From the Lavalle entrance of the Palace of Justice, Giribaldi goes down into the basement, where the Forensic Medical Corps is based. The receptionist makes no comment as he walks past without stopping to explain himself. He marches straight into Fuseli’s office without knocking and finds the doctor submerged under a pile of papers. When Giribaldi fires off a “good morning”, Fuseli peers at him over his reading glasses, surprised that anyone should so brazenly barge in.
Yes? Doctor Fuseli? That’s me. I’m Major Giribaldi. Pleased to meet you, how can I help? I’m led to believe that you’re handling the case of three subversives who were killed in a confrontation by the Riachuelo. Three subversives? The case Superintendent Lascano’s investigating. Oh, you mean Biterman and the two John Does. Correct. Well, what do you need? To see your report. Unfortunately, just a few moments ago, it was sent to the judge in charge of the case. Which judge? Justice Marraco, his office is on the top floor. Tell me the details. The truth is, Major, with all due respect, you’ll have to ask him for that information; if he wants to give it to you, there’s no objection on my part.
Giribaldi sits down in front of Fuseli. They don’t stop weighing one another up for an instant. They don’t say a word and don’t move an inch. Fuseli breaks the silence.
Can I help you with anything else? Yes. Do you know Superintendent Lascano? I do. What’s your opinion of him?
If there were more policemen like him, the force would be a lot better for it. And yet, I’ve done a little investigating and it seem he’s not too well liked by his superiors. As I said, if there were more policemen like him… Is he a friend of yours? I know his work. No more than that? What more do you want to know? He’s suspected of having leftist views. These days half the country’s suspected of that. You included? Oh I don’t know, I’m old enough to stick to the middle ground. Neither the left nor the right fool me. Don’t you agree that the times call for us to close ranks on subversion? Major, would you like me to be frank? Please do be. Well, you’re going about the guerrilla problem all wrong. Oh really? Yes. You’ve approached it purely from a military perspective and, as you’ve all the apparatus of the state at your disposal, you’ll no doubt win the battle. And so? But you’ll have won by the wrong methods and means. Forgive my frankness. You’re forgiven, but please do go on, I’m interested in your position. You ignore the causes which give rise to the guerrilla movement and simply attack the symptoms, and with the most short-sighted methodology I’ve ever seen. And what would these causes be? The cause is the people, Major. The more deprived people are, the more leftist they are. Why? Because the left promises to share the wealth among many. No matter how little actually does get shared, the poor will always be better off than they were before. Those who have nothing have everything to gain, those who have everything always run the risk of losing it. Think about the barbarians. What about the barbarians? They had no interest in possessions, in owning houses, castles, treasures. That would have meant having to settle somewhere and waste their energies defending their properties. All they wanted to do was attack, rape, pillage and burn. But people aren’t barbarous, they will always try to protect their own interests. If you don’t let them have anything, then they are barbarians, but as soon as
they get some kind of standing, they become bourgeois. So: need draws people to the left, satisfaction to the right. The truth is I don’t quite follow you. Basically, Major, it’s a problem that needs tackling on two different fronts. One is the armed enemy, who you attack with laws and justice and, if necessary, with force. The other is the people. For rebellion not to take root, you have to give the people things they value, that they can get hold of and that they would want to defend. People aspire to no more than living well, eating every day, educating their children and going on holiday once in a while. It seems to me like you mix everything up. Well, everything is mixed up. Can’t you see there’s no time for all this theorizing? Now is the time for action. Time, it’s precisely the time factor that you’re not taking into account. Now you come at me with time? Yes, time passes, situations change and the mistakes you’re making now will eventually blow up in your faces. You have some very strange ideas. That’s true. And very dangerous. I admit it, there’s nothing more risky than being right in a world where ever yone else is wrong. But I’ve long become accustomed to it. Look, doctor, I don’t have your education, but there’s one thing I’m sure of, that what the communists propose is not what I want for my children. Do you have children? No…Yes. Well either you do or you don’t? Yes, one. You’re very lucky, I lost mine many years ago and I haven’t stopped missing him for a moment. But at least I was able to bury my child. I often get to thinking about all those mothers and fathers whose children are being killed and disappeared. What must their lives be like, how do they manage to overcome their pain? I can tell you from experience, the death of a child is something you never forget. What do you mean by telling me that? Nothing, pay no attention to me, it’s just the sense of loss that never leaves a father. Anyway, Major, if that’s everything then I’d better get on with my work.
Giribaldi jumps to his feet, as if obeying an order. The forensic doctor’s words have confused him. He hates feeling confused. But the feeling will soon turn to anger, and anger, he finds, puts everything back in perspective. Ridiculously, he clicks his heels together and only just stops himself from bowing. Much to his regret, the “good day” he offers in farewell chokes in his throat and comes out timidly. He turns and leaves. Fuseli gets a shiver down his spine. The intimidation that emanates from the man lingers, floating in the air like the smell of steak being cooked on the grill.
Fuseli spends all morning trying to locate Lascano on the phone, but can’t get hold of him.
23
Waiting to see the manager, Lascano amuses himself watching the comings and goings at the bank. He’s been here before. A year ago he was called in to investigate an inside job involving the then manager and treasurer. The guys pulled off the perfect fraud. One Monday morning, they didn’t show up for work. Central office grew increasingly concerned as midday approached until finally they sent a supervisor to open the safe. It was empty. They reported the matter immediately. An expert accountant arrived and calculated that five million dollars were missing. The investigation got underway and it was soon established that on Saturday afternoon the two employees had left the country in a hired car via the Puente del Inca-Caracoles road, but there the trail ended. Before the ink had even dried on their international arrest warrants, the pair sheepishly handed themselves in to the
Carabineros
in Santiago de Chile. With due speed, they were flown back to Buenos Aires and taken, handcuffed, straight from Ezeiza airport to appear before a judge. They both expressed their remorse to his honour, saying that temptation had got the better of them but, having had a chance to think things through, they realized they had done wrong. To
prove as much, they gladly revealed where they’d hidden the booty. The millions were recovered by a warrant officer, accompanied by half a dozen police officers and led by Lascano. Taking everything into consideration, the thieves were given a short, suspended sentence and were back at large within forty days. They lost their jobs, of course. Lascano noticed that the bank executives didn’t seem at all satisfied when they received the recovered cash. It didn’t take him long to find out why.
A certain Fermín González worked at the bank, someone Lascano knew had a bit of a murky past. Before Lascano had even threatened to reveal his police record to his employers, Fermín suggested they talk outside and told him straight away what had really happened. There’d not been five million dollars in the safe but fifteen. However, the other ten belonged to a parallel trading desk. The executives had no way of justifying their off-the-balance-sheet activity. The manager and treasurer had seen an opportunity to get their hands on the dirty cash without risk of reprisal. Fermín concluded that if he’d been in their shoes, he’d probably have done the same, after all
who’s the bigger thief, the unfaithful employee or the bank?
Perro shrugged his shoulders and offered him a word of advice.
Look, Fermín, maybe you’re not aware, but killing has a market value just like any other service. Do you know what the street price is for bumping someone off? No idea. Five hundred dollars for a first-class professional service. So if the opportunity does present itself one day, think about that too.
And here’s Fermín now, on the straight and narrow. When he sees Lascano, he smiles and taps his finger to his temple. A secretary then calls for Lascano to go through to see Mr Giménez, the bank manager.
Pleased to meet you. Likewise. What brings you here? I’m investigating a client of yours. Who are we talking about? Elías Biterman. Is he in trouble? He’s my trouble now. He’s been killed. You’re joking? I’m not. Well, you do know I can’t give out information on clients without a judicial order. If you insist, then I can get one. But I’m worried that if I don’t hurry the killer will get away. I don’t need anything written for the moment. All I’m asking for is recent account activity, off the record.
Giménez clears his throat and then leans over to the intercom.
Graciela, bring me Mr Biterman’s statements would you please?
The manager adopts a tone of confidentiality.
Well, I can assure you that a lot of people are going to be pleased by this news. So I gather. Between you and me, Biterman was a vampire.
Graciela brings in the file.
Do you need anything else? That’s all thanks.
He waits for the secretary to leave, opens the folder, puts his glasses on and starts to read.
Now let’s see… he had a balance of around seventy million… A tidy little sum. If he had that much kept here with us, I can only imagine how much he had tucked away elsewhere… Lately he paid in several cheques, which bounced, adding up to fourteen million pesos in total. Who’s were they? Amancio Pérez Lastra’s.
Giménez turns the printout around to face Lascano and reaches for a notepad and pencil.
There you go, you can jot the details down while I’m not looking.
Lascano scribbles down the client’s name and address, tears the page from the pad and pops it in his pocket.
What else is there? The rest is just cash deposits and withdrawals, bank charges and other such things. Nothing of any significance. Well, thanks, it’s been very useful. If I can help you with anything else… Now that you mention it, maybe you can. I’ve been thinking about getting a safe deposit box. I’ve a few personal items that I’d like to put out of harm’s way. Of course.
Just as before, the manager coughs, leans forward and speaks into the intercom.
Graciela, the Superintendent would like a safe deposit box. Open him an account immediately, would you please. Then bring the forms in and I’ll countersign them myself.
Giménez gets up from his chair and walks Perro to the foyer.
Can I authorize my niece to use it? Of course you can. Just tell Graciela and she’ll take care of it. You’re very efficient. Why thank you.
Within a few minutes, Graciela opens Lascano an account and equips him with a safe deposit box into which he puts the two bundles of dollars recovered from Tony Ventura’s brothel. Further down the line, he’ll try to persuade Eva to do something worthy with the cash. For now, there’s this Amancio character to consider, someone who owed a stack of money to the dead man. It’s a Barrio Norte address and Lascano senses he’s on the right track. He decides he’ll pay Pérez Lastra a visit and
see what he’s got to say for himself.
24
In the morning, Perro leaves his Falcon with Tito, in charge of the police workshop, to get the clutch sorted. He then boards a clapped-out number sixty-one bus and passes the time watching the world go by out of the window. As soon as the traffic jams worsen, and progress becomes too painful to contemplate, he takes out his little book and flicks through the notes he took the other night in police archives. There before him, in his own clumsy scrawl, is a summary of the police version of Eva’s story. Half an hour later, the bus drops him at the gates of the Palais de Glace. The slope on Ayacucho isn’t suited to inveterate smokers and so he tackles it slowly and carefully, inhaling as much air as his diminished lungs will allow. He approaches the Alvear Palace Hotel, adorned with flags and busy with official cars carrying people to and fro. The pavement is scattered with small light-blue and white propaganda stickers declaring Argentines to be humane and right:
Los argentinos somos derechos y humanos.
He shakes his head and crosses the street. He heads down Quintana, Guido and Vicente López, on towards a formidable building designed by the architect Alejandro Bustillo. This is where Amancio lives. At the door, dressed in the classic grey uniform
of a janitor, he finds a man mopping the footpath. Perro approaches him. The man recognizes Lascano’s superior authority without a word being said. As soon as he sees him, he leans on the mop handle and greets Lascano with the servile smile of a tip-hunter.
Good morning. Good morning, tell me, does the Pérez Lastra family live here? Yes sir, third floor. You want me to let you in? Do you know if Mr Pérez Lastra is home? I expect so, I’ve not seen him so far today and he’s no early riser. Unless he’s gone to the country, but I doubt that as his station wagon’s over there.
The man nods towards the other side of the street. Lascano follows his gaze to where a Falcon Rural is parked, encroaching into the bus-stop bay. Perro crosses the road and the porter goes back to his task. Lascano walks around the car inspecting it at great length. He takes out his notebook and jots down the registration number. At that very moment, Amancio comes out of the building with a package in his hand. Lascano tucks his pad away and watches Amancio throw the bundle down by the driver’s seat, climb in and start the engine. A few feet further back, a woman in her eighties slowly gets into a taxi. Perro jogs over, arriving just in time to grab the door as she shuts it, jumps in and waves his police badge.