A Killing to DIE For

by P Gaseaux

  Chapter Two

  “Patrol-one-one-seven, your location and the nature of emergency?”

  In the Philippines they always talk in English first. That’s what the national call-center did. No answer right away. The operator pinched the headset and repeated firmly: “Hello, police, fire, ambulance-”

  Some background noise and panting, or what sounded like it -- shallow breathing, clattering, and traffic noises. The operator switched into Tagalog, the national language of the archipelago. No response, so she spoke again, in English. The computers were shaky; no surprise as regular outages resulted from typhoon season so she had writing materials at the ready. The cell network was okay, though.

  “Emergency services, Quezon City center. Please state your business or I must terminate this call…”

  Every day the center took hundreds of merry pranksters, worse since they included SMS.

  “We were attacked,” was the response. Feeble at best, almost like a whisper just like a domestic violence victim. Distant and urgent, a voice with an accent. Panting, breathing and noises in the background; a city street.

  “We have been attacked, my friend has gone…they kidnapped-”

  The operator cut in: “Madam, give me your location and name please.”

  More breathing, a pause. “Luneta, I think -- Rizal Park…”

  “Your name, please…”

  No response.

  “Hello madam, are you still there?” The operator was scribbling details on a pad but with the mainframe down triangulation was not possible.

  “We have been attacked…please come now…my friend was taken away-”

  No point telling the caller to stay calm; the voice muted, verging on a whisper of desperation…difficult to make out above the background; a busy location somewhere in the capital. “Give me your name please ma’am -- hello -- are you still on the line?”

  The voice was fading now, distant. “My friend, he is a foreign citizen. He has been taken…please come…”

  “Ma’am please identify yourself first…hello, ma’am. Hello…”

  The line had dropped out. The operator redialed the sender-ID but nothing; the line was dead. She double-checked the note and sent a radio call to a mobile dispatch before filing the paper and taking another call.

  ‘…a foreign citizen.’

  The emergency response operator pulled the note and pinned it to the top of the dead computer screen; someone should be informed and as soon as a break in the calls came she would deal with it.

  The Chevrolet van cruised and flowed with the stop-start, not drawing any attention at all, unlike the chaos within. A hostage; unconscious and trussed on the metal floor, two stooges in the back; one nursing a baseball-sized hole on his upper forearm and the second panting and breathing, his knee on the neck of the hostage pinning him. Yelling at them was a big Ulsterman and in the front driving was another man, a third Nepalese killer at the wheel. On cue, they’d snatched the male hostage but the dame they were after had escaped; she’d bitten the henchman’s arm before disappearing. She must’ve had jaws like a pit-bull; teeth like a spring trap…they knew how to dress a combat injury and wrapped the wound to stop the flow of blood.

  The Belfast man swore and punched the inside of the vehicle with heavily tattooed arm; his backups looked at each other as they did every time their boss was having tantrums. Put a dent in the panel. He spat as he reached down and cleared the hostage’s pockets -- wallet, cell, cash and a handwritten envelope; surface mail with stamps. Some Xerox-copies of a local visa and the guy’s passport; they’d gotten the right one. Couldn’t believe it, the male target was six foot tall and succumbed quickly to the sleeper-hold he’d applied but she -- little snake -- had managed to get away from the vice-like grip of his henchman, his muscle, now doubled over in front of him, minus half his forearm.

  “Sarge…” The second man looked up from the floor of the van at the Ulsterman who was wound up in his own anger. “Mister Walker!” He reached up and tugged at his boss’s shirt.

  “What?” he snapped, in the last kind of accent somebody would to hear when alone, in a back alley; late at night.

  “I think this one is dead. He’s not breathing.”

  “Must’ve broken his neck.” He paused a moment. “Never mind, they said to make an example of them both. A message…” He mumbled under his breath. “Save us the trouble later on.” Walker leaned and with a single movement grabbed the dead man’s collar and as he lifted him the head lolled forward like dangling from a coil-spring…broken alright. He dropped the lifeless hostage back on the floor of the van. His mind raced.

  Hit the American’s apartment; maybe the woman, Anna had been shacked up with him, maybe not. Rent a room in the old sector of Manila, not too far from where they had started and drop Hatfield’s remains on the street as a warning; an example. Then wait. Sit tight and watch. With any luck she would show. Put a pair of eyes at the airport too…

  Walker leaned across to the man clutching the huge bite on his arm and adjusted the cloth stemming the blood with his own shirt he had ripped off. He did care for his guys; they were his only family, he’d served with soldiers like these in Afghanistan. All of them, from the British army. The Ulsterman had been cashiered after an inquiry into maltreatment of prisoners but the others had taken discharge. The driver was old enough to be Walker’s father. Lured out of boring occupations like driving security vans and into the syndicate. They took care of business, no questions asked. They could refuse any order but they never did. The Gurkhas of Nepal, the bravest of the brave…one loyalty and that was to their paymaster. And Walker was the one who paid them, on time, always.

  Dawn, typhoon season and the sticky heat of Manila was the only thing out of place in a dull new day. Ninety-plus-million Filipinos would grin and bear monsoon season like a heavy cross, something they got used to. Crops damaged, landslides, watercraft lost at sea and perpetual brown outs. Gusts and showers fanned the decayed streets and traffic splashed through puddles of effluent the color of stale lamb stew. The city and its streets were the same color as the volcanic ash that made up the terrain and surrounding islands; at times it appeared to be sinking back into the earth.

  Ermita-Malate, the old section of the city, it had sprouted up after the Japanese army were expelled...the imperialists had burnt old Manila to the ground and massacred everyone they could round up before MacArthur returned, as he said he would. The area stayed that way ever since, not really a slum, certainly not respectable but it had its attractions. Attractions for local and visitor alike.

  Nobody had any idea who discovered it -- the body -- but word got around this wasn’t just another local person or drug addict. This one a foreign national, black and blue from either a beating or suffocation, who could say? Even the poorest of the poor in the old section did not wish to disturb it; they all knew they’d end up that way, one day…alone and lonesome in a back alleyway somewhere. Superstition or respect for the dead? Bystanders, beggars…then came the reporters. Last the authorities, so the streets would be locked up for the time being.

  Inspector Rocky ‘Rambo’ Guinhava from the local precinct surveyed the area. Rocky was his true name, ‘Rambo’ because nothing fazed him. He noted the orderly fashion the corpse had been placed there in the alley. He surveyed all around at the same time attempting to take control of the situation, secure the crime scene, fend off the media hacks and place more cops. Forensic and the federal NBI would become involved and a mountain of paperwork, legal briefs; it gave them something to do.

  The scientific officer arrived; she set to tagging up the area, collecting samples and taking relevant digitals, pottering away like working in a bonsai nursery. The inspector had always fancied her. She was efficient, smart and twice the person of any of the senior officers they had to suffer and the feeling was mutual. Guinhava had a reputation for being diligent and above all honest.


  “Manganda umaga (Morning) Miss Maricar -- lousy way to kick off, huh?”

  “Morning, Inspector,” replied the forensic officer. “You know, he’s not Pinoy, looks westerner. Certainly a foreigner.” She spoke as she was shuffling through the area, like a sparrow; the rattle gun English-Tagalog of the educated classes. “Sir, I’m thinking...neck broken, he’s blue…lack of oxygen.”

  “Strangulation?”

  The CSI carefully adjusted the corpse, shook her head. “I’ll tell you, Inspector,” she said. “No rigor yet, but…”

  “But what?” said Guinhava.

  “C3, C4, C5 and C6…fully separated. No ligature. No marks.” She slowly lowered the head back. “My Lord, he was held and crushed, by somebody or something. Unbelievable.”

  What possibilities -- Abu Sayaf? Cannot be; the Abu’s behead their hostages amid so much publicity and in any case activity in Metro is sporadic, limited to the odd explosion or hijacking. Gangs? Drugs? Mafia activity? That would be a drive-by or some other gun-crime. Especially so if a foreigner is involved. In any case this one will take some time.

  Everything in this city took time. Guinhava turned to his scientific officer: “Maricar, I suggest get your samples wrapped up then we compare notes. Talk to me if you find anything else. The National Bureau of Investigation most probably will take over this thing. Thousand other things to do around here; be a long day.”

  “Inspector we found these things on his person.”

  She held up a wallet with nothing inside, maybe it had been emptied out. A plastic bag with a stapled stack of photocopies, every single page of a US passport, sealed inside to keep moisture out. Probably his. Visa status was good. They’d left it there to be found…the ID. Guinahava slapped on some exam gloves and opened the Ziploc bag and read them quickly.

  ‘WILLIAM ROBERT HATFIELD’.

  “Thirty one years of age. Just a young man, way too young,” said the CSI.

  The abandoned orphans had discovered this body...they were always there. The gutters and alleys was their home. As the gypsies were being grilled by homicide detectives in polo shirts and jeans the CSI looked at the shivering figures, covered in filthy rags and she smiled warmly at them, touching her white gold crucifix before returning to her job. Not all officers were so kind; indeed vigilante elements hunted and intimidated the beggars but not this day. They were material witnesses, maybe they saw something.

  There but for the grace of God go I…children should never be neglected like this, she lamented.

  The CSI was from a family of culture, good standing and Spanish descent as well as a PhD from somewhere. Only maternal instinct that gnawed at her conscience, the homeless waifs corralled there had less in common with her than a group of Eskimos. She stood and tiptoed over. Whispered in one of the Homicide detectives ear; he was a big burly cop with a Crocodile shirt, a badge on a chain round his neck and a very large pistol dangling off a shoulder-harness. An AMT forty-five; a long-slider.

  “Officer, excuse me?” Spoke in cultured English, this time.

  “Ma’am?”

  The cop moved aside. The CSI outranked the detectives. All of them. She knelt, faced the oldest of the gypsy children, a child of twelve or so. Filthy, hadn’t washed in memory, never been in school yet the waif had bright intelligent eyes. The CSI reached out and touched her arm.

  “What did you see?”

  The waif’s eyes darted back to the detective. She only blinked. Pouted. Afraid. The CSI ruffled inside her protective paper suit and pulled out a wad of cash. Turned and handed it to the man with the forty-five.

  “Detective, get your guys to fetch some treats and ice cream…now please! Enough for every child on this block.”

  The plainclothes cop took the hint, he stepped away and quickly summoned a uniform cop who saluted and dashed up the road with the money. The gypsy children smiled, overjoyed. Closest they’d ever been to Jollibee in their lives was peering through the windows at the rich folks inside.

  The CSI squatted once more and peered at the homeless urchin. Touched the quivering right arm gently. “Who did this?” she whispered.

  The girl blinked once. Frowned. Scared, now. She turned and faced toward the intersection. Pointed at a billboard. A huge billboard at the end of the street, it had a picture of a muscular blonde-haired European male model with a crew cut. Pilot’s sunglasses. And a stern look on his face.

  The CSI stood, she called out: “Inspector!”

  Guinhava dropped the window of his Jeep. She approached. Leaned in the window.

  “One of the kids saw something…foreigners. Maybe Russians....I think.”

  The inspector only shook his head. Russians. They’d never be caught.

  There had been talk around some of the watering holes of a known customer falling off the radar, a westerner who was a big spender and had a corporate job unlike so many others who settled there or drifted through. Expats came and went in all shapes and sizes. First order of the day was to crosscheck the victim’s ID with the real passport and work license, then find an address, rustle up a unit and raid the place.

  He started his Renegade and the morning downpour broke. Officers had closed the area; the traffic was being directed into alternate routes, potential witnesses were stopped and questioned, homeless and the street dwellers rounded up.

  A single distant thunderclap not too far away startled him; Guinhava tossed the cell phone on the seat. A cop -- a police inspector -- casing the streets in one of the world’s most crowded cities…yet things seemed to work, most of the time and when things went wrong there was a reason. A simple reason: disputes, crimes of passion and jealousy. Major crimes. Even rogue elements within the government and the army -- they did shocking things too.

  But to take some foreigner, break his neck like that of a chicken and dump the remains downtown. What had the victim done? And, most important, who had done this to him?

  The ‘standard’ Rabbit Liner bus opened up the throttle and clattered by some paddies. The freeway was raised high above with bridges here and there. Rice had been cut by now leaving lines of tufts poking out through puddles and lakes. On the left side the red sky reflected; it was tranquil. The rain stopped now, it was still and high cloud turning deep crimson as the sun sank and the typhoon named after some brat rumbled away over the South China Sea. Hong Kong lay next in line to be hit.

  Red sky at dawn; seamen be warned…red sky at night, sailor’s delight…

  The diesel sardine-can was packed with villagers and anybody else returning home to the boondocks, well away from Metro Manila. At the very rear was one figure, a female, she rested in the corner. She leaned back and lowered her head out of the air-con ducts as the bus cruised north on the open road heading north to Angeles City, still a few hours to go.

  ‘Boondocks’…a Filipino word.

  This place was so similar on the surface, the rice, the villages, hills a little taller but otherwise exactly the same. Still, she wasn’t in her homeland though. Long way to go yet. The bus and all within reeked of poverty and desperation, though they sat obediently. Not so long ago she walked with the rich and powerful, she could dial up contacts, she could work miracles. Not now. She was just like everybody else here. Though she couldn’t understand them they all looked like her.

  Little Miss Lonesome, tonight...all alone but not lost; she knew exactly where she was headed. Closed the top button on her black jacket to cover up the blood-soaked top underneath; she’d need to change soon. Took her iPhone out and without checking it disconnected the battery and removed the card…just in case. Battery was dead anyhow. A young mother close by was breast-feeding a newborn baby in the next seat and glanced her way, otherwise nobody cared at all. The nursing mom wouldn’t have been fifteen years old.

  It would be nearly eleven by the time they made it. Passengers were getting off -- sometimes in the middle of nowhere. The two of them left
in the rear seat and some elderly upfront. For the ‘Natives’, they were home now but for her she was so far away in a foreign land. All that blood, she’d really hurt the creep; that’s what she always did...anybody who dared to touch her or lay so much a finger on her without permission. They’d trained her well, her people. Blood…bad blood, turned her expensive silk blouse from white to cherry-red. Need to change the thing as soon as she made the bus terminal -- sticky, starting to dry, soon it would stink. Couldn’t let that happen.