The Deputy Commissioner asked which employee had worked there longest. A woman with greying hair and a double chin said she’d been there ten years. Handal asked to speak to her in private. They went to the office at the back of the store.
“Mrs. Bustillo is dead,” he blurted. “She was stabbed a couple of hours ago.”
She didn’t cry or faint, but seemed overwhelmed with sadness and grief. She said she’d been afraid something terrible had happened because of how abruptly the manager had left and the expression he had on his face. She’d had a feeling. Don Jacinto? Well, he’d disappeared a long time ago, more than three years now. He had an affair, the dirty scoundrel, with his own secretary, a young newlywed. Doña Sofía found out about it and asked for a divorce. The girl’s husband found out too and she heard he tried to blackmail Don Jacinto. A little later, Don Jacinto’s mistress was killed in a robbery and he disappeared. It was like a soap opera.
“But you don’t think Don Jacinto killed Mrs. Bustillo, do you?”
“He’s the prime suspect.”
That was hard for her to believe. He’d seemed like such a nice, decent person, though he rarely came to the pharmacy.
Had she ever seen him again?
Never. She had no idea where he was; he was a taboo subject at the pharmacy. Once she heard that he’d become a drunken bum and was living in the slums. She hadn’t seen the yellow Chevrolet and she didn’t know of Bustillo having any connection with snakes, either.
The Deputy Commissioner went outside.
“Thirty-two dead, boss,” Villalta said. “So far.”
Plus the four from the Plaza Morena mall and the two women, all in less than four hours, thought Handal. A real massacre.
“We’ve got to get this nut no matter what,” he grumbled. “Where the hell did he get those snakes?”
It no longer mattered now that Mrs. Ferracuti’s death was accidental. With so many bodies, he didn’t even want to imagine how much pressure he’d be under. He got the picture right away. An officer came to tell him that the Commissioner was on the radio. It was urgent.
Then he saw her coming. Just what he needed: goddamn Rita, with her notebook open and a photographer right behind her, ready to make his life miserable with a million questions and twist the whole story for the morning paper. As if he didn’t have enough to deal with, what with this nut Bustillo roaming through the city streets with his snakes.
“Keep your mouth shut. She’s not getting anything out of you,” he warned Villalta before he stepped up to the microphone.
He knew what he was saying: it wouldn’t have been the first time Villalta spilled his guts to a halfway decent-looking reporter. All the news outlets knew it, and since they’d found out about the detective’s weakness, they’d only sent attractive girls to cover the police beat. Rita, who worked for a sensationalist paper called Ocho Columnas was the worst of them, with her provocative miniskirts, her slender but shapely legs, and the silk blouses she wore without a bra so you could see her nipples.
The Commissioner ordered him to get back to the Black Palace immediately and give him a report in person. The radio stations were saying that a “snake attack” had killed dozens right downtown and panic was beginning to spread through the city. What the hell was this all about? Handal anxiously stuck his little finger in his ear.
“Deputy Commissioner, is it true that the man with the snakes is driving an old yellow car?” Rita asked hurriedly.
Handal told Villalta to get the Nissan they’d left a few blocks away.
“Do you know the suspect’s name? Where did he get the snakes?” the reporter insisted, running behind them.
“I can’t tell you anything right now,” Handal said, turning to face her. “In a couple of hours we’ll hold a press conference at headquarters.”
But she was stubborn.
“Is there a connection between the murder of Mrs. Bustillo and the attacks downtown at the Plaza Morena mall?”
The Deputy Commissioner quickened his pace. They got in the car and tore off at full speed. Rita stayed on the sidewalk, shouting and trying to slip her foot back into a shoe that had fallen off on the way.
They didn’t talk on the ride back. Handal was mentally preparing the report he would give to the Commissioner. He climbed the stairs at headquarters in long strides. The secretary told him to go in right away. The boss was waiting for him.
“We’ve got him cornered,” the Deputy Commissioner said, after laying out the facts and dismissing the theory that the attacks were specifically aimed at Mrs. Ferracuti. Instead, he focused on his idea that a mentally unbalanced man named Jacinto Bustillo was taking revenge on the woman he’d lived with until three years ago. “As soon as we find the car, we’ll get him.”
The Commissioner was beside himself. The President’s private secretary had phoned him to ask what the hell was going on. They couldn’t rest until they found that car. What if the guy was hiding it in a garage? They needed more clues. A drunk couldn’t just wander around with half a dozen snakes in a Chevrolet. Any minute now, he’d show up at another mall and kill a dozen more people. Did that not seem like a lot to him? The press was putting pressure on them; they needed to make a statement, to say something to calm everyone down.
The Deputy Commissioner swallowed a mouthful of saliva. He felt like the hole in the pit of his stomach was growing and he knew that in a few minutes he’d be under attack by a horde of reporters who were only interested in getting him to contradict himself; to say exactly the things he wasn’t supposed to say. He went down to his office. Villalta and Flores were waiting for him.
“What did you get on Bustillo?” he asked the smooth-talker.
Flores repeated the same story Handal had got from the lady at the pharmacy. Also, Bustillo had two brothers, an architect and a doctor, but they hadn’t heard from him either. There wasn’t a trace of the suspect.
Villalta said there was no record of a yellow Chevrolet registered under the name Jacinto Bustillo. Maybe the car was too old.
“Are you sure?” Handal asked, but he knew the mess the files were in since the latest restructuring. “I’m going to have to make a statement to the media. Commissioner’s orders. Things are heating up. Nobody knows what’s going on. We’ve got to calm everyone down.”
“Boss, if we describe the car, won’t we be alerting the suspect?” Flores asked.
But the description of the car had already been leaked; it would be better to make photocopies of the composite sketch, but not mention Jacinto Bustillo’s name, since there still wasn’t any proof.
What was strange, said Villalta, stroking his large jaw, was that the suspect hadn’t gone into his ex-wife’s pharmacies in either the Plaza Morena mall or downtown.
“Afraid he’d be recognized,” said Handal.
“But he could have at least sent the snakes,” the detective insisted.
“Maybe they’re not that well trained,” suggested Flores.
It was four in the afternoon when Deputy Commissioner Handal entered the Black Palace’s pressroom. He was tense, right now he hated the Commissioner, a guy who was too young and too naïve for the job. A guy who was forcing him to meet with the press when he still didn’t have good news to report. It was really the Public Relations Officer’s job to show up here. For fifteen minutes he answered the reporters’ questions as vaguely as he could and stressed whenever he had the slightest opportunity that the authorities were on the suspect’s trail and that the public should stay calm and report any suspicious behaviour.
Rita was the worst of them. She was insolent, insisting on asking what the motive was for the murder of Doña Sofía Bustillo and whether that crime wasn’t the key to explaining the attacks at the Plaza Morena mall and downtown, as though she already knew the Deputy Commissioner’s theory about the case.
“I can’t say any more, we’re still investigating,” Handal said curtly before leaving the room. He headed towards his office.
“A woman
called claiming she has some information about the yellow Chevrolet,” Flores whispered to him. They still weren’t far enough away from the reporters. Her name was Beatriz Díaz. She was a storeowner in the Macrópolis housing project. She said that the car had been parked in front of her store until this morning.
Handal took a breath. He walked with Flores and Villalta to his office, sat in the swivel chair, put his feet up on the desk and waited a few minutes for the reporters to leave. He didn’t want any more leaks, he warned them. He told them to go down to the car without attracting any attention; he’d meet them there in a minute. He took the time to call his wife to tell her that he was in charge of this damned case and he wasn’t sure what time he’d be home for dinner.
As soon as he got in the Nissan he ordered Villalta not to put the siren on. But he soon saw how useless his caution had been: there were news vans in front of the store already.
“Goddamn sons-of-bitches!” Handal yelled.
The woman was positively gleeful in front of all the cameras and microphones. She was leaning on the counter, surrounded by bags of candy, canned goods, rolls of toilet paper and cans of soft drinks. She said the yellow Chevrolet had been parked across the street for two weeks, and that a filthy drunk slept in it at night. During the day, he’d leave to commit God only knew what evil deeds. This morning the car had disappeared, driven no doubt by that criminal, maybe because he was afraid the police would get him. A police officer had come by just the night before last.
“A police officer came here the other night?” Rita asked. She was crowded into the tiny space, which was filling up with more and more journalists.
“Yes,” said Niña Beatriz. “I called the authorities to take him away. I didn’t like the look of him. But the officer was weak; the guy convinced him that sleeping in your car isn’t illegal. Give me a break!”
The Deputy Commissioner stepped onto the sidewalk. Exasperated, he grabbed Villalta by the arm.
“Get me the names of the officers who came here last night. I want them right now.”
That was exactly what the reporter from Ocho Columnas wanted to know, but Niña Beatriz said she could only remember that his first name was Dolores. She’d forgotten his last name.
“How did you find out about this woman?” Handal asked a reporter who’d just arrived. He was beginning to lose his temper.
“I don’t know,” the reporter said, shrugging his shoulders. “They just sent me.”
The Deputy Commissioner ordered Flores to do whatever he could to get that old bitch in the patrol car right away. He waited on the sidewalk. Now it turned out that the police had been told about the guy with the snakes two nights ago. Just what he needed.
Detective Flores was on his way, smiling like a good boy, leading Niña Beatriz to the car, paying no attention to the onslaught of cameras, microphones and reporters. They hadn’t gone four blocks before Niña Beatriz told them she’d been the one who called the media. After the other night, she didn’t trust the police anymore and didn’t think they’d show up.
“Are you taking me to headquarters?”
“We have to interview you, madam,” said Handal. “This is a serious case. I’m in charge.”
She told them they were all incompetent – they could’ve caught the guy last night. Why hadn’t they done it? She’d even called city hall to get the municipal authorities to get rid of that bum, but they ignored her too.
“Do you have any idea what the suspect’s name is?” asked the Deputy Commissioner.
She wasn’t so good with names, but Don Eduardo could help them. He’d even talked to him; she’d seen them. Why didn’t they ask him? He lived with his sister Adriana and her husband Damián, on the second floor of Building B.
Villalta manoeuvred quickly. The Nissan did a U-turn, tires screeching, and drove back the way they’d come. The reporters’ cars driving behind them couldn’t keep up.
“Hey, young man, be careful! What’s the matter with him?” Niña Beatriz complained. She said she didn’t understand the part about the snakes. She didn’t think the animals could’ve been in the car the whole time without her or any of the other neighbours noticing. The Chevrolet hadn’t moved in two weeks. The bum left on foot every day with a canvas bag to pick up junk.
They stopped in front of the store again.
“Take a ride around the block,” Handal ordered as he got out. He went to Building B, climbed the stairs to the second floor and knocked on the first of two doors. A woman asked who it was without opening up. “Police. I’m Deputy Commissioner Handal. I’m looking for Don Eduardo.”
The woman opened the door, looking distrustful. Handal showed her his ID.
“Eduardo isn’t here,” she said. “He disappeared two days ago. Come in if you like.”
It was Adriana. She was worried. She’d heard about the old yellow Chevrolet on the news, the one that looked like the car that had been parked out there on the street. Eduardo had tried to talk to the owner.
“When was the last time you saw him?” Handal asked without entering.
“He left on Thursday morning and he hasn’t been back since. It’s really strange. Eduardo always comes back here to sleep.”
The Deputy Commissioner knew that this was going to be a new development in the case, one of those new developments that complicated everything. Especially now that she was saying that her brother was unemployed with a history of behavioural problems.
“Did he happen to mention the name of the man with the car?” Handal asked. He had no expectations; he just didn’t want to hear any stories about a paranoid schizophrenic or anything like that.
“Don Jacinto,” she said.
The Deputy Commissioner’s face lit up.
“Don’t tell anyone else what you just told me,” he warned. “It’s very important. I’ll be in touch with you. If your brother shows up, let me know right away.” He gave her his card, took down her telephone number and hurried down the stairs. Villalta was waiting for him with the engine running.
“We’ve got him,” the detective said as he was pulling out. “It’s Officer Dolores Cuéllar.” Niña Beatriz, who was sitting in the back next to Flores, confirmed the name. Of course, that was the good-for-nothing from the other night. She could identify him and accuse him of negligence if they put him in front of her. But Handal had something else on his mind: keeping Jacinto Bustillo’s identity secret so the press couldn’t tip him off. They went into the Black Palace’s parking lot.
“You two get a thorough statement from this lady and from Officer Cuéllar,” Handal ordered. “I’ll see you in my office in half an hour.”
Flores and Villalta turned to look at each other in disgust – they’d better forget their Friday night plans.
It was five after five in the evening when Handal locked himself in his office. He hung up his jacket and started pacing in front of his desk. He needed to think, to get the facts straight, to find new leads to investigate. He took out a black marker and wrote “Sequence of events” on his whiteboard. Underneath, he wrote “11:30 am to 11:45 am at Plaza Morena mall. Between 12:30 pm and 1:00 pm in San Mateo. 1:40 pm on Darío Street.” Then he went over to the map of the city that was hanging on the other wall and followed the route from the store in the Macrópolis housing scheme to the other three locations. Where would he attack next? Would he attack again? If his theory was right, then the guy was obsessed with his wife and her property. That’s what the facts were pointing to. He picked up the phone and asked to be patched through to Flores.
“I need a list of all of Mrs. Bustillo and her close family members’ property,” he said. “City homes, country estates, beach houses, whatever. Villalta can interview those two witnesses, but you take care of this.”
That wasn’t necessary, Flores explained. They were finishing up right now with Niña Beatriz and Officer Cuéllar. Just then, the Deputy Commissioner remembered Eduardo Sosa’s disappearance, the only person who’d spoken to Jacinto Bustillo
in three years. Was it just a coincidence, a completely different case, or was he Bustillo’s first victim? Something else didn’t fit – if the police had been to see him on Wednesday night, why did the suspect wait until Friday morning to leave the Macrópolis housing project and start his crime spree? And most troubling – where did he get those snakes from and how was he controlling them?
Handal picked up the receiver again. He wanted the chief forensic psychologist to come to his office as soon as possible and help develop a profile of Bustillo that would predict his next move and his possible hideouts. But Vargas, the head of the psych team, had already left, the secretary said. They’d better get him here right away, wherever he was, the Deputy Commissioner fumed.
Flores came in.
“There’s a beach house in San Juanico,” he said. “Doña Sofía’s only sister lives there. That’s it.”
Handal ordered him to tell the authorities in San Juanico about the yellow Chevrolet and get them to watch the victim’s sister’s house discreetly. He asked if they’d checked on Vargas yet, but he still hadn’t shown up.
“We’re going to do some surveillance tonight,” he said. “With this nut on the loose, I don’t want any more surprises.”
Flores shrugged his shoulders like someone who’d already resigned himself to the task. Handal looked at his watch. It was twenty to six. Jacinto Bustillo hadn’t attacked in four hours. Where could he be? Handal decided to take advantage of the hour and go home to take a shower, have a proper dinner and relax for a while. He’d think of something while Flores and Villalta kept watch.
That was what he did; only it didn’t relax him. He was worried one of his assistants would call him on his radio any minute to tell him Bustillo and his snakes had reappeared with even greater verve. But once he got in the shower and scrubbed off the dirt from the insane day, he told himself that whatever happened, happened. He’d have to study the break-up of the Bustillos’ marriage in detail with that awful Vargas, if he ever showed up. Something important must have gone down to make the husband turn into some kind of bum. He ate with particular enthusiasm, like someone who’d finally got what he’d wanted most all day – a couple of smoked cutlets, some rice and mashed potatoes. Then he sat down in front of the television with his wife to watch the news and be entertained by his own stern face. He looked like a competent civil servant, even though the Commissioner had thrown him to the wolves without a second thought. Where the hell had they got this theory about a snake charmer who’d gone insane? Only someone like Villalta could feed them that garbage and get them to swallow it. And that shopkeeper Beatriz Díaz looked like she was about to have an orgasm right in front of the cameras. He couldn’t believe it – there was Officer Cuéllar’s mug, looking nervous but happy speaking in front of the microphones. Hadn’t he been told to keep his goddamn trap shut? The good news was that the events at Plaza Morena mall and the mystery of the snakes had pushed into the background the deaths of Doña Sofía and her maid, the clues that led directly to Jacinto Bustillo. Now that the news was over, the best thing was to rest up and catch a few winks right there on the couch. If nothing happened that night, if the man with the snakes just wanted to get rid of his wife and create panic around her pharmacies, then early tomorrow morning the Deputy Commissioner would call for a manhunt in the slums, the liquor stores, and the other places Bustillo hung around.
Dance With Snakes Page 5
