The swollen and disfigured bodies had taken away his appetite for the moment, but not his heartburn. He had a feeling this would be a complicated case that would force him to work more than he could bear.
Half an hour later they returned to police headquarters, followed by a couple of patrol cars carrying witnesses. Villalta drove the Nissan. He hadn’t been able to get any more details about the suspect’s car, except that it was old and yellow and its windows were covered with pieces of cardboard. Flores had gone with another group of officers to look up pet stores and vets.
The Deputy Commissioner went inside and asked someone to order him a hamburger, fries and a coke. He told himself he’d get a proper dinner that night. He started questioning the witnesses right away: the security guard who’d managed to escape from the parking lot, another who’d hidden in the supermarket and a third who’d taken a shot at the suspect. He also questioned the saleswoman from the boutique Mrs. Ferracuti had been coming out of, as well as a couple of bystanders — customers from the supermarket who wanted to help out. Nothing was clear, not even the number of reptiles involved. Some said there were six, others said ten. No one could give any specific details. The only new information he got was from the first security guard, who said the suspect reeked of alcohol.
Detective Flores came in looking discouraged.
“No one in the city breeds snakes, boss.”
The Deputy Commissioner leaned back in his swivel chair and put his feet up on the desk.
“A beat-up old car, a drunken bum and a half dozen snakes just to take out the sister of one of the most powerful men in the country. . it just doesn’t make sense. It doesn’t sound right,” he mumbled.
The phone rang. It was Villalta. They’d finished the composite sketch of the suspect, but he had some news. Two murders had just been reported in San Mateo, a nearby suburb, and one of the victims had been practically chewed up by snakes.
The Deputy Commissioner jumped out of his chair.
“Let’s go!” he shouted, and took out his radio handset.
The Commissioner had already called a second time to check on the progress of the case, which meant the pressure from above would only get worse.
“Does the name Bustillo sound familiar to you, boss?” asked Villalta. He didn’t put the siren on, but he drove at full speed anyway, running red lights and zooming past any car that tried to cross his path.
“Not at all,” Handal answered. “Are there any survivors?”
“Not exactly. They killed a Mrs. Bustillo and a maid. Her daughter found the bodies when she came back from school,” explained Villalta. “It doesn’t look like anything was stolen.”
Two patrol cars were already parked in front of the house and a group of onlookers were crowded around the front door.
Handal stopped in front of Mrs. Bustillo’s body. An amateur job, he thought. He walked over to the maid. He had a feeling that the key to the entire case lay here, or at least the only clue to solving it. Apart from the bodies, the house was in perfect order, as if nothing had been touched.
“Where’s the girl?” he asked. “I want to talk to her.”
An officer told him she was at a neighbour’s. She was in total shock; he’d have to wait a few hours before he could question her, at least until the sedatives had taken effect.
“I’ll try if you want, boss,” said Flores, who was known as the station’s smooth-talker — extremely useful for getting information from both witnesses and suspects. He was one of the brand-new detectives trained after the war; he looked like a nice guy and had good gringo manners.
The Deputy Commissioner stuck his little finger in his ear.
“All right,” he said. “And you, go and see what you can get out of the neighbours, especially whether they saw an old, yellow American car hanging around,” he told Villalta. He went over to the Nissan, picked up the radio and asked to speak to the chief of forensics. He told him he wanted the results of the tests to see if the snakes involved in the incident at the shopping mall were the same as those who’d attacked this unfortunate maid, and he wanted them now. Then he walked to the neighbour’s house to see what Flores had found out.
The girl wasn’t hysterical anymore. Her name was Sofía, just like her late mother. She’d just turned sixteen. That afternoon, she’d come home from school just as she did every other day, and had walked into a gruesome crime scene.
“Did you notice anything unusual near the house?” asked Flores. “Were there any cars parked out front?”
No, she couldn’t think of anyone who would want to hurt her mother; they didn’t have any enemies, she said, sniffling. Yes, of course, they lived alone with the maid. Her father? He left them about three years ago. Her mother acted as if he were dead, as if he’d never existed, but the girl still hoped she’d see him again. No, she didn’t know where he was. He used to be an accountant at a company. How were they supporting themselves? They owned a chain of pharmacies called La Surtidora that they’d inherited from her grandfather.
“Where is it?” asked the Deputy Commissioner.
The biggest location was downtown, she explained, and there was another pharmacy at the Plaza Morena mall. Flores turned to look at his boss.
“Do you know anyone who has anything to do with snakes?” he asked.
No, she couldn’t think of anyone, she said. Villalta hurried into the room. He looked at the girl — at sixteen she was already a good-looking young woman — and then at the Deputy Commissioner.
“A neighbour says he saw a yellow car parked in front of the house,” he said in his high-pitched voice. “He can’t remember the make, but it was a beat-up old American model.” Handal snapped his fingers. “We’ve got him,” he said. “Let’s get back to headquarters.”
But the girl had her mouth open in shock.
“No, it can’t be,” she whispered.
“What can’t be?” Handal asked, grabbing her arm.
“No, it’s impossible!” she screamed and started to cry uncontrollably. Her father had a yellow Chevrolet, she managed to stammer. It was an old model, just like the one he’d had when he was young. It was the only thing he took with him when he left.
They raced out.
“I want everything we have on file about this Jacinto Bustillo,” Handal ordered Flores, before turning to Villalta. “Call headquarters and get them to look in the records for all the information we’ve got on the yellow Chevrolet.”
Villalta ran to the Nissan and grabbed the radio. Flores stayed at the Bustillo home to look for clues. They were about to get to the bottom of things, thought Handal, and luckily, it looked like Mrs. Ferracuti’s death was accidental. He got in the car. He asked to be patched through to the Commissioner. It was urgent. He told him the evidence was pointing to a nut called Jacinto Bustillo. It was a crime of passion and unfortunately, Dr. Ferracuti’s sister was in the wrong place at the wrong time. That was all.
He’d just hung up when he was called on the radio again. There was an emergency on the corner of Fifth Avenue and Darío Street, in the heart of the crowded downtown area. A massive snake attack had caused multiple injuries and deaths. Villalta put on the siren.
“We’ve got to catch this son-of-a-bitch before he drives the whole city insane,” Handal mumbled. He put two and two together and called the Black Palace to find out where the Bustillo family pharmacy was located. He was right: it was on Darío Street, right near Fifth Avenue, the operator said. Stabbing his wife didn’t seem to have satisfied Bustillo.
Getting to the crime scene was going to be a feat in itself. Traffic was a nightmare. Sirens were blaring in all directions. Police cars, ambulances, and fire fighters were trying unsuccessfully to get to the victims. People were running, terrified.