by Glenn Meade
When the detective paused, Volkmann asked, “Who does the house belong to?”
“To the young woman whose body was found with Rudi Hernandez. Her name was Graciella Campos, age seventeen. But her mind, it was the mind of a child, you understand? She had no family alive. She rented the house.”
Erica leaned forward, a look of pain in her blue eyes. “Did this girl know Rudi?”
“Sí. He gave her money. To pay for food and rent and clothes. It was a kindness, you understand. Not a payment for anything else. They were simply friends.”
Erica Kranz’s face was pale, not from the heat, but from hurting inside. She nodded.
Sanchez lowered his voice out of respect. “The girl and Rudi had both been killed with knives. A drunk old man who sometimes sleeps in an alley near the girl’s house found the bodies. The girl usually gave him some hot tea in the mornings. When she didn’t answer his knock, he tried the door. It was open. When he discovered the bodies, he told a local priest, who called the policía.”
Volkmann asked, “How long had they been dead?”
“Not long. Maybe four, five hours.”
Sanchez took several police photographs from the file and handed them to Volkmann. He looked at Erica Kranz. “Forgive me. But I would prefer you did not look at these, señorita. They are not pleasant.”
There were five photographs, taken by forensics, all in vivid, horrific color. Volkmann examined them carefully. Two were of the body of Hernandez, two of the girl, one photograph of both bodies lying close together, faces up. The girl’s brown face looked pitiful in death. The savagery of her wounds shocked him. The simple white frock she wore was ripped apart above the waist and drenched in blood.
He next studied the photograph of the body of Rudi Hernandez. The man had suffered much the same fate; the torso had been slit from chest to groin, his innards spilling out onto the bloodied floor.
Volkmann grimaced, saw Erica turn away as if to avoid seeing the photographs he handed back to Sanchez, who quickly replaced them in the file. “Señor Sanchez, did the forensic people find anything?” Volkmann asked.
Sanchez looked at him blankly. Erica translated into Spanish, forense. Sanchez remembered the word now.
“You speak Spanish very well, señorita.”
“I was born in Buenos Aires,” Erica answered quietly.
Sanchez nodded. Hernandez had not told him that. He looked at Volkmann again.
“The forensic people believe that different knives were used to kill the victims. Both blades were hunting knives. The one used to kill Rudi had a very big blade. Perhaps a bowie knife, they think. But other than that, nothing much. No fingerprints. Some faint footprints, but nothing they think would really help. There were bruises on the arms and faces of both bodies that suggest several people helped in the murders. But whoever they were, they were careful not to leave anything behind. No prints, no real clues. And a knife is not like a bullet. Sometimes it is more difficult to trace such a weapon. My men searched the area around the house and the barrio itself. No discarded knives or bloodied clothes. Nothing.”
Sanchez saw Erica wince as he spoke, wondered if he should be so explicit. He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, offered them to her and Volkmann. When both refused, he lit one for himself and further loosened his tie as Erica leaned forward, her voice strained. “The place where the bodies were found. Did no one see or hear anything? Were there no witnesses? Surely someone must have heard something?”
Sanchez blew out smoke, shook his head. “The old man I spoke of saw and heard nothing. He had drunk a lot of cana the night before. I have spoken also to many people in the barrio, in La Chacarita. It is the same story. No one saw or heard anything. And believe me, they would have talked. The girl’s death shocked them all. Some old men saw Rudi arrive at the house around seven-thirty in the evening before he died. They did not see him come out.” He paused for a moment before going on. “There is one small thing, however, that may be important.”
Sanchez hesitated again. “The day after Rudi and the young girl were murdered, La Tarde published a story about the deaths. There was a photograph of both on the front page. A night watchman at the central railway station on the Plaza Uruguaya came to see us. He said he saw a man who looked like Rudi come in the back of the station very early on the morning of the murders, maybe three o’clock. But he couldn’t be certain. He was tired, had been on duty since the previous afternoon.” Sanchez shrugged. “Perhaps Rudi was at the station, perhaps not. Perhaps he meant to leave Asunción, take the girl and go someplace if he thought he was in some kind of danger. But the ticket office was closed then. Or maybe, if it was Rudi, he simply had something on his mind and went for a walk, to get some air.”
Sanchez addressed Volkmann. “Of course, the report your people sent changes matters, I believe, when we consider what Rudi said he was doing, writing this story. Also, there are two other things that are important.”
The detective tapped his cigarette ash into a cracked glass ashtray on his desk. “Number one, Rudi’s press card was missing. And also his wallet. Yet he still had money in his pocket. Not much. But enough. And a gold ring and a watch he wore were not taken.”
Volkmann nodded. “You’re saying whoever murdered Hernandez and the girl didn’t intend to rob them?”
“Sí. I think we can forget about a simple robbery. And the girl was not sexually assaulted. Also, considering your report, it seems that Rudi and the girl may have been killed for other motives. A robber would have taken all the money, the ring, and the watch, unless he was disturbed at his work. I don’t believe that happened. No one reported hearing any disturbance, and the bodies were not discovered until seven that morning. Also, these were not ordinary murders. To kill like that, brutally, with knives, you must be someone crazy. You understand? So I don’t think the motive was to rob. I think it was to kill.
“There is a clue to this. Rudi borrowed some equipment from a friend he knew, a man named Torres. He is a technician with an electronics company. Torres went to the newspaper office when Rudi had not returned this equipment to him. When they told him Rudi had been murdered, he came to us.”
“What sort of equipment are we talking about?”
Sanchez turned to Volkmann and drew on his cigarette, exhaled slowly. “Special electronic equipment that would allow a person to hear and record something spoken from a distance away. Japanese, and expensive. A small microphone-transmitter and a receiver. I am sure you have heard of such equipment. It was borrowed by Rudi the day before he was killed. We questioned Torres. He said Rudi told him he wanted the equipment for trabajo clandestino . . . undercover work.”
Sanchez glanced at Erica, to make sure his words were correct, saw that she understood. He looked back at Volkmann as the man spoke.
“Is that all Rudi told Torres?”
“Sí. No more. Not where he was going or why exactly he needed the equipment. Only that he would return it safely the next day. We have not found the equipment. It was not in the girl’s house, or in Rudi’s car or apartment. Perhaps it is still lying around somewhere, wherever Rudi used it. Or perhaps the people who murdered him have it, or have destroyed it.”
Sanchez paused, looked at Volkmann, speaking softly. “I believe Rudi used the equipment the day or night before he was killed.” He tapped a file in front of him. “There’s one other thing. In the report your people sent us, it says that Rudi Hernandez was observing the home of a man named Nicolas Tsarkin. According to our smuggler friend Rodriguez, Tsarkin was the man who originally hired him, no?”
“That’s right,” Erica answered.
“And that there is a connection to another dead man, named Winter, in Germany?” the detective asked.
“Yes,” Erica replied.
“Interesting,” he said. “Let me tell you a few things. First, Rudi and I were friends. We helped each other out when we could. Sometimes a tip. Sometimes more than that. Second, not long before he was killed, Rudi ga
ve me a tip. Keep an eye on Señor Tsarkin, he said—though without going into the reason why. That was the way with his tips sometimes. But I was familiar enough with him to take what he said seriously.”
“Did you find anything?” Volkmann asked.
“No, nothing.” Sanchez paused dramatically. “But on November twenty-third, Señor Tsarkin put a gun in his mouth and blew his brains out. Another death. Interesting. That’s the third thing. I called Rudi and asked him to join me at the scene of the suicide. I asked him then why he was interested in Tsarkin, but he wouldn’t say. Perhaps he didn’t know. But there was a phone call at the Tsarkin home that he answered.”
Sanchez raised his eyes to heaven. “I have half a dozen men on the scene who are capable of lifting a telephone receiver. But a reporter grabs it, then stonewalls when I ask him about it, says it was a wrong number. Now, I’m not so sure Rudi was telling the truth. Maybe that phone call led him to use the tape equipment, who knows? But the people behind Señor Tsarkin, the ones who killed Rodriguez and Winter, as well as Rudi and Graciella, must have caught on to Rudi. And then they found him and killed him.”
He waited for a moment to let all that sink in. “Now that we have your report, we are looking even more deeply into Señor Tsarkin, but nothing as yet has emerged.”
Volkmann nodded and asked, “What can you tell us about this smuggler, Rodriguez?”
Sanchez sat back. “Norberto Rodriguez’s body was found two weeks ago in the city. Our forensic people said he had been killed by a car. The car drove away, did not stop. There were no witnesses. We thought it was an accident that someone did not report, a drunk driver perhaps. Or even a fellow criminal. But my men would have heard whispers in the underworld. In Rodriguez’s case, they heard nothing. But now I know from your report that something else is possible . . . that these people he worked for killed him.”
“What kind of work did Rodriguez do exactly, Señor Sanchez?”
“He owned an old DC4. He flew cargoes mostly to the ports of Montevideo in Uruguay or Porto Alegre in Brazil, for shipping on to Europe and America.”
“Are we talking narcotics?”
“Sí, narcotics of course. But also whatever made a good profit. Gold. Jewels. Leopard skins. Rodriguez was one of the best smugglers. Very, very good.” Sanchez allowed himself a brief smile. “So good we never caught him.”
Volkmann loosened his tie, the heat in the small room cloying even with the fan whirring away. “Rodriguez’s friends, people who knew him, people who might have worked with him—have you talked with many of them?”
“Rodriguez nearly always worked alone. And concerning the people he did work for, he told no one. To tell would mean death.” Sanchez paused. “However, there is a man he sometimes worked with, a man named Santander. A smuggler also. We are trying to find him, but so far we have had no luck.” Sanchez shrugged. “Even if we find Santander, he may know nothing.”
“Have you talked with Rudi’s colleagues at the newspaper, his friends?” Erica asked. “Perhaps he confided in one of them about his story.”
Sanchez nodded. “They knew nothing about any special story Rudi was working on. We also checked Rudi’s desk and locker at the newspaper. Also his apartment. There was nothing in any of them that would suggest such a story. And no photographs like the ones mentioned in your report. Nothing that would help us.”
“Rudi said that anything he had, he kept in a safe place.”
“Sí, señorita, I read that in the report I received. I must tell you that I had every bank in Asunción contacted yesterday. Rudi Hernandez had an account in one, but no deposit box. I am also having the banks outside Asunción checked just in case. But that will take time.” He looked intently at her. “Did Rudi tell you of any other information or evidence he had?”
“No.”
“Did he suggest where this safe place might be?”
Erica shook her head. “All he said was that what he had was not much. But that it was in a safe place.”
The detective nodded. “I will have a photograph of Rudi shown to the banks, in case another name was used. Do you remember if Rudi said anything else? No matter how unimportant it seems to you?”
“No. I’m certain.”
Sanchez tapped the file containing Volkmann’s report. It had helped, opened a door, even just a little.
He stubbed out his cigarette. There was nothing more to be said until his men turned something up, if they were lucky. The heat in the small, drab room had become unbearable. He went to close the file, the meeting at an end, then looked at Erica. “Rudi’s parents are dead, sí?”
She nodded.
“His belongings,” Sanchez said solemnly. “Rudi’s things . . .”
He saw Erica nod once more. She understood. He removed a set of keys from an envelope in the file and handed them across to her.
“These are a copy of the keys to Rudi’s apartment,” Sanchez explained. “In case there is anything from it you wish. Something personal, photographs perhaps.”
Erica accepted the keys. “Thank you.”
Sanchez pushed himself up from the chair, grabbed his jacket.
“And now, señor, señorita, I will take you to your hotel.” He spoke gently to the woman. “But perhaps I might speak with Señor Volkmann in private first? I have some police business to discuss.”
Erica nodded and stepped out into the hallway. Sanchez watched her leave, then turned to Volkmann.
“The security police in my country, the seguridad, keep a file on certain citizens. Rudi Hernandez was a journalist. Journalists are, shall we say, a special case. Because of their work, you understand.”
Volkmann nodded, and Sanchez crossed to behind his desk, removed a file from a drawer, came back, and handed it to Volkmann.
“This is a copy of the file. It’s not much. Hernandez was not a troublemaker. There is nothing of much interest. But perhaps it may help you understand the man.”
Volkmann took the folder. “Thanks, I appreciate it, Sanchez.”
Sanchez said, “Please, call me Vellares. About the man named Winter that Rudi recognized with Tsarkin: my men are checking with the immigration people. I will let you know as soon as I have something.” He pulled on his coat. “The report your people sent—you have nothing more to add?”
Volkmann shook his head. “Have you got a photograph of Winter?”
“Sí, I have one here.”
He removed a photograph from a file on his desk. A head-and-shoulders shot, enlarged. The man in the picture was blond, sharp-featured, thin-lipped. Sanchez stared at the photograph, then looked up. “It is a difficult case, I think, Señor Volkmann. Strange. And Rudi was a good man. I want to tell you I will do everything I can. We were friends for many years.”
“The bodies are still at the morgue?”
“No. The funerals were three days ago. Had I known the lady was coming, I would have delayed the burials. But the forensic people were finished with their work. And the police morgue is full. Tomorrow I will take her to the cemetery. She may wish to say a prayer.”
“I’ll tell her. Thank you.”
“I will also take you to see the girl’s house where the bodies were found. And we can talk with Mendoza, Rudi’s editor, and with Torres, who loaned Rudi the equipment.” The detective buttoned his coat. “And now I will take you to your hotel. Your people, they have made arrangements?”
“The Excelsior,” said Volkmann.
Sanchez said, “It’s a nice hotel.”
13
ASUNCIÓN
Volkmann and Erica checked into the hotel, and after dinner, he ordered a taxi to take them to Rudi Hernandez’s apartment.
It was a bachelor’s place: a bedroom, kitchen, living room, and a tiny bathroom. On one of the bookshelves were photographs in small silver frames. Hernandez’s family, Volkmann guessed. One of a blond woman and a Latin man, the man smiling broadly, the woman’s face serious, unsmiling. There was a silver-framed photograph of Erica ta
ken in a Bavarian inn, looking much younger, her hair long, laughing out at the camera and holding a stein of beer, her arm around a young, handsome, smiling man.
Volkmann looked at her now. The long flight and the seven-hour time difference between Frankfurt and Asunción were taking their toll. She picked up the photograph from the shelf and stared down at the image silently.
“Rudi?” Volkmann asked.
She nodded, faint smudges under the blue eyes. “I can’t help thinking about the last time I was here and he was alive.”
She replaced the photograph and Volkmann went to look around the apartment. The police had been untidy in their work; there were drawers open in the bedroom and clothes left in disarray. In the kitchen, all the cupboard doors were ajar.
When he came back into the living room, he found Erica staring out the window. The lights of the city twinkled beyond the glass, a clear view down to the Rio Paraguay, boats moving back and forth in the encroaching darkness.
As he moved closer, she turned, and he saw tears running down her cheeks.
“Forgive me. I . . . I kept remembering. What the detective said today . . . about the way Rudi died.”
“It’s been a difficult day. How about I pour us both a drink?”
• • •
The vodka and tonic bottles were on the coffee table, a bowl of ice between them.
“Tell me about Rudi,” Volkmann said.
Grief strained Erica’s face. “He was a good and kind man, and a good journalist. Rudi was always quick to laugh, no matter how black things were.” She shrugged. “I really don’t know what more to tell you, except that he loved life.”
Volkmann had read Sanchez’s file but there wasn’t much: two pages in English, translated especially—personal details, political affiliations, age, family background. He wanted to hear from Erica if there was more: hidden things, private things, things that all men keep to themselves, or share with a woman. Some small clue, something that would open a door for him.
