Smaller and Smaller Circles (17 page)

28

At the laboratory
the next day, the telephone rings as Saenz is examining the remains of a man believed to have been “salvaged”—summarily executed—by government troops some twenty years before. The man was a twenty-three-year-old community organizer and activist in the province of Nueva Ecija. Suspected of ties with the Communist New People's Army, he disappeared after a lightning rally of farmers and students in Manila in the early 1970s and had not been heard from since. His family believed he had been rounded up by the Metrocom, along with a few other activists and students who had taken part in the rally. He was one of the thousands—fifteen hundred by one count, more than three thousand by another—who fell victim to salvaging. It was a term perverted by the regime's goons to refer to the extrajudicial killings that had become a dirty open secret of the dictatorship.

Saenz had been involved in the mapping and exhumation of the man's burial site in the hills to the east of Nueva Ecija a few months earlier. After several procedural and logistical delays, the remains finally arrived in Manila last week.

Saenz has spent most of the morning sorting, cleaning and laying out the bones into the framework of a human skeleton. He has arranged most of them in the same position in which they were found, cross-referencing his work with a series of photographs taken of the remains during the exhumation process. But there are still a few loose bones that he has yet to put where they belong.

At the sound of the telephone, he sighs, carefully laying a carpal bone to one side. “Great timing,” he grumbles. Seated on a tall stool with casters, he pushes himself away from the table where the man's remains are laid out and strips off one rubber glove to take the call.

“Saenz,” he answers gruffly.

“Before you yell at me, you should know that I have food,” Jerome says.

“Do you intend to bring it over?”

“Not if you yell at me.”

“You have my solemn word that there will be no yelling if food is brought over.”

“Ten minutes.”

Saenz hangs up. He puts the glove back on and returns
to the table. At the time of the exhumation, it had seemed to
Saenz that the man had been shot in the back of the head while his arms were tied behind his back. Looking at the skull now, it appears that the man had been kneeling; it's an initial observation that Saenz will seek to verify when he examines the bullet trajectory later. There are green stains on the skull, mainly concentrated around the bullet hole itself—the patina
of copper sulfate from the corrosion of a copper bullet. He reaches for one of the photographs to check the exact position of several strands of rotted rope that had been found with the remains. From what he can gather, the strands would have lain against the small of the man's back, where his wrists had been tied together.

But before he can position the strands, someone knocks on the door.

“Ayayay,”
he mutters in exasperation, then strips off his gloves and pushes himself away from the table again. He gets up and walks to the door.

“I thought you said ten minutes?” he says as he opens it. Immediately his nostrils are assaulted by the unwashed smell of Rommel Salustiano.

“Hello, Father.”

Saenz tries to conceal his surprise. “Rommel. Hello.” He's immediately on his guard, apprehensive. “What brings you here?”

“Can I come in?”

Saenz casts a quick glance over his shoulder at the table where the skeleton is laid out. “Listen, I'm afraid that I—” he begins, but Rommel is already walking through the door.

“So this is where you work,” he says, running his fingers along the edge of a desk, then ambling over to one end of the room to stare at one of the da Vinci studies on the wall.

Saenz stands behind him, feeling a mounting sense of unease. “Sometimes, yes. Is there anything I can do for you, Rommel?”

The young man shifts his attention from the wall to focus fully on Saenz. “I was right, wasn't I?”

“Right about what?”

“Carding.” He breathes heavily for a moment, then comes closer to the priest. “I asked you if you really thought he killed those boys.” He tilts his head, studying Saenz's face with a smile. “But you never believed it, right? I didn't think you did. And then, so soon after the NBI boasts about his arrest, another victim turns up.” By now the smile is gleeful. “Told you he wasn't smart enough to have done all that.”

Saenz steps back, careful not to make hasty movements. “Rommel, I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to discuss any of these issues with you.”

Moving surprisingly quickly for his size, Rommel steps into Saenz's personal space, his flabby face mere inches away from his own. “Just tell me, okay? Just admit you didn't think he did it. You knew it was someone smarter, right? Someone who could plan and calculate.”

Seconds tick by as Rommel breathes onto Saenz's face. His tiny eyes are alight with an unnerving intensity.

And then Rommel turns away and heads straight for the table where Saenz is working. Before Saenz can stop him, he picks up a bone—the dead man's left femur—then points it straight at the priest. “Because if you didn't know—if you believed that it was Carding—well, you're not very good at what you do after all, are you?”

“Put the bone down, Rommel,” Saenz says calmly.

“What?”

“The bone. Put it down.” More firmly this time.

Rommel looks down at the femur in his hand as though he's perplexed at how it got there. Then, he takes a few steps closer to Saenz with the bone outstretched. Saenz steels himself to parry a possible blow when he hears Jerome's voice at the door.

“
Pancit canton
and—” he announces ceremoniously, holding his arms up with plastic bags of takeout in his hands. But at the sight of Rommel holding the bone to Saenz's face, his expression changes, and he raises his voice sternly. “What the hell is going on here?”

Rommel's face goes blank at once, as though a lightbulb has been switched off inside his head. Instead of hitting Saenz as he appeared ready to do mere seconds ago, he hands him the femur slowly.

“I was just returning this bone to Father Saenz.”

Saenz takes the bone and moves carefully away from the sweaty giant, eyeing him distrustfully.

“I think it's time you left, Rommel,” he says.

Rommel nods, then lumbers toward the door, Jerome stepping aside to let him pass.

He's already outside the door when he turns around to grin at both priests.

“I was right,” he warbles. “You know I was right.” And then he's gone.

Jerome closes the door and locks it, then sets the food down on a desk and rushes to Saenz's side. “Are you all right?”

Saenz nods, putting the femur carefully back in its place. “I'm fine. But two unexplained visits from Rommel Salustiano—”

“—is two unexplained visits too many,” Jerome says. “That was definitely a threat. Right?”

“I'm not sure if that was a threat, to be honest.” He heads to the desk and picks up the phone. “But after this second visit, I am sure of one thing: I'd be an idiot if I didn't tell Arcinas to check on his background and his whereabouts last Saturday.”

A frown creases the space between Jerome's brows. “He doesn't fit our killer's profile—at least, not physically.”

“No, he doesn't.” Saenz shakes his head. “But that behavior just now? That wasn't normal.” He begins punching out numbers on the phone. “And you know what? I would hate to be so attached to the profile that we won't consider any other possibilities.”

29

Susan is rushing
back to the department to get some papers photocopied when she bumps into Saenz; he's emerged from his office in search of coffee.

“What are you doing?” she demands, eyes wide with alarm. “Why are you still here?”

Saenz looks down at her, equally alarmed by her expression. “Why? Where am I supposed to be?”

She lets out a tiny squeal of frustration and hustles him back through the door of his office, a woman barely five feet tall shooing a six-foot-something chicken back into its coop. Once inside, she begins to shuffle through the chaos on top of his desk.

“
The Magic Flute
!”

“The magic what?”

She finally finds what she's looking for and fishes out an envelope from beneath a pile of correspondence. She spends another few seconds locating a letter opener, leaving Saenz momentarily concerned that she plans to bury it in his chest. Instead, she uses it to rip the envelope open. “You're supposed to be at the CCP tonight!
The Magic Flute
!”
She waves the envelope at him. “See? You've got tickets!”

“I do?”

“
Hay, naku.
Look,” she says, gesturing at a suit bag hanging from a hook on the whiteboard behind him. “Remember? I made you bring that extra shirt two weeks ago because I knew you'd forget to bring one today.”

“Was that supposed to be tonight?”

She rolls her eyes. “No, I'm just trying to annoy you for no good reason. Yes, it's tonight! And don't pretend you don't know.”

“But I don't even like opera,” he protests weakly. By this time, he's already remembered that he was supposed to go and already figured that he can't possibly bamboozle Susan.

She sticks her hand into the mess on his desk once more and yanks out from within it a CD of Strauss's
Der Rosenkavalier
. “Yes, you do,” she says, thrusting it under his nose as proof.

“I don't like Mozart,” he moans, even more weakly this time.

She wags a finger at him as she might do with a spoiled child. “Mrs. Iwasaki from JapanConnect sent you those tickets, and she expects you to be there. I don't need to tell you how much we need their sponsorship right now. Which reminds me, where's Father Lucero?” When all she gets from Saenz is a blank look, she throws her hands up in the air and then picks up the phone on his desk. “Between the two of you, I'm going to have a heart attack,” she grouses. “Father Lucero? Where are you? Do you know that you're supposed to be on your way to the CCP with Father Gus?” A pause. “What do you mean, ‘
when
'? Right now! It's the gala premiere of
The Magic Flute
!”

Saenz scowls. “I have no clothes for a gala of any sort,” he mumbles, but loudly enough for her to hear. “And neither does he.”

She scowls right back. “A clean, well-pressed shirt will do,” she tells him firmly. “And as for you, Father Lucero,” she says into the phone, “you're to bring the car around in ten minutes. Or else.” She puts the receiver down and circles around the desk to shoo Saenz out of his chair. “You have no time to just sit around, Father! You've got to change your shirt!” She yanks the suit bag off the hook and shoves it into his hands. “Now! Go!”

When he scurries off to the men's room to change, Susan collapses into a chair, exhausted. “I swear, it's like supervising toddlers,” she complains to God in His heaven.

Two hours later,
Saenz and Jerome are standing behind the banister of one of the sweeping staircases at
the main lobby of the Cultural Center of the Philippines. The
invitation says 6:30
p.m
., but it's past seven, and there's no
sign that the performance is about to start. Instead, they're treated to a garish display of Manila's wealthy and powerful—aging socialites and their offspring, politicians, members of the country's business elite and movie stars, all powdered and perfumed, sequined and beaded and embroidered to within an inch of their lives.

“I should have brought a pair of sunglasses,” Jerome says.

“You don't own a pair of sunglasses.”

“Keep dragging me to these things, and I'll have to invest in one. Heads up. Mrs. Iwasaki's spotted you.”

Saenz turns to be greeted by a middle-aged woman in a tailored grey suit. Mrs. Atsuko Iwasaki is a sparrow in the sea of preening peacocks and flamingos around them. Her fine, straight, greying hair is tied back in a neat chignon, and she is wearing the bare minimum of makeup. She bows before Saenz, who bows even lower before her.

“Mrs. Iwasaki, good evening.”

“Father Saenz,” she says, her voice as gentle and restrained as her demeanor. “Thank you for coming tonight.”

“I'm very happy to be here. How have you been?”

“Very well, thank you. We have been busy”—and she looks askance at all the glamorous mayhem around them—“preparing for this.”

“I'm sure you've had your hands full.”

Mrs. Iwasaki smiles at him, but the smile is tinged with anxiety. “Father, I am happy to tell you that the third tranche of funding for your laboratory will be released very soon. Next week, in fact.”

“Thank you.” But Saenz detects hesitation in the way she's said it. “But—”

“I am sorry to report that we have had to reevaluate our commitments to various organizations this year.” The outside corner of her right eyelid begins to twitch—a tiny, almost invisible flutter of muscle beneath her thin skin. “And the board has decided to reallocate part of your funding to other uses.”

Saenz takes a deep breath, lets it out slowly. “I see. How large a part, then?”

“This and subsequent tranches will be reduced by forty percent.”

Behind Mrs. Iwasaki, Jerome opens his mouth and starts to say, incredulously, “Forty per—” but Saenz silences him with a sharp look.

“I see. That's quite a substantial amount. Did they say why?”

“I'm afraid I am not informed of all the reasons behind such reallocations at my level, other than that they believe there are more pressing needs.” Her language is formal, but her regret and embarrassment are real, almost palpable.

Saenz shakes his head and smiles gently at her. “I understand, Mrs. Iwasaki. Is there any way we can appeal the decision?” But her silence and apologetic smile are answer enough. “Ah, well. These things happen. We'll just have to manage without that forty percent.”

“I am truly sorry, Father Saenz. We will communicate this formally next week when we issue the check for the third tranche. I just thought—well, I felt that I
. . .
”

Saenz realizes that she is deeply saddened by the situation, and he reaches out to pat her arm. “I understand, Mrs. Iwasaki, really. Thank you for letting me know, and I look forward to speaking with you next week. But now let's enjoy the rest of the evening, shall we?” And he flashes her one of those signature Saenz smiles, warm, genuine, devastating. He bows again, and she reciprocates.

“Ah,” she says, catching a glimpse of someone in the crowd behind them. “Mrs. Urrutia. She is one of our honorary board members. If you will excuse me, I must assist her.”

Saenz and Jerome crane their necks in the direction she indicates. They see the prominent society matron Veronica Urrutia, dressed in a gown of heavily embroidered, magenta silk shantung with elaborate swirls of seed pearls and crystal beads on the neckline, cuffs and hem. The high neck and long cuffs hide a scrawny neck and wrists. Her hair, dyed a glossy copper, is twisted into a vertiginous bun at the top of her head. Once famously dubbed the Philippines' Doris Duke by a fawning lifestyle columnist, the seventy-two-year-old woman is the heiress to a vast retail empire and the mother of an incumbent senator. She fancies herself a philanthropist and gets frequent mention in society columns for one high-profile charity project or another.

To the two priests' dismay, Mrs. Urrutia is slowly walking the red carpet arm in arm with Cardinal Rafael Meneses. Saenz turns away quickly, but Mrs. Iwasaki has called out Mrs. Urrutia's name. Before the two priests can make their escape, they find themselves in a huddle with the socialite and the cardinal.

“Thank you for coming, Mrs. Urrutia.” Mrs. Iwasaki also bows to the cardinal. “Cardinal Meneses, so good of you to come too.”

“I'm so glad Mrs. Urrutia invited me,” he says, beaming, first at Mrs. Urrutia, then at Mrs. Iwasaki. His expression changes only ever so slightly when he turns to Saenz. “Father Saenz. I didn't know you had an ear for opera.”

“It depends on the opera. Enjoy your evening, Your Eminence,” Saenz says, and steps aside to allow them to pass.

“Oh, is that the famous Father Augusto Saenz?” Mrs. Urrutia trills. “Come, let's have a look at you.”

Saenz bristles at her patronizing tone but keeps his tongue in check. “Mrs. Urrutia,” he says, bowing slightly to her. “Pleased to meet you.”

A bony finger tipped with a coral-painted nail jabs at him. “So you're the one who's been giving Monsignor Ramirez so much trouble.”

Saenz's eyes widen, and even Cardinal Meneses appears taken aback.

“Excuse me?” Saenz asks.

“Come, Mrs. Urrutia. I believe seating has started,” the cardinal says, trying to usher her toward the middle of the lobby, away from the small group. But she balks at being steered away.

“I'm the chairman of the board of
Kanlungan ni Kristo
.”

“I'm aware of that, ma'am,” Saenz says.

“I keep heari
ng of the problems you've been causing us. Especially Monsignor Ramirez.”

Saenz straightens up to his full height and looks down at Mrs. Urrutia dispassionately. “Is that so? I wonder then if you've also heard of the problems Father Ramirez has been causing the very children your charity purports to help.”

The diamonds dangling from Mrs. Urrutia's ears tremble as she shakes her head vigorously. “No, no, no. All lies. All conjecture. You've not been able to prove a single thing. Now if you could do even a fraction of the good that Monsignor Ramirez has been doing all these years, you might—”

Mrs. Iwasaki emits a small peep of distress and confusion at this rapid and unexpected spiral into unpleasantness. At this, the cardinal tries once more to appease Mrs. Urrutia and guide her back toward the rest of the crowd, which has already begun to stream into the theater's entrances.

“Mrs. Urrutia, it's time that we—”

“Let me tell you this, Father Saenz,” she says, refusing to be placated. “A man of God doesn't try to drag his brothers down when they're doing so much to help others.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Saenz sees Jerome, so angry that the color of his face is moving rapidly from red to purple. When he opens his mouth to speak—undoubtedly to say something scathing to Mrs. Urrutia—Saenz puts a hand on his arm to restrain him and then looks at Mrs. Urrutia.

“Mrs. Urrutia, a man of God does not help himself while pretending to help others. Good evening.” He pivots away from the woman and motions for Jerome to follow him.

But Mrs. Urrutia isn't finished yet. “What goes
around comes around, Father. And sometimes it comes around in ways you can't foresee. For example, in the flow of funds that you need to run that amateur laboratory of yours.”

A gasp of dismay from Mrs. Iwasaki, and Jerome sees tears spring to her eyes.

Saenz stands very still. The cardinal finally manages to escort Mrs. Urrutia away, and the priest hears Mrs. Iwasaki whisper remorsefully, “I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Father,” before she leaves to attend to other people.

“Gus?” Jerome asks, his forehead creased with concern. “Gus, are you all right?”

“He will be, soon enough.”

It's Director Lastimosa in a wheelchair, one of his sons standing behind him. The director has unhooked the loop of his medical face mask from one ear and is doing the same with the other one.

“How—what are you doing here, sir?” Saenz asks in astonishment. “Shouldn't you be at home, resting?”

“And miss this low-key display of good taste, social responsibility and fiscal prudence?” The director's eyes twinkle as he hands the mask over to his son and clasps his hands together over a fine grey
barong
. “I wouldn't even think it.”

“Personally, I don't have the stomach for Mozart tonight,” Saenz says. He turns to Jerome. “If you want to stay for the performance, go ahead. I think I'll catch a ride back.”

“Gus.”

“I'm good. I'll see you in the morning.” Saenz bows to the director and begins to take his leave. “Director Lastimosa—”

The director reaches out to grasp his hand firmly. “Father Saenz. You surprise me.”