He spent the rest of Monday trying to toss a wad of paper into a wastebasket. From time to time, like a flash of lightning, memories of Yawarmayo and Justino came to him. My brother's the one. He does everything. What brother? What does he do?
He did not want to have lunch with Edith, at least for as long as he had no sign of support or promotion from his superiors. When he said good-bye, he had told her that he would invite her to the gala affairs of his superiors. He would not go back now and say he could invite her only to an empty office. He felt he had let her down, that she would feel disappointed by him. He had lunch in his office, some rice and chicken he had brought from home in a thermos, and the rest of the afternoon was devoted to his wad of paper. That night he slept badly.
Tuesday passed in exactly the same way. Along with his nightmares he suffered sweating and nausea.
On Wednesday the 12th, at 9:35, spurred by the need to do something, he decided to look for Justino's name in the archives of the Office of the Prosecutor. Perhaps he would find something useful or at least give the impression of doing something useful. He had learned that really working was not as important as letting it be seen that one was working. In Lima, where there was more competition, Prosecutor Chacaltana would remain in his office until ten at night even if he had nothing to do in order to avoid the impression that he was going home too early. In Ayacucho, functionaries left earlier than that, but gossip circulates more quickly in small cities.
The archive was in an enormous windowless room filled with papers and boxes, and the prosecutor spent the entire morning there meticulously searching through records of the 1980s and old, dusty documents for the family name Mayta Carazo. It did not appear in the archives filed according to name. And it was not among the files of those detained or interrogated with regard to either terrorism or common crimes. When he was about to give up, the prosecutor decided to look through the dismissed or discontinued cases. He found the complaint filed by Edwin's mother after his disappearance. This must be the same woman who opened the door for him in Quinua on the day he was attacked. The charges had been withdrawn the day following the complaint without the signature of the complainant.
With the information contained in the complaint, he could check Edwin Mayta Carazo's background in the section called “rejected complaints.” Finally, he found a clue: Justino's brother had once been accused of being a member of a cell operating near Huanta, but nothing had ever been proved. After some electric towers were blown up, a resident denounced two other members of that same cell. Then, the army began to look for Edwin to make the relevant inquiries.
Along with the information on Edwin were the names of the other members of the cell. Two of them, a man and a woman, were listed as “whereabouts unknown.” The third, Hernán Durango González, alias Comrade Alonso, was serving a life sentence in the Huamanga maximum security prison.
The prosecutor became aware that never in his life had he spoken to a terrorist. He wondered if it would be valid for the investigation, if he could accept as evidence the statements of a criminal who had committed treason. Then he realized it did not matter. There was no evidence because there would be no trial or judgment. The subject of the corpse in Quinua was a closed case.
That afternoon, after eating lunch at a stand on the street, he went to the prison. He thought that if he at least closed the case for himself, his nightmares would end.
The Huamanga maximum security prison, with a capacity for three hundred prisoners, housed 974 criminals, 252 of them accused of terrorism or treason. As he approached it on foot, the prosecutor looked at the walls ten meters high and the watch towers at the corners. There was nothing and no one within a radius of three kilometers, so that any movement in the surrounding area could be detected before it got too close to the compound. In order to go in it was necessary to show one's national identity document at the gate and have one's name entered into the visitors' book. After the first checkpoint, a long corridor led to another sentry post.
“Today isn't a visiting day,” the second guard said dryly.
The prosecutor showed his identification. The guard did not even look at it.
“Today isn't a visiting day,” he repeated.
The prosecutor wanted to avoid unnecessary arguments. He thanked him for his kindness, picked up his document, and proceeded to retrace his steps. He was already outside when he remembered that he had nothing to do in his office. He thought about his wad of paper. And his nightmares. He turned around and showed his identification to the first guard, who wrote his name again in the visitors' book without saying anything. He walked down the corridor again until he reached the second checkpoint.
“Call the functionary of the National Penal Institute. I am on official business,” he said with self-assurance.
The guard grunted, as if annoyed that someone would disturb the peace of his Wednesday. Then he stated:
“There is no functionary.”
“Excuse me, but this is a penal institution, and there has to be a functionary from the …”
“Colonel Olazábal is in charge here. If you want to talk to him, you have to send a fax to the General Administration of Police requesting an interview.”
The police. Chacaltana knew that in many penitentiaries there were police instead of functionaries because the Institute could not manage all the prisons and had no troops at its disposal. He felt frustrated as he left again, thinking that perhaps he could also send a written request to the National Penal Institute asking for an official introduction. Then he reconsidered: his case was closed, and the system of inter-institutional message delivery had not proved to be very efficient. In spite of his confidence in institutions, he understood that no one would give him an appointment. But he also understood suddenly that he himself was also an institutional authority. He was already outside the prison when, resolute and sure of himself, he turned, showed his national identity document once more to the silent guard at the entrance, and appeared again before the second guard, who seemed drowsy as he grumbled something, perhaps his surprise at seeing one human being so many times in a single day at his post.
“Call Colonel Olazábal,” the prosecutor demanded. “I will talk to him.”
“He's busy. I already told you that you have to send a fax to …”
“Then give me your name and badge number, because I will mention you in the fax.”
Suddenly, the policeman seemed to regain consciousness. He no longer looked drowsy.
“Excuse me?” he asked slyly.
“Give me your information. I will make a note of it here and inform Colonel Olazábal of your negligence in assisting in investigations ordered by your superiors.”
The guard was not grumbling now. Instead, he grew pale and leaned to one side to hide his badge:
“Well no, Chief,” he said, and the prosecutor noted that he had called him “Chief” and that his voice was gentler now, “that isn't really true, I have my orders and I follow them. It isn't my intention to neglect …”