. He took up a prime selling spot on the roadside that somebody else wanted.” Litex Road, along Commonwealth Avenue and not far from the dumpsite, has a teeming flea and wet market whose vendors spill over onto the avenue, sometimes occupying two to three lanes and hindering the flow of traffic. “Between the lack of policing skills and the sheer volume of criminal activity that goes on there—the drugs, the rival gangs, the rapes, the random violence
. . .
” The director lifts up both hands in a gesture of resignation.

“Have the victims been identified?”

“The first boy has been. Ryan Molina. The killer left part of a shirt near the body that the boy's parents were able to recognize.”

“And this second boy?”

“Hasn't been identified yet.” The director hands the envelope that has been tucked under his arm all this time to Saenz. “I know you've seen terrible things before, Father, but this is
. . .
different.”

Saenz opens the flap, removes the contents, and then studies them.
It's surreal
, he thinks—the horror in the photographs set against the peace and quiet in this pocket of green, against the normal flow of everyday life along Katipunan Avenue bordering the campus: the jeepneys, the school buses, the private cars ferrying their human cargo to and from their destinations in the city.

He's aware of the director's eyes watching his reaction.

“If you need a moment, Father,” he says.

Saenz shuffles the photographs together and puts them back in the envelope. “Thank you, sir. I'm all right.” He returns it to Director Lastimosa. “But I'm not sure what I can do that your own people at the bureau can't.”

“Father Saenz, I don't believe you can look at those photographs and think that we can do it on our own. My people can recognize a drug deal gone wrong, a carnapping that turns into rape and murder.” The director holds out the envelope to him again, his hand shaking slightly. “This is different. Whoever did this is talking to us. And I believe you can help us understand what he is trying to say.” When Saenz takes the envelope, the director grasps one of his hands firmly. “And you and I both know, Father. If there is a second one, there could very well be a third. Or perhaps there already has been, and we just don't know it yet. We must find him.”

Saenz looks down at the director's pale hand, its green veins bulging up beneath the thin skin from the tension in his grip. It's at this moment that the man appears to realize how tightly he's holding Saenz's hand. He loosens his grasp and steps back, taking a moment to compose himself.

“Forgive me, Father.” He clears his throat, then fishes a handkerchief out of a pocket of his trousers and wipes his now-damp forehead with it. “I'll be honest with you. I'm shaken by this. I know you are too—aren't you?” He searches Saenz's face for an answer.

Saenz gives him a look that tells him,
Yes.
“But what exactly are you proposing, sir? I have classes at my department here. I have administrative work and religious duties. I have research projects.”

“Look, I know you're a busy man. And frankly, we can't pay you for anything other than expenses. But if you have any time at all to spare to consult on these murders, I must appeal to you to lend us that time.”

“It's not just a question of spare time, sir.” Saenz thinks back on all the cases he has consulted on that involved the bureau. In most of them, he had been part of an independent panel of experts convened at the order of the president to investigate the crime. In all of them, he had found strong cause to question the bureau's work methods and investigative practices and, ultimately, their findings. “You must know that I'm not very popular with some of your people. I'm not sure they would appreciate my wading into their turf, even at your invitation. You could become very unpopular very quickly.”

Saenz can tell from the man's lack of surprise or hesitation that the director has already considered and dismissed this. “I'm not interested in popularity contests, Father. I will talk to my staff. They can agree or disagree with me, but at the end of the day, it's my call. In the eighteen months that I've been at the head of the bureau, I have not been wasteful with resources or cavalier in hiring outside expertise. I think I can fully justify bringing you on board.”

W

“Now I know
you've worked with some of our better boys before,” the man is saying as they retrace their steps back to Saenz's building. “Rustia in SOCO speaks very highly of you.”

Saenz nods. “Ading is a good man.” The National Bureau of Investigation has precious few good men, and Fernando Rustia—Ading for short—at scene-of-the-crime operations is one of them. A lower-level supervisor with some twenty years of largely unrewarded experience under his belt, he and Saenz had met nearly a decade before through Saenz's work with human rights organizations involved in the search and identification of
desaparecidos
or “salvage” victims under the Marcos dictatorship.

“Yes, he is. I'm trying—” and here the man stops, as though struggling to remember the words he wants to say, and reaches out to touch Saenz's arm, his long fingers bent with arthritis, resembling claws. “I'm trying to get them
. . .
to stay. The good ones. I'm trying to stimulate them. To remind them why, you know—why it is they came to us in the first place.”

Saenz nods. Like most other intelligence and investigative bodies in the country, the NBI is understaffed, underfunded and in dire need of upgrades to its facilities, equipment and human resources. But it also suffers trust and integrity issues, going all the way back to the dark days of the dictatorship—from technical questions over the proper recording of crime and custodianship of evidence to accusations of inefficiency, corruption and collusion with criminal elements. The bureau has good people, to be sure. But many of them, like Rustia, are underpaid and burned out and have few avenues for advancement in either pay or position within the bureaucracy.

The two men start walking again, the director a few paces ahead of Saenz.

“I've not been with the bureau long, and I don't imagine I'll be staying in my post very long either. I'm an old man, and there are a lot of young guns who would love to take my place.”

Saenz nods again. Francisco Lastimosa had been a trial lawyer, then embarked on a long and remarkably untarnished career in the judiciary. When that part of his life was over, he served on company boards, government panels, committees of inquiry, but always somehow failed to land the high-profile posts, the juicy appointments. That ended about eighteen months ago, when his predecessor stepped down in the midst of corruption charges. The president had plucked him then out of semiretirement and, in a confluence of gumption and good judgment rare in Philippine politics, appointed him to the post despite protests from many quarters that he was a nobody—and an old nobody at that.

“Now, Father, it must be clear by now that I know a lot about you. Your work for
desaparecidos
, for victims of disasters. I have great admiration for you. And without any arrogance, I must assume that you know a fair bit about me as well. Perhaps you will agree that you and I share a somewhat similar view of the world. And while I've never had the chance to work with you, I guess there's a first time for everything.” He faces Saenz now, his expression both grim and earnest. “I need your help.”

It is dark
by the time the director returns to the bureau. He walks slowly down the corridor to his office and finds his middle-aged secretary still in the outer room, tapping away at the computer on her desk.

“Luz. It's late.”

“Evening, sir. I had to finish filing some of these expense reports. They're due on Monday.”

“Monday is next week. Tonight you have dinner with your family. Go home.”

She smiles. She types a few more lines into what looks to be a spreadsheet, saves the file, then begins tidying up the reports. “Oh, by the way,” she says, “Attorney Arcinas dropped by earlier looking for you.”

He stands straighter now, shoulders back, as though bracing himself for a small violence. “What a coincidence. I was just about to go looking for him.”

Luz turns off her computer. “Would you like me to send him up to see you on my way out?”

When he speaks, his voice is quiet. “I don't suppose I have a choice.” So quiet that she can't hear him.

“Excuse me?”

“Yes, Luz, do send him up.”

She nods, gathers up her things and heads to the door. “Good night, sir. See you tomorrow.”

“Good night.”

He stands there until the door closes, then heads wearily to the inner office. He does not turn the lights on and crosses the carpeted room silently. He sinks into the large, leather swivel chair and switches on the desk lamp, which bathes the desk area in a pale bluish-white light. And he waits.

He dozes off and is startled awake by the sound of the door in the outer room banging closed. There is a sharp rap on his own door, and it opens seconds later, his visitor not bothering to wait to be asked to come in.

“Good evening, Ben.”

“Sir. I have some papers for you to sign.” Attorney Benjamin Arcinas holds the papers aloft as he crosses the room. It's been a long day, and his hair—often artfully arranged in large curls and dyed a shade of red that does not occur naturally on this earth—is limp and greasy.

The director imagines that the air in the room has been rendered immediately noxious by Arcinas's barely masked hostility. “Yes. You can leave them on my desk. But please, have a seat.”

Arcinas ignores the request and instead taps the sheaf of papers with one forefinger. “I need them by tomorrow morning.”

“And you will have them by tomorrow morning,” the director says. After more than a year of working with him, he's no longer surprised at being ignored by Arcinas. So he adds, more firmly this time, “But please. Have a seat. I need to discuss something with you.”

The other man takes a step forward, then stops. “Discuss? Or have you already decided?” When the director doesn't respond at once, he arrives at his own conclusions. “You have. And you just called me in to tell me.”

“We have to do what is necessary.”

Arcinas arches an eyebrow. “Well. Of course, if you
think
it's necessary
. . .
”

The attorney has been with the NBI for most of his working life. He is ambitious and self-serving and does not trust outsiders. When Director Lastimosa was new to the bureau, he quickly sized up who was allied with whom within the organizational hierarchy. Arcinas was, and is, a fiercely loyal ally of Assistant Director Philip Mapa, the man who had been tipped to head the bureau before Director Lastimosa's surprise appointment was announced. Had Mapa been chosen, Arcinas would likely have been his deputy. To the director, it's clear that this thwarted ambition is the key reason Arcinas has been so antagonistic toward him since he took the helm of the bureau. That antagonism has only been amplified by this plan to consult with another outsider—Saenz, a man with whom Arcinas has locked horns before and whom he clearly considers a threat to his reputation and standing in the law enforcement community.

“Ben, I need you to cooperate with me on this. We need all the help we can get. You're swamped with work as it is. Everyone else has too much on their plate already, and we can hardly keep up.”

“Oh, of course I understand the rationale, sir,” he says, unable—unwilling—to rein in his sarcasm. “I just hope you've considered the impact of this move on the morale of your people.”

“I have. And I am quite certain that our people want to get to the bottom of this.” The director stands and looks directly at him. “You most of all, Ben. Am I right?”