‘In particular, I mean the ones that were sitting on the coffee table in the living room of Mr Reigosa’s flat,’ Caldas clarified. ‘Do you remember the glasses we are referring to now?’
The woman rubbed her chin.
‘Glasses… I don’t know.’
‘The glasses had gin in them and your fingerprints clearly stamped all over, María,’ he said, raising his voice slightly. ‘Fingerprints that ruined the rest of the prints we might have found there.’
María de Castro gave a start.
‘Of course, the glasses!’ She finally remembered. ‘I had a drink to steady myself. You know, after the shock of finding Mr Luis in such a horrible state. Did you not hear your partner say that it was me who found the body?’
‘María, it’s unlikely that you’ll find yourself involved in a mess like this ever again, but if out of some strange coincidence it should happen, please do not touch anything! If you need to have a tipple, go to a bar, but faced with a dead person, leave everything as it is.’
‘I only wanted…’
Caldas was not going to accept her excuses.
‘You messed up the only lead we might have had on the identity of the person who shared the last hours of Reigosa’s life. Do you realise how important that is?’ he asked, again looking at his report, making her withdraw into her chair, seeking the support of its back.
During the inspection of Reigosa’s flat a good number of fingerprints had been found, but the lophoscopic report confirmed that nearly all of them were either the dead man’s or María de Castro Raposo’s.
The only different one was a print on the bottom of one of the glasses left on the living-room coffee table. Unfortunately, Raposo’s hands had damaged it considerably, and although the police had managed to salvage a fragment of the print, it wasn’t quite enough to feed it into the police computerised archive for a match. Computers didn’t work with fragments. They behaved just as Estévez did: they wanted all or nothing, and there were no such things as half measures for them.
If a suspect emerged they would have to manually compare his or her fingerprints with the small part they had salvaged from the glass – provided they obtained a court order to take them in the first place.
What seemed most surprising to Inspector Caldas was that no prints had been found in the bedroom, which seemed to confirm that the killer had taken the trouble of covering up his traces before leaving the flat. He was rather impressed that someone should have stayed to clean up while Reigosa, no doubt still alive, lay gagged on his bed with his hands tied to the headboard. It must have taken quite a lot of guts not to feel intimidated by the dying man’s tormented blue eyes.
‘Are you going to accuse me of having a small drink, inspector?’ asked María de Castro, learning she had spoiled a piece of evidence.
Caldas shook his head and left the report on the table.
‘Can I go, then?’ she asked, visibly relieved.
The woman grabbed her bag, which was near the table on the floor, and put it on the table, awaiting the inspector’s instructions. Now she knew she wasn’t going to be punished, she tried to restore her challenged moral integrity: ‘Besides, I only drank what was left in one of the glasses.’
‘Tell her we found her prints on both of them,’ Estévez said to his boss.
‘Well, maybe I did drink from both. I can’t remember everything, I’m sixty-four years old.’
‘That’s OK,’ said Caldas, bringing the matter to a close and inviting her to leave.
Rafael Estévez, on the other hand, was unable to remain silent, as his DNA did not include his superior’s Galician patience:
‘We’ve also found your prints all over the gin bottle and all the rest of the liquor bottles in the kitchen.’
‘I’m a cleaning lady. My job is to pick up things and clean them,’ replied María de Castro, offended. ‘Have you tried cleaning anything without touching it, officer?’
The police officer approached the table at which the woman was still sitting.
‘Listen, lady, I won’t have you making fun of me,’ he warned her, pointing his index finger at her.
Caldas dragged him aside and asked the terrified woman to leave. He had to help her up, as she was so frightened she was almost cowering under the table.
As soon as she was up she obeyed the inspector. She left the room in a hurry without taking her eyes off Estévez.
‘Are you out of your mind?’ said Caldas, once she was out the door. ‘Do you want us both to get a bollocking?’
‘But if I didn’t stop that old bag in her tracks, she would’ve tried to convince us that she was a teetotaller,’ Estévez justified himself.
‘It doesn’t matter, Rafael. You can have a go at her all you want, that won’t get the fingerprints back. Can’t you be practical for a change? We only needed her to confirm what she’d said on her statement.’
‘And what do you think, chief, has she confirmed it?’
‘In a way,’ said Caldas.
‘In a way – has she or hasn’t she?’
‘In a way, Rafael,’ replied Caldas tersely. Some people need to learn how to listen.
The inspector put out his cigarette, picked up the report and made off for his office, leaving Estévez alone in the room. On the way over his mobile rang. Doctor Guzmán Barrio’s initial results were in.
Poison
‘Formaldehyde?’ asked Caldas.
‘Formaldehyde. Also known as formalin.’
‘But isn’t that a preservative?’
‘It is indeed. One of its main uses is the preservation of tissue. It has to be diluted in water in a concentration of around thirty-seven per cent. In smaller concentrations it is used as a disinfectant.’
‘Which means?’ asked Caldas, still unable to understand what the musician’s death had to do with the doctor’s explanation.
‘Formaldehyde,’ continued the doctor ‘is a dangerous product, a very toxic gas. It has irritant and allergenic effects,’ Guzmán paused. ‘It even has a component that can be carcinogenic.’
‘Doctor, are you suggesting they dipped his balls in formaldehyde until he got genital cancer?’ asked Estévez sceptically.
‘Don’t be silly,’ replied Barrio. ‘No one’s said anything about dipping his parts in formalin.’
Nevertheless, Caldas’s face betrayed doubts.
‘I’m sorry, Guzmán, but I’m not sure I understand where you’re going with this. If they didn’t pour formaldehyde on his skin, what did they do?’
‘They injected it,’ said the doctor.
‘What?’ Caldas wasn’t sure he’d heard right.
‘Someone injected formaldehyde into Reigosa’s genitals. A solution of thirty-seven per cent formaldehyde.’
‘God,’ exclaimed Estévez. ‘How is that possible?’
‘It was precisely here,’ said Barrio approaching the trolley where Reigosa’s body lay. He uncovered his naked body and stretched the skin of the dead man’s penis. ‘This little dot here is the mark left by the needle. Can you see the hole?’
‘Fuck, I can’t see it and I don’t particularly want to,’ protested Estévez, who bent his huge body in two and thus made off for the door. ‘You don’t mind if I go and get some air, do you? The inspector can fill me in on the news later.’
Rafael Estévez went out of the room, leaving his boss and the doctor in front of Reigosa’s body. Leo Caldas bent down to observe the minuscule perforation that Barrio had pointed out. Certainly, it wasn’t pleasant to look at the saxophonist’s disgusting member once again.
‘I don’t get it, Guzmán. Didn’t we say formaldehyde was a preservative?’
‘Formaldehyde dries tissues up. If you put a dead body in formaldehyde, it doesn’t decay, right? But, on the other hand, if you put it into a living body, it absorbs all the liquid the body might have,’ the doctor inhaled sharply.
‘Crikey,’ whispered Caldas, feeling an inner shiver.
‘When they injected
it, everything shrivelled up,’ continued Guzmán Barrio. ‘Because, once the formaldehyde is in, nothing escapes drying out: capillaries, tissues, nothing… Don’t forget that most of the human body, nearly eighty per cent of it, is made of water, and that down there,’ he said gesturing towards the musician’s genitals, ‘there’s not even a bone that might slow the shrivelling one bit.’
Leo Caldas remained silent for a few moments, gazing at the astonishing effect produced in Luis Reigosa’s abdominal area.
‘So whoever did this knew they were killing him?’
‘What do you think?’ replied Barrio, Galician style.
‘Couldn’t it have been a situation that got out of hand?’ asked Caldas, unable to imagine a mind capable of dreaming up this way of killing.
‘I doubt it,’ assured Barrio, shaking his head. ‘I think they knew enough, at the very least, to predict the outcome. Whoever planned an execution such as this, by toxic injection, had to have enough medical training to know that you cannot go on living with your main blood vessels deteriorated to such an extent. This is worthy of Caligula.’
Caldas was astonished at Guzmán Barrio’s explanations. The method seemed to point to a vengeful lover, but at the same time it seemed too cruel for a simple personal vendetta.
‘Formaldehyde has an isquemic component, so upon injection it must have caused extreme pain,’ continued Barrio, who seemed impressed by his own explanations. ‘To give you an idea, it would be the kind of pain a diabetic suffers when losing a leg – a tremendous septic shock. Now try and picture that in an area with so many blood vessels as the male genitalia, which have the capacity to triplicate their volume when the blood flow reaches them. I should think such cruel torture was planned.’
‘I see.’ Caldas would rather not imagine the scene, and he was not paying much attention to the detail the doctor supplied.
‘If he’d been found alive, it would’ve been imperative to amputate his penis and testicles. This poor man would’ve been forced to urinate through a catheter from his groin or, even worse, directly from his kidneys.’
Barrio stopped the lecture to gaze at the huge swelling covering nearly a third of Reigosa’s body.
‘In fact, I don’t think he would’ve pulled through even if we’d got here only a minute after the poisoning, Leo. The femoral artery is too close, and look at his legs! We couldn’t have done anything but pray for him as he writhed in agony. I don’t think there would’ve been a way to save him.’
Leo preferred to avoid the more scabrous matters for now. He knew from experience that getting involved at a personal level skewed the investigation and damaged his efficiency as a hunter. The case was becoming a tangled skein of information, and he had to concentrate on finding the end of the thread that would allow him to pull and unravel it.
‘And what can you tell me about the time of death?’
‘Between ten and twelve the day before yesterday. That I know for a fact.’
Leo Caldas looked at the lifeless body, with its horrendous blackness. He was still perplexed at the gruesome way they’d killed him.
‘Guzmán, who would have access to formaldehyde?’
‘At a hospital? Well, a doctor, a nurse, an orderly, a medical student.’ Barrio threw his arms in the air, indicating that any other person who worked in a hospital fell into the category of those who did.
Yet Caldas could not quite comprehend that something capable of producing the effects observed in the saxophonist’s body might be almost within anyone’s reach.
‘But if it’s as toxic as you say, it must be under tight control.’
‘I don’t think so. It’s not hard to come by, and for the moment we’re only talking hospitals. If I’m not mistaken, it’s used for many other purposes, not only as a preservative.’
Guzmán Barrio excused himself from the room, and a few moments later returned with a chemistry book in his hands.
‘Here it is – formaldehyde. In addition, it’s used in industrial products such as fertilisers, paints, adhesives, abrasives …’ Barrio shut the book. ‘As you can see it’s pretty common.’
Leo recalled a film he’d seen some time before. The protagonist was an overweight nurse who held a writer captive at a mountain refuge for a snowy winter. The woman forced him to write a book just the way she liked it. And, each time she went out to buy food, she tied him to his bed to stop him running away. On one occasion, the nurse returned early to find the writer trying to free himself from his ties. As a punishment, and to make sure he wouldn’t try to escape again, she hit his ankle with a sledge hammer, at the exact spot where she knew it would fracture.
‘What are you thinking of?’ asked Guzmán Barrio.
Caldas came back to reality.
‘That it’s quite unlikely that an adhesive or paint manufacturer might know the effects of injecting formaldehyde in someone’s penis.’
‘I agree. In fact, I myself didn’t quite know about its effect inside a living body,’ confessed Guzmán Barrio. ‘So I’d say it had to be someone with very precise medical knowledge.’
‘Hospital staff?’
Barrio shook his head, signalling he didn’t quite think so.
‘Most hospital staff have no idea that formaldehyde can produce this kind of toxaemia. I’d be inclined to think of some specialist, someone who deals with the substance, who’s used to experimenting or working with it on a regular basis. Then again, hospitals are full of morons.’
‘I’m so relieved to hear that,’ said Leo Caldas, while he remembered the sadistic nurse in the film.
‘No, I mean it. If people knew the psychological profiles of some of my colleagues they’d go for a cure straight to the butcher’s.’
‘It must be like everywhere else.’
‘Don’t be so sure.’
‘Right.’ Banter didn’t contribute anything now, and the inspector didn’t want to leave the autopsy room without some kind of lead.
‘Do you know who the suppliers are?’
‘Of formaldehyde?’
Caldas nodded, thinking that had Estévez been present he wouldn’t have hesitated to counter this with some choice expression of his own.
‘Here we order it from Riofarma, as it’s the closest lab.’
‘Is it produced there?’ answered Caldas with some surprise. He was actually familiar with the company.
‘The one I get is,’ confirmed Barrio. ‘But formaldehyde is produced in many labs. As I said, it’s easy to make. Since it’s pretty much the same anywhere, I choose to buy it in the region, and so save myself any shipping costs. By and large, everyone does the same with these kinds of products.’
It was a new lead, Leo Caldas thought.
‘Thanks for all the information,’ he said, by way of goodbye. ‘When will you finish?’
‘The post-mortem is finished. All that’s left is to send the report to the court and the police station, and call the family to let them know they can come and collect the body,’ the doctor explained. ‘I think they want to bury him right away.’
‘Do you happen to know where?’
Barrio said he didn’t.
‘If you like, I can find out and call you on your mobile later?’
‘Thanks. And let me know if there’s any news.’
Caldas walked over to the door. When he came out into the corridor, he recalled another image from the film with the fat nurse: now she was walking down a corridor with a syringe in her hand.
‘Leo, Leo!’ the door of the autopsy room opened, and Guzmán Barrio asked him to come back.
‘Is there anything else?’ asked Caldas, once back in.
‘Yes, sorry, with all that talk about formaldehyde I almost forgot to tell you about the rest,’ Barrio blurted out. ‘There’s another thing, and if I’m not mistaken it might be relevant to the investigation. Remember yesterday, how surprised you were that Reigosa might have had sexual intercourse before he was killed?’
The inspector replied he did, an
xiously awaiting the doctor’s conclusions in that respect.
‘Well, I wasn’t able to find any evidence indicating that Reigosa had sex the night he died,’ informed Guzmán Barrio, ‘but I wanted to ask you something – do you know if he was gay?’
‘Reigosa?’
‘During my examination I found signs that point in that direction.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Leo Caldas, as he saw the fat nurse with the syringe disappear from the suspects’ line-up.
‘I’m only saying it’s reasonable to suppose so, Leo. As you know, the ignorant assert while the wise think things over.’
As the inspector left, he remembered what Rafael Estévez had said on the eighteenth storey of the Toralla tower about the saxophonist’s sexual orientation. Sometimes, an ignorant man can be assertive and right.
Solvent
A jazz saxophonist, Luis Reigosa was single and lived alone. His mother lived in a small house on the seashore by the Pontevedera inlet, in the fishing village of Bueu, which was also his place of birth. He didn’t have any known siblings or a known father. According to the security guards at the entrance to Toralla Island, he was a quiet man, even if he lived mostly by night. He played the sax with his band four days a week at the Grial, a bar on the edge of the city’s old quarter. There were three members in the band, including Reigosa himself. The other two were the Irish bass player Arthur O’Neal and the pianist Iria Ledo. Reigosa had also taught as a supply teacher at the municipal conservatory of Vigo.
It was a beautiful day, bright and clear, without a cloud in the sky, and Rafael Estévez drove in silence. Leo Caldas spent the drive examining a report drawn up by Officer Ferro from forensics. Its many stapled sheets recorded some preliminary considerations, impressions put forward by a few neighbours, the caretaker of the building, María de Castro, and the security guard who was on duty on the night of the crime. The guard remembered seeing Reigosa’s car driving on to the island, but he didn’t recall anyone else being there with him. In any case, he made it a rule not to pry into the identity of guests. He’d seen the vehicle leave a few hours later, in the small hours, and had assumed it was Reigosa who was driving. He blamed this on the darkness and the rain that night.
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