“Did he happen to mention the name of the man with the car?” Handal asked. He had no expectations; he just didn’t want to hear any stories about a paranoid schizophrenic or anything like that.
“Don Jacinto,” she said.
The Deputy Commissioner’s face lit up.
“Don’t tell anyone else what you just told me,” he warned. “It’s very important. I’ll be in touch with you. If your brother shows up, let me know right away.” He gave her his card, took down her telephone number and hurried down the stairs. Villalta was waiting for him with the engine running.
“We’ve got him,” the detective said as he was pulling out. “It’s Officer Dolores Cuéllar.” Niña Beatriz, who was sitting in the back next to Flores, confirmed the name. Of course, that was the good-for-nothing from the other night. She could identify him and accuse him of negligence if they put him in front of her. But Handal had something else on his mind: keeping Jacinto Bustillo’s identity secret so the press couldn’t tip him off. They went into the Black Palace’s parking lot.
“You two get a thorough statement from this lady and from Officer Cuéllar,” Handal ordered. “I’ll see you in my office in half an hour.”
Flores and Villalta turned to look at each other in disgust — they’d better forget their Friday night plans.
It was five after five in the evening when Handal locked himself in his office. He hung up his jacket and started pacing in front of his desk. He needed to think, to get the facts straight, to find new leads to investigate. He took out a black marker and wrote “Sequence of events” on his whiteboard. Underneath, he wrote “11:30 am to 11:45 am at Plaza Morena mall. Between 12:30 pm and 1:00 pm in San Mateo. 1:40 pm on Darío Street.” Then he went over to the map of the city that was hanging on the other wall and followed the route from the store in the Macrópolis housing scheme to the other three locations. Where would he attack next? Would he attack again? If his theory was right, then the guy was obsessed with his wife and her property. That’s what the facts were pointing to. He picked up the phone and asked to be patched through to Flores.
“I need a list of all of Mrs. Bustillo and her close family members’ property,” he said. “City homes, country estates, beach houses, whatever. Villalta can interview those two witnesses, but you take care of this.”
That wasn’t necessary, Flores explained. They were finishing up right now with Niña Beatriz and Officer Cuéllar. Just then, the Deputy Commissioner remembered Eduardo Sosa’s disappearance, the only person who’d spoken to Jacinto Bustillo in three years. Was it just a coincidence, a completely different case, or was he Bustillo’s first victim? Something else didn’t fit — if the police had been to see him on Wednesday night, why did the suspect wait until Friday morning to leave the Macrópolis housing project and start his crime spree? And most troubling — where did he get those snakes from and how was he controlling them?
Handal picked up the receiver again. He wanted the chief forensic psychologist to come to his office as soon as possible and help develop a profile of Bustillo that would predict his next move and his possible hideouts. But Vargas, the head of the psych team, had already left, the secretary said. They’d better get him here right away, wherever he was, the Deputy Commissioner fumed.
Flores came in.
“There’s a beach house in San Juanico,” he said. “Doña Sofía’s only sister lives there. That’s it.”
Handal ordered him to tell the authorities in San Juanico about the yellow Chevrolet and get them to watch the victim’s sister’s house discreetly. He asked if they’d checked on Vargas yet, but he still hadn’t shown up.
“We’re going to do some surveillance tonight,” he said. “With this nut on the loose, I don’t want any more surprises.”
Flores shrugged his shoulders like someone who’d already resigned himself to the task. Handal looked at his watch. It was twenty to six. Jacinto Bustillo hadn’t attacked in four hours. Where could he be? Handal decided to take advantage of the hour and go home to take a shower, have a proper dinner and relax for a while. He’d think of something while Flores and Villalta kept watch.
That was what he did; only it didn’t relax him. He was worried one of his assistants would call him on his radio any minute to tell him Bustillo and his snakes had reappeared with even greater verve. But once he got in the shower and scrubbed off the dirt from the insane day, he told himself that whatever happened, happened. He’d have to study the break-up of the Bustillos’ marriage in detail with that awful Vargas, if he ever showed up. Something important must have gone down to make the husband turn into some kind of bum. He ate with particular enthusiasm, like someone who’d finally got what he’d wanted most all day — a couple of smoked cutlets, some rice and mashed potatoes. Then he sat down in front of the television with his wife to watch the news and be entertained by his own stern face. He looked like a competent civil servant, even though the Commissioner had thrown him to the wolves without a second thought. Where the hell had they got this theory about a snake charmer who’d gone insane? Only someone like Villalta could feed them that garbage and get them to swallow it. And that shopkeeper Beatriz Díaz looked like she was about to have an orgasm right in front of the cameras. He couldn’t believe it — there was Officer Cuéllar’s mug, looking nervous but happy speaking in front of the microphones. Hadn’t he been told to keep his goddamn trap shut? The good news was that the events at Plaza Morena mall and the mystery of the snakes had pushed into the background the deaths of Doña Sofía and her maid, the clues that led directly to Jacinto Bustillo. Now that the news was over, the best thing was to rest up and catch a few winks right there on the couch. If nothing happened that night, if the man with the snakes just wanted to get rid of his wife and create panic around her pharmacies, then early tomorrow morning the Deputy Commissioner would call for a manhunt in the slums, the liquor stores, and the other places Bustillo hung around.
That’s when someone called on the radio.
The Deputy Commissioner got up and looked at his watch. It was twenty after nine.
“The party continues, boss,” said Flores. “He blew up a gas station. The Esso near the exit to the harbour.”
“What!” He rubbed his eyes. It wasn’t possible. “You mean it exploded?”
“Exactly, boss. Just a few minutes ago. First the snakes attacked and then there were some explosions. There’s a whole bunch of dead and injured people. Should we come and get you or do we meet you there?”
There was no time to waste. They’d meet at the gas station.
He floored it. The siren wailed while he asked himself what the connection was between Doña Sofía Bustillo and that gas station.
The chaos was impressive. You could see the flames from blocks away. The gas fumes were unbearable.
He left the Nissan about a hundred metres from the scene. He walked over to where an ambulance and a patrol car were already parked, covering his nose with a handkerchief.
“Is there any danger that more underground tanks could explode?” he asked a sergeant, who didn’t pay him any attention.
It was a horrifying sight. A dozen cars were scorched by the flames and there were bodies everywhere. The intense heat kept everyone back.
An officer pointed to an anxious man who was giving orders, cursing and complaining.
“That’s the manager,” he said.
The Deputy Commissioner took out his badge and introduced himself.
“Of course there are more tanks underground!” the manager shouted. “That’s what I’m trying to tell them, everybody needs to get away from here!”