The officers who effected the discovery have required psychological treatment subsequent to this action. Nevertheless, early the next morning, other police officers, such as Wilder Orozco Pariona and Colonel Olazábal himself, identified the deceased as the fugitive Hernán Durango González, alias Comrade Alonso, and lamented the outcome of his unfortunate escape.
The prosecutor raised his head from the typewriter. This time, he did not even check the syntax of his report. It seemed to him that it was simply a useless piece of paper. The data were not enough. The narrated facts had nothing to do with the murder but with its discovery. It was as if in order to describe a fishing run, one learned how the fish is served at the lunch table. It had nothing to do with what was really important. In reality, none of his reports had anything to do with what was important. He thought the relevant information was precisely what the report did not contain: who did it, why, what was going through his head. A truly useful report ought to be written knowing each detail in the lives of those involved: their pasts, their memories, their habits, even their most irrelevant conversations, the perversions that crossed their minds at the moment of execution, everything that no one could know. A real report, he concluded, could be written only by God, at least by someone with a thousand eyes and a thousand ears who could know everything. But if there were people like that, he thought, reports would not be necessary.
That morning, for the first time, he had been present at the place where the crucified corpse was located. At the top of the tree, like a placard saying INRI, was a note written in the corpse's blood:
KILLED FOR BEING A RAT
Sendero Luminoso
Impossible to know if it was the same writing as on the earlier note. One does not write the same with a pencil as with the tip of a knife. In fact, although being present at the place where the body was discovered had seemed more professional, he did not know more about this body than he had about the previous ones. Nearby were the tracks of a truck, but this was the road to the prison. Almost all the vehicles that drove there were trucks carrying food, inmates, or relief guards.
He returned to the city at six in the morning, when the Masses were over and workers were beginning to decorate the churches with loaves of bread, grapes, and lambs. Ayacucho smelled of the aromatic herbs that the faithful were boiling on braziers.
After writing his report, he went to see the pathologist.
“I can't tell you it's a pleasure to see you more and more frequently,” was Dr. Posadas's greeting as he handed him a mask. The prosecutor was going to tell him that the smell of death filled the obstetrics ward, but he decided to say nothing. It was not his problem. He already had enough problems.
The body, which had been taken down from his cross, lay on the usual table, uncovered. The holes in his forearms and only leg permitted a view of the surface of the table underneath. The crown had been fitted tightly to his forehead.
“Spare me the sordid details, Doctor. What's new?”
“More sordid details, Señor Prosecutor. That's the only thing that's ever new here.”
The doctor said this with a half smile as he lit a cigarette. He never seemed overwhelmed; on the contrary, he looked almost happy. The prosecutor wondered if the doctor liked his work, if he scrutinized the bodies with real pleasure in what he did.
“Again it looks like the action of a cell. One man on his own couldn't have staged that whole show in so short a time.”
“Of course. Then we are talking about a few men.”
“It could have been only two. And a woman, usually.”
“A woman?”
“A strange thing about the terrorists. They organized into groups of men led by women. I don't know if they're still doing it, one never knows with them. But apparently the women were always the strongest ideologically. And the most bloodthirsty. The men were errand boys, so to speak. They were good for confrontations and technical jobs. But if you had to give a coup de grâce, the woman in charge took care of that.”
“A woman couldn't do this.”
“No. But she could order it.”
The prosecutor collapsed into a chair. He looked exhausted. He said:
“I don't even know if it makes sense to look very hard at the body. Now there are other incomprehensible details. The escape, for example. How did Durango disappear from a maximum security prison without anyone seeing him?”
The doctor took out a chocolate and began eating it. Now he held the chocolate in one hand and the cigarette in the other.
“Is that what's bothering you? If you guarantee your discretion, I'll give you an answer: Colonel Olazábal is a cretin who thinks of nothing but a promotion. They must have bribed him. For a long time he hasn't cared who he works for.”
It was the last straw. Now the best allies of the terrorists were the police. But there was still something that did not fit:
“And Durango escaped in order to die?”
“Maybe they're the ones who killed him.”
“If you had seen the faces of the police when they found the body, you would not say that.”
“That's another problem. I only know what I'm telling you. And remember, I haven't told you anything.”
The light flickered. The doctor was right. It really was another problem. But it was the principal problem. All the victims seem to have gone directly, almost willingly, to their murder. With Mayta and Durango it was reasonable. They trusted their comrades, they went along. The first one, Cáceres, also had an explanation: he was hopelessly mad, mad with blood. People who have killed too much never recover. It doesn't matter which side they did it for.
The doctor made a general description of the wounds: hematomas on the shoulders and bruises that indicated a strenuous struggle before being nailed up. Muscular lacerations resulting from long nails in the extremities. Chacaltana did not listen. He barely noticed the mixture of liquids that ran from the wounds. The red of blood and something greenish black: he had no idea what it could be. And he did not ask. He was lost in his own thoughts.
He left the hospital plunged into dark nausea. A crowd had gathered around the bishop of Huamanga, who performed the traditional washing of the twelve beggars. The prosecutor had the report to deliver to Carrión. As he passed through headquarters, he asked himself what in hell he was going to tell him. That he had no idea about anything, that the terrorists were still at large, that he had no more theories, that he had never had any theories. He realized that his eyes were filling with tears. He thought about what his mother would have done in this situation. He decided to leave the report at reception and continue on to the Church of the Heart of Christ. He found Father Quiroz about to leave. Father Quiroz was always about to leave. When the prosecutor appeared, he greeted him with a smile that barely disguised his annoyance.
“Today I really am sorry, Señor Prosecutor, but it's Holy Thursday and, as you can understand, I cannot attend to you. Besides, these aren't working days. Why don't you continue your investigation on Monday?”
“I have not come to investigate, Father.”
“Ah, no?”
“I have … come to confess.”
“Well, perhaps that can wait too. God will understand.”
The priest looked toward the door, where two nuns were waiting for him. He looked at his watch. The prosecutor said:
“There's a new corpse.”
The priest began to lead him slowly by the arm to the door as he listened to him.
“I'm sorry. How did he die?”
“You don't even want to know. But I know who killed all of them.”