The Night Will Be Long, page 35
Jutsiñamuy, staring intently at Beilys, said, “I’m going to explain something, kid. The Brazilian you met is an evangelical pastor who came to your hotel to organize an attack against a Colombian pastor. That’s why we’ve got all these dead bodies. But the Colombian got away, and now he’s striking back, wiping out the enemies who survived the attack one by one. He removed the dead bodies from the scene himself, and now he’s dumping them a few at a time.”
The young man stared at him in horror. Behind the baseball cap and strutting attitude was a frightened little boy.
The prosecutor continued. “That’s why I need you, as a brave, patriotic young man who loves his country, to give an official statement on everything you just told me. Colombia will owe you a debt of gratitude.”
The young man recovered his composure. “And how much do you pay for that?”
The prosecutor glared at him. “We don’t pay anything, damn it. Charging the justice system for the truth is a crime. Whose side do you want to be on, the country’s or the criminals’?”
The young man regarded the prosecutor, unfazed.
“I’d rather be on the side of the people who got a million pesos for telling the truth, if you catch my drift.”
The prosecutor looked at Laiseca, who shrugged. It was illegal; it couldn’t be done.
“That’s not an option, young man. Is that how you repay your country?”
Beilys met his eyes and said, “My old lady was a servant her whole life, and today she doesn’t have a pension. Of my seven siblings, two died working as sicarios and my oldest sister has been a hooker since she was fifteen and right now is in drug rehab. I don’t owe the country a thing.”
Jutsiñamuy looked at Laiseca. “All right, fine,” he said. “Let’s take pity on this delinquent; as far as I can tell he’s not to blame here.”
But it was early still. He wanted to talk to Julieta before building the case with all of the pieces. Her information on Fabinho would cement things.
Men arrived from the prosecutor’s office, and Jutsiñamuy asked to talk to Gustavo the Umbrella, who was being held in a cell. After some paperwork, he was led to one of the small rooms used for questioning.
Seeing Gustavo, Jutsiñamuy recognized signs of the criminality found in the middle classes, related to the government or the army. The kind found in people with profound discontent and longstanding unrest.
He introduced himself.
The man looked him up and down and said he wasn’t going to open his mouth without his lawyer present.
“That’s understandable, but I’m going to ask a few questions. It’s up to you whether to answer or not.”
Gustavo scowled.
“I give you my word that nobody is listening to us or recording,” Jutsiñamuy said, “and I won’t pretend my situation isn’t pretty complicated. What I’m interested in, quite apart from your issues with the law, is your relationship with Pastor Fritz Almayer. We have evidence that you provided security for him.”
Far in the distance, an excavator could be heard digging. The Umbrella looked at the prosecutor with a frown, but said nothing.
“That’s what I really care about,” Jutsiñamuy continued. “You know the pastor and his Brazilian lady friend disappeared, right? Don’t ask me how, but even though the operation went down in his own home, the man got away. What do you say to that! And the worst part is he had no reason to run. There’s no evidence against him. It’s weird, right?”
Gustavo the Umbrella rubbed his eyes as if rubbing away sleep.
“Doesn’t seem so weird to me,” he said, his voice tired. “The man’s got God protecting him. Must be nice.”
“But you worked for him,” Jutsiñamuy said. “Doesn’t it seem unfair that he isn’t protecting you?”
Gustavo shrugged. “God knows what he’s doing.”
“Well, in that case you’ve ended up playing Barabbas, but without the pardon.”
“We don’t know that yet,” the Umbrella said.
“In every story there’s one who gets saved and another who is doomed. The key is to make sure you end up on the right side of the bars.”
“And which is the right side?” the Umbrella asked.
“The outside, of course. Which do you think?”
“Are you making an offer?”
“I’m asking about your relationship with Pastor Fritz, but let me tell you a few things I know: You lead his clandestine security team. With a group of former soldiers, you saved him from an attack a couple of weeks ago in Tierradentro, on the road to San Andrés de Pisimbalá, on the bridge over the Ullucos River. It was a brutal attack, but you held your own and got him out of there by helicopter. Later you cleaned up all traces of the battle, including the dead bodies. And things didn’t stop there. You found out which of the attackers had survived and then had them killed, all at the same time on the same day, because that’s what your friend Pastor Fritz requested. Why did he request it? He knew that in the face of the evidence of his far-reaching power, his enemies would buckle in fear and wouldn’t try anything again for a long time. You complied, and now your men, the ones who carried out the ‘executions,’ are gone, taken a powder—am I right?”
Gustavo the Umbrella sat stiff and still, but his upper lip trembled a bit.
“And see here,” Jutsiñamuy continued, “you’ve got a long list of charges now, plus these new ones coming down, which are pretty serious—meaning, on the low end, some thirty years in the slammer, let’s say twenty with good behavior—but since you’re sixty-two, that’s basically a full retirement, while the pastor and his spicy Brazilian are probably already on a beach somewhere, having a great time, sunbathing with a tequila sunrise in hand, waiting for enough time to pass that they can slip back in unharassed. Since you were such good buddies, no doubt the pastor will come visit you in prison and bring you food. But afterward he’ll go home, to his warm bed with the Brazilian and the other girls he’s enjoying, while you, behind bars, will have to endure prison life, which you already know too well. Life’s a bitch, don’t you think?”
Again there was a loud noise in the distance, as if a truck had just dumped a load of rocks. Gustavo the Umbrella looked Jutsiñamuy in the eyes.
“You really don’t have anything on him?” he asked.
“Not a thing, like I said,” Jutsiñamuy confirmed. “If we picked him up now, all he’d have to do is explain why he ran and why you were at his house, but a good lawyer could take care of that easily. We really want to nab this guy—he’s a criminal. He might have even set you up as a scapegoat to be arrested.”
“And if I tell you about him, do I get something?”
“Of course,” the prosecutor said. “If we confirm that he was the mastermind behind the restaurant murders in Cali, that lets you off the hook, since at that point you’d just be the one who did the deed. It would be a ‘principle of opportunity’—it would be in your best interest.”
“I never said I did it.”
“I know,” Jutsiñamuy said, “but it’ll be proven at trial. Just between us, we’ve got everything already. What we need to know is why. And the why is the pastor. Now, I admire you if you still want to cover for him.”
Gustavo the Umbrella stammered a bit and said, “And if I ultimately did say something, how much would I get?”
“Oh, that would be negotiated between your lawyers and us. I can’t really say at the moment because what we’re talking about here, like I said, is between you and me. Nobody’s recording, and there are no consequences. If you tell us the truth, I promise you’ll be better off.”
“You swear?” the Umbrella asked. “Are you saying you’ll let me go if I rat on the pastor?”
“Now you’re getting carried away. I’m not saying you’d be released,” Jutsiñamuy clarified. “But if you turn state’s evidence, it’ll be good for you and for us too. I can’t promise the value of the recompense, but I can tell you it’s in your interest. Think about it.”
The prosecutor stood up from his metal chair, and Gustavo the Umbrella looked at him in surprise.
“You’re leaving?” Gustavo asked.
“I’ve said what I had to say.”
“I’m going to talk to my lawyer and have him negotiate with you, because the pastor is involved. He hired me. I saved his life in Tierradentro. The restaurant killings, like you say, were his orders; all I did was make the contacts.”
Jutsiñamuy tugged at the knot of his tie. Then he said, “We already knew all that, what matters is that you’ve said it. That’s the only thing you can negotiate. Good luck.”
They went out onto the street. It was hot.
“Now what?” Laiseca asked.
Jutsiñamuy, his neck stretched upright like a giraffe’s, replied. “Now we wait for this guy to break completely, but we know the important stuff. Any news of the pastor?”
“Nothing for now, boss,” Laiseca said. “He vanished.”
“Look for him under this name too—write it down: Arturo Silva Amador. I asked Guillermina to look for priors and she should be calling back soon.”
Three hours later he was back in Bogotá. Hearing a polite knock at his door, he recognized his former secretary. “Come on in, Guillermina.”
She entered, holding a folder. “I have several things for you,” she said hurriedly, barely looking at him, “and I’ll start from the beginning. To kick off, Arturo Silva was born in Florencia, Caquetá, on December 30, 1965 . . .”
“Weird date to have been born,” Jutsiñamuy said, taking a sip of his tea.
“He got his ID in Florencia and came to Bogotá as a Piarist priest in 1984. That didn’t last long. The next year he appears as a student at the Pontifical Xavierian University. Then he enrolled in an agronomy program at the National University, but he didn’t graduate. He also took classes in philosophy and anthropology. Afterward he seems to have returned to Caquetá, because in 1992 there’s an application for a teaching job at a public school, which he didn’t get. He worked a private school in Florencia as a teacher’s assistant. That’s what the caption says. He was involved in forming a teacher’s union in Caquetá. He’s named in press clippings as its spokesperson and treasurer. I’ve got copies for you here. Then, in 1998, he claimed to have been threatened by the FARC. During that period, there are records of the only two times he left the country. And then, boss, the big surprise. He turns up dead on November 9, 2002. Here’s his death certificate from the local hospital in Florencia. And check this out: it says the body was hit by six nine-millimeter bullets, in the head and torso, and one at the base of the skull, execution-style. It indicates that he had signs of torture such as cigarette burns, four missing fingers, stab wounds to both eyes, and nine pulled and broken teeth; in his throat they found his testicles and penis, which had been chopped up; the forensic report adds that there were also seven deep bites from a lancehead, one of the Amazon’s most poisonous snakes, on his neck, cheeks, and legs; that venom alone would have caused his death. And one final detail: his body was found in three bags, dismembered. Absolutely horrific. He’s buried in the local cemetery.”
“Jesus,” Jutsiñamuy said, “that’s a lot of violence against just one man. And we never found out who did that to him?”
“No charges have been filed, and the investigation isn’t active.” Guillermina opened another folder. “But boss, the interesting thing is that the other man you asked me to investigate a few days ago, Pastor Fritz Almayer, was also born on December 30, 1965. That’s the date he gave the first time he registered in Florencia, on January 18, 1984, but it’s weird because there’s nothing on him until about 2003, when he starts as a pastor at a church called New Nazareth there in Florencia. Doesn’t it seem odd to you that he didn’t leave a paper trail for all that time? Like he was on ice. And that’s it. I requested verification of the documents, but since they’re so old, it’s slow going.”
The prosecutor set down his mug, now empty, on the table. “Well, what that indicates to me is that Arturo Silva Amador and Fritz Almayer are the same person, right? It makes sense. The life of Arturo Silva, with his experiences with different religious orders, philosophy, and anthropology, served as a foundation for constructing a religious discourse, which he now offers his followers. And the description of his appalling death turns out to be pure fiction.”
That must be what Julieta is coming to tell me—she’ll be here tomorrow, Jutsiñamuy thought, but he didn’t say it to loyal Guillermina.
“That’s what I think, boss.”
From the airport in Panama City, the final layover on her way back to Colombia, Julieta texted Jutsiñamuy: I’ll be at El Dorado in two hours.
And Jutsiñamuy replied: I’ll meet you there. I need to talk to you.
The prosecutor waited for her at the gate and they headed to a police room in the airport, where they drank coffee and talked. Julieta recounted at length what she’d learned from her conversations with Fabinho Henriquez. Then Jutsiñamuy gave her a detailed report on the operation against Pastor Fritz, his escape, and what they’d managed to find out about the gun battle on the Ullucos River. Finally, he said, “We also verified Arturo Silva Amador’s identity, and it corroborates what you found. He and the pastor are the same guy.”
“All right,” Julieta said. “That means we’ve got the whole story, right? I don’t know if you’ll have an easy time chasing them down and arresting them. But as far as I’m concerned, the information’s all there.”
“Using Gustavo the Umbrella’s statement,” Jutsiñamuy said, “we’ll be able to indict Pastor Fritz, but as I said, that will depend on his negotiations with his lawyer, so it’ll be a while. As for Fabinho Henriquez, we could issue an extradition order to France, to be sent to Cayenne. The statement from young Beilys David at the Jamundí Inn, identifying Henriquez as the brains behind the attack, will be key. We could use that to explain those dead bodies.”
“There are too many of those, as usual,” Julieta said.
“Sadly, you get used to it in this country,” the prosecutor said. “One more thing: did Johana manage to track down the boy’s mother?”
“I’m supposed to go see her now. She said she’s got news.”
“That girl is a gem,” Jutsiñamuy said. “You don’t know how lucky you are to work with her.”
“I know. I’ve got to go. Hey, are you going to hold a press conference about the case?”
“Maybe,” the prosecutor said, “but not everything. We’ll have to provide updates on the murders in Cali. We’ll say it was score settling, which happens to be true: it was an extension of the fighting in Tierradentro, which was an attempt to settle a score. Later, once we’ve captured the pastor, we’ll be able to tell the rest. For now the story is exclusively yours, as we agreed at the start.”
“Thanks for holding up your end,” Julieta said. “Talking to you gives me hope.”
“I’d love to talk about more pleasant topics, but this country makes that impossible, with these horrible things that happen. You always have to put off the good stuff till later.”
“But this is the country we’ve got,” she said. “What can you do.”
SUN BEHIND THE CLOUDS
Julieta arrived at her office a little while later in an airport taxi. Johana was on her computer, working, and Franklin was surfing the internet on the tablet. They said hi. Immediately Julieta could tell that something was wrong. Johana looked like she was about to fall apart. Maybe she simply hadn’t gotten much sleep, but her appearance was alarming.
What was going on?
Johana started to speak but couldn’t as she struggled to hold back tears.
“What’s wrong?” Julieta asked, grasping her colleague’s shoulders.
“While you were away, boss, I got a call . . .” Again she contained herself. “My brother Carlos Duván—do you remember him? He was a social activist in Buenaventura, in the El Cristal neighborhood. He’d been there a year, working with displaced people . . .”
“What happened to him?” Julieta asked, feeling distressed.
“He was taken by these guys on motorcycles . . . It’s been four days. His wife called to tell me. They have a three-year-old son . . .”
She started crying again. Franklin, at the computer, seemed to sense it and looked at them, but immediately looked back at the screen.
“And nobody’s called to make any demands? It’s not a kidnapping?” Julieta asked.
“No, nothing. They’re taking people who used to be members of the FARC.”
“Oh, God. I’m so sorry. We’ll have to wait, Johanita. Did you tell Jutsiñamuy?”
“I didn’t want to—I’m afraid they’ll find out, and if he’s still alive, they’ll do something to him. Though there isn’t much hope. Four days . . . They’ll have killed him by now.”
Julieta hugged her. “Hold on. I’m going to call Jutsiñamuy and ask him to help. I just saw him at the airport.”
She dialed her phone and explained what had happened, giving all the facts: Carlos Duván Triviño, thirty-four years old, El Cristal in Buenaventura, four days ago, social activist.
“Social activist?” Jutsiñamuy exclaimed. “Oh, crap, those folks are getting chopped down like sugarcane. Sorry. In that region there’s not much hope, but don’t tell her that. I’ll see what I can find out.”
“Thanks. You can imagine how important this is.”
“Of course, you can count on me. Give Johanita my best. What a business.”
Julieta hung up and hugged Johana. “He’s going to help us. Hopefully he can do something.”
“Thanks, boss. It’s rough . . . He surrenders his weapons and ends up disappeared.”
Julieta said hi to Franklin, heated up some coffee, and offered Johana a cup. Reluctantly she accepted it.
