Mamita Angela had marched silently in protest, in support of her son, until someone grabbed her and choked her and dragged her away.
What else had she tried to tell him?
FIFTY - SIX
“I meant to tell you, Hector, I had a detective from El Gabriel in my office before I left for Canada. Juan Tranquilino Latapier. He was smart, intuitive. A good investigator. And yet when I called there this morning, the station commander told me they had no such officer.”
“But I met him,” Ramirez had said to the station commander. “He was working on a murder involving a little girl named Zoila.”
“We have no such case,” the station commander said. “There has been no child murdered in El Gabriel for as long as I’ve been here, and that’s almost twenty years. And I’ve never even known a police officer with that name.”
“Juan Tranquilino Latapier?” said Apiro. “Perhaps someone was teasing you, Ricardo. That’s a very famous name. But Latapier was no detective.”
“You know him?”
“I know
of
him.”
“Who is he?”
“You mean who
was
he. He was the first Afro-Cuban lawyer in all of Cuba. He represented three men who were executed for
a child’s murder. But that was a long time ago. At least a century ago. In fact, this could be the month of the anniversary.”
Apiro pulled a book from the shelves and turned to the index, then flipped through its pages. “Yes, as I thought. It was January 2, 1906.”
“Really?” said Ramirez, drawing on his cigar. “Tell me more about his case.”
“It involved the supposed murder of a toddler named Zoila Gallardes. When her body was discovered, her heart and intestines had been torn from her remains. Eduardo Varela Zequeira, a white reporter, asserted that she had been murdered by three
brujo
s—Pablo and Juana Tabares, and Domingo Bocourt, a former slave. Residents began to organize as vigilantes. The mayor accused the men of being
brujos
and demanded Bocourt and the others be charged. There was widespread hysteria. It was a fascinating case, Ricardo. I reviewed it in my studies in forensic medicine. It is extremely easy to confuse the bites of an animal with the wounds made by a knife. In fact, when I was still in Moscow, there was such a case in Australia. A wild dingo carried off a child. The mother was wrongly convicted then, too, but the mistake was eventually discovered.”
“You think an animal killed Zoila?”
“Oh, yes, I am sure of it. The little girl’s death occurred at a time when
jutias
were still plentiful. You will recall that mongooses were brought to the island to control them. The mongoose travels in groups, like hyenas. It is vicious enough to kill a cobra. When they were introduced into the West Indies, they killed off all the small mammals. And when they had destroyed almost all the
jutias
here, they began hunting for other food. Zoila was playing in her family’s backyard. She had no chance against one mongoose, much less a group of them.”
“Did Latapier argue this at court?”
“No, no, no. Originally, Latapier tried to defend Bocourt by arguing that he was insane, that as a
brujo
he was not in possession of his senses. But he lost that argument. As I recall, as he learned more about
brujería
, he tried to present new evidence to reopen the convictions. His last argument was an allegation that the local mayor had tried to protect whoever had sexually abused the child, and that the death was linked to that of another little girl who was raped and murdered. A knife had been left behind, stuck in her heart. He argued this was done to cast blame on the
brujos
and away from those who were truly guilty. But the appeal was unsuccessful. His clients were garrotted. This was long before firing squads became popular.”
“It’s interesting that the facts are so similar to the ones in our file.”
“That’s probably the reason someone pretended to be Latapier. It sounds to me like someone was having fun with you. A rather sophisticated joke, at that. But he was an interesting man, Latapier.”
Apiro read aloud from the book: “‘He was a supporter of José Martí, deported in 1895 for revolutionary activities. He returned to Cuba during the armistice and obtained his doctorate in law. He was the object of extraordinary racism in his lifetime. One newspaper, for example, reported that his success demonstrated that, with proper encouragement, a black brain could function almost as well as a white one. He married a white woman, a Basque.’ Interesting: her last name was Aranas, too, according to this article. ‘His children bore her name, not his, in the Basque tradition.’ This says they had four children: a daughter and three sons.”
“I remember reading about this case now,” said Ramirez, nodding slowly as he considered this information. That was why
the name Zoila had been familiar. “Fernando Ortiz refers to it in his textbook. The one on racism.”
“That’s correct,” said Apiro. “Ortiz sat in the courtroom, watching the court proceedings every day. He thought Latapier was brilliant. The trial and appeals gripped all of Cuba.”
“Do you have a copy of Ortiz’s book, Hector?”
“Of course. Over there. Help yourself.” Apiro pointed to a hardcover book resting on the buckled shelves.
Ramirez pulled it down. He opened the cover tentatively, half expecting to conjure Juan Tranquilino Latapier from its pages. But Latapier had returned to his own time. A black-and-white photograph confirmed that the man Ramirez had met was not a police detective but a lawyer who’d been dead more than fifty years.
Just over a century had passed, Ramirez realized, since Juan Latapier had stood before the Supreme Court of Cuba, presenting his new evidence. It was an argument he was destined to lose, but one that would change the country.
Because an academic named Fernando Ortiz was watching, mesmerized, taking notes of Latapier’s impassioned appeal. Notes he would use to write a book that would influence Castro and forever change Cuba.
FIFTY - SEVEN
Ricardo Ramirez snapped the book shut and put it back on the shelf. This was a new development: a messenger who could communicate with speech, not merely gestures. Had Ramirez conjured Juan Latapier from the recesses of his memory? If not, and there were others like him, how would Ramirez ever discern who was alive and who was dead?
He wondered if he was losing his mind. How would he know? Or did mental illness creep up on a person silently, like a pickpocket?
“How is Señor Ellis?” asked Hector Apiro, interrupting his thoughts.
“Recovering quickly, from what I hear.”
“You know, I’ve been thinking more about his wife’s death. The Canadian doctors assessed her levels of luteinizing hormone when they tested her for infertility. They were normal then. But by the time of her death, those levels were grossly impaired. All of this points to anorexia. Her folate levels would have been below normal levels, even below those of most Cubans. That’s probably why she died.”
“Are you saying she died of starvation, Hector?”
“Well, indirectly, perhaps. She consumed a relatively small amount of cyanide somewhere and yet it turned out to be fatal, the result of poor nutrition from excessive dieting. It’s ironic, isn’t it? A Canadian woman, surrounded by abundance, starving herself to death. As for her husband, it helped that the Canadian authorities knew so quickly what they were dealing with. You probably saved his life.”
“I’m not sure how grateful he will be. His career is over. And he may yet be charged with his partner’s murder.”
“As he should be, Ricardo. He should have killed him in his spare time.” Apiro chuckled. “Given his employment, he took a big risk committing his crime while on the job.”
Ramirez took a deep breath. He told his friend how he’d stolen money from the exhibit room and then found himself unable to spend it. “I ended up giving it away.”
Apiro smiled. “You see, my friend? That is your good Catholic conscience catching up to you. That sense of guilt, the belief that there will be recriminations, even when no one is looking. As if a god, if one existed, would have nothing better to do than follow people around, making lists of who has been naughty, like the Christian Santa Claus. I think you are too hard on yourself, Ricardo. Even Castro siphons money into Swiss bank accounts. Rumour is, he uses diplomatic pouches. It’s money for the revolution, he claims. But there is no revolution in Geneva that I know of.”
Geneva, Ramirez thought. Diplomatic pouches. He hadn’t thought of that. He wondered how many Swiss bank accounts Rey Callendes had opened. And how many secret safety deposit boxes in Geneva were full of CDs loaded with child pornography.
“It was such a small amount, Hector. I think that’s why I felt guilty.”
“Would you have felt any better if it was larger?”
“No,” Ramirez acknowledged. “If I had taken more, there would have been no turning back.”
“Who did you give the money to?” asked Apiro, as he added a shot of rum to Ramirez’s coffee.
“A homeless man. An Ojibway. Anishnabe, I believe, is the correct term.”
The old man was sitting on the sidewalk, wrapped in his blankets, when Ramirez left the hotel to watch for Celia Jones’s car to pull in. He barely looked up when Ramirez dropped the folded bills in his lap. Five hundred U.S. dollars, in fifties and one-hundred-dollar bills.
“I can’t accept this,” he said to Ramirez softly. He tried to hand the money back. His hands looked like scarred leather, the blue tattoos on the backs of his fingers the same colour as the raised veins.
“Please, take it. It has no value to me. It is worthless in my country.”
“God bless you,” the man said to Ramirez quietly. “
Miigwetch
.”
His toothless lisp made Ramirez think of his little daughter and how much he missed her. He was moved by the fact that a man so abused by God still believed in one.
“There’s no need to thank me,” said Ramirez. “Thank the revolution.”
FIFTY - EIGHT
It was 11
A.M
. when the phone on the wall in Hector Apiro’s office rang. Ramirez tensed. Apiro jumped off his chair and picked up the phone.
“It’s for you, Ricardo. I think you know who it is.”
“Welcome home, Inspector,” said the minister’s clerk. “The minister wants to see you in his office immediately.”
“It’s time,” said Ramirez as he hung up. His heart jumped a little at the risks they were taking. “Do you still think Rey Callendes was the poisoned pawn?”
Ramirez and Apiro had worked through the evidence together until Ramirez could finally see all the pieces on the board. The possibilities, the counter-moves. They had no tactics left. Only strategy.
“I think so, Ricardo. But remember this. You have the initiative. Play the man, not the game. Good luck. You know what to do.” But the small man looked worried nonetheless.
“The statement from Celia Jones. Affirmed and notarized, as you requested, Minister.” Inspector Ramirez put the document on the polished mahogany desk.
“Well done, Inspector,” the minister inclined his head. “How did you get her to sign it?”
“I didn’t,” said Ramirez.
The politician frowned. “Is the signature genuine?”
“It’s as real as the ones on the Vatican documents.”
Ramirez hoped Andrew Britton would be able to replace his notary seal, which now sat on Ramirez’s desk. His slide down the ethical cliff had gathered momentum. But then, at least
he
hadn’t lied about his actions. Whereas the Minister of the Interior had.
The minister flinched. “Vatican documents? I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“The documents you had couriered by diplomatic pouch to Canada. The ones leaked to the RCMP. Your handwriting is on one of them. I recognized it immediately. That looped
y
is distinctive. Hard to miss.”
“Ridiculous.”
“Not at all. I had much of this backwards,” said Ramirez. “I thought that Sanchez and Rubinder took photographs for their personal use. But pedophiles don’t do that, do they? They share their photographs. It’s like art to them; they’re collectors. They can never have enough of it.” Like Candice Olefson and her paintings.
“At first I thought Rey Callendes was stopped at the Ottawa International Airport because of the Indian residential schools claims, but apparently very few priests have been investigated criminally in Canada, much less charged. The crimes are too old. And that confused me. Until I realized you made sure the Canadian authorities knew to stop him. It wasn’t Father Callendes you wanted back. It was his laptop.”
“I am sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, Ramirez. But you’re walking on dangerous ground, making accusations like this.”
“Oh, I think you do. It took me a while to understand the
thinking behind it. After all, I’m no politician. May I? This could take a while.”
Ramirez sat down in one of the minister’s deep leather armchairs. He reached in his pocket for a cigar, the first one he’d dared to light. But his pockets were empty; he had smoked his last cigar in Apiro’s office. He reached for the humidor on the mahogany desk and removed one of the minister’s. Once again, it seemed small compared to the cigar lady’s.
“I’ve always been partial to Montecristos.” Ramirez struck a match and inhaled. “Ah, the taste of a good cigar. It really is good to be back home.”
He wondered if it would be inappropriate to ask for a glass of rum. Then again, this was how co-conspirators dealt with each other, wasn’t it?
“About Rey Callendes. You see, I thought he was on his way to Cuba when he was arrested in Canada. But he was headed in the other direction, for the Vatican. He told me on the flight here that you personally informed him about Sanchez’s death. I think you warned him to get the laptop out of the country before someone in my office thought to look more deeply into Sanchez’s activities. That’s why my authorization was approved so quickly. To distract me.”
Ramirez had allowed the minister to divert him from the person he should have been investigating—Rey Callendes—by sending him to Canada, putting him up in a nice hotel, letting him put expensive meals on his tab.
“But sending Callendes away so quickly after Sanchez’s death was a poor move. The Kotov syndrome, Apiro would call it. It was a bad decision, made under the pressure of time. You realized as soon as he left that you didn’t trust him. He could use the information on that computer to his own advantage. Perhaps to blackmail you, or the government.