14
Jerome is grading
papers on a Saturday morning. He's comfortable in an old T-shirt and even older striped pajamas, sitting at his desk, mug of steaming hot coffee within reach and sunlight streaming in through the windows. The monsoons have taken the day off, and the first unequivocal sunshine in two weeks is spreading over the metropolis.
When he hears the knock on the door, he doesn't answer it immediately; perhaps whoever it is will go away. The papers need to be graded by Monday, and there are other things to prepare for next week's classes. But when he doesn't respond, the person knocks again, and this time it is with the rhythmic pattern that Jerome associates with only one person. With a sigh, he leaves his comfortable seat and his hot coffee and his papers and opens the door.
“It's the weekend,” he grumbles.
“Happy weekend!” Saenz chirps.
“I have papers to grade.”
“So do I.” The older priest breezes in through the open doorway.
“Yet here you are. No, wait, don't. I just made that coffeeâ” But it's too late; Saenz has already taken possession of the mug and proceeded to drink down the contents.
“And very good coffee it was,” he says.
“Don't you have any other friends?”
“None who will come with me to Payatas on a Saturday morning.”
At the mention of the dumpsite, Jerome turns serious. “Payatas? Why? What's up?”
Saenz leans against Jerome's desk. “We determined it was likely that the murders were committed on the first Saturday of every month since February. Something's been nagging at me all this time, but there's been so much happening these last few days that I kept getting distracted. I knew there was something about the first Saturday of the month that rang a bell, but I couldn't pin it down.” He thrusts his hand into one of the pockets of his jeans and fishes out a small notebook, opens the cover and flips through the pages. When he finds what he's looking for, he hands it to Jerome. “My notes. From when I spoke to Jon-jon Mendoza's parents.”
Jerome takes the notebook and studies the open page.
Saturdayâparishâfree food.
He looks up at Saenz. “Payatas it is, then.”
Jerome and Saenz
arrive at the parish church in time to see Father Emil bent over a huge, bubbling pot of
arroz caldo
. A look of surprise crosses his face, but it's quickly replaced by cheerfulness. He raises the ladle in welcome, spraying his shirt as well as a few kids with drops of the thick, yellow porridge.
“Hello! What brings you two here today?” he greets them, while dispensing bowl after bowl and keeping the more aggressive children in line. “Here you are; don't spill itâWait! You'll get your share; don't push.”
Saenz laughs, then deeply inhales the aroma of gingery broth and toasted garlic layered with the scent of freshly cut spring onions. “This is exactly how I pictured you, Emil. Knee-deep in
arroz caldo
and children.”
“Sorry, Father Gus.” The parish priest hands over rationing duties to a pair of nuns hovering close by. “Saturday is always a busy day in the parish.”
“Nothing to apologize for,” Saenz says. “We just thought we'd have a look around.”
For a moment, Emil seems worried. “It's about the case, isn't it?” He looks at Jerome, then back at Saenz. “But you've been here before.”
“Not on a Saturday.”
“A Saturday.” Emil is even more concerned now. “What does it have to do with Saturdays?”
“We don't know yet.” Jerome looks around the church grounds.
Saenz puts an arm around the parish priest's shoulders and leads him away from the hubbub of children gathered around the massive pot. Jerome follows close behind.
“The parents of one of the boys we've identified say that the last time they saw their son, he'd said he was coming here,” Saenz says in a low voice. “To the parish. On a Saturday.”
Emil is taken aback. “Wait. Wait a minute. Do you thinkâ”
Saenz holds both hands up to placate him. “We don't think anything yet, Emil. Honestly. It's a lead to follow up, that's all. That's why we came here. We wanted to see what happens at the parish on weekends.”
Jerome steps forward. “If you could give us some idea of what goes on here, especially on Saturdays, we might be able to pick up something.”
Emil's brow is furrowed with worry lines. “Everything that goes on here on the weekends is above board, and highly visible to everyone who comes here. I've never had any problems or any reason to
. . .
You mean, you think
. . .
”
“We don't think anything,” Jerome repeats, kindly but firmly. “Why don't you take us through the Saturday activities? There may be no link to the case after all.”
Emil again looks at both of them, one after the other, and pauses to think. “Well
. . .
” Then he squares his shoulders, clearly having come to a decision to cooperate as best as he can. “The parish has all kinds of initiatives. Aside from catechism on Sundays, we have livelihood training, parenthood seminars, a feeding program. Look over there,” he says, pointing to a tentlike structure where about a dozen women are seated on plastic chairs, listening to a woman speaking in front of a blackboard. “That's a class on basic household accounting, and the woman is a volunteer sent by city hall.”
“Is that new?” Jerome asks.
“New? The classes you mean? No, goodness. We've been doing them for about six years now. We know all the volunteers; they've been with us on and off for as long as the classes have been in place.”
Saenz looks at the tent. “Maybe you could give us a list anyway. Would that be a problem?”
“No, not at all. I'll send it to you Monday.”
Jerome walks on ahead of the other two. “What about that?” he asks, pointing to a large vehicle that looks like a converted bus parked in one corner of the church grounds. Painted on the side, in large blue letters, a reminder to local voters:
mobile medical and dental mission: a public service project of councillor cesar mariano
. There is a line of mothers waiting patiently in the shade nearby, seated on or standing near makeshift wooden benches as their children run in circles around them.
“Free clinic,” Emil says, standing beside Jerome. “That's been around since even before I became parish priest here. The vehicle may have changed once or twice, and so has the name of the politician.” He chuckles, acknowledging the common practice of local politicians having their names emblazoned on waiting sheds, mobile clinics, ambulances and fire trucks. It's a way to ingratiate themselves to local voters, using the very facilities, equipment and services that the voters themselves have financed with their taxes. “The doctor who runs it is a longtime community health officer for the district, Dr. Alice Panganiban.”
“And how often does the free clinic come here?” Saenz asks.
“They're here every Saturday. Dr. Alice, two female nurses, a dentist.” At that moment, the door to the mobile clinic opens and a slim, white-clad woman in her early thirties steps out, her hair tied neatly in a ponytail. “That's our dentist, Dr. Jeannie Santa Romana.”
“And all of them have been coming here for years?”
“Oh yes.”
Jerome shrugs. “Oh well. Can we have all the names anyway? Just as a precaution.”
“Sure, sure.”
When Jerome turns to Saenz, he finds him gazing off in the direction of the nuns and the cooking pot. At that same moment, a child runs up to Emil and eagerly shows him a page out of her coloring book; the priest gets down on one knee to engage her in animated conversation. Jerome takes the opportunity to move closer to Saenz.
“What is it?”
“Feeding program.” Saenz is looking intently at the seemingly endless line of children inching their way to the pot, laughing and joking. The children range in age from about two or three years old to as old as perhaps thirteen or fourteen. Saenz turns back to Emil, waits for the child to finish and run off before speaking. “Tell me about the feeding program.”
Emil rises to his feet. “The feeding program? We've been doing that for years too. Only difference is nowadays we get help from some of the councillors in the district.”
“Since when?” Jerome asks.
“Let's see
. . .
maybe nine, ten months? Less than a year, that's for sure.”
“And how does that work?”
“Usually the councillors' people provide the ingredients, and we do the cooking, as we did today. But sometimes they send packed meals.”
“Oh? How often is that?”
“About once a month. Every first Saturday.”
Saenz is careful not to register surprise or excitement at hearing this, but Jerome has noticed the minute shift in his tone. “And those mealsâwhere do they come from?”
“Oh, I'm not sure,” Emil says, oblivious. “I guess they've got caterers they use for their political events.”
“Hmmm. Same people every time?”
“I suppose so. I think Sister Fe and Sister Lucia would have a better idea.” At this point, another child runs up to Emil, and the parish priest gives Saenz and Jerome an apologetic look before attending to the little girl.
Quietly, Saenz says to Jerome: “I think I'd like to have a quick chat with the good sisters.”
In Jerome's car
on the way back to the university, Saenz is unusually quiet. Jerome knows not to interrupt his thoughts; he doesn't even play music on the car stereo as he drives.
As they turn into the main road heading to the campus, Saenz finally speaks.
“In many ways, the community is a closed system. The elements within that system interact in ways that are fairly predictable over time. Those interactions also change in fairly predictable ways. But what happens if you introduce a new element? How does that element behave within the system? What changes does it bring about?”
“You're talking about the food deliveries.”
Saenz nods. “Both Emil and Sister Fe say they started less than a year ago. The packed meals are unmarked, so they're not from any of the better-known fast-food chains. The same people make the deliveries every time. The meals arrive hot, so wherever they're prepared, it can't be too far from the church grounds.”
Jerome's car swings through the university's gates. “So the next logical step is to speak with the councillors who fund the meals.”
“We may have to wait till next week, though. I don't think anybody will agree to see us on a weekend.”
“And we're more than midway through the month. Which means the first Saturday of next month isn't that far off.”
15
The following Monday
morning, after his only class of the day, Jerome stops by Saenz's office. He opens the door without knocking. “Any luck?” he asks, and then he realizes that Saenz is on the phone.
Saenz claps a hand over the mouthpiece. “You're just in time,” he says in a quiet voice. “Talking to an aide of Councillor Cesar Mariano.”
“The councillor directly involved with the parish feeding program.”
Saenz nods. “I'm this close to getting an appointment,” he says, holding thumb and forefinger together to indicate how close. “But I need you to give me a good excuse.”
Jerome rolls his eyes. “Why is it me who always has to come up with the dodgy plans?”
“Because you have a gift for it. Quick!”
Jerome plops down in a chair in front of Saenz's desk. “Tell him
. . .
Tell him that Emil sent you. To talk about a community development project that we hope he can spearhead. Imply that there'll be lots of votes in it for him.”
Saenz grins at him. “You see? A gift.” Just then the person on the other end of the line returns with some news, and Saenz picks up the thread of the conversation.
Jerome listens as Saenz makes an appointment for that same evening. When the conversation ends, he says with some admiration, “That was fast.”
“Much faster than we'd anticipated, eh? Turns out he's tied up all week, and this is his only free slot.”
Jerome pauses, and then asks, “So why don't we just tell him the real reason we want to see him?”
Saenz speaks slowly, as though he himself is still working out the rationale for this initial subterfuge in his mind. “We don't know anything about this person yet. We don't know if the meal deliveries are connected in any way with the killings. And as he's directly involved in the feeding program, we need to be careful.”
Jerome looks down at his shoes as he considers this. “Right. I see your point.”
Saenz stands, pats him gently on the shoulder. “Let's just get a foot in the door, okay? And we improvise from there.”
That same evening,
they find themselves sitting in the living room of Councillor Cesar Mariano. When he comes out to greet them, his handshake is firm and quick, his manner brisk and businesslike. He settles into a cushioned chair with wooden armrests, relaxed but not slouching.
Mariano is a small man, an architect by profession, fairly well-to-do. His short, coarse hair stands up stiffly like the bristles of a toothbrush, and his round, deeply cupped ears seem to billow out at the sides of his head like tiny sails. He reminds
Jerome of those troll dolls with their wildly colored hair sticking up and out; children are supposed to rub the hair for good luck. Jerome imagines that the councillor would object to having the same done to him. He also notes that the council
lor is not a man much given to smiling, which makes him wonder how the man managed to get elected in a country where skilled glad-handing is a prerequisite for election to public office. He seems a serious, no-nonsense sort, the type people can count on to get a job done without too much of a fuss. However, he is a bit puzzled at their interest in the food deliveries.
“We have a list of caterers who handle these things for us. Big meetings, community events, political rallies, that sort of thing.”
“I under
stand from Sister Fe Boncayao that you've been using the same caterer for all of the parish meal deliveries from the start.”
Mariano thinks about this for a moment. “You know, I can't be sure. My office helps to fund and source the meals and supplies, but my staff handles the details for me, you see.” Another pause. “What's the matter? Did somebody get food poisoning or something?”
Saenz shakes his head. “No, no. We are looking for a catererâsomeone who can offer reasonable prices and is already familiar with the parish. You see, we're organizing a fundraiser for the parish. Father Emil is thinking of building an activity center for the children. Keep them busy; keep them away from drugs.”
“Oh.” A beat, and then: “So why isn't he with you?”
“Busy meeting with potential donors,” Jerome steps in. “I expect he'll come to see you about this in a few weeks too.”
“Hmmm.”
“We're hoping to at least break ground on the project before Christmas,” Saenz says, choosing his words with care. “But as you can imagine, we
. . .
don't have a lot of time or money to put this fundraiser together. If you could refer us to your regular caterer, it would save us a great deal of both.”
Mariano taps his fingers on the armrests of his chair. “I don't have the contact numbers, but I can get my assistant to give them to you. How soon do you need the information?”
“The sooner the better,” Jerome says, trying not to sound too eager.
The councillor walks over to a desk on one side of the room, takes a pen and begins to scribble a note on a piece of paper. Then he shuffles back and hands the paper to Jerome. “That's her number at the office. Give her a call; she'll be in all day tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” Jerome says, folding it up and putting it in his pocket.
Mariano looks at both of them. “Still not sure why you told my assistant this was urgent, though,” he says quietly.
Saenz meets his gaze without flinching.
“For you and me, Councillor, it isn't. For those children, it is.”