The Night Will Be Long, page 12
The assistants turned the corpses over. Once more they saw the open hand, black and gray, and the words “We are healed.” Jutsiñamuy bent down as close as he could.
“Do you have a magnifying glass?” he asked.
Piedrahíta handed it to him and Jutsiñamuy took a careful look.
“All right,” the forensic pathologist said, “tell me what you’re thinking, would you?”
“I want to see how new these tattoos are.”
The pathologist studied them and said, “To the naked eye they don’t look very old, but we can analyze the ink.”
“That’s perfect. I need to know if the tattoos were done after death or if the men had them already.”
“We’ll need proper tests for that. Leave it to me. As soon as I find anything, I’ll call you. I understand your urgency—it’s an interesting idea.”
They parted ways and Jutsiñamuy returned to his car. As he drove back to the office, he got a call from the technical investigation unit.
“We have the information on the calls you asked for. But it’s highly confidential. Shall I bring it by your office?”
“Yes, leave it with my secretary.”
“This has to be delivered to you directly, sir. You know how it is. These are delicate matters.”
“I’ll let you know as soon as I arrive. I’m on 26th now.”
In the office, he weighed the various theories. If the tattoos were recent, as Julieta suggested, maybe one side was trying to send a message, a warning, to the other. Or just to pin the blame on them and bring them to law enforcement’s attention, figuring the authorities would notice the tattoos and follow that lead in the investigation. A way of getting rid of the enemy—but which side?
Best to keep the tattoo lead under wraps for now. The case was starting to draw media attention, though they were completely in the dark as to the facts. The prosecutor was happy to avoid that pressure. He called Laiseca.
“What have you got for me today?”
“Nothing yet, boss, apart from it’s boiling here in La Sultana. We still haven’t finished digesting yesterday’s sancocho stew.”
“Don’t you know it’s against the rules to eat sancocho on duty?” Jutsiñamuy scolded him. “The dish violates the Geneva Conventions.”
They laughed.
“I knew about the bandeja paisa, but not sancocho!” Laiseca quipped. “Over.”
“Seriously, now,” the prosecutor said, “go talk to the families of the two men we identified. They were informed last night. We told them that once the analyses in Bogotá were completed, the remains would be brought to Cali. All right? And tread lightly. We need to find out who the men were and why they were killed. That’s it.”
“Oh, is that all? It’s easy to ask,” Laiseca said. “The hard part is getting people to answer.”
“If you pull it off, I’ll recommend you for a promotion,” Jutsiñamuy said, “so get moving. Is Cancino with you?”
“Yes, boss, right beside me. Do you want to talk to him?”
“No need, I believe you. Look, Laiseca, one more thing. As soon as you talk to the families, call me and tell me what they’re like, OK?”
He hung up just as another call came in from the technical investigation unit. Half an hour later, they delivered a printed list of calls for Chief Genaro Cotes Arosemena and the station in Inzá. Organized in several columns were times, dates, durations, and phone numbers. The surveillance guys had written in the name for each number.
He went down the list.
Cotes had made and received thirty-two calls. Damn, Jutsiñamuy thought, this guy’s a social butterfly. He checked the names: three from the wife, one from the mother, six to police officers, a mysterious Yuliana had called him four times and gotten six calls from him, nine to police numbers. He also found two long conversations with a private cell phone, no name. The first, incoming, lasted thirty-seven minutes; the second was an hour later and a bit shorter, eleven minutes. He called the electronic surveillance people and mentioned the two calls to a private number—could they find out anything more?
“That one’s got added security shielding it,” the technician said. “We were able to identify the number, but not the name associated with it.”
“What level of security?” the prosecutor asked.
“Similar to what we use here. Should we keep trying? We may need to get authorization.”
“Leave it for now.”
Jutsiñamuy drew a line in his notebook to apply what he called the “jealous husband technique,” in which he worked to come up with a sequence of events that best fit his suspicions. The first call (received by Cotes) could have been somebody asking the police chief to drop the Tierradentro investigation and offering a bribe. That call, with all the discussion and negotiations, could have lasted thirty-seven minutes. Then, an hour and fifteen minutes later, Cotes called that number back and said, Yes, I’m in, I’ll do it.
The theory fit, but there was nothing to show it had to be true. Maybe Cotes had talked to a colleague or relative who worked in security and then called them back to confirm something. There was only one way to find out: dial the number. A bit tricky. From his office? His telephone line was hidden from cell phones.
Before he could change his mind, he lifted the handset and dialed.
One ring, two, three.
Hardly anybody answers the phone these days, especially if they don’t know the number. He figured this time wouldn’t be any different.
“Hello?”
Jutsiñamuy almost fell over at the voice. He’d been so sure nobody would answer, he hadn’t planned what to say. “I’m calling from the Office of the Prosecutor General. With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking?”
There was a silence . . . the clearing of a throat.
“The Prosecutor General? What is this about, if I may ask?”
Jutsiñamuy decided to show his cards. “I’m Prosecutor Edilson Jutsiñamuy from the criminal affairs unit. Please identify yourself and don’t hang up; we are recording this call and have pinpointed the number.”
“Lieutenant Argemiro Cotes, from the Bogotá police. What can I do for you, sir? What’s going on?”
Jutsiñamuy was even more startled to hear this. He thought quickly. “Lieutenant Cotes, it’s a pleasure to speak with you. I’m sorry to take up your time, but we need to confirm some details for an investigation.”
“Happy to help, sir. Tell me what this is about—I’m getting concerned.”
He had the same last name as the Inzá police chief. A relative? Even better.
“It’s nothing serious, Lieutenant. We’re looking into some bodies that turned up by the road from Cali to Popayán, and I was given your number to follow up on some information, but I see there’s been a misunderstanding. Are you by chance related to the police chief in Inzá?”
The man laughed. “Of course. Genaro’s my cousin.”
“That explains it,” Jutsiñamuy said. “You’ll have to forgive me.”
“No problem, sir, this has happened before. If I can be of any use for the investigation, you can count on me. Do you have my cousin’s number?”
“I’ll track it down, Lieutenant, don’t worry about it. Have a good day.”
He hung up and raised an eyebrow. A cousin?
He’d have to look into it. Argemiro Cotes. Police lieutenant. Cousin of the Inzá police chief. Excellent.
THE LUMINOUS VALLEY
The two women arrived in Cali mid-afternoon and got a room at the El Peñón Hotel, near the Dann Carlton. Two single rooms on the fifth floor, right next to each other. Julieta liked this neighborhood, midway between south and north, with lots of great restaurants and bars. New Jerusalem Church was north, in Menga, by the turnoff to Yumbo. They planned to attend the noon service the next day to hear the sermon and see what the church was like.
“Find out what you can about this man,” Julieta said. “I’ll see you in a couple of hours for dinner.”
“No problem, boss,” Johana said.
Julieta went to her room and got in the shower. She’d been hot all day, but now that she was naked in front of the deluge of water, she couldn’t face a cold shower. The water felt freezing; she had to make it warmer. She sat back in the tub and plugged the drain. She couldn’t stop thinking about the kid. Franklin. Had he really been kidnapped for talking to them? It was just a theory, she knew—if he’d actually been working with Father Fritz and his people at the Alliance event, what did he have to fear? She should disregard Pastor Cuadras’s claims and keep looking.
Suddenly something lit up in her head.
She got up and, dripping, went to rummage in the room fridge. There were two small bottles of Blanco del Valle aguardiente, unsweetened. A bottle of Viejo de Caldas rum, the famous “twat loosener” of her youth, and two of gin. Among the sodas she spotted a Sprite. She grabbed a large glass, poured in the bottles of gin, and topped it up with Sprite. A Colombian gin and tonic, she thought. Clutching her drink, she headed back to the tub, but then she remembered her cigarettes. “Shit,” she said, spotting the no-smoking symbol. She called down to reception and asked if there was a smoking room available.
“Go ahead and smoke in that one,” the receptionist said. “I’ll make a note.”
The tub was full, so she got in and, shaking, closed her eyes to hold onto the moment of pleasure. Then she lit a cigarette and took a long sip of her drink.
Such restfulness, such peace.
A gray cloud passed over her mind when she remembered she hadn’t called her boys, but her inner adolescent immediately snapped at her: Leave them alone, they’re with their dad! Enjoy this. She took another sip. The flavor of the gin was a wash of cool water, something intrinsically and morally good. She felt primitive. An animal on a rock beside a lake.
The kid—was he really a kid? Yes, he was. He must be around thirteen or fourteen. Say what you like, you’re a kid up till fifteen. A FARC commander had said that in the guerrilla forces, as in the rural tradition, boys are considered men at fourteen. At that age they go to live with their brides, who could be thirteen, and children come along at fifteen.
But just because it’s normal in the countryside doesn’t mean it isn’t completely uncivilized, she thought. They also confine women to the house to cook, clean, grow vegetables, and procreate. It may be tradition, but that doesn’t mean it should be respected.
The kid, the young man. Had he been the one who came into their room? What was that strange familiarity she’d sensed from him when she first saw him? She couldn’t get that idea out of her head. The kid’s face smiling in the church, the way he cocked his head as if to say, what took you so long?
He’d been waiting for them. He spent his afternoons on the internet, so he obviously wouldn’t be able to tolerate rural life. He’d seen other worlds. Maybe he’d run away from his impoverished mountain life. Julieta repeated the notion to herself, but she wasn’t persuaded, and her worry swelled again, inflamed because of her own children. Johana didn’t feel like this. She got sad when she associated the kid with her past life in the guerrilla, but then promptly forgot about it. Julieta was a mother, so it bothered her more, calling up her own fears. It terrified her to picture him as one of her sons.
Suddenly something strange happened (time, her thoughts), and her glass was empty of the delicious gin. I finished it already? she wondered, with a rising panic and a guilty grimace. She got out of the bath and went to the fridge. She stared at the Blanco aguardiente for a while, but refrained. She poured some Sprite into the glass and lit a cigarette.
She returned to the tub, but the sweet taste was cloying. She stretched out her arm and picked up the bathroom phone to dial reception. “Could you bring me some little bottles of gin, the ones from the fridge?”
“Absolutely, how many would you like?”
She pondered a moment. “How much are they?”
“Seven thousand pesos.”
“Send up six, thanks. And two Sprite Zeros.”
A little while later she had a delicious drink in her hand once more. She took a big sip and felt its protective embrace. She could sink back into the blind zeppelin of her fantasies and fears, her musings and endeavors.
She was jolted by the ringing telephone. It was Johana.
“Did I wake you, boss? Sorry. But I found something good.”
“Go on.”
“I started reading the forums for the church people, and I see there are a few women who talk about Pastor Fritz, but not as a religious leader, as a man. Saying things like he’s strong, he’s athletic, he has nice legs. There are comments in several chat rooms and even on Facebook. One young woman says, “Getting involved with Pastor Fritz is playing with fire. I did it and got burned. Watch out, ladies.”
“That’s fantastic,” Julieta said, energized by the drinks. “Try to find out more and line up some appointments. Hey, another thing: you should order room service. I’m tired, so I’m going to stay here. Or if you’d rather go out and meet a friend, that’s fine. I’ll see you tomorrow at breakfast.”
“Thanks, boss, but after seventeen years in the guerrilla I’d best not be seen around here. If I show up in the neighborhood, the gossip mill cranks into gear. I’ll just keep working. See you tomorrow.”
“All right. If you find anything big, call me back.”
“Of course. Good night.”
Julieta closed her eyes and heard the snorting of that animal as it awoke inside her, pounding the cage with its hoofs.
She filled the glass again and lit another cigarette. She remembered the fuzz on Johana’s belly and shivered. She reached down and touched her own. There were the extra kilos and the stretch marks from two pregnancies, plus a horizontal scar where no hair grew. When she hadn’t waxed it looked like a crater, a balding skull.
She poured another two bottles and remained in the water, her mind wandering, conscious of the soundtrack of the animal huffing inside her. She still had two bottles of gin left, so she figured she could control it. She closed her eyes but was swamped by a jumble of images: the kid in a dark basement, shaking with fear, scared and alone. Who? It could be the evangelicals. She recalled Pastor Cuadras’s halitosis and retched, but rinsed her mouth with a sip of gin and pulled herself together. Gross. Her mind turned to the common assumption made of a pastor or priest: that he’s a pedophile. Was he keeping Franklin tied up in a room to abuse him? That seemed even more awful, but it was only an idle thought. She went back to the previous images. She imagined the pain of torture and, via a strange crossover, felt a craving for pleasure. She would have liked for a man to walk in just then, maybe a guest who’d gotten the wrong room. And end up rolling around in bed. Even if her body was no longer attractive, she still felt the same desire she’d felt as a teenager, when she’d had dozens of idiots after her. What she wouldn’t give for one of those! She picked up her cell phone and typed into Google, “male escorts Cali.” The ads appeared. “Afro-Colombian student. I can help you confirm certain anthropomorphic stereotypes.”
She laughed and nearly dialed the number, but she imagined the scandal: an assault and the hotel staff rushing to save her; or even worse, the young man secretly filming her and then blackmailing her. No, she said to herself, that can only happen in Bogotá, with the ones I can trust. She was pretty drunk when she finished her glass, but still wide awake. She didn’t feel like calling down to reception for more gin, so she opened the aguardiente and mixed it with Sprite. At least it was unsweetened. To make things worse, on the other side of the wall a couple was enjoying some foreplay. Though they were speaking quietly, she was able to catch a sentence or two. “Go slow, it’s my first time this way,” a woman’s voice said.
That was the last thing she remembered.
When she opened her eyes she saw cigarette butts floating in the tub. The water was black and foul-smelling. The ashtray had slid off the edge, as had the glass. The water was very cold. An unbearable shrieking assaulted her until she realized someone was calling on the bathroom phone.
She answered. “Yes?”
“Jesus, boss, I was getting worried. There’s only half an hour left for breakfast—they stop serving at ten. I’m down in the restaurant.”
It was Johana.
“Oh, shit, what time is it?”
“Nine thirty.”
“I overslept. I’ll be right there. Tell them to wait for me.”
Full of self-loathing, she gathered the cigarette butts and stood up. Her head was pounding, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed. At least she hadn’t left the hotel. Somehow she’d managed to control the wild beast.
When she looked at her cell phone, she saw lots of messages. Several old friends were texting her. They were replies. She was terrified to read what she’d written them the night before while drunk. Three were from Silanpa. “I’m pouring myself a gin along with you,” the last one said. Reluctantly, she scrolled back in the conversation to see what she’d sent. “I’d like to have you here in the tub with me.” She erased the conversation without reading the rest. And the others? She deleted them without looking at them. One of the chats provoked a particularly acute wave of shame: a guy she’d slept with once last year. What had she said to him?
Best to forget. Or not to know.
Menga, just north of Cali, is famous for its nightclubs and motels. By law, Cali’s bars had to close early on the weekends, so Menga, which was in a different district, was full of bars that could be open all night. People would go there to keep partying till dawn or to recover, now paired up, in one of its imaginative motels: Motel California, Kamasutra, Eros, or the famous Geisha, a Japanese-style place. All in a sea of gas stations, parking lots for semis, and fake-rustic restaurants. It’s at the northern edge of the city, on the way to Yumbo, the industrial park, and the new developments in Dapa, heading up into the hills, where some Cali residents flee in search of cooler temperatures and respite from the clamor of the city.
