by Rodolfo Peña
Chapter 5: A Meeting at the University
As Lombardo drove into the huge parking lot of the State University, he remembered the times he had spent there in the sixties—the student movements, the strikes, the fight against the goons the University hired to break up the student strikes.
His generation had been different from these sissies who only thought about getting an MBA, which was a passport to an easy, high-paying job in one of the many corporations that sprung up in Monterrey after the Second World War.
After hundreds of students were gunned down by the paramilitary groups and the army in Mexico City in 1968, and the murder of leftist leaders of the “Tierra y Libertad” commune in Monterrey, things had gotten ugly for the group of leftist students to which Lombardo had belonged.
Many joined the infamous 23 of September League and had responded to the government’s repression by trying to kidnap government leaders and industrialists, among them the most powerful businessman in Monterrey, don Everardo García Salinas. The botched kidnapping had ended with the murder of the old man.
Lombardo’s participation in the urban guerilla movement had abruptly ended when his cell, which was part of the 23 of September League, had been cornered in one of its safe houses—which was in the infamous Condominios Constitución housing project—right in the center of midtown Monterrey. Lombardo had avoided the massacre and the arrest of those who survived because he had been out buying groceries and drinks. He had fled, hiding in friends’ homes for weeks, until he had been smuggled to safety in the U.S.
Remembering the legendary Mexican thief who had said that if you want to hide something from somebody you should place it in the most visible place, he had hidden from the police in a house in front of the Police Department; then he had fled to the only place he thought they would never think of looking for him: the U.S. Army.
It was easy enough. He bribed a small-town mayor to give him a fake birth certificate with a false name that recalled that of a mysterious Irishman who has a statue dedicated to him inside the Column of Independence, a monument which is sacred to Mexicans. With those false papers he became Guillermo Lombardo. He once remarked that he relished the idea of sharing a name with a man who had been accused of sorcery, of conspiring with a band of Mexican natives and black slaves against the government, and of having seduced the wife of the Viceroy of Mexico.
“I’ve almost forgotten what my real name is,” he whispered as he got out of the car.
He looked around as if embarrassed that someone might have heard him but there was no one in the parking lot. He reached around to his shoulder and massaged the bruise caused by his gun holster’s straps as they rubbed against the spot where a large scar ran along his clavicle. Then he scratched the ones that peppered the small of his back.
“Damned scars,” he said reaching around to scratch his back with the little wooden hand he kept in the car.
Lombardo always kept one of those around because since he had come back from Viet Nam, itching had been a part of his waking life. He attributed his sensitive skin to Agent Orange, the defoliating chemical the U.S. had used there, but he had refused to go to a Veteran’s Hospital for treatment when a doctor suggested it.
As he scratched, he remembered that he had gone straight to the recruiting office in the old District Court House building after he bought a residency card from a forger in Laredo, Texas. The Army had around 400,000 men in Viet Nam at the time and they were desperately drafting and signing up anyone with a heartbeat. They would promise you anything: schooling; the “buddy system,” which said you would be assigned to the same unit as a friend; generous benefits after you had done your hitch. Of course, they were all lies or half truths. But Lombardo had not cared. He did so well in his exams that after basic training, he was sent to O.C.S., the Officer Candidate School. Army lieutenants and second lieutenants were being killed by the bushel so the Army had waived the required college degree as a way of mass producing squad leaders from draftees, similarly to what they had done during World War II. All you had to do was get a score of 110 or more in your Military IQ test and you were sent to O.C.S. to become a “90 day wonder.” Lombardo had scored well above that.
He had done two tours in Viet Nam, and then stayed in the Army, having nowhere else to go. But, he got tired of the banal postings in Korea, Germany, and even Panama, so after 10 years he had quit, leaving the service with the rank of a Captain. On a whim, he had gone back to Mexico, traveled around and had liked Guadalajara so much he decided to stay there.
His only “work experience” being the Army, he did the only thing a man with extensive familiarity with guns and violence could do—he joined the police force. At that moment, his life had come around full circle. He became part of that which twenty years before had tried to kill him.
“So now I’m a damned cop,” he said as he lit yet another Delicado.
Lombardo turned to look at the car that was racing toward him. It was one of the Ministerial Police’s white cruisers with a small, mobile turret flashing on top.
As it slid to a stop in front of him, through the cloud of dust he saw the Fat Gonzalez’ face grinning at him.
The Fat Man opened his window and said, “The Director ordered us to accompany you in case you needed some help.”
“You mean to see what I am up to so you can report back to him,” said Lombardo. But he just shrugged his shoulders and said, “Come on, then.”
The Fat Man jumped out of the car and followed him, waddling as fast as he could in order to keep up. “Where are we going?”
“To see the victim’s boss,” said Lombardo.
“How do you know his boss is here?” asked Fat Gonzalez waving his arm toward the University’s Computing Center.
“You are not only a lousy cop you are a lousy thief. If you had not been so busy trying to steal the dead man’s money, you would have noticed an identification card that said he was a University employee, and a security card which gave him access to the Computer Center.”
“Oh, I noticed them but they were of no value to me,” laughed the Fat Man. “What would I do with them? Go in there and steel a computer?”
Gonzalez was sweating by the time they reached the reception desk of the Computer Center. “But I mean, how do you know his boss is here?”
Lombardo dropped the cigarette stub on the floor and stepped on it before going in, “The old-fashioned way—I called.”
At the reception desk he asked the girl to announce him to the Center’s Director, Dr. Fernando Delgado.
“Go right up,” said the girl, “they are expecting you. It is the first door on the right.”
As he and Gonzalez went up the winding staircase, Lombardo said to the Fat Man, “Notice she used the word ‘they.’ Someone has told Dr. Delgado about the murder and he has called the University lawyers, I bet. It would be interesting to know who called him, Gonzalez. The newspaper guys were still taking notes and hadn’t been told who he was when I left the scene of the crime. At this point, only you and I—theoretically at least—know that he was a University employee.” Lombardo laughed, “You fat bastard! Snitching is the only thing you’re quick at; you called the Director, the Director called the Dean, the Dean called his Computer Center Director: ‘Someone killed one of your guys and they are coming to ask you about it.’”
He opened the door and went into a large reception room. There were people sitting about as if waiting to see Dr. Delgado but the girl at a desk that stood by two large doors got up and while opening the doors said, “Please come in; they are expecting you.”
Lombardo smiled. He wouldn’t be catching anyone by surprise here.
Dr. Delgado, or the man one would assume was Dr. Delgado because he was standing behind a large, glass-topped desk, was short and mustachioed; his very black hair was combed to one side, and some of the hairs on the back of his head stood straight up, giving him a boyish look.
Two men in dark suits stood by the chairs that were in front o
f the desk. Both were tall, wore glasses and bright, silk ties. From their stern demeanor one could safely assume they were lawyers.
“Ah, the gentlemen from the police,” said Dr. Delgado, “I am Francisco Delgado. These two gentlemen are from the University’s Legal Department. We have been discussing this very tragic, uh, event.”
Lombardo advanced to shake the doctor’s hand and just nodded to the lawyers. “I am Captain Guillermo Lombardo, Judicial Police, Investigations Department.”
“Ah,” said the Doctor smiling. “Any relation to the illustrious Lombardo Toledano?” he asked referring to the man who was a great teacher, politician, and labor leader.
“No,” said Lombardo curtly.
“Please sit over here,” said Dr. Delgado, pointing to a couch on the other side of the large office.
Lombardo’s thin body seemed to disappear into the soft cushions of the couch. His dark gray suit, soft as well as shiny from so many ironings, seemed empty, as if someone had laid it on the couch for its owner to put on. The Fat Man, on the other hand, dressed in the dark brown khaki uniform of a traffic cop, looked like a ball of chocolate ice cream sitting on top of the vanilla-colored cushions.
The two lawyers sat, one on each side of the Doctor, as if they were guard dogs protecting their owner.
“I am here to ask a few questions about your employee,” said Lombardo. He was not a man used to the formalities so common in conversations in Mexico.
“Yes, yes,” said the Doctor lowering his head. “A very unfortunate circumstance.”
“How did you find out about it, Doctor?” Lombardo asked.
Dr. Delgado, obviously embarrassed by the question, looked down at the floor as if searching for an answer there, but before he could find one, the lawyer-guard dog to his right barked, “We were notified, of course, since the unfortunate victim was a member of our staff.” That told Lombardo everything even though the lawyer had disclosed nothing.
“Do you have any idea who might have done this, Doctor? Any problems, enemies, people who did not like him or anything like that?”
“No, no, of course not. He was a very well-liked member of our staff. He was very diligent in his work; he was very diligent indeed. This is a great tragedy.” The Doctor’s words seemed rehearsed. The lawyers had probably advised him to remain very uncommitted in his comments. Express regret, but stay aloof from the circumstances, was probably the advice he had gotten.
Lombardo took out a small notebook from the inner pocket of his coat. He pretended to read something in it. He often used this trick to make people think that his questions were really routine, nothing to worry about.
“His name was, uh, Victor Delgado,” said Lombardo casually. “Was he related to you, Doctor?”
Lombardo saw the Doctor glance briefly at one of the lawyers, who nodded almost imperceptibly.
“Yes, yes, he was my cousin.”
“Is it normal to hire relatives here at the University?” asked Lombardo with a tone that might have been mistaken for harmless curiosity.
“It is not normal or abnormal,” said one of the lawyers.
“How does that relate to the investigation?” asked the other.
Lombardo ignored the question. “What was his job here, Doctor?”
“He was in charge of the Systems Management Department,” he answered.
Lombardo wrote a note into his little notebook. He wrote slowly, deliberately. The Doctor fidgeted as if unnerved by the silence. The two lawyers looked at each other.
Finally Lombardo spoke again, “What does that mean, Doctor, uh, systems management?”
Before the Doctor could answer, the lawyer on his right said, “We can prepare a brief with the answers to all of your questions if you’d like, Captain.”
Lombardo looked at the lawyer with the same stare that had made seasoned sergeants cringe in the Army and said slowly, “I’d rather hear it from the Doctor.”
Turning to the lawyer, the Doctor said, “It’s all right. I will explain to the captain what Victor did here in the Department.” He turned to Lombardo and his face showed genuine grief.
“Victor was a very good systems engineer,” he began. “His job was to maintain all of the computing equipment and the University’s network in good running order, as it were.” He paused and sighed. “To do this, of course, he had other engineers on his staff and software, computer programs that helped him monitor the health of the University’s computing resources. There were other duties as well. He and his staff were in charge of running the many programs that keep information flowing in our campus and in all the University’s campuses for that matter.” He stopped again briefly. “It is a complicated and difficult job, which he did very well. We will miss him professionally as well as personally. His death represents a great loss, a great loss.”
Dr. Delgado lowered his head and took off his glasses.
“So, this business of running all of the University’s computers—that meant he had access to a lot of information, probably some of it very sensitive—is that correct?” asked Lombardo.
“Of course!” answered the Doctor vehemently. “It’s the nature of the job. Our computers handle everything from payrolls to grades for individual students. There are research papers, teacher evaluations—I could go on all day.”
One of the lawyers added, “But, he was not the only person to have access to that information.”
“I suppose you had anticipated this line of questioning,” said Lombardo to the lawyer.
“That’s our job,” said the other lawyer. “We wouldn’t want people to assume that Victor Delgado’s murder was somehow connected to the confidential information he had handled here.”
“In which case the University would be liable, am I correct?” asked Lombardo, but the lawyers said nothing.
“Hmm,” said Lombardo who pretended to write that down as well. “Who is in charge of security for this part of the campus? I mean security for the buildings and grounds.”
“The University’s Security Department handles all security,” said the lawyer to the Doctor’s left.
“Can you call them and tell them to send over the person who was on duty last night?” asked Lombardo. “I mean the staff officer, not the guards.”
“We thought you might want to talk to them so we called the Director of Security and his man is probably outside this office now,” said the lawyer to the Doctor’s right.
“You have a very efficient Legal Department, Doctor,” said Lombardo. He got up. It was useless to ask him anything further while the lawyers were present. He would try to see him at another time, without the guard dogs. “Thank you for your time, Doctor. I would like to see the security officer now.”
As they all moved toward the door, Lombardo turned and said to the lawyers, “I would appreciate it if you sent me a copy of Victor Delgado’s file. I assume the University keeps personnel files on all of its employees.”
“Yes, but these are confidential and…” one of the lawyers started to say but Lombardo interrupted him.
“Of course you being a lawyer probably already know that in a homicide case I can subpoena anything that might constitute evidence or information relevant to the case.”
“Of course, of course,” said Doctor Delgado as if wishing to end any further discussion. “We will willingly cooperate with your investigation, Captain Lombardo.”
The other lawyer asked, “Why are you calling it homicide, Captain. Shouldn’t you wait for the Medical Examiner to…”
“Corpses don’t make it a habit of walking to the railroad tracks to wait for trains to sever their heads. The evidence where he was found tells me he was killed elsewhere and then dropped there. This was no suicide, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
The lawyer opened the door. Another dark suit was standing outside, waiting. “This must be the security man,” said Lombardo.
“Again I must congratulate your Legal Department, Doctor Delgado. This visit was very well c
horeographed.”
He shook the Doctor’s hand and left Gonzalez to apologize for Lombardo’s rudeness.
Chapter 6: Clues in the Parking Lot
The security man, a tall fellow with a shirt collar that was so frayed that it was transparent in parts, identified himself as a Manager for the security services company that handled all security issues for the University.
Lombardo just nodded as he heard the man regurgitate the company’s spiel about being “an integrated security firm with several levels of service.” When the man made a pause Lombardo said to the Fat Man, “Gonzalez, you were pretty quiet in there. I thought you had fallen asleep.”
The Fat Man laughed and said, “I did. People don’t believe me when I tell them I can sleep with my eyes open.”
“Well, since you are so well rested, why don’t you go over to your car and call in. Ask them if the body was taken to the University’s morgue.”
