Red April (13 page)

At the same time, the mother of both men, Nélida Carazo widow of Mayta, attempted to enter the house and join her offspring, at which point the troops of the Army of Peru found themselves obliged to detain her to prevent her from interfering with the official duties of the authorities. Subsequently, as indicated by the relevant medical certificate, Nélida Carazo suffered a fractured jaw with complications in the parietal osseous structure.

The operation having been concluded, the suspect Edwin Mayta Carazo was driven in a military vehicle to the military base of Vischongo, several hours distant from the location of his domicile, where the required interrogation was carried out.

The detainee denied repeatedly the existence of any connection to Sendero Luminoso, which convinced Lieutenant Cáceres Salazar even more firmly of the aforesaid detainee's involvement in the abovementioned assaults because, as he has stated, it is characteristic of terrorists to always deny their participation in these events. As a consequence, and in order to increase the cooperation of the detainee, he put into effect an investigative technique that consists of tying the suspect's hands behind his back
and letting him hang suspended from the ceiling by the wrists until the pain permits him to proceed to confess his criminal acts.

Subsequently, since the detainee insisted on denying his culpability, the military troops then undertook another technique of inquiry designated by the name “submarine,” which practically submerges the head of the suspect in a basin of water several times until he is close to drowning, causing his receptivity to the questions of the authorities to increase significantly. According to the statement of the authorities, the detainee continued to deny his participation in Sendero Luminoso. Despite the efforts of the authorities, cooperation on the part of the aforementioned suspect was not achieved.

Finally, in the face of the repeated denials of Edwin Mayta Carazo, Lieutenant Cáceres Salazar decided to give him his freedom, leading to the aforesaid detainee's release from prison the following day as indicated in the daily records of the military base at Vischongo.

The whereabouts of Edwin Mayta Carazo have been unknown since that day. His family denies having seen him again, as do his friends and acquaintances, all of which reinforces the thesis that he has become clandestine as a member of a terrorist group, in all probability Sendero Luminoso, despite the fact that terrorism was eradicated and continues to be eradicated at the present time, April, 2000.

In an oral declaration to this official, his brother Justino admitted that Edwin engaged in dangerous acts, the nature of which he did not specify. As a consequence, this Office of the Prosecutor recommends the appearance in person in the shortest feasible time of Edwin Mayta Carazo, Justino Mayta Carazo, and Lieutenant of the Army of Peru Alfredo Cáceres Salazar to make their statements to the court.

Associate District Prosecutor Félix Chacaltana Saldívar read the report for the tenth time. This time he did not throw it in the wastebasket. But he did hesitate. He was concerned. The syntax was not bad, though perhaps too direct, showing little respect for traditional forms. For example, the ages of those involved were missing, since he had not been able to verify them in every case. But the prosecutor was concerned above all that it would be inadmissible to reopen the case, and as Captain Pacheco had told him, the police would not be the competent body to handle a problem of terrorism.

He thought again of Justino's words: My brother's the one. He does everything. Perhaps the prosecutor should have let those words go without thinking more about the matter, perhaps he should have closed his eyes, should have forgotten. Forgetting is always good. But the entire subject of Yawarmayo was a buzzing that vibrated in his ears, the back of his neck, his stomach.

Besides, he did not do anything all day. Since his return from Yawarmayo, he had turned into a ghost at the Ministry of Justice. No one had assigned him work, not even an indictment, not even a memorandum. His pending assignments had been transferred to other offices during his trip. The Provincial Prosecutor had given him no explanation. His colleagues claimed not to know anything. For his part, Judge Briceño called him aside to congratulate him in a complicitous way for being Commander Carrión's new protégé. He said that was the best way to buy a
Datsun. The prosecutor thanked him for his congratulations without really understanding them, and hours later, in the bathroom, he heard the same judge at the urinal telling someone that Carrión had ordered the prosecutor isolated because he no longer had any confidence in him. “That prick is fucked,” the judge concluded. More than the ordinary intrigues of the Judiciary, what bothered Prosecutor Chacaltana was the feeling of emptiness. For twenty years he had been busy writing every morning and now, suddenly, he felt useless, as if his office were an ice bubble isolating him from the world. He was bored.

He spent the rest of Monday trying to toss a wad of paper into a wastebasket. From time to time, like a flash of lightning, memories of Yawarmayo and Justino came to him. My brother's the one. He does everything. What brother? What does he do?

He did not want to have lunch with Edith, at least for as long as he had no sign of support or promotion from his superiors. When he said good-bye, he had told her that he would invite her to the gala affairs of his superiors. He would not go back now and say he could invite her only to an empty office. He felt he had let her down, that she would feel disappointed by him. He had lunch in his office, some rice and chicken he had brought from home in a thermos, and the rest of the afternoon was devoted to his wad of paper. That night he slept badly.

Tuesday passed in exactly the same way. Along with his nightmares he suffered sweating and nausea.

On Wednesday the 12th, at 9:35, spurred by the need to do something, he decided to look for Justino's name in the archives of the Office of the Prosecutor. Perhaps he would find something useful or at least give the impression of doing something useful. He had learned that really working was not as important as letting it be seen that one was working. In Lima, where there was more competition, Prosecutor Chacaltana would remain in his office until ten at night even if he had nothing to do in order to
avoid the impression that he was going home too early. In Ayacucho, functionaries left earlier than that, but gossip circulates more quickly in small cities.

The archive was in an enormous windowless room filled with papers and boxes, and the prosecutor spent the entire morning there meticulously searching through records of the 1980s and old, dusty documents for the family name Mayta Carazo. It did not appear in the archives filed according to name. And it was not among the files of those detained or interrogated with regard to either terrorism or common crimes. When he was about to give up, the prosecutor decided to look through the dismissed or discontinued cases. He found the complaint filed by Edwin's mother after his disappearance. This must be the same woman who opened the door for him in Quinua on the day he was attacked. The charges had been withdrawn the day following the complaint without the signature of the complainant.

With the information contained in the complaint, he could check Edwin Mayta Carazo's background in the section called “rejected complaints.” Finally, he found a clue: Justino's brother had once been accused of being a member of a cell operating near Huanta, but nothing had ever been proved. After some electric towers were blown up, a resident denounced two other members of that same cell. Then, the army began to look for Edwin to make the relevant inquiries.

Along with the information on Edwin were the names of the other members of the cell. Two of them, a man and a woman, were listed as “whereabouts unknown.” The third, Hernán Durango González, alias Comrade Alonso, was serving a life sentence in the Huamanga maximum security prison.

The prosecutor became aware that never in his life had he spoken to a terrorist. He wondered if it would be valid for the investigation, if he could accept as evidence the statements of a criminal who had committed treason. Then he realized it did not
matter. There was no evidence because there would be no trial or judgment. The subject of the corpse in Quinua was a closed case.

That afternoon, after eating lunch at a stand on the street, he went to the prison. He thought that if he at least closed the case for himself, his nightmares would end.

The Huamanga maximum security prison, with a capacity for three hundred prisoners, housed 974 criminals, 252 of them accused of terrorism or treason. As he approached it on foot, the prosecutor looked at the walls ten meters high and the watch towers at the corners. There was nothing and no one within a radius of three kilometers, so that any movement in the surrounding area could be detected before it got too close to the compound. In order to go in it was necessary to show one's national identity document at the gate and have one's name entered into the visitors' book. After the first checkpoint, a long corridor led to another sentry post.

“Today isn't a visiting day,” the second guard said dryly.

The prosecutor showed his identification. The guard did not even look at it.

“Today isn't a visiting day,” he repeated.

The prosecutor wanted to avoid unnecessary arguments. He thanked him for his kindness, picked up his document, and proceeded to retrace his steps. He was already outside when he remembered that he had nothing to do in his office. He thought about his wad of paper. And his nightmares. He turned around and showed his identification to the first guard, who wrote his name again in the visitors' book without saying anything. He walked down the corridor again until he reached the second checkpoint.

“Call the functionary of the National Penal Institute. I am on official business,” he said with self-assurance.

The guard grunted, as if annoyed that someone would disturb the peace of his Wednesday. Then he stated:

“There is no functionary.”

“Excuse me, but this is a penal institution, and there has to be a functionary from the …”

“Colonel Olazábal is in charge here. If you want to talk to him, you have to send a fax to the General Administration of Police requesting an interview.”

The police. Chacaltana knew that in many penitentiaries there were police instead of functionaries because the Institute could not manage all the prisons and had no troops at its disposal. He felt frustrated as he left again, thinking that perhaps he could also send a written request to the National Penal Institute asking for an official introduction. Then he reconsidered: his case was closed, and the system of inter-institutional message delivery had not proved to be very efficient. In spite of his confidence in institutions, he understood that no one would give him an appointment. But he also understood suddenly that he himself was also an institutional authority. He was already outside the prison when, resolute and sure of himself, he turned, showed his national identity document once more to the silent guard at the entrance, and appeared again before the second guard, who seemed drowsy as he grumbled something, perhaps his surprise at seeing one human being so many times in a single day at his post.

“Call Colonel Olazábal,” the prosecutor demanded. “I will talk to him.”

“He's busy. I already told you that you have to send a fax to …”

“Then give me your name and badge number, because I will mention you in the fax.”

Suddenly, the policeman seemed to regain consciousness. He no longer looked drowsy.

“Excuse me?” he asked slyly.

“Give me your information. I will make a note of it here and inform Colonel Olazábal of your negligence in assisting in investigations ordered by your superiors.”

The guard was not grumbling now. Instead, he grew pale and leaned to one side to hide his badge:

“Well no, Chief,” he said, and the prosecutor noted that he had called him “Chief” and that his voice was gentler now, “that isn't really true, I have my orders and I follow them. It isn't my intention to neglect …”

“I am not interested in your stories, Corporal. I told you to give me your information or I will communicate with Colonel Olazábal. It is up to you.”

The prosecutor asked himself if he could be accused of lack of respect for authority, insubordination, and treason. He told himself he could. But suddenly he felt he was doing something different, perhaps something important, at least for himself, for his dreams. The guard looked at him with hatred, rose to his feet, and left his box. He returned fifteen minutes later. With a gesture he ordered the prosecutor to follow him.

Between the entrance building and the cell blocks there was a second ten-meter-high wall, topped by barbed wire and separated from the exterior wall by a no-man's-land, a gray, arid area eight meters wide where anything that moved would be shot.

To Associate District Prosecutor Félix Chacaltana Saldívar, the no-man's-land seemed like a first inkling of hell: the prisoners locked behind the grating in the cell blocks, their empty stares that had not seen anything but those walls for ten years, the police playing cards and wiping the sweat from their necks with the braid on their uniforms, knowing it was not a good place for promotions and eventually spitting out their frustration at the prison bars. For sixteen prisoners serving life sentences in Cell Block E, that enclosed, desertlike strip of land was simply the last piece of relatively free terrain they saw, so they would never forget that they would never walk there again.

They climbed to the second floor of the entrance building. Standing at the top of the stairs, a tall white officer, almost completely bald though still a young man, was waiting for them. He
had on a short-sleeved shirt and wore no kepi. The entrance guard gave him a military salute. He called him Colonel Olazábal. The colonel asked him to leave them alone.

“We haven't been informed of any inspection,” he said disagreeably.

The prosecutor attempted to justify himself:

“I am not here for a formal inspection. This is only a personal interview.”