by Dahlia Adler
I didn’t know why he didn’t think it was the aswangs, but then I remembered Janelle Monae and the girl with the three husbands. He was right both times. I was convinced. Maybe that wasn’t a good enough reason for other people, but I was invested in wanting him to be perfect a little longer. Plus, he was smart. I wasn’t biased about that.
“I know some of the aswangs here,” he said. “The whole cluster of them that lives in White Beach, anyway. My father has used them as guides many times before, for tours with people at the embassy. And with all due respect—as friendly as the people here are, I don’t trust the police’s competence to solve a crime of this scale. The superintendent on this island knows my family. It would be easy enough to get the facts out of him.”
I wasn’t expecting my vacation in Boracay to turn into a crime-solving episode, but sige na, if he really wanted this.…
And money really talks, besh, because when we got to the police station you would have thought Ogie was a celebrity from the way the superintendent acted. He said he would show us the bodies and give us a tour of the place they were murdered at, like this was a tourist attraction. We had to go through the back—the area was full of reporters, and Ogie didn’t want to be seen. I looked back wistfully at the beach, where people were still swimming and sunbathing. The things I do for a cute guy, I thought, and followed them in.
We looked at the bodies first. I ran outside again to throw up, because ohmaygad, I was still hungover. I knew it would be bad, but I didn’t think about how bad it was. Also, they stank.
When I came back, Ogie was sympathetic, still examining the corpses. From what I remember, the older Amerikano was burly—muscles turning to fat, middle-aged, tribal tattoos on one shoulder. His son was thinner and shorter. The superintendent said they were fifty-six and twenty-five years old.
“Just father and son?” Ogie asked. “No wives or daughters along for the trip?”
“Ah, no. The younger Kano was an only child, and the father a widower.”
“No surgeon did this,” Ogie said, his voice low and odd. “They were in a lot of pain when they died. Ligatures on their necks, as well.”
“If I don’t solve this crime they might ask me to resign,” Sta. Ana fretted.
“Your medical examiner confirms that their livers are missing. Were any other organs taken?”
“Nothing else that we know of, boss. And I believe,” the superintendent continued heatedly, “that this is an aswang’s work. Why else would the livers be gone? The vampires drink blood and the werewolves eat everything, and the ones with the tentacles will screw your minds over, but only the aswangs take livers!”
We went to the place where the Kanos had been staying next, the Rue Apartelle, and we had to push our way through the gathered crowd staring ghoulishly up at the windows. It was a cheap place, the type tourists rented if they wanted to stay longer on the island on a low budget.
“Their room was locked from the inside, but the windows were open,” Ogie said. “That’s important. Unfortunately, they were angled away from the other houses, so the neighbors wouldn’t have seen any visitors inside. The younger Dayton-Smith’s body was found there, so presumably he was killed first. His father was still in bed when the murder occurred. It’s a large enough window, six feet high and twelve across—easy for an adult to get through.”
“Or aswang,” said Sta. Ana, a stubborn man.
Ogie took a pair of gloves and looked through the victims’ things next. Just normal stuff: clothes and snorkeling gear, passports and receipts.
“These Dayton-Smiths kept a messy house,” Ogie said, pushing dirty clothes out of the way. “Their cash remains—ten thousand dollars in total.” He brought out a knife from one of their bags. “And this? This isn’t something tourists usually bring.”
The superintendent shrugged, like he couldn’t be bothered about the strange things any Kano would bring to Boracay.
“A knife would have been confiscated at the airport. Did they check in any luggage?”
“Yes. Maybe they bought it somewhere after they landed at Caticlan airport.…”
“Unlikely. This looks old and well used. Do you have a crime lab here in Boracay? For DNA?”
“No.” The man looked embarrassed.
“I can help you fast-track this to a lab in Manila. My dad knows a reputable company. We should get results in a couple of days.”
“Salamat, boss,” the officer said, grateful. “If it’s not too much a problem.…”
“Boracay has been very good to me, and I want to return the favor. The idea of a murder happening here makes me angry. And of course, I know this isn’t something the police usually do in cases.” Ogie was a good diplomat, like his father. I would have just told Sta. Ana he sucked. “But I’d like to keep my name out of the news.”
“Understood, boss.”
“I trust you and your men to make sure the evidence isn’t contaminated, and that you and a representative will employ standard procedures in sealing this knife and delivering it.”
“Of course, boss.”
“Why the knife?” I asked.
“There are flecks of brown stains on the blade. Possibly animal blood—possibly something else. I’m surprised the killer didn’t use this. I’m told it was sitting in full view on their dresser, and any good murderer would have used that so it wouldn’t be traced back to them. There’s nothing in Boracay that would require one to use a hunting knife, so I find it curious. Any luck unlocking their phones?”
“Not yet, boss.”
“The family might know more. Make it a point to ask them.” There were still people outside, so Ogie donned a cap to hide his face, then leaned out the window. “I see some marks,” he said. “They seem too clean and pronounced to be made from aswang claws. The neighbors from across the street, and that small hostel beside this apartelle, would be our best witnesses.”
The neighbors were not good witnesses. The old labandera, Mrs. Gomez, insisted she heard someone talking in Bahasa Indonesian, while her husband thought it might be Chinese. But the Indonesian living below them said it was Korean, though his girlfriend watched K-dramas and said it sounded nothing like it, and that it was Thai. Coincidentally, the backpackers staying in the hostel room were Thai, but assumed the speaker was Vietnamese.
“Six languages,” Ogie said. “You would think that living here in Boracay, where people from all countries visit to party, they’d know the difference.”
“But which of them is right?” I asked.
“They all described the voice as a peculiar moaning sound. In that they all agree. Let’s interview our main suspects next.”
Most of the aswangs would be out of jobs once the island closed, so a majority had already left two weeks ago for the nearby town of Kalibo to find work. The two that remained behind were an old aswang named Valdez and his young grandson, Tomas. Since Tomas was only four years old, he was quickly dismissed as a suspect. Cops loitered outside the house, although the superintendent said they had no evidence to arrest anyone yet.
“Too old to be scampering on rooftops,” Valdez told Ogie in Tagalog, and showed us his worn, chipped claws, brittle from old age. Like all aswangs he was bald and leathery, but his grandson was like an adorable little bat, chewing on a doll while staring up at us with his bright red eyes. “I have arthritis. I can barely stand, much less climb walls.”
“Aswangs are the only creatures in Boracay that eat human livers,” Ogie pointed out.
The old man laughed and plucked out his dentures. “Does it look like I can still eat liver? My grandson won’t get his cravings until he’s sixteen.”
“Solving this would be easier,” Ogie said, sounding almost angry, “had you gone to Kalibo with the others.”
“I would be of no use there. Cheaper to stay. All I want is to care for my grandson. I have no problems with Kanos.”
The superintendent sounded crestfallen when we returned to the police station. “All the other aswang were w
orking overtime at the Berregen Construction Company in Kalibo, so they’re accounted for,” he mourned. “But if the old man didn’t do it, who did? It can’t be the boy.”
Ogie patted him on the back. “Give it a couple more days, pare. I’m sure we’ll have something.”
* * *
Ah, besh. I’m sure you know what happened next, diba? When the results from the crime lab came back and there was blood on the knife? And it wasn’t any of the Kanos’ blood?! Remember when they compared it to that other girl murdered last year, and it was a match? It was Ogie who suggested that, and he was right! He was supposed to solve the Kanos’ murders, but he actually solved the murder they committed! Plot twist, sobra!
The Kanos killed that girl! And it was a trans girl rin daw! Those men had also stayed in Boracay back in 2017, remember? And then they were here in 2015, when there was another murder! Honestly, no one’s interested in their killer anymore. Parang they want to know who it was so they can give them a medal!
Not even Ogie minded after that. “I’m more interested in justice finally being served,” he said. “I’ll take this as a victory. They had money, and money passes through a lot of judicial hands here. I don’t think they would have stayed in jail for very long in the Philippines.…”
“But who did you think killed those men?” I asked.
“I can’t give you a name,” he said. “But I can make an educated guess. First—they weren’t much into cleanliness, these Dayton-Smiths, and I thought they would be particularly lax when it came to cleaning up evidence, counting on the lack of DNA analysis in Philippine criminal cases. I hope this doesn’t offend, but Filipinos have a tendency to put white foreigners on a pedestal over their own kinspeople, and the murderers knew it. Cruel men, these Dayton-Smiths. The knife was my best bet.
“Secondly, if an aswang had attacked them for their livers alone it would have been easier to find some solitary tourist on the beach in the dark and assault them instead. Why risk getting in through an open window where they could have been seen? That, and the ten thousand dollars remaining in the men’s possession suggests not a robbery, but a personal vendetta.
“And then there’s the mysterious killer who speaks in no human language the neighbors could discern. Everyone did agree it was a low, moaning voice. Perhaps their inability to determine the murderer’s nationality was because the language they heard wasn’t human to begin with. No one that night heard the compulsory eek eek cry aswangs make when they attack. Eldritches and vampires do so silently. Werewolves would have destroyed the room in their rage, howled up a ruckus. If no species currently living in Boracay fit that profile, perhaps the moaning was a deliberate attempt to mislead us.
“So let us follow the hypothesis that someone took their livers not to eat, but to blame the aswangs. But again, why choose the Dayton-Smiths in particular? As I said before, any tourist would have sufficed. I see no connection between the Americans and the aswangs, and most of the latter had already gone to Kalibo for work. Was the perpetrator aware of that fact, and so went out of their way to frame them, knowing they would have an alibi?
“The culprit, then, is someone with a grudge against the Dayton-Smiths. I haven’t been able to involve myself in the investigation since the knife was tested, so I wasn’t privy to all the pertinent information gleaned from the victims’ phones, but I’d bet the killer was someone they knew—someone who knew and loved one of their victims and sought revenge. Someone who knew enough about climbing to use a hook on the window ledge and make the grooves I discovered there. Valdez’s claws were too fragile for those imprints. Someone strong enough to overpower two men. Someone who saw the knife and chose not to use it, suggesting he was aware there could be DNA for the police to find. Someone who fabricated an aswang attack as a red herring, to convince the police that the killer is anything but what he actually is—human.”
“I can’t believe that,” I said.
“You’re refuting my deductions?”
“No. I think you know who the killer is. You wouldn’t have stopped until you did.” I remembered his obvious irritation when I thought he was making stories up about his observations of other people. How he insisted on telling me about his Dirty Computer thought process. It wasn’t like him to leave something unsolved.
He laughed. “I’d rather not slander someone without the hard evidence on hand to back me up. Maybe I’ll tell you some day. But I’m hoping I won’t need to.”
* * *
It’s not like he could stay even if we both wanted him to. It was a good summer. I don’t wanna be bitter about it, you know?
But then he called me up a week later. We still talk almost every day. I really like him, besh.
I may not be as smart as he is, but I’m not dumb, either. It just took me longer to realize some things.
Because I’ve been thinking about it for a while na. Especially after they showed the murdered girls’ pictures in the newspaper, months after Ogie left for Europe.
One looked a lot like that photo I saw of Ogie’s ex.
I couldn’t be sure. I only saw a glimpse that time at the Shangri-la.…
He said I was so similar to her. Maybe he wasn’t just talking about being pretty.…
He was so mad when he learned that the old aswang, Valdez, didn’t go to Kalibo with the others. The construction company that hired the aswangs was a friend of Ogie’s dad, too.…
I remembered he was a mountain climber.
I remembered that whale songs do sound like moaning.…
I remembered being asleep when the murders happened, and that Ogie, who could drink fairies under the table, didn’t last two shots that night. I remembered that going to the Coco Bar was his idea.
I remembered when he scared the eldritches because he was stronger than he looked. I remembered he had a bodyguard golem who was even stronger, who Ogie said was close enough to his ex that he treated her like a daughter.…
I remembered his face when he saw me for the first time. He said I looked familiar. Like he’d seen the ghost of someone he knew well.…
If taking their livers was a red herring to blame the aswangs, why use whale songs instead of imitating an aswang cry? Like he wanted some superficial evidence available that could point to an aswang, but also leave evidence to suggest reasonable doubt about that, too? So that no innocent aswang actually got arrested?
I wondered why he insisted on being part of the police investigation.
And then I thought—Ogie’s so smart. But sometimes he’s too smart for his own good, and it goes over people’s heads. So maybe he had to guide the police in the direction he wanted them to go.
But why tell me all that if he could get into trouble, diba? I thought long and hard about it.
And I realized it’s the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me.
I trust you rin, besh. I know you would never give me up.
And besides, he’s a diplomat’s son with immunity. What’s anyone gonna do?
So Ogie invited me to Prague next month. I’m going to be his date for the prince of Lindbergh’s wedding! Oh may gad besh—what do I wear to that?
Glossary for “Murders in the Rue Apartelle, Boracay”
* denotes specifically Filipinx LGBTQ+ slang
besh* — best friend
ay sus — oh, sheesh
putanggra* — bitch
siyokoy — a merman
aswang — shape-shifting monster from Filipino mythology
dios ko — my god
Diba — to ask for confirmation/agreement from the person you’re talking to. “Diba they say never eat fairy food?” for example, would typically mean, “Don’t they say, never eat fairy food?”
engkantada — faerie folk
like, anetch?* — like, what did they say? Slang for ano daw
oh my sushmita* — a reference to Sushmita Sen, Miss India and Miss Universe 1994, and a popular celebrity among Filipinx
’teh — from “Ate” (a
h-teh), meaning “sister”; also a respectful term to refer to women older than the speaker
mudra* — mother
alam mo — you know
carinderia — Filipino eatery
He was a valedictorian pala — pala indicates something that went against your expectation: “I wasn’t expecting him to be a valedictorian.” Not intended as an insult.
I mean, haller* — I mean, hello
Kano/Kanos — from “Amerikano”
gandara park to the max* — a nod to KPOP singer Sandara Park of 2NE1, indicating that someone is exceptionally pretty (ganda is the Tagalog word for “beautiful”); “to the max” serves as additional emphasis
Pero like the French say — But like the French say
manananggal — flying monster from Filipino mythology who can sever her upper torso before hunting
mare — pronounced ma-reh; a female friend (informal)
syet — shit (expletive)
I’m like, ano daw? — I’m like, what’d they say?
sige na, if he really wanted this — fine, if he really wanted this
ohmaygad — oh my god
salamat — Thank you
pare — pronounced pa-reh; a male friend (informal)
labandera — washerwoman
Plot twist, sobra! — Sobra in this context indicates something that is so over the top — “Plot twist! This is too much!”
And it was a trans girl rin daw! — daw suggests that someone else has mentioned it, or that it was a common belief; “And it was a trans girl, or so they also say!”
Parang they want to know who it was — It’s like they want to know who it was
I’ve been thinking about it for a while na — I’ve been thinking about it for a while now.
About the Authors
DAHLIA ADLER is an associate editor of mathematics by day, a blogger by night, and an author of young adult novels at every spare moment in between. Her books include the Daylight Falls duology, Just Visiting, and the Radleigh University trilogy, and her short stories can be found in the anthologies The Radical Element, All Out, It’s a Whole Spiel, and His Hideous Heart. Dahlia lives in New York with her husband, her son, and an obscene number of books. You can sign up for email updates here.
