Smaller and Smaller Circles Read online

  The outcome of the slow, secretive inquiry arrived today, in the form of a letter from Cardinal Rafael Meneses. It is, as Saenz had feared, yet another transfer of parish—and Ramirez, while instructed to minimize contact with Kanlungan’s wards, remains executive director of the charity.

  “He’ll keep doing the same thing, no matter which parish he’s rotated to, no matter what project he takes on. And this charity he runs—he’s just using it as a way to choose and groom more victims.”

  “But Gus”—Jerome puts a gentle hand on his forearm— “without the children’s testimonies, how much further can you go?”

  “I’ve already told you, I don’t know.” It’s extremely rare for Saenz to raise his voice. When he sees Jerome flinch, he quickly pulls back. In a calmer tone, he says, “But I have to think of something.”

  Jerome glances at his wristwatch. “Look, I’ve got a class in half an hour.”

  Saenz waves his large hands in the air. “Yes, go, go.” He returns to the window, staring out at the dying trees once again.

  “We end at three. Then I’m seeing patients till around, oh, six thirty.” The other man seems not to be listening anymore, so Jerome speaks louder, a bit more firmly. “Why don’t I swing by for you around seven? I’ll buy you dinner. Someplace cheap,” he jokes.

  “You won’t have time,” Saenz says. “You haven’t packed for your trip yet, and your flight’s tomorrow.”

  Jerome is off to Chicago the next day to attend an academic conference. He knows Saenz is right, and that there’s no time to discuss this further over dinner tonight.

  “We’ll make it quick,” he says, but Saenz shakes his head, and that’s the end of that.

  Jerome had already expected that Saenz would take the cardinal’s decision hard, but seeing him like this worries him. He stands there, not certain what to do, what else to say. After a few moments, he reluctantly decides to move on with the rest of his day. “Well, I’d better get going.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “You’ll be okay?”

  “Hmmm.”

  Jerome waits, but Saenz’s mind is too far away. So, without another word, Jerome leaves the room. He begins to close the door behind him and then remembers that it’s nearly time for Saenz’s student consultations, so he decides to leave it open. He walks briskly down the corridor, but just two or three steps after he turns a corner, he bumps hard into someone.

  “I’m sorry,” Jerome apologizes, and then finds that he has to tilt his head up to look up into the man’s face, he’s so tall. But he’s also rather old, and Jerome finds himself laying his hands gently over the man’s forearms, almost skeletal beneath the long sleeves of a barong Tagalog, to steady him. “So sorry. I’m afraid I wasn’t paying attention. Are you all right?”

  The man gestures toward a brown envelope that has fallen to the floor, and Jerome quickly stoops to pick it up, handing it back to him. “Yes, thank you.” The voice is deep, quiet, roughened by age. “I’m all right.” It’s only when he speaks that Jerome recognizes who he is—he heard the voice at a news conference that aired on television just a few nights before. “I am looking for Father Saenz’s office.”

  “Yes. Yes, of course.” Jerome’s curiosity is piqued. He briefly considers accompanying the visitor to Saenz’s room and hanging around to find out why he’s here. But he knows that if he does, he’ll be late for class. “Down the corridor to your left, third room after the fire extinguisher cabinet.”

  The man glances down the corridor in the direction Jerome is pointing, then turns and looks straight into Jerome’s eyes.

  “Thank you, Father Lucero.”

  Of course you would know who I am, Jerome thinks as the man disappears around the corner.

  Saenz is trying to decide whether to feed the letter into the shredder or to file it away as a reminder of his continuing failure when he sees the tall, thin man framed by the open doorway. He looks at Saenz, waiting to be invited in. Although he is standing in the dim light of the corridor, Saenz can tell that the cloth of the man’s barong Tagalog is fine, the embroidery finer.

  “Yes?” Saenz stands.

  “Father.” The man makes no move to enter the office.

  “May I help you?”

  The man’s eyes narrow, but his expression is quizzical. “May we go for a walk, Father? It is a nice day for a walk.”

  The man steps back into the corridor, the gesture an invitation, the light of one of the fluorescent lamps in the ceiling falling upon him.

  Saenz sees him more clearly then: hair almost completely white; thick eyebrows also going to white; pale, deeply lined skin drawn over the fine bones of his face; sharp eyes; a nose curved like a parrot’s beak. Saenz is tall, but this man is even taller, about six feet five inches; in his barong and khaki-colored trousers, he seems like a long, pale ghost. A flat, brown envelope is tucked under one arm. He stands motionless, with a slight stoop—he looks like an old man, really, except for the small, black, watchful eyes.

  Now Saenz recognizes him: the director of the National Bureau of Investigation, Francisco Lastimosa.

  “Of course, sir. Give me a moment.”

  The sun has dipped behind a bank of fat, grey clouds, and the branches of trees are swaying in a strong breeze. The two men walk, unhurried, along a narrow path lined with greenery on either side, with the old man in front of Saenz, setting the pace. The path takes them farther away from the building that houses the Anthropology Department, toward a grassy open space on the campus, dotted with trees. Farther ahead it forks at various points; depending on one’s business, one might choose to head to other departments and buildings on campus or, by a roundabout way, to the residence halls.

  Saenz is beside himself with curiosity as to why the director has come to see him so unexpectedly. He already asked minutes ago, when they first emerged from the building, but he received no answer. Saenz decides to wait respectfully for the director to talk, but the man seems in no particular rush to get down to business.

  When he finally speaks, it’s to say, “You’ll get him yet, you know.”

  Saenz stops and stares at the back of the man’s head. “Excuse me?”

  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 w
ill 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 P
hilippine 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.