LitWit Challenge 3.10: Manila’s Finest
Photo: Manila in the 1960s. Your detective has to work in Manila 2010.
London has Sherlock Holmes. Paris has Inspector Maigret. Bangkok has the half-farang Sonchai Jitpleecheep. New York has Nick and Nora Charles, Los Angeles Philip Marlowe. Vigata, Sicily has the world-weary foodie Inspector Montalbano. Vientiane, Laos has Dr. Siri Paiboun, Edinburgh Inspector Rebus, Rome Aurelio Zen.
Where is Manila’s famous detective?
“But crimes don’t get solved and anyway by the time the detective arrives at the crime scene the kibitzers have trampled on all the evidence and gathered up souvenirs” is not an answer.
We still want a brilliant detective to lead us through the fetid labyrinths of Manila and its environs.
Your assignment for LitWit Challenge 3.10: Create a great Manila detective in 1,000 words or less. This detective may be female or male, a member of the police force or a private investigator. The setting must be contemporary Manila. What we want is a character so sharply-defined, memorable, and evocative of our wild and crazy city that in the future when we hear the character’s name we immediately think of Manila.
We know 1,000 words isn’t enough for a convoluted mystery, so don’t worry about plot. We’re more interested in characterization. Just introduce the detective at the start of the mystery. They could arrive at the scene of the crime, report to the office of their superior, or meet a potential client. We have to know what they look and sound like, the general state of their personal lives, any personality quirks they might have. Obviously they have to be good at their job. A problem with authority is usually interesting, but not a requirement. A favorite expression (“Elementary, my dear Watson”) also helps.
The detective/s we choose in this challenge will star in LitWit Challenge 3.11.
The deadline: Monday, 18 October, at 11.59 pm. The prize:
The Weekly LitWit Challenge is brought to you by our friends at National Bookstore.
Get to work.
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An entry has arrived! triphammer is the first.
Answers to questions you might be asking, unless you wandered onto this site purely by accident >>>
October 13th, 2010 at 05:26
a question please: can the “detective” start out as something else? ie. not really a cop or a private eye?
October 13th, 2010 at 15:57
“He says ozone is his favorite pollutant.”
Inspector Roland Raya shrugged as he bent over the charred corpse for a closer look, a cupped hand covering his nose and mouth. “I never gave it much thought,” he replied with a muffled voice.
“I had to ask him what ozone was,” continued SPO2 Jimuel Placido, who by now had already gotten used to the smell. He looked over Raya’s shoulder. “And you know what he did? He just looked at me funny.”
“It’s a gas,” said Inspector Raya, “with three atoms of oxygen. They do teach this stuff at the academy, you know.” Raya paused, whipped out his phone, and started to dial. “So where is that devil…?”
“Save your load, Inspector.” The voice was gruff, raspy, as if the owner had been drinking gin since birth. It came from behind. “You have something for me?”
Raya looked around, and motioned Dorian Angeles to hunker down beside him. “About time, the smell is nearly gone.”
“Oh, it’s very much there,” said Dorian. “But you shouldn’t be too close, it’ll burn your lungs. Bad stuff, trust me.” He helped the inspector stand up. Dorian wore leather gloves, and it occurred to Raya as he grabbed his hand that he never took them off.
Dorian, at 5 feet 2 inches, stood a full head below the powerful Inspector Raya. However, even when talking to people his own height, Dorian had the disconcerting habit of not looking into their eyes but would instead stare at their collar bone or throat, as if addressing an invisible fairy or intending to go for the jugular. It’s an insecurity he never outgrew. Unlike his namesake, Dorian wasn’t a beautiful man. He had a low forehead, weak chin, and sad looking eyes. His brown cheeks bore pink and white patches that coalesced into a crumpled continent down his the skin of his neck. He always wore a meticulously pressed, white linen barong, with long sleeves that concealed the rest of the burn scars on his torso, his arms and — presumably — his hands.
“I thought you liked ozone,” Raya said. “Jimuel was just telling me it’s your favorite.” SPO2 Placido wisely chose to stay out of the conversation.
“Stratospheric ozone, yes. Most heavenly. But evil at ground level. If inhaled ozone reacts to phopholipids, specifically unsaturated lipid 1-palmitoyl-2-oleoyl-sn-glycero-3-phosphocholine — or the thin goo that lines our lungs — to form free radicals, causing a chain reaction involving saturated palmitoyl strands, forming oxidized lipids with shorter alkyl tails.”
“Oh really???” said Raya. He reached into his breast pocket for a cigarette.
“Well, yes, I am quite sure,” said Dorian. “I like to keep myself up-to-date. The study was just published in October 1, 2010. So yes, Inspector. Really.”
“You mind repeating what you said? You lost me at Lito Lapid.”
Dorian kept his eyes fixed at Raya’s collar. “With ozone,” he said, “you rust from the inside.”
Raya sighed, then lit his stick with a stainless Zippo. “My favorite gas is butane and smoke. Which is what I thought was all that was involved here. Until I noticed the metallic smell.” He always made an effort to prove that he was a cut above the rest of the force. He was proud of his above average IQ. But even his stock knowledge was never enough to impress Dorian Angeles, whom he always consulted in all suspected arson cases. Dorian himself refused to take any intelligence test, fearing that the system will expose him as an imbecile.
The cops called him the Burning Man. Dorian hated the nickname, and cops in general, but he liked Inspector Raya. The feeling, however, wasn’t mutual. It wasn’t that Raya hated Dorian … he was just afraid of him.
Dorian was Raya’s first case, the victim of a nasty blaze two decades ago that claimed five lives. Six, if you count the suspected arsonist. Dorian was the lone survivor, lone witness, and lone executioner. According to official court records, Dorian leaped out of the burning house, his clothes aflame, and attacked one of the bystanders, who happened to be the barangay tanod. The two men began to burn together before firemen could intervene with their water hoses. The tanod suffered third degree burns, but denied any involvement with the crime up to his last breath. Dorian lived, was charged with arson and homicide, was eventually acquitted based on the evidence, but not before spending five years in the Quezon City jail. SPO1 Roland Raya, the arresting officer at the time, believed in the innocence of the disfigured teenager. He lent Dorian textbooks on criminology, forensics, and even chemistry; upon his release, the Burning Man pursued his interest in the nature of fire, the mysteries of its creation, and its cruel effects.
Dorian proceeded to check the scene. At 4am, the streets were empty except for the gang of street urchins, 7 to 8 year olds, that had reported the burnt body to SPO2 Placido. The SOCO team had yet to arrive.
“Your guess on what caused this?” asked Inspector Raya, pointing to the corpse. “Looks like a young male.”
Dorian was staring at a blind alley. “Cause of death? No idea. The body might have been shot, stabbed, drugged, beaten, or even frightened to death before the fire cooked the remains. Let forensics do their work. Unless you were asking me for the cause of the fire.”
“After all these years, Dorian? Why would I call you here?”
“Right. Sorry. The victim was struck by lightning.”
“Interesting. That would explain the ozone…”
“Not exactly. The smell should have dissipated by now. It hasn’t. Do you believe that lightning never strikes twice, Inspector?”
“I think it’s unlikely.”
“Well, get Placido to take those kids away from here now … there’s another one coming.”
Inspector Raya looked up.
“Not there,” said Dorian. He pointed down the alley where something strange flickered. “Inspector, we need to get everyone out of here now! Now!”
October 14th, 2010 at 01:03
Here is my entry Ms Jessica, sorry words were not enough so I had to post some photos =)
http://www.kumagcow.com/2010/10/manilas-finest-pi-andres.html
October 14th, 2010 at 10:07
ay kainis. the more i read my entry, the more i discover typographical and grammatical errors. :-(
October 14th, 2010 at 11:06
samutsari: You could rewrite and resend your entry, and I’ll delete the first version when it arrives.
October 14th, 2010 at 11:23
ay talaga? sige. thanks!
October 14th, 2010 at 13:36
Jamila Bonda
She wanted to kick the teenage lovers who could not keep their hands to themselves in the jeepney that she was riding, which was en route to Libertad from Dapitan. It was not so much because of the shock that she saw in the elderly couple beside her but that it reminded her that she had not been touched with such abandoned lust since six months ago when she and her lover capped their usual shouting match with a quick copulation that was more painful than enjoyable. To this day, how men can reach orgasm in under two minutes still baffles her.
She just came from Quiapo, where she consults her gods every time she gets a new assignment from Charlie. Ahhh, Charlie. He watched too many movies. After 10 case assignments, she has stopped wondering why he didn’t want to reveal his identity.
The text message at 3am left her awake all dawn. “Hey, JBond. Anoder priest, Halimuyak Inn, Ermita. B der tom. C.” Maybe C stands for cross-eyed. Her chuckle came with a little sound. The matron to her right transferred to the other side and started giving her furtive glances. How she wished the old hag had missed her grip when she changed seats and rolled down the Quiapo bridge while the jeepney was doing 80kph.
She was clearly in a foul mood. Her favorite manghuhula was not in her appointed corner near Jollibee Carriedo. She needed validation from Manang Emma, the undisputed queen of Plaza Miranda soothsayers. She’s feeling less confident about solving this new massacre without having smelled Manang Emma’s breath of beetle nut and overall body aroma, like that of While Flower.
She was in her usual get-up: tattered Levi 501 jeans, white shirt, a sleeveless oversized Canon vest given as a gift by her friend who’s a regular at Mayer’s camera supply in Hidalgo, and synthetic black boots bought at the overcrowded Quiapo underpass.
She liked the vest. Rather, she liked the pockets. She can put in a lot of stuff without having to bring a knapsack – coins, a small notebook, a pen, a manicurist’s pusher bought from Hortaleza (her own version of a balisong), even a sanitary napkin that comes in handy at that time of the month.
Traffic was so slow at the intersection before Manila City Hall. People are rushing. Everyone seemed to be going in the direction of SM Manila. Which gave her the chance to practice her answer to expected snickering of “PI ka ba, ikaw ba si James Bond?” or “Asan ho ang bolang kristal ninyo?” Maybe this time, she can use her never-before used spiel. “Baka sawa ka na rin sa buhay?”
When did all start, this knack for looking for clues. It must not have been at age three, when she cried running to her mother who was then washing clothes for a neighbor a block away and in between sobs told her “Tay, dagan Tita, away sila.” It turned out her father was screwing her mother’s younger sister.
It must have been much later, when she would be shooed away from the perya for always betting on the right numbers in games where you pull three wooden blocks, or when neighborhood pickpockets would be caught lying by barangay officials who would clandestinely give her pocket money so she would tell them where the fenced goods were being sold. After getting threats to be burned at the stakes, she and her mother fled and rented a dingy little apartment in Azcarraga, now Recto.
No one knew really how she gained her reputation as an “occult private investigator” or who gave her the tacky moniker “Jamila Bond,” but when money started coming in, she didn’t care. Still, the big break was not forthcoming.
Inside the inn near Plaza Dilao, an uneasy feeling enveloped her. Blood spots dotted the winding staircase, the one where clandestine lovers use as getaway to the cab waiting in the garage. She almost went berserk when she saw three employees frantically scrubbing the evidence. Her senses are strongest when blood has curdled and turned darker. She can see images in even the tiniest of blood spots. Much like the “albularyo” who sees evil-shaped creatures in candle drippings on water. The scrubbers scampered away when she shouted, “Ano kayo, si Ted Failon?”
The inn manager came and brought her to a small storage room. In a corner is the body of the slain priest covered in old newspapers. She put on her surgical gloves. She didn’t have to wait for the Chief of Police or his useless investigator.
A piece of newspaper fell even before she could sit on a stool beside the body. It was a headless body. She almost vomited. This was a good sign. It meant that her senses were working.
She asked for the head. The manager with trembling hands gave her the key to Room 204. She went up the winding staircase. It was only when she entered the room that she noticed that she was alone. At that point, she remembered the terrified look on the manager’s face, who hurried away, mumbling about having to check on some guests.
When she switched the light on, she half-expected to find some blood on the switch. There was none. She heaved a sigh of relief. She looked around and saw that the room had all the trimmings of a birthday party: confetti, an uneaten slice of cake on the side table, numerical birthday candles showing that the celebrant had just turned 50, and gifts scattered on the floor in various phases of being opened. Walking a few steps into the middle of the room, she noticed blood drippings on the parquet floor together with coins and a few pieces of Mentos. Then she looked up. There, hanging and swaying from side to side, mouth open, was the priest’s head. It was the piñata.
Then she felt something land on her head. It started to wiggle.
October 14th, 2010 at 18:46
The money lender was shot once,in the center of the forehead. He didn’t have a chance. Whover did him knew what he was doing–he was cold and brutal–and there were no witnesses to the crime. The 9mm slug was embedded in the wall which was splattered with blood and brain matter. “Money lender na naman pala to. Di ako magtataka kung bakit may magagalit sa kanya,” says the tall man as he bended down to cover the body with a sheet of tarpaulin,which local residents handed to the authorities because “nakakadiri ang dugo at utak,” they said. Det. Bennie Arrienda looked around,looking for a possible reenactment of the crime. The uziseros and pesky neighborhood children made it difficult. It was a tight alley,dimly lit. Somewhere in Sampaloc. SOCO operatives were processing the victim,gathering evidence and taking photos before they remove the body. “Sir,kilala ko po yan. Si Art Bernardo ho yan,madalas magawi yan pag naniningil. Maraming may utang sa kanya dito”,says a middle aged barangay tanod who has no teeth. Det. Arrienda took the man’s statement,along with another bystander. “Narinig lang namin may umungol. Wala hong putok ng baril. Wala rin kami nakitang taong tumatakbo palayo. Nandito lang kami sa kanto,nag iinom ho. Nakita namin dumaan si Ka Art kanina,binati pa nga namin. Wala syang kasama.” Walang putok, ibig sabihin may silencer ang baril,he thought. Det. Arrienda scanned the area,looking for a possible escape route for the suspect. “Alis muna,alis muna”, says Det. Arrienda as he shoos away some kids milling around the police line. This is now the fifth shooting of known money lenders in the Metro. In fact this was why his assistance was asked by the SOCO because he has solved the murder of several other victims in the past five years,all teachers–all murdered with a type of WWII vintage Japanese rifle bayonet. The suspect was identified,but he managed to elude capture and is still at large. The most recent one involving money lenders was just ten days ago-the female victim’s throat was slashed by a “tari”,a small blade that cockfighters put on their fighting roosters’ legs to slash their opponents. She was found bathed in her own blood by her househelp the next morning. Also missing were valuables like laptop,cellphone,jewelry and cash. Police still have no suspect,although they have taken the househelp into custody.
Det. Arrienda couldn’t please his woman in bed the following night. His mind was in the grisly murders. In his twenty years as a member of the law enforcement force he has seen the most bizarre crimes of passion. What stuck in his mind was the horror of the “Cainta cannibal” in 1998. This small,seemingly harmless man of fifty years hacked his wife and two female children to death, chopped them to pieces and for the next two weeks feasted on their bodies. Though the man lived some distance away from his neighbors,they alerted the police after days of not seeing the wife and the two girls,and because of the stench. The family lived on a tiny shack in the middle of a private lot as caretakers of the property foreclosed by a local rural bank. The man claimed poverty and hunger drove him to do it. Det. Bernardo and Cainta police found the putrefying heads of the victims inside a styrofoam chest, along with some of their limbs, torso and feet which the crazed man hasn’t eaten yet.
“Bok, money lender no. five na to”, said Det. Alloy Sanchez. “Mukhang iisa lang ang kumakana dito sa mga to”, he told his partner Det. Arrienda as he scans the police computer file for a possible lead.
“Mukha nga. Naknampucha,pahirapan na naman tayo pare koy. Ilang taon na namang puyatan to” Arrienda added as he loads his Jericho Barack 9mm service pistol and holsters it. “Tara let’s. Me lakad tayo. I shut down mo yang pc na yan.”
And they’re off.
October 15th, 2010 at 03:06
Sorry, made a few additions. Just posted it again.
Hi Jessica, novice writer here, I’d appreciate it much if you can give me comments regardless of the quality. hehe. Thank you!
It was almost 9pm and the captain has just gotten off his 1989 Lancer after a drinking spree at the police station. Clearly this man is intoxicated while in his half open uniform. He alights and nods with a smile to a youngish Tanod passing by. It was an informal acknowledgement, akward to an extent. The captain barely knew the Tanod, but he was one of 17 godfathers at the baptism of the Tanod’s fifth child. It goes with his stature in the community. He then proceeds towards the direction of his home. He walks with a slightly disoriented stare in his eyes while trying to muster respectable strides. The alcohol has barely dried from his lips and the strong odor of cigarette smoke swirls around him.
Coming to a house around 15 meters from his own, an old man rushes towards him on the verge of crying. The man only had a few questions, asked over and over again, seeming to vent his anguish on the Captain.
“Pano nangyari ‘to!? Pare! Wala namang masamang ginawa ang anak ko! Sino’ng gagawa nito sa anak ko?!”
Over and over and over again. The Captain tries to contain his alcohol fueled emotions but naturally, his voice booms at every response. One could interpret it as being aggressive. It’s turning out to be a full blown shouting match as the old man accepts neither consolation nor reason. The Captain is getting flustered red in the face, but tries to look away. His eyes search for the next person he knows. He spots a barangay councilman among the crowd and signals for him to come.
“Konsi, paki-akay naman si Mading. Baka lalong makasama sa puso nya to”, he tells the councilman in his booming voice. Then under his breath, whispers to the same man, “Baka ‘di ko matantya, madoble pa paglamayan ni Cora.”
The councilman takes Mading away, shakes him up a bit while trying to talk some sense into the man. In a forceful whisper away from the crowd, the councilman tells Mading, “Ano ka ba? Naiintindihan mo pa ba sinasabi mo? Si Turing na kausap mo, ayaw mo pa makinig a! ‘Tang ina ka, nakainom yun, nagtitimpi lang sa iyo! Para kang walang tiwala, si Turing na yan ah!”
Mading muffles his cries, the look of realization, fear and assurance all at once is reflected in his eyes. After assuming that Mading’s feelings are contained, the councilman returns to the fray, while Mading slumps on the gutter as realization of his loss sets in again, this time crying in silence.
The captain meanwhile proceeds to the neighbor’s house. This man of stout built and barely 5’7”, cuts through the crowd easily and one can only wonder if it due to either his stature, built or by the stench of alcohol and tobacco emanating from his being. His relations can be identified with the way everyone calls out his name as he passes by. The Captain is Arturo Lucero, Turing to his relatives, neighbors, and closest friends, Turo to his peers, and Art to his clandestine liaisons. He continues to make his way, acknowledging all who calls him by name with simple nods and smiles, while secretly wishing no one calls him Art. Imperfect as he is, his reputation as an excellent investigator is unimpeachable. After all, he jailed the City Mayor once, after remorselessly beating him to near paralysis, as the urban myth goes. Never mind if it wasn’t exactly the truth; that it was a result of the Mayor’s S&M tendencies gone horribly wrong. A quarter of a century after his headline-grabbing exploit, here he is, still doing what he does best, grabbing attention for reasons no one would wish upon themselves.
Before entering the premises, Turo spits a mouthful of saliva on the ground as if to mark his territory. The very sound of his spit landing on the cemented flooring grabs the attention of other cops earlier on the scene and makes them second guess their efforts. He dashes directly towards the stairs, consciously trying to hide his intoxication by moving swiftly and avoiding prolonged conversations. The unavoidable slur in delivering his words might give his state away. Turo is now at the door of Mading’s son’s room. Ronnie, 17, was found locked in his windowless room with his organ severely mutilated, and bled to death.
Ronnie was no stranger to Turing. Turing was well conscious of Ronnie’s existence because aside from being neighbors, the boy was friends with his son Arjun. Turing always had guarded apprehensions of the friendship though. Ronnie was fairly good looking, and Turing always felt at the back of his mind that his son Arjun had inclinations towards the same sex. It was pretty black and white with him, that exploitations of these types of friendship will always be due to advances made by the third sex. He could not fathom the idea of having a gay son, especially one with a boyfriend! Not with his reputation that he has learned to enjoy along with its perks. Not now that he has fortified the threshold of his idea of morality.
Turo pushes the door gently with his middle finger, carefully trying not to contaminate the crime scene. He felt the urge to spit again, only he was on the second floor. Everyone in the house cleared the room when he arrived. He was now alone in the room with Ronnie’s body. In a moment of perverse satisfaction, he murmurs to himself, “Mas mabuti na’ng hanggang d’yan ka na lang”.
After it was evident that only Turo was stirring in the room, he notices movement in the closet. A familiar face peeks through finding Turo’s eyes first. It was his son Arjun, crouched under crumpled bed sheets. In that gaze, Turing Lucero sees his life, his reputation, and all his sense of right and wrong, begin to shatter with the unfamiliar, that of being at the other end of the headline.
October 15th, 2010 at 07:04
Just asking for clarification: Are we allowed to set the story within NCR and not specifically Manila City?
October 15th, 2010 at 09:22
Yes.
October 15th, 2010 at 15:10
Mangtorney (Mang-torni). That’s what his neighbors call him. Finished law, passed the bar in one take with a good enough grade, but never engaged in the practice. So much like his younger brother who finished seminary education, but never took the vows. Runs in the family, his relatives would say. But then his neighbors never knew that bit about his brother. Why, they don’t even know he has one. All they know is that he passed the bar, never got married (it’s no wonder, really, they say) and works for city hall. Period.
Unbeknownst to them, too, is the fact that Mangtorney has actually helped solve, no, make that solved, many of Manila’s high profile cases. He was the one who cracked the mystery of the murdered PR man, whose body was discovered by Japanese tourists having lunch in one of those ridiculously-priced restaurants by the harbor; the missing colegialas of Holy Spirit (“baka kinuha na sila ng Espiritu Santo,” Mangtorney joked ), the rape of the bastard daughter of the city mayor (bayad utang, Mangtorney said), and many others which have reached national headlines that never, not even once, mentioned the name of Mangtorney.
“Mani,” he’d called these cases. Not that they were easy to solve, none of them weren’t, especially as he had his hands full with his job as that-guy-behind-the-counter-who-gives-out-cedulas. (An advantage, some might say as he can likewise access government data, but only if they knew what he does with his free time. A nuisance, Mangtorney feels, but hey, everybody needs to earn a living and have money to bet on jueteng).
He just likes saying the word to savor the look of discomfort on Manila’s long-time chief of police, who has always run to him for help for the most difficult of cases.
Heber, as Mangtorney would call him instead of hepe, and not because he looked like folk singer Heber Bartolome, but another 70s icon, Mike Hanopol without the long hair, was one of two people who had the guts to engage in a conversation with the scrawny and smelly Mangtorney back in college and knew him by his real name, Emmanuel Manuel. Mantorney’s name-calling, however, is something that the chief never appreciated. It was something that he could and would tolerate, though. Like Mangtorney’s smell.
“So ano na, Heber,” Mangtorney was asking now, as he concentrated on whacking the vases on the Zombie Vs Plants’ game, Vasebreaker Endless.
“Pare, meron akong ibibigay sayo,” Heber said, as he took a seat in front of the desk where Mangtorney was busily clicking away. They were at Mangtorney’s home in Sta. Cruz, a neighborhood that was always alive with children running around, housewives sharing the latest gossip, teenagers flirting with each other, and drinking sessions going on and on and on.
“Mani?”
Heber concealed his irritation. Mangtorney kept on whacking.
“Nawawala ang Nazareno,” the chief went on to say, without the paskalye.
Mangtorney stopped whacking. Heber concealed a smile.
While never religious, Mangtorney was a devotee of the Nazareno. He never failed to attend the Friday masses at the Basilica of the Black Nazarene in Quiapo. Just the Friday masses, though, not the Sunday ones. He was very specific about that. He never missed the January procession either. Even when he started having gout.
Now the story behind his devotion to the Black Nazarene is something that his neighbors would love speculating during drinking sessions when their topics of conversation have already run the politics-religion-showbiz-philosophy route. Most of them put forth the idea that Mangtorney found an affinity with the Nazareno’s hair and skin color. Others, the minority, however, would say that he looks more like Amay Bisaya. The more opinionated, and drunk, among them, who are likewise the majority, would insist on the similarity during the height drinking binge, though, but would later withdraw that opinion because of either religious or superstitious conviction (or just plain fear, really).
Mangtorney himself never really divulged why, but his devotion was one of those unchangeable facts about him that Heber knew. Like his smell.
A zombie groan followed by what would, to the unfamiliar, be mistaken as paper being crumpled, but actually was the sound of brains being eaten. End of game, but Mangtorney still didn’t start talking.
“Mani?” Heber bravely asked.
October 16th, 2010 at 18:21
Detective Jane Dela Cruz could not contain her emotions anymore.
“Am I the only thinking person around here?” Jane said.
“I’m sorry po, ma’am, but the hospital said their ambulance left 20 minutes ago,” SPO1 Jonathan Segismundo said. He looked at his watch and pretended to check the time. When he lifted his head to face Jane, he already had an alibi in his mind. “Maybe it got stuck on Taft Avenue.”
“Honey, either that or the driver left the siren in some shabby cafeteria.”
Jane’s dark brown eyes seemed to deepen at her own remark. She decided to check on the victim’s body once more and walked towards the bloody corpse with the grace of a full-grown cat, calm and cautious.
The presence of blood gave her the creeps, but she composed herself well enough for her colleagues not to notice. Pakshet. Jane said to herself. Another journalist was brutally killed. The third victim within the last 30 days.
“Such grace under pressure, Detective Jane,” a mustached man in blue uniform said as he approached the crime scene. “Why are we sending beauty queens to places like this?”
“Two inches short of a beauty queen, Chief Samonte,” Jane said. She put her right arm on the curve of her waist and waved her hair to let her long, jet-black hair fall freely on her breast.
“But those heels you’re wearing compensate enough for what you lack.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment. I’m glad that it came from a cop and not from the captain of Philippine Airlines.”
“O-ho-ho! You’ll certainly pass for a stewardess, Detective Jane Dela Cruz.”
“Oh yeah. Five-two is the minimum, I believe. But I’d rather kick ass than kiss the asses of some wannabe jetsetters. So, no, thank you, Chief Ronald Samonte.”
Chief Samonte’s lips curved from ear to ear as he stood face-to-face with the detective. He gleefully shook her hand before turning his attention to the dead body beside him. He knelt down, shook his head, and heaved a sigh. When he stood up, he was not surprised to see the look on Jane’s eyes. The look of a seasoned detective who already had answers even before questions were asked.
“It’s not what you think it is, chief,” Jane said.
“What? Isn’t it obvious? Three journalists were murdered within our jurisdiction in a span of one month. TV5’s showbiz reporter was bludgeoned in the head three weeks ago. ABS-CBN’s weather forecaster was stabbed to death in his apartment last week. And now, a traffic reporter from the government’s TV station. Shot multiple times in the back on her way to work. Tell me, how are they not related to each other?”
“Well,” Jane said calmly, and she crossed her arms while standing with an inconspicuous air of authority higher than her immediate superior. “For one, the fingerprints we’ve gathered from the weapons used were not identical to each other.
“Secondly, although they were ‘TV journalists,’ they worked on safe and peaceful beats. Thirdly, I think each is an isolated case since the circumstances surrounding these deaths are similar to other murder cases I managed to close; only we are dealing with media practitioners now.”
“I see your point, detective, but the—” Chief Samonte’s counterargument was cut short by the Nokia Tune of Jane’s mobile phone.
Jane pulled the Hello Kitty accessory attached to her phone from her uniform’s breast pocket and answered the line. “Teka,” she said, her index finger facing the chief to signal a timeout in their conversation.
Chief Samonte saw the detective’s face turn to white. And he knew it was not caused by those glutathione pills he forcibly sold to her last month. “Who’s that?”
“I gotta go, chief,” Jane sauntered across the street to go to her car.
“Tell me what’s going on,” the chief demanded.
Jane stopped without looking back. “I got a call from a friend. The local media have tagged me in this recent spate of killings.”
October 17th, 2010 at 13:53
Korte “L”
By Hesus Sisusan
Hindi niya alam na wala na palang tubig pang-inom sa banyo. Wala na rin siyang oras na alamin pa kung hindi naba rin niya dapat palitan ang hiniwang katawan ng toothpaste na dalawang-araw na niyang walang malay na sinasaksak ng toothbrush para tipirin. At dahil wala siyang saplot pangtaas ngayon, di mo rin maiiwasang makita ang hugis wrestler niyang tiyan at braso at masabi na wala na rin siguro siyang pakialam na kahit hindi pa halos kalahating naghilom ang naninilaw na sugat niya sa dibdib na korte “L” at sa saksak ng tinuring na kaibigang pulis nagsimula, pinagpapatuloy pa rin niya ang pagbabasa ng bibliya para sana mabigyan ng kahit anong linaw ang mga kasong ilang NBA season nang nakalipas; kasong tungkol sa mahalay na pagbenta ng pamangkin, kasong pagpatay ng kapatid sa kapatid, paggahasa sa bata ng bata, at ang pinakahuling kasong tungkol sa kung paano o bakit ginawa ng 23-anyos na di pa tukoy ang kasarian na pasukin ang bar exams, kinuha ang test, bago pinagbabaril sa lalamunan ang lahat ng kadugo ni Arawyou sa Exam Room M, di na nagpakita at nag iwan lang sa blackboard gamit ang blue chalk ng: “Kung buhay kayo pano niyo ko hahabulin”
Siguradong hindi na rin niya napansin na ang maaliwalas na brief sa ilalim ng tuwalya niya ngayon ay ilang nakalipas na Mall-Wide Sale pa niya binili. Pano kasi, halos isang oras na rin ang interview sa radyo ng PRO-NCR Regional Director at ng Truth Commission at sukang-suka na siyang palaging naririnig ang mga depensang, Walang kinalaman ang mga pulis, may takot sa Diyos ang mga pulis, at di kaya nang sinumang pulis ang mangbugbog ng ganyan, your honor. Sukang-suka, pero tumatawa dahil sa isip ni J.D., hindi niya mapigilang magsalita ng,” Tama ka Chief, dahil sino bang nagnanakaw at nagbebenta ng drogas na pulis?”, sabay sigaw ng “Anak ng…” dahil nahiwa ang hinlalaki niya sa gilit ng papel sa pagtiklop niya sa pahinang tungkol sa pinakamahabang delubyo ni Noah na siguro pagkatapos na lang niyang maligo babasahin. Kaso nga lang, wala ngang pang-inom.
October 18th, 2010 at 01:43
I think it should have been sprawled on a mattress? Can you please approve the corrected version? Sorry Jessica.
October 18th, 2010 at 01:45
Sprawled on a mattress that lay solitary in the middle of his small apartment is Inspector James Bello. Beside him, also sound asleep was the girl inside the cake from Jojo’s bachelor’s party. The boys from the station threw the celebration last night for the rookie police, and although usually it is the groom-to-be who gets to take home the girl, Jojo was too drunk (or timid) to make any advances. James on the other hand was more than willing to assume the post.
The phone starts to ring and James scrambles to reach for the receiver. He instantly recognizes the voice on the other line as he struggled to keep the handset pressed to his ear:
“Inspector Bello.” the caller asked demandingly.
“Sarge.” James responds still half-asleep. “What time is it?”
“Two thirty, three o’ clock.” he answers indifferently. “Hey you remember the leads you gave us last week on that rape case you’ve been working on?”
“Yeah” he replies as his head droops involuntarily.
“Well, we found the guy, the suspect. You’re snitch was right about the location. The bastard’s been hiding in some dingy shack in Caloocan for the last couple of months.”
“Hmmm. That is good news.” he says, unenthusiastic.
“Goddamit you don’t sound thrilled that you cracked this one!” the Sergeant blurts in disbelief.
Just then James feels a warm hand reaching for his thigh. The girl’s awake now and she’s starting to caress him. He wanted to object but decided otherwise and lets her get on with it. He can no longer make out what the Sergeant is saying; his blood is racing as he tightens his grip on the phone.
“Hello? Hello Inspector are you still there?”
“Yeah I’m here” he answers panting.
“What the fuck’s wrong you?” the caller asks bewildered.
“I’m fine sir” he says assuringly while composing himself.
“You can be a little messed up sometimes you know that Inspector? And not to rain on your parade here, but you need to get your ass to work early tomorrow to finish the paperwork on this. Need to get it to the BOSS asap.”
“No problem sir, I’ll be in early” doubting his words.
He heads to the bathroom as soon as he puts the phone down. The pressure in his bladder is painful as he pissed. He searches for his pack of Marlboros and lights a stick. The smell of tobacco envelops the tiny bathroom. James cranks the window open to get rid of the smell. Despite being a chronic smoker -one who should be used to the smell of cigarette smoke – he hates spaces that reek of the odor.
He steps out of the bathroom to find the girl gone. She however left a piece of paper with her number on it and underneath the digits, her name – Hazel.
He leaves the paper on the pillow where she had left it and proceeds to open the front door. As soon as he does, Whisky, the stray cat he’s been feeding for some time now, lunges at his feet in affection. He remembers he didn’t get to feed it last night being he was at the party. He looks inside the refrigerator for scraps or leftovers and finds a half-empty can of tuna. He gives it to the cat, who eats it slowly, regally, despite its hunger.
James grabs the morning paper and sits on the kitchen table with the cat who’s now licking its paws in satisfaction. The headline is about a woman pulling a Lorena Bobbitt on her husband and who according to the report, might have fed the severed organ to a bunch of alcohol fiends in their village as pulutan.
“Fuck me.” Inspector James Bello grumbles. The cat looks at him puzzled. He strokes it’s head and gets up to get ready for work.
October 18th, 2010 at 02:10
hello. i’d like to submit to this, but my person isn’t quite a policeman… he’s an investigative journalist. is it still ok to submit?
October 18th, 2010 at 11:56
He is sitting alone in his studio. Nobody would have guessed he is working for the police. He is a thin man with an eye patch on his right eye.
His hand is moving as though involuntarily; fast and reckless then slow and deliberate. Hundreds of brush strokes flying in every direction on the canvass. If people were watching him now, they would say that he had gone crazy or that he had lost his touch. Some would argue that he is just bored with photorealism and is trying his hand on abstract art.
But they don’t know anything. They do not see what he can see. And in this particular moment, each brush stroke is never done at random, every stroke has a purpose, every lines and curves has meanings, every pixel tells a story. Though it doesn’t look like it, but he is deep in concentration, he loves his art, he values his work. Never more so than this time: he is solving the case of his own mother’s death.
Photo Exhibit#2 Bruised Hand (Paintings#5-#-9)
The picture of the room did not reveal anything conclusive. Even after painting the scene in 4 separate sections, nothing was found that they did not already know. They gave him photo exhibit#2 which shows the bloodied arms of his mother. Concentrating on the picture, he wished he could remember the first time he held that hand.
* * * * *
Nenita was just 16 when she realized that she wants a child. Slut, the neighbours call her; she wants a child yet she has no husband. Narrow, she calls them; wanting a child does not imply wanting to fuck around.
“But where will you get a child? Do a Virgin Mary? Have an Immaculate Conception? You are hardly immaculate, let alone a virgin!”
Then one day, Nenita arrived, a baby on her arms, holding her hand.
Of course no one believed that it was an indeed an Immaculate Conception, but it did create a lot of gossips about how she got the baby. The neighbours speculated that she stole the baby from the rich family where she is working as a laundrywoman. But what created the most rumour is how the baby lost his right eye.
“She accidentally poked the baby’s eye when she’s running away from that rich family’s house”
“No, I heard she really intended to have both the eyes taken out so that the baby wouldn’t know she’s not the real mother”
“Stupid! Its a baby! It wouldn’t know if she’s the real mother or not even if it has a hundred eyes!”
The real reason for this is the same reason Nenita decided to take the baby home with her. On the way home after doing laundry she found the baby in a trash bin crying feverishly, a cigarette protruding from its eyes. The cigarette was still burning.
She would call the baby, Gabriel, after the famous angel.
Everybody else would call him Pitik, after the famous children’s game, Pitik-Bulag.
The children’s game would prove to be more popular than the angel.
* * * *
Photo Exhibit#3 Half-opened Eyes (Paintings#10-#12)
Pitik always admired his mother’s eyes. Not because it was beautiful, but because growing up, hers are the only ones that never made him feel unwanted.
* * * *
Almost everyday, Pitik would come home crying. The other kids didn’t want him and he got bullied a lot. Having a faulty sense of perspective didn’t help him either. Once, he got into a fight and he kept swaying his arms hoping to land a punch. Alas, the other kid didn’t even have to dodge. He didn’t know whether to laugh or to feel sorry for Pitik.
Her mother knew all of this and she decided to keep her son away from the other kids. One day to keep her son entertained she gave him a pencil and a pad of paper and then left the house. When she returned, she had to hug her son and cry. Spread out on the floor are realistic sketches of herself. Every aspect copied in exact details. It was like looking at a mirror.
* * * * *
“What is that guy doing?” inquired the deputy director. “I thought you said he is the best asset you have. All he does is paint.”
“That’s how he works,” answered Pitik’s supervisor. “He paints crime scenes, dead bodies and other evidences to look for clues that are otherwise missed by the other investigators.”
“What? You mean, he can see what others can not? That’s funny ‘cause he only has one eye.”
“Sir, he is a savant. You should see his work. It’s like looking at a real photo”
“Then why not look at the actual photo? Wouldn’t that be easier and less time consuming?”
“Pitik does not see the answer after painting. He sees the clues while painting. Take for example, his mother’s case. He had to redo the blood stains because it is not the right color. According to him, when he paints blood stains of bodies that had been dead for a few hours, like his mother’s case, the color should be dark red. But he had to add more brown to the paint to get the exact color from the picture. This means that the blood was, according to him, 18 hours older. Which means it wasn’t her mother’s blood.”
“I would like to meet him”
* * * *
“Nice eye patch. Why do you even put that anyway…oh I know, ‘cause you’re a private eye…get it?”
“Yes, very funny Sir”, Pitik said sarcastically. “Sir, with all due respect, I have no time for jokes. I still have a lot of things to do”
“Very serious, are you?”
“Im very sorry deputy”, Pitik’s supervisor butts in. “Pitik is not used to talking to people. He is a bit of a loner.”
“Are you really that good Pitik”, the deputy director asked
“Nothing escapes from my painting”
October 18th, 2010 at 11:56
“Sister Yla, you have a call at the office. It’s Inspector De Vera.”
“Para san ang bag, Sister Joyce?
“He told me to pack some of your clothes. Just the usual daw.” She replied walked towards the anteroom.
I told him not to call me before masses. It’s not that I don’t enjoy the occasional adventures. It’s that I enjoy it too much. Sometimes it’s all I can think of even on rosary schedules. Still, I wish I could finish the mass first. Skipping it gives me a sense of discomfort. I’m not a legalist and I know church going won’t save you. Neither does handling and manning the services. Salvation is borne out of a healthy rapport formed with your God. It stems from personal affiliation that bears fruit. Going to church helps, though. For me it’s the feeling of being purified, of being cleansed.
I tripped on the doorway knocking the phone off the table. Luckily I got hold of the vase before it crashed.
“Hello?”
“Clumsy as usual, huh? “ It seemed like he was on a moving vehicle. There was a silent humming of the AC and blowing of horns. Anyway, he was not alone. Someone nearby seemed to have the sniffles.
“I can’t make it today, Alan.”
“I need your help. Go out now and we’ll pick you up.” His tone changed. It was his way of saying he’s serious.
“I’m in a little bit of a trouble. I’ve been caught by…” Nice. He is in a fit. He knows me too much to cut me short and he knows I hate having things undone. That’s why I hate myself for not finishing in the academy. I hate the reason for not finishing.
I didn’t have to wait too long before an L-300 van stopped in front of me. It was heavily tinted. The door slid, opened by a foreigner. Great. Another one of my discomforts
“Miss Manila Johnson?”
How apt. This is one of the inconveniences of having been named after the city. A simple formal address would seem like it’s your turn to strut in a beauty pageant. I’ve never been a fan of those be it Miss University or Miss Universe. Of course I’m pro women empowerment and feeling good inside but that? That is not the perfect way to showcase it. Or maybe because I don’t like being made up. Make –up and high heels are for women who don’t do anything but figure out how to put it on and how to walk with it.
“You can call me Sister Yla.” I replied curtly.
“Cut it. We all know you’re not a real nun. We have your friend. Get inside.” He moved to his right lifting his coat a little and revealing a gun. The marking on the holster looked familiar. “Get in and get changed.”
“If you know me that well then you should have known I hate being called by full name. Ow!” I hit my head on the doorway. I was trying to gather a status but that would be hard to do when you bang your head by yourself.
There were six people inside. The driver wearing a cap plus bomber and another foreigner sat in front. Foreigner #1 sat beside me. In front of us sat a guy wearing extra shiny leather shoes. It was one of those vans wherein the first two seat-rows face each other. A smelly looking guy was at the back, he kept glancing at the windows. And there he was, name plate shining by the window. Inspector Alan De Vera, gagged and blind folded, uniform all crumpled and messy. Hmm, it seemed like he got buzzed before all of this. His hair was cropped short.
“Get changed.”
“Excited much? What are you, married?” I may not have the control here but that won’t stop me from being cold.
I took my “belo” off and that was such a relief. My dark chestnut brown hair may not be long, just a little above the shoulder, but it has thick strands making it really hot when it’s covered. It’s fairly manageable though. I tied it in a bun. Next I took my top off revealing a small black T, which I always wore. Serves you right pervert shiny shoes for trying to take a peek at my bra. There was a sharp curve and the two guys at the back were tossed to the right window. Smelly guy is weird. He kept his hands down even if when they toppled to the side of the van. Our driver is stupid. I kicked off my flats and started pulling on my black jeans under my skirt before taking it off. I may be ¼ American but we Filipinas are conservative. I laced my black Adidas sneaks.
I searched the bag for other things. No gun. That’s fine. I was never good at using it anyway. Even when we were still at the academy, I excelled mostly on the theoretical side of things. I know every drill, every personnel and every weapon. I can assemble them fine and deliver them well enough but that’s it. I was just good enough. Alan was the shooter. He was my counterpart in almost everything for practicals. His hand-eye coordination may be poor behind the wheel, but targets never get past him.
I sensed something at the bottom of the bag. Thank you Sister Joyce. It was a mirror. I used it to check my face. Fair complexion, some freckles and a small amount of bangs. I looked good for a 30 year old. I also used the mirror to check on the people in front and where we were. The windows were tinted on both sides. Sharp curve! Sharp curve! Another almost late winding and another topple at the back of the van. Our driver really is an idiot.
Foreigner #2 kept picking and wiping his nose. “God this traffic is the worst in the world. Its giving me a headache.” He blew his nose on a tissue.
You have a headache because you have a cold. Mucus blocks the air passage through the nose causing a buildup of pressure in the head. The imbalance of air and pressure in your head gives you a drowsy sensation and the thing you call headache. Keep blowing your nose to aggravate it. Doing that releases pressure in a quick manner than normal causing more imbalance. Our traffic is bad but don’t blame it for your germs. Stay away from our country if you don’t like it here.
“Wait a minute!”
_________________________
4’8” and you still manage to bump your head on the door. Typical Yla. What’s taking so long? Why aren’t you doing anything yet? Ooops sharp curve! Maybe she has lost her touch. Hiding and staying in the convent for 2 years now has made her soft and complacent. Or was it the foreigners? I know she’s not very fond of them with her father and all, but she needs to get past that sooner or later. Her ex-cop of a half-American father wanted her to be on the service too. She wanted to be an officer as well, not just for her father but also for herself. That’s why she took Psychology at college. She said it was the perfect pre-criminology course.
She is not meant for the convent. Her father made it sure she wouldn’t be a virgin nun. Or a virgin anything. Sharp curve! Sharp curve!
Wait a minute, I think she’s on to something.
_________________________
“Stop the vehicle! Why are you all wasting my time?!”
“What are you saying?” Foreigner #1 blurted.
“What is this fake set-up for?! And why are you wearing that ugly cap? Remove that jacket, it doesn’t suit you.” I whacked the driver on the head.
“Ow! That hurts. Haha. Took you long enough?” There was the real Inspector Alan, sweating profusely under the jacket. “What gave it away?”
“Your driving sucks. Mr. Sniffles here was sneezing beside you the whole
time you were on the phone. You, Sir, are part of the American police force. The mark on his gun holster is proof.” I said pointing to foreigner #1.
“I assume this guy here is also a police officer. His shiny shoes look like the ones being issued. Who are the guys at the back?”
“Ah, bago kong partner yan. Malaki nga yung uniform ko sa kanya eh. Yung isa, snatcher dyan sa Quiapo. Dadalin namin sa presinto. Ginamit na rin naming props.”
Mr. Sniffles inserted. Apparently, he can understand Filipino. “Don’t worry, his hands are cuffed. You’re as good as Inspector De Vera said.”
“Can we just get on with the real case?” I’m pissed. I missed mass for this.
October 18th, 2010 at 12:49
ay teka 1st draft po ang nasend ko. pa delete nalang po. ngek :)
October 18th, 2010 at 13:14
Sigh…This was a hard one to write. Forgive my Tagalog writing skills.
* * *
It was 3:00am when I finally got to sleep. At least this time, I didn’t have to finish the bottle of Tanduay to help me out. Usually, falling asleep wasn’t always this easy. It takes the whole bottle to drown out the voices. I hate those fucking voices. But…I knew this was too easy since my phone woke me up.
“Oh-ooohh-oooohh caught in a bad romance. Oh-ooohh-oooohh caught in a bad romance.”
“Hello?” I answered in a groggy voice.
“Nestor…” said the voice on the other line. It was Ramon Santos, Senior Superintendent in our precinct. I’ve known him half of my life since he was my dad’s former partner.
“Bakit?” I answered coldly.
“May nahanap silang bago. Daanan kita in 30 minutes.” he quickly replied and killed the line. Fuck, they found another one. I need to get dressed.
I hate these early morning calls, especially since I haven’t had any decent sleep the past few days. Finally, Ramon drives up to the sidewalk. I opened the door and got into the front passenger seat.
“San tayo pupunta?” I asked Ramon.
“Prince Arcade…sa Ortigas Extension. Dun nila nahanap yung bangkay.” he answered nonchalantly.
“Kailangan pa talaga umuulan noh? Malamang nawala na lahat ng palatandaang pwede nating mahanap.” I answered, irritated.
“Parang di mo naman alam na wala tayong mahahanap parang sa mga nahanap nating bangkay dati.” he retorts.
“Pero, pwede parin siyang magkamali. Tao rin naman siya.” I replied.
“Sigurado kang tao gumagawa nito?” he answered cynically.
We found the first body a little over a year ago. Since then, we’ve found a total of 6. This was the seventh. He always targets women, from sales ladies to working girls. I hate this case. The killer never gives us anything to go with. No clues left, no nothing. The bodies were always wiped clean and dumped in various locations. Never the place where they were killed. Ugh. I wish I didn’t drink. Now I have a fucking headache.
I know we’re near when I start seeing the red and blue lights flashing, coming from a number of police cars parked along the streets.
Ramon finally parks and we both get out of the car. He offers me an umbrella, but I decline and walk towards the police line.
“Hoy! Bawal kang pumasok dito” screamed the police officer on duty.
“Easy lang. Pulis rin yan.” said Ramon.
“Sorry Ser!” salutes the embarrassed police officer.
“Wag mong nang alalahanin yun. Bago lang siya eh.” Ramon tells me after seeing the annoyed look on my face.
“Sir! Sorry late ako.” I hear a woman say from behind.
I turn around and see a young woman in a police uniform.
“Nestor, gusto kong makilala mo si Allyana. Bago rin siya.” Ramon tells me. “Siya yung bago mong partner.” he adds.
“Partner? di ko kailangan ng partner! Kelan bako nagkaroon ng partner ha?” I answered furiously.
“Sino ba satin dalawa yung boss mo ha? At akala mo di ko nakikita ang nangyayari sayo? Kailangan mo ng partner…lalung-lalo na partner na baguhan para maiba naman iniisip mo.” he answered in an aggressive, commanding tone. Ramon then turns around and walks towards his car.
“Iwan ko na kayong dalawa. Gusto ko pang matulog.” Ramon adds and drives away.
“…ano ulit pangalan mo?” I asked the new girl.
“Allyana Rodriguez po.” she answered politely.
“Kelan ka nagsimula?” I asked.
“Nung isang araw lang po.” she answered.
We walk towards the body and examine it as best we could under the pouring rain. I get Allyana up to date and give her the background of the case. She pays attention and takes down notes on a small notepad that she brought out of her pocket.
“Kelan namin makukuha yung autopsy at toxicology report?” I asked the chief forensic officer on scene.
“Nasa inyo na mayang hapon.” he replies.
Finally, sky lightens up. I looked at my watch to see that it’s past 5:30 in the morning.
“Kumain ka na?” I asked Allyana.
“Di pa ho.” she replied.
“May dala kang kotse?” I asked.
“Opo, sinabihan ako ni Sir Santos na magdala ng kotse.” she replied.
“Okay, isang dapat na malaman mo, hindi nako nagmamaneho. Daan tayo sa McDo sa may Tiendesitas para mag almusal bago pumasok.” I said.
So we got to McDonald’s and I ordered my usual Sausage McMuffin with Cheese and a Large Orange Juice. She ordered a Big Breakfast. I guess someone’s hungry.
“Parang may gusto kang tanungin sakin.” I asked her since she had this unsettled look on her face.
“Kasi po, sinundan ko po yung career niyo bilang pulis, nung simula palang. Actually, kayo po yung rason ba’t ako naging pulis kasi idol ko po kayo. Alam ko sa UP kayo grumaduate at naging kang pulis para sumunod sa tatay mong dati ring pulis. Nung una, parang ang galing galing niyo, ang dami niyong nahuli at mga nasolbang krimen konti nalang celebrity na kayo. Pero, simula last year…parang kayong nagbago. Di na kayo lumalabas at bihira na makita pangalan niyo sa dyaryo o kaya sa TV. At, to be honest lang po…parang nakakatakot na kayo tignan, di tulad ng dati na parang napaka approachable niyo.” she asked me. Wow, she really didn’t hold anything back.
“Ayaw kong pagusapan.” I answered coldly.
“Nadinig ko sa ibang mga pulis na naaksidente daw kayo last year? Ano po nangyari?” she added.
“Ayoko ngang pagusapan eh.” I added, insistently.
“Anong klaseng aksidente?” she added, curious as she was without being attentive to what I was feeling.
“Punyeta, gusto mo talaga malaman?! Pagkatapos ng anniversary dinner namin ng asawa ko, nagmamaneho ako pauwi. Tinamaan kami ng isa pang kotse, head-on collision. Namatay yung asawa ko sa aksidenteng yun. At yung driver ng kotseng tumama samin? Batang lasing. AYAN. Alam mo na.” I said furiously, and stormed out.
October 18th, 2010 at 15:59
Ms Zafra please delete po my earlier entry. Siguradong sobra sa 1000 words. Thanks! :)
I told him not to call me before mass. It’s not that I don’t enjoy the occasional adventures. It’s that I enjoy it too much. I wish I could finish the mass first. Skipping it gives me a sense of discomfort. I’m not a legalist and I know church going won’t save you. Salvation is borne out of a healthy rapport formed with your God. I’m not here for that. For me it’s the feeling of being purified, being cleansed.
I tripped on the doorway knocking the phone off the table.
“Hello?”
“Clumsy as usual, huh? “ It seemed like he was on a moving vehicle and was not alone. Someone nearby seemed to have the sniffles.
“I can’t make it today, Alan.”
“I need your help. Go out now and we’ll pick you up.” His tone changed. It was his way of saying he’s serious.
“I’m in a little bit of a trouble. I’ve ..” He is in a fit. He knows me too much to know I hate unfinished things. That’s why I hate myself for not finishing in the academy. I hate the reason for not finishing.
I didn’t have to wait too long before a heavily tinted van stopped in front of our gate. The door slid, opened by a foreigner. Great. Another one of my discomforts
“Miss Manila Johnson?”
This is one of the inconveniences of being named after the city. A simple formal address would seem like it’s your turn to strut in a beauty pageant.
“Just call me Sister Yla.” I replied curtly.
“Cut it. We all know you’re not a real nun. We have your friend.” He moved to his right lifting his coat a little and revealing a gun. The marking on the holster looked familiar. “Get in and get changed.”
“If you know me well then you should have known I hate hearing my last name. Ow!” I hit my head on the doorway. So uncool.
Six people were inside. The driver wearing a cap plus bomber and another foreigner sat in front. Foreigner #1 sat beside me, our backs turned from the driver. In front of us sat a guy wearing extra shiny leather shoes. A smelly looking guy who kept glancing sideways was at the back. Beside him, Inspector Alan De Vera, gagged, blindfolded, uniform all crumpled and messy. Hmm, he had a haircut.
“Get changed.”
“Excited much? What are you, married?”
I removed my “belo” and tied my dark chestnut brown hair into a bun. I took my top off revealing a small black T, which I always wore. There was a sharp curve and the two guys at the back were tossed to the right window. Smelly guy is weird. He kept his hands down even when they toppled to the side of the van. Our driver is stupid. I pulled on my black jeans under my skirt before taking it off. I may be ¼ American but we Filipinas are conservative. I laced my black Adidas sneaks.
I have no gun. Ok, I was never good at it anyway. At the academy, I excelled mostly on the theoretical side of things. I deliver well enough on practicals but that’s it. Alan was the shooter. His hand-eye coordination may be poor behind the wheel, but not with a gun.
I checked my face with a mirror from the bag. Fair complexion, some freckles and a small amount of bangs. I looked good for a 30 year old. With the mirror, I also checked on the people in front and where we were. Sharp curve! There’s another tumble at the back of the van. Our driver really is an idiot.
Foreigner #2 kept blowing his nose. “God this traffic is the worst in the world. Its giving me a headache.”
You have a headache because you have a cold. Mucus blocks the air passage causing a buildup of pressure in the head. The imbalance of air and pressure in your head gives you a drowsy sensation and the thing you call headache. Keep blowing your nose to aggravate it. Our traffic is bad but don’t blame it for your germs. Stay away from our country if you don’t like it here.
“Wait a minute!”
_________________________
4’8” and you still manage to hit your head in the door. Typical Yla. Why aren’t you doing anything yet? Ooops sharp curve! Maybe she has lost her touch. Hiding and staying in the convent for 2 years now has made her soft. Was it the whites? She’s not very fond of them with her father and all, but when will she get past that. Her ex-cop of a half-American father wanted her to be on the service too. She also wanted to be an officer. Her father just ruined everything for her.
She is not meant for the convent. Her father made it sure she wouldn’t be a virgin nun nor a virgin anything. Sharp curve!
_________________________
“Why are you all wasting my time?”
“What?” Foreigner #1 blurted.
“What is this set-up for?! And why are you wearing that ugly cap?” I whacked the driver on the head.
“Ow! Haha. Took you long enough?” There was the real Inspector Alan, sweating profusely under the jacket. “What gave it away?”
“Your driving sucks. Mr. Sniffles here was sneezing beside on the phone. You, Sir, are part of the American police force. The mark on your holster is proof.” I said pointing to Foreigner #1.
“I assume this guy here is also a police officer. His shiny shoes look like the ones being issued. Who are the guys at the back?”
“Meet my new partner. My uniform swims on him. Yung isa, snatcher dyan sa Quiapo. Dadalin namin sa presinto. Ginamit na rin naming props.”
Mr. Sniffles inserted. Apparently, he can understand Filipino. “Don’t worry, he’s cuffed. You’re as good as Inspector De Vera said.”
“Can we just get on with the real case?” I’m pissed. I missed mass for this.
October 18th, 2010 at 16:43
Si Kap at Si Goliat
Kung makadahak at makadura ng plema si Kap ay parang nauga ang pader sa lakas.
Hudyat ito kay Goliat na may naiisip na naman si Bossing. Nakasanayan na niyang tawagin itong Kap, dahil pangit daw ang pangalan nya, turan ng detektib. Kaprucinio Palpalatoc. Pangit ba yon?
“Bata, akin na ang ang beltbag ko. ‘Nak ng pusang gala, nasaan ang beltbag ko?!”
“Ayan po o, sa bewang nyo.” *Eye-roll* Hindi niya alam kung matatawa siya o maiinis dito. Palibhasa, sa dinami-dami ng bilbil na pwedeng ipansisinturon si Kap yata ang pumakyaw ng lahat. Hindi mo masisisi kung hindi niya maramdaman na may beltbag siya.
Habang nagkakamot sa may bandang parte ng ewan. “Naalala mo yong sunog kamakailan sa kanto ng Sisa at Guevarra? Malakas ang kutob ko na may kinalaman duon si Kirstey Aquilino.”
“Kirstey Aquilino?!”
“’Nampusang gala, Goliat, ambobo mo talaga! E bakit naman hindi? Tara, bihis ka. Saka ko na ipapaliwanag ang lahat.”
Binuksan ni Kap ang kaniyang beltbag at sumambulat ang kung anu-ano – mga lumang resibo, tiket ng bus, kalawanging Swiss na made in China, naninilaw na tissue paper, mga nagdidikit-dikit na larawan, at Nokia 3310 na parang may sipon kung kumuliling.
“Yeys?! Ispiking. Yeys. A-ha. Kelan? Saan? Teka teka. Talaga? Nampusanggala yan oo. Talaga? Yeys…”
—
Kahapon sa gotohan diyan sa kanto, nagmimiryenda sila pagkarating galing sa sunog na sinasabi ni Kap. Hindi kalakihan ang assignment tungkol sa sunog. Pero nakaka-challenge dahil sangkot ang isang nagngangalang Rowena Gatmaitan, anak ng kliente, na sinasabing kalaguyo ni James Ya, na asawa dati ni Kirstey Aquilino. Yung mag-asawang parehong nanalo sa nakaraaang eleksyon sa Brgy. 339 dito sa Tondo.
Kasalukuyang nakikipagsabunutan si Kap sa kapiranggot na sahog na tuwalya ng baka na hindi maayos ang pagkakahimay.
Biglang may nagtext kay Goliat.
“Kap, bagong assignment daw. Kailangan daw magpunta tayong hedkwarter.”
“Now na ba? Bakit sa yo sinabi ni Sir?”
“E Kap, may cellphone ba kayo?”
“Bakit kasi di pa nila pinapalitan yung luma ko e.”
“Kap, pinalitan na po, naiwala nyo lang.”
“Alam mo, malakas ang kutob ko na si Burog ang kumana nung cellphone kong yon. Kung hindi man siya, malalaman ko rin. Malalaman at malalaman ko rin.”
“Kap, tumatawag ang hedkwarter. O heto kayo na sumagot.
“Hello. Yeys, Tsip, yeys! Ahaha. Alin yung sunog ba ‘ika n’yo? Hindi pa masyado, pero may nabubuo na ako…Tsip naman, big break sa akin to eh, balato nyo na…”
*Eye roll* Ku, e nakailang break na kayo e, laging palpak. Palibhasa detektib Low I.Q. kayo. Pakli ni Goliat sa kaniyang isip.
“Yeys, Tsip, sigurado po ako. Basta tinitiyak ko sa inyo sisikat ang agency natin pag nagkataon sa isasambulat ko. Malamang kokontratahin na tayo ng Malacanang pag naayos ko ito…Hahaha!”
—
Nasa loob ng de-padyak na may sticker na “My Other Car Is A BMW” si Kirstey Aquilino. Halatang balisa ito. Pagkuwa’y may dudukutin sa kaniyang bag. Nanginginig ang kamay.
Nasa madilim at di-kalayuan na bahagi ng kalye si Kap. Kubli ng mga naglalakihang poste ng Meralco. May hawak na telescope na nakatuon kay Kirstey Aquilino. Madadaanan ng telescope ang nakasulat sa bag at matitigil si Kap. Dali-dali nitong binunot ang kaniyang notepad at lapis. At may isusulat na nangingiti pa.
Pag-alis ng de-padyak ay karipas sa takbo si Kap patungong phone booth.
—-
Sa phone booth.
“Hello, Goliat. Wagi tayo! Hahaha! Dali, may bago tayong lead… Oo, naman. E ikaw lang e wala kang tiwala sa bossing mo eh… O may papel at lapis ka na ba? Dali kailangan may kopya ka rin nito para siguradong walang kawala…O sige sige, babasahin ko… LU-WIS-VUY-TON…Nakuha mo? Luwis Vuyton…Naknampusanggala ka naman oo, kabobohan mo talaga… O sige na nga iispelingin ko… El-ow-yu-ay-is, oo is, as in Isettan, oo yan yung pangalan…Tapos, Vi-yu-ay-titi-ow-in…Ku pagnagkataon, Goliat mapropromote na ako nito, at siyempre….Okay ngayon makinig ka, at ikukuwento ko na sa iyo bakit si Kirstey Aquilino ang praym saspek ko…Okay sige, di ko to ibababa…”
—
Sa Tondong ibabaw walang imposible. Tanong nyo pa sa kumpare ni Kap. Si Isko Morena. Laking-Tondo, dating artista na ngayu’y isa nang kilalang politiko.
October 18th, 2010 at 19:56
Dumating si Lakay sa pinangyarihan ng krimen dakong alas-dos ng madaling araw. Lulan siya ng kanyang puting Vespa.
Bulong ng mga usisero, “anak-araw…”
“Ukinana. Dumbf–ks.” Perpektong Ilokano at New York City accent ang bulong na tumalilis mula sa kanyang bibig.
Sa kadiliman ng paligid batid ang mabagsik na kinang ng mga mata ni Lakay. Parang Hope Diamond sa pagka-bughaw.
“Aswang ‘to”, bukang-bibig niya, hindi pa man na-uusisa ng husto ang bangkay ng binatilyo.
Mabilis na kumalat ang bulung-bulungan sa gitna ng mga usisero.
“‘Yan ka na naman Lakay eh, kung ano-ano na namang kwento lalabas niyan, magmumukha tayong tanga”, saway ni Chief Mallari.
“Eh Chief, kung sana lang inayos ng mga bata mo yung perimeter eh ‘di sana hindi ganyan kalapit yang mga kumag na ‘yan para marinig sinasabi ko. Inyamiten–sh*t.”
Si Lakay, ipinangak bilang Sergio Rumbawa, ay isang Igorot (‘wag mo lamang sasabihin sa harap niyang Igorot siya kung ayaw mong makatikim). Trenta’y-nuwebe-anyos. Six-four, parang kalabaw ang katawan. Isa siyang “anak-araw” o albino–kaya siya tiwanag na Lakay sa kinalakihan niya sa La Trinidad.
Binulatlat ni Lakay ang ga-kamaong butas sa tagiliran ng bangkay. Kinapa-kapa ang loob. “Mainit-init pa, Chief. Agbalin pay nga kilawin” (Pwede pang kilawin), sabay punas ng dugo sa laylayan ng pantalon ni Chief.
“Pu—-ina naman Lakay!”
Kung hindi mo kilala si Lakay ay mahirap siyang sakyan. Una na riyan ay ang kanyang bihis. Malinis. Swabe. Idol niya si David Bekham. Mahilig siya sa ukayan para maghanap ng mga stylish polo shirts at jeans. At mabango siya. Amoy aramis. Amoy patay.
Marahil ay dati kasi siyang embalsamador.
“Bakit mo nasabing–aswang–yan?” Bumulong si Chief Mallari, ayaw magmukhang tanga sa mata ng mga usisero.
“Hindi ito sinaksak eh. Somebody dug a hole and gutted this kid–with his bare hands.” Perfect English is Lakay. “Awan ‘ti bituka na.” (He has no more intestines.) Perfect Ilokano rin.
Isa pa ‘yang ka-weirdo-han ni Lakay. Pinagtatambal niya ang folk beliefs at science. Para sa kanya, totoo ang aswang. Ngunit hindi ito ang aswang na kilala ng karamihan.
Ang aswang para sa kanya ay isang taong may problema sa DNA. May depekto daw ang mga taong ito sa genes na nagko-control sa food craving at aggressive behavior.
Ang teoriya ni Lakay, ang taong may depekto sa ganitong genes ay madali ring matagpuan–kung alam mo ang iyong hahanapin.
“So pano na, Lakay?” Gusto nang malaman ni Chief ang susunod na hakbang ni Lakay.
“Ukinana. Cool it. I’ll look into it.” Sabay suot ng fedora, ayos ng puting polo, suot ng maong jacket at sakay sa Vespa.
Arangkada si Lakay sa kadiliman ng Maynila habang kumakamot-kamot sa ulo si Chief Mallari, pumipitik ang dila, batid ang natutuyong dugo na ipinunas ni Lakay sa laylayan ng kanyang pantalon.
October 18th, 2010 at 22:30
I came home to an envelope addressed to me, Cristina Rivera. It lay on the threadbare Oriental rug I bought in an attempt to add color to my sparsely furnished apartment. I presumed it was an invitation to yet another wedding extravaganza that I would, of course, decline. I’m tired of being seated with bratty children (“Why are you here, tita?”), desperately seeking Susans (“Do you think we’ll meet someone tonight?”), closet queens (“Ay, chaka, er, I meant pucha”), spinster aunts (“Naku, baka maiwanan ka na ng biyahe”) and married couples who look at me with a mixture of relief and pity (“I could have ended up like that!”). Nobody seems to understand that I’ve made a deliberate choice to live alone. Instead, most people consider the absence of a significant other at the ripe “old” age of 37 as evidence of a social handicap. And, maybe they’re right.
I am a loner and I suppose, a bit of a misanthrope. I can’t stand people in general and given what I’ve seen in my career thus far, you can hardly blame me. I’m not one to smile for no apparent reason, although I’m not above faking one to get what I want. I hate small talk. I’m not interested in what anybody else thinks and the only approval I’ve ever craved was my father’s. I bite my nails and I don’t wear make-up, skirts or heels. My daily uniform consists of black pants, a white polo shirt and sneakers with non-marking soles. Because I am petite (just 5”2), fair and a bit plump, I’ve been told that I look “sweet” and “simple”. Most of the men whom I’ve dated would beg to disagree.
I work as a crime reporter for a national daily, but it’s a convenient cover for my real passion – investigating homicides that can’t be explained away as robberies or kidnappings gone awry or blamed on the neighborhood drunks and druggies. I honestly think the problem with our cops is a total lack of imagination. Raised on a diet of Pinoy soaps and movies where bad guys signal their every evil intention (“Ngayon, papatayin kita. RAT-TAT-A-TAT”), a murder with no glaringly obvious clues or motives often remains unsolved. Besides, the cops know they can always pin it on some hapless household employee (“The butler did it!”) or “convince” some poor sod to confess. For cases involving the rich (trust me, these are the more bizarre ones), the victims don’t trust the cops enough to tell them anything of use. But, since I speak fluent English and look harmless, they are more inclined to talk to me. At the end of the day, you don’t need the technological gizmos that the guys at CIS and NCIS whip out at every dead body on a gurney. As I always say, it’s just shoe leather and psychology. Sherlock Holmes certainly didn’t need anything else.
The cops call me to the scene, because I’ve developed a reputation for being “helpful” and in the interest of continuing our symbiotic relationship, I’ve never tried to get credit for cracking a case. I leave that to the senior clowns in the NBI and the PNP, who are quick to pat their backs and rub their bellies for every breakthrough and slow to fall on their swords for every fuck-up. In the meantime, my articles are quite popular and I’m slowly gaining a following even if I am careful to leave out the details that put me in the spotlight. More importantly, for every case I solve, I feel as though I am getting closer to finding the twisted fuck who killed my best friend. I’ll stay in the background for as long as I need to.
And so far, I’ve managed to keep my head down. But, I guess it’s a matter of time before somebody finds out who is helping the PNP and NBI. There is no privacy in a small town like Manila. Sooner or later, reality bites and pop goes the world. I just didn’t expect it to happen so soon.
I ripped the envelope open and no, it wasn’t a wedding invitation after all. It was a series of photos of a dismembered body. I recognized the torso because of the distinctive, almost star-shaped scar the asshole had left. It was almost as though he or she had used a branding iron. I had been called to the scene in Manila Polo Club just two weeks ago. The body parts had been scattered around the cogons near the Polo Field. She was a lifestyle “journalist” (no disrespect, but regurgitating press releases hardly counts as journalism). I had read about a similar case in Cebu. Apparently, the body parts had been found in various holes of the Cebu Country Club golf course. Could the two cases be related? Is there a serial killer on the loose with a predilection for the country club set?
The pictures came with a card and “Surprise – you’re next!” was scrawled in red ink.
October 18th, 2010 at 22:33
I came home to an envelope addressed to me, Cristina Rivera. It lay on the threadbare Oriental rug I bought in an attempt to add color to my sparsely furnished apartment. I presumed it was an invitation to yet another wedding extravaganza that I would, of course, decline. I’m tired of being seated with bratty children (“Why are you here, tita?”), desperately seeking Susans (“Do you think we’ll meet someone tonight?”), closet queens (“Ay, chaka, er, I meant pucha”), spinster aunts (“Naku, baka maiwanan ka na ng biyahe”) and married couples who look at me with a mixture of relief and pity (“I could have ended up like that!”). Nobody seems to understand that I’ve made a deliberate choice to live alone. Instead, most people consider the absence of a significant other at the ripe “old” age of 37 as evidence of a social handicap. And, maybe they’re right.
I am a loner and I suppose, a bit of a misanthrope. I can’t stand people in general and given what I’ve seen in my career thus far, you can hardly blame me. I’m not one to smile for no apparent reason, although I’m not above faking one to get what I want. I hate small talk. I’m not interested in what anybody else thinks and the only approval I’ve ever craved was my father’s. I bite my nails and I don’t wear make-up, skirts or heels. My daily uniform consists of black pants, a white polo shirt and sneakers with non-marking soles. Because I am petite (just 5”2), fair and a bit plump, I’ve been told that I look “sweet” and “simple”. Most of the men whom I’ve dated would beg to disagree.
I work as a crime reporter for a national daily, but it’s a convenient cover for my real passion – investigating homicides that can’t be explained away as robberies or kidnappings gone awry or blamed on the neighborhood drunks and druggies. I honestly think the problem with our cops is a total lack of imagination. Raised on a diet of Pinoy soaps and movies where bad guys signal their every evil intention (“Ngayon, papatayin kita. RAT-TAT-A-TAT”), a murder with no glaringly obvious clues or motives often remains unsolved. Besides, the cops know they can always pin it on some hapless household employee (“The butler did it!”) or “convince” some poor sod to confess. For cases involving the rich (trust me, these are the more bizarre ones), the victims don’t trust the cops enough to tell them anything of use. But, since I speak fluent English and look harmless, they are more inclined to talk to me. At the end of the day, you don’t need the technological gizmos that the guys at CIS and NCIS whip out at every dead body on a gurney. As I always say, it’s just shoe leather and psychology. Sherlock Holmes certainly didn’t need anything else.
The cops call me to the scene, because I’ve developed a reputation for being “helpful” and in the interest of continuing our symbiotic relationship, I’ve never tried to get credit for cracking a case. I leave that to the senior clowns in the NBI and the PNP, who are quick to pat their backs and rub their bellies for every breakthrough and slow to fall on their swords for every f*ck-up. In the meantime, my articles are quite popular and I’m slowly gaining a following even if I am careful to leave out the details that put me in the spotlight. More importantly, for every case I solve, I feel as though I am getting closer to finding the twisted f*ck who killed my best friend. I’ll stay in the background for as long as I need to.
And so far, I’ve managed to keep my head down. But, I guess it’s a matter of time before somebody finds out who is helping the PNP and NBI. There is no privacy in a small town like Manila. Sooner or later, reality bites and pop goes the world. I just didn’t expect it to happen so soon.
I ripped the envelope open and no, it wasn’t a wedding invitation. It was a series of photos of a dismembered body. I recognized the torso because of the distinctive, almost star-shaped scar the assh*le had left. It was almost as though he or she had used a branding iron. I had been called to the scene in Manila Polo Club just two weeks ago. The body parts had been scattered around the cogons near the Polo Field. She was a lifestyle “journalist” (no disrespect, but regurgitating press releases hardly counts as journalism). I had read about a similar case in Cebu. Apparently, the body parts had been found in various holes of the Cebu Country Club golf course. Could the two cases be related? Is there a serial killer on the loose with a predilection for the country club set?
The pictures came with a card and “Surprise – you’re next!” was scrawled in red ink.
October 18th, 2010 at 22:45
Ernesto didn’t bother scolding the boy anymore. His mother already did a number on him last night and it was evident from the morose way he was fetching their bicycles from the shed behind the house that his ego was still bruised. Far be it for Major Ernesto Villegas to admit that his wife can scare him, but only an idiot would choose to stand in the line of fire, so to speak.
“Here you go, ‘Tay,” Cocoy said as he handed over his father’s mountain bike. Rust was already visible at the edges, on the gears and within the crevices of the brake obviously well-used, with fifteen years’ worth of wear and tear. Cocoy’s bike was much cleaner; it had been stuck inside the shed for a long time.
“You sure you still know the route? Didn’t forget it when you went to the mountains to fight with your comrades?”
His son didn’t respond. He just rolled his eyes rode away, leaving Ernesto to hurry behind him.
When Cocoy was little, they would wake up before dawn on the weekends and ride around the campus. There’s something about Diliman on a Saturday morning, when the students have all but disappeared, save for a few unlucky enough to have classes or assignments to finish, that made a cop feel at peace with the world. By the time Christmas rolls around, there’d be fog hanging over the trees, a refreshing chill in the air as they wander around.
He and Cocoy used to talk a lot then. The ride from their home in San Vicente and around the oval to the police headquarters on E. Jacinto consisted of Ernesto reliving exciting stories of himself catching criminals, bragging about the high-ranking generals he had met at work, reminiscing about the time when he and his wife were young and poor, working hard and struggling to survive.
Ernesto didn’t know how all that time had passed by. Suddenly, Cocoy was twenty years old with stories of his own. The difference was, Cocoy didn’t like sharing with him.
“I’ll never do anything to embarrass you.” Cocoy told him after a few minutes, out the blue.
“Never said you did, son. Your mom just worries a lot.”
They took a turn at University Avenue, going past rows of newly-planted sunflowers. Summer season meant the sun was already high above the horizon at six o’clock. Cocoy slowed down a little, seemingly lost in his own thoughts. “But you don’t disagree with what Nanay said last night. That I’m wasting my time.”
“Well if you ask me, hanging around at unruly rallies in Mendiola isn’t a good way to pass the time.”
“I don’t–”
“Not to mention that one of my own buddies in the riot police actually recognized you. And called me about it.”
“So you’re angry too,” Cocoy muttered.
Sighing, Ernesto tried to think of the best way to answer. The thing was, Cocoy was a good kid. Brilliant student, amazing considering Ernesto himself never did anything important in school except win over his future wife. But Cocoy was different. He was the kind of kid who could do something important. Change things.
“You’re young, Coy. And I know you want to learn how the world works. But doing things like that? Going to rallies? You only do that when you’re already all in, when you’re already sure of what you believe in. Are you?”
Cocoy grew silent. They didn’t talk anymore until they’d reached the empty field around the Math building. They were already on their way to C.P. Garcia when Cocoy suddenly stopped.
“What is it?”
“Something smells rotten over there.”
Ernesto went off the bike and walked to where Cocoy was pointing. He trailed behind his father, cautious. Sure enough, a swarm of flies hovered around the area just beyond a particularly high patch of grass. Dread bloomed from Ernesto’s spine, hoping that it was nothing more than a dead animal, but instincts told him it was something else.
Lying there, obscene in the bright glare of the sun, a body in blood-soaked barong. The corpse was obviously dumped there, the amount of blood pooling around it was too little for the crime to have been committed on the spot. The professional part of his brain clicked in place, circling around the body and finally noticing the most important part.
The corpse’s face seemed to have been carved out.
“Putang ina,” Cocoy whispered. Ernesto whipped around to glare at him and he ducked his head. “Sorry.”
“Coy, run to the station and get the guys.”
“It’s okay, dad. I’ve seen dead animals in class–”
“Shut up, son. I don’t need distractions when I’m working a case. Go.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Cocoy turned around and rode back up the slight hill, pedalling as fast as he could. Ernesto turned back to the dead man, taking into account the entire scene before him. He had no choice but to keep watch over the body, at least until S.O.C.O. arrived.
As officer in chief of the entire campus, Ernesto had never supervised a crime more serious than car thefts and hold-ups. His whole squad would be under the microscope because of this. A murder in the university meant QCPD operatives, intense media attention, and his sweating face on TV Patrol for a few nights.
Ernesto uttered the same expletive his son did, loudly and crisply.
October 29th, 2010 at 16:49
pardon my naivete’ samutsari, but what is a pinata?