Smaller and Smaller Circles Read online

  “We don’t think anything,” Jerome repeats, kindly but firmly. “Why don’t you take us through the Saturday activities? There may be no link to the case after all.”

  Emil again looks at both of them, one after the other, and pauses to think. “Well . . .” Then he squares his shoulders, clearly having come to a decision to cooperate as best as he can. “The parish has all kinds of initiatives. Aside from catechism on Sundays, we have livelihood training, parenthood seminars, a feeding program. Look over there,” he says, pointing to a tentlike structure where about a dozen women are seated on plastic chairs, listening to a woman speaking in front of a blackboard. “That’s a class on basic household accounting, and the woman is a volunteer sent by city hall.”

  “Is that new?” Jerome asks.

  “New? The classes you mean? No, goodness. We’ve been doing them for about six years now. We know all the volunteers; they’ve been with us on and off for as long as the classes have been in place.”

  Saenz looks at the tent. “Maybe you could give us a list anyway. Would that be a problem?”

  “No, not at all. I’ll send it to you Monday.”

  Jerome walks on ahead of the other two. “What about that?” he asks, pointing to a large vehicle that looks like a converted bus parked in one corner of the church grounds. Painted on the side, in large blue letters, a reminder to local voters: mobile medical and dental mission: a public service project of councillor cesar mariano. There is a line of mothers waiting patiently in the shade nearby, seated on or standing near makeshift wooden benches as their children run in circles around them.

  “Free clinic,” Emil says, standing beside Jerome. “That’s been around since even before I became parish priest here. The vehicle may have changed once or twice, and so has the name of the politician.” He chuckles, acknowledging the common practice of local politicians having their names emblazoned on waiting sheds, mobile clinics, ambulances and fire trucks. It’s a way to ingratiate themselves to local voters, using the very facilities, equipment and services that the voters themselves have financed with their taxes. “The doctor who runs it is a longtime community health officer for the district, Dr. Alice Panganiban.”

  “And how often does the free clinic come here?” Saenz asks.

  “They’re here every Saturday. Dr. Alice, two female nurses, a dentist.” At that moment, the door to the mobile clinic opens and a slim, white-clad woman in her early thirties steps out, her hair tied neatly in a ponytail. “That’s our dentist, Dr. Jeannie Santa Romana.”

  “And all of them have been coming here for years?”

  “Oh yes.”

  Jerome shrugs. “Oh well. Can we have all the names anyway? Just as a precaution.”

  “Sure, sure.”

  When Jerome turns to Saenz, he finds him gazing off in the direction of the nuns and the cooking pot. At that same moment, a child runs up to Emil and eagerly shows him a page out of her coloring book; the priest gets down on one knee to engage her in animated conversation. Jerome takes the opportunity to move closer to Saenz.

  “What is it?”

  “Feeding program.” Saenz is looking intently at the seemingly endless line of children inching their way to the pot, laughing and joking. The children range in age from about two or three years old to as old as perhaps thirteen or fourteen. Saenz turns back to Emil, waits for the child to finish and run off before speaking. “Tell me about the feeding program.”

  Emil rises to his feet. “The feeding program? We’ve been doing that for years too. Only difference is nowadays we get help from some of the councillors in the district.”

  “Since when?” Jerome asks.

  “Let’s see . . . maybe nine, ten months? Less than a year, that’s for sure.”

  “And how does that work?”

  “Usually the councillors’ people provide the ingredients, and we do the cooking, as we did today. But sometimes they send packed meals.”

  “Oh? How often is that?”

  “About once a month. Every first Saturday.”

  Saenz is careful not to register surprise or excitement at hearing this, but Jerome has noticed the minute shift in his tone. “And those meals—where do they come from?”

  “Oh, I’m not sure,” Emil says, oblivious. “I guess they’ve got caterers they use for their political events.”

  “Hmmm. Same people every time?”

  “I suppose so. I think Sister Fe and Sister Lucia would have a better idea.” At this point, another child runs up to Emil, and the parish priest gives Saenz and Jerome an apologetic look before attending to the little girl.

  Quietly, Saenz says to Jerome: “I think I’d like to have a quick chat with the good sisters.”

  In Jerome’s car on the way back to the university, Saenz is unusually quiet. Jerome knows not to interrupt his thoughts; he doesn’t even play music on the car stereo as he drives.

  As they turn into the main road heading to the campus, Saenz finally speaks.

  “In many ways, the community is a closed system. The elements within that system interact in ways that are fairly predictable over time. Those interactions also change in fairly predictable ways. But what happens if you introduce a new element? How does that element behave within the system? What changes does it bring about?”

  “You’re talking about the food deliveries.”

  Saenz nods. “Both Emil and Sister Fe say they started less than a year ago. The packed meals are unmarked, so they’re not from any of the better-known fast-food chains. The same people make the deliveries every time. The meals arrive hot, so wherever they’re prepared, it can’t be too far from the church grounds.”

  Jerome’s car swings through the university’s gates. “So the next logical step is to speak with the councillors who fund the meals.”

  “We may have to wait till next week, though. I don’t think anybody will agree to see us on a weekend.”

  “And we’re more than midway through the month. Which means the first Saturday of next month isn’t that far off.”

  15

  The following Monday morning, after his only class of the day, Jerome stops by Saenz’s office. He opens the door without knocking. “Any luck?” he asks, and then he realizes that Saenz is on the phone.

  Saenz claps a hand over the mouthpiece. “You’re just in time,” he says in a quiet voice. “Talking to an aide of Councillor Cesar Mariano.”

  “The councillor directly involved with the parish feeding program.”

  Saenz nods. “I’m this close to getting an appointment,” he says, holding thumb and forefinger together to indicate how close. “But I need you to give me a good excuse.”

  Jerome rolls his eyes. “Why is it me who always has to come up with the dodgy plans?”

  “Because you have a gift for it. Quick!”

  Jerome plops down in a chair in front of Saenz’s desk. “Tell him . . . Tell him that Emil sent you. To talk about a community development project that we hope he can spearhead. Imply that there’ll be lots of votes in it for him.”

  Saenz grins at him. “You see? A gift.” Just then the person on the other end of the line returns with some news, and Saenz picks up the thread of the conversation.

  Jerome listens as Saenz makes an appointment for that same evening. When the conversation ends, he says with some admiration, “That was fast.”

  “Much faster than we’d anticipated, eh? Turns out he’s tied up all week, and this is his only free slot.”

  Jerome pauses, and then asks, “So why don’t we just tell him the real reason we want to see him?”

  Saenz speaks slowly, as though he himself is still working out the rationale for this initial subterfuge in his mind. “We don’t know anything about this person yet. We don’t know if the meal deliveries are connected in any way with the killings. And as he’s directly involved in the fe
eding program, we need to be careful.”

  Jerome looks down at his shoes as he considers this. “Right. I see your point.”

  Saenz stands, pats him gently on the shoulder. “Let’s just get a foot in the door, okay? And we improvise from there.”

  That same evening, they find themselves sitting in the living room of Councillor Cesar Mariano. When he comes out to greet them, his handshake is firm and quick, his manner brisk and businesslike. He settles into a cushioned chair with wooden armrests, relaxed but not slouching.

  Mariano is a small man, an architect by profession, fairly well-to-do. His short, coarse hair stands up stiffly like the bristles of a toothbrush, and his round, deeply cupped ears seem to billow out at the sides of his head like tiny sails. He reminds Jerome of those troll dolls with their wildly colored hair sticking up and out; children are supposed to rub the hair for good luck. Jerome imagines that the councillor would object to having the same done to him. He also notes that the councillor is not a man much given to smiling, which makes him wonder how the man managed to get elected in a country where skilled glad-handing is a prerequisite for election to public office. He seems a serious, no-nonsense sort, the type people can count on to get a job done without too much of a fuss. However, he is a bit puzzled at their interest in the food deliveries.

  “We have a list of caterers who handle these things for us. Big meetings, community events, political rallies, that sort of thing.”

  “I understand from Sister Fe Boncayao that you’ve been using the same caterer for all of the parish meal deliveries from the start.”

  Mariano thinks about this for a moment. “You know, I can’t be sure. My office helps to fund and source the meals and supplies, but my staff handles the details for me, you see.” Another pause. “What’s the matter? Did somebody get food poisoning or something?”

  Saenz shakes his head. “No, no. We are looking for a caterer—someone who can offer reasonable prices and is already familiar with the parish. You see, we’re organizing a fundraiser for the parish. Father Emil is thinking of building an activity center for the children. Keep them busy; keep them away from drugs.”

  “Oh.” A beat, and then: “So why isn’t he with you?”

  “Busy meeting with potential donors,” Jerome steps in. “I expect he’ll come to see you about this in a few weeks too.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “We’re hoping to at least break ground on the project before Christmas,” Saenz says, choosing his words with care. “But as you can imagine, we . . . don’t have a lot of time or money to put this fundraiser together. If you could refer us to your regular caterer, it would save us a great deal of both.”

  Mariano taps his fingers on the armrests of his chair. “I don’t have the contact numbers, but I can get my assistant to give them to you. How soon do you need the information?”

  “The sooner the better,” Jerome says, trying not to sound too eager.

  The councillor walks over to a desk on one side of the room, takes a pen and begins to scribble a note on a piece of paper. Then he shuffles back and hands the paper to Jerome. “That’s her number at the office. Give her a call; she’ll be in all day tomorrow.”

  “Thank you,” Jerome says, folding it up and putting it in his pocket.

  Mariano looks at both of them. “Still not sure why you told my assistant this was urgent, though,” he says quietly.

  Saenz meets his gaze without flinching.

  “For you and me, Councillor, it isn’t. For those children, it is.”

  It’s depressing to read the papers or watch the news. Everyday something bad happens—a bank gets robbed, a war breaks out, a child gets raped—and nobody can do anything about it. Not the police, not the press. Not the mothers and fathers, not the lawyers or the priests.

  We are all powerless in the face of evil.

  No, no, that’s not true. We are powerless when we wait for other people to act on our behalf.

  Yes, that’s it. The truly powerful man is the man who stands alone.

  16

  Thousands of miles away in Boston, Massachusetts, Director Lastimosa is lying in bed in his son’s home, recovering from surgery. It has been a peaceful morning; he is reading a newspaper and eating some oatmeal. His prognosis is excellent, and the doctors have advised him to taper off the pain medication as soon as he can, to break the pain cycle. His chest still hurts, but a little less each day, and he takes it without complaint. He has already begun a program of light exercise, including slow stretching and brief walks.

  There is a knock on the bedroom door, and then his son, David, opens it cautiously.

  “Pa?”

  “Dave.”

  “You feeling okay?” There is an undercurrent of anxiety in David’s voice that makes him fold up the newspaper, push away the bed tray and sit up straighter in bed.

  “I’m fine. What’s wrong?”

  “Umm . . .”

  The director impatiently whacks the bedspread with the folded-up paper. “I’m not dying just yet, Son, so tell me.”

  David is taken aback by this uncharacteristic display, but quickly realizes that his father must be bored after several weeks of relative quiet. “Jake Valdes called.”

  “Jake? What did he say?”

  “He wanted to know if you were well enough to talk to him. He said he had some news on a case you’ve been watching closely.”

  The director reaches out to remove the blanket covering his legs, but his son rushes to the bed. “Is he still on the line?”

  “Pa, he’s—Wait. Wait a minute.”

  “Let me talk to him,” the director says, struggling to get out of bed and completely ignoring David’s frantic gestures of placation.

  “Pa!”

  “What? I need to talk to him, and your phone’s downstairs.”

  “Pa, please,” David says, practically begging. “Look, you’ve got an extension here. Right there on the desk by the window. See?”

  The director looks at the desk. “I didn’t hear it ring.”

  “We turned off the ringer after you arrived from the hospital. So you could sleep.”

  “All right,” he answers crossly. “So let me talk to him.”

  “I told him to call back, Pa.”

  “Call back? But why did you—”

  “Because I needed to see if you felt well enough to take the call.” David runs a hand through his thinning hair in agitation. “Mama would kill me if you had another episode on my watch. Look, he said he’d call back in half an hour, okay? I’ll bring the phone closer to you and turn the ringer back on, but you have to stay in bed. Okay? Can you do that for me, please?”

  “Treating me like a child,” the director grumbles, as David leaves the room.

  Jake Valdes calls less than half an hour later.

  “It’s Arcinas,” he says glumly. “He’s detained a suspect in the Payatas case.”

  “And?”

  A pause. “I don’t know what to tell you, sir. He seems to have followed standard procedure and all, but . . .”

  “It doesn’t feel right,” he says, completing Valdes’s sentence for him.

  “No, sir. I just feel . . . No.”

  The director picks at one corner of the blanket while he considers his next move. “Tell Director Mapa to call me within the hour. Tell him I want to be briefed on how Arcinas found his suspect.”

  “Okay,” Valdes says. “Not sure how happy he’ll be to take my call at this time of the night.”

  “It’s only half past nine on your side of the planet, Jake. He’ll live.”

  Assistant Director Mapa is all warmth and concern when the director answers the phone. “How are you feeling? Is there anything at all that we can do for you from here?”

  Director Lastimosa tries to keep his tone of voice cool and even. “I hear Be
n has already detained someone in the Payatas case.”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, he has.” Mapa is enthusiastic. “We’re getting ready to announce it at a press conference tomorrow.”

  “Are you sure you want to do that, Philip?”

  “Uhh—yes. Yes, it’s a good . . .” But the enthusiasm has drained away, leaving Mapa guarded. “Why, what’s the problem?”

  “I need you to tell me how he found this suspect.”

  “How he—well, the usual ways,” Mapa answers, unable to mask his irritation. “He talked to residents, he looked through prior complaints, he—”

  “So this suspect—he’s been in trouble before?”

  “Oh yes. Public indecency. Acts of lasciviousness.”

  “Convictions? Or mere complaints?”

  Mapa groans. “He’s had complaints filed against him, sir. We know this for certain.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “What do you mean, that’s it? Ben did everything by the book, just the way you would have wanted it done if you were here.”

  “What kind of complaints? How many? Have they been verified? And most important of all—what do you have that ties him directly with the killings?”

  “He’s confessed!” Mapa is highly agitated now. “What more do you want?”

  “And how was that confession extracted from him?” Director Lastimosa presses him. “Philip, we can’t afford to take short cuts here. Once you hold that news conference and confirm that these killings have taken place, once you present that suspect, you’ll have very little room to maneuver.”

  “What for?”

  “What do you mean—” and then Director Lastimosa realizes he’s talking to a brick wall. “Look, Philip, if you don’t understand what for, I don’t have the time to explain it to you. But while I’m still director, I hope my advice counts for something. And my advice is: I wouldn’t hold that press conference if I were you.”

  The director puts the receiver down. He pushes the entire instrument away from him, settles back on the pillows and pulls his blanket up to his waist. Then, he closes his eyes. He is exhausted but resolute.