Murder in Buenos Aires (5/9)

The story so far:

Part I, The Woman in the Pool:  Lola Graf is found dead at a luxury resort on the eve of exposing a pedophile ring. Detective Inspector León Marconi seeks the help of Christina Ortiz, a professional cleaner and talented sleuth. She discovers that a book is missing from Lola’s room

Part II, Six Suspects: Marconi talks to Graf's friends: footballer Diego Sosa, 'influencer' Sandra Lopez, actress Kristin Ocampo, polo player Martín Gaviscon, scientist Juliet Harris and tech billionaire Frank Giordano. Ocampo has just lost her brother, a priest, to suicide after the end of an affair with Lola Graf.

Part III, The Labyrinth: It emerges that Juliet Harris’s parents died when Graf hit them in a car accident. Frank Giordano falsely accuses Marconi of police brutality. Meanwhile, Christina learns Martín Gaviscon is a drug addict. She discovers the black book in his room.

Part IV, All Hell:  The black book suggests Martín Gaviscon was involved in abuse at a school in villa 31, one of the city's poorest areas. When León is suspended on charges of police brutality, he asks Christina for help. He himself goes to meet the priest's parents. They say he met a friend named Gigi the night before his death.

Part V, The School

Christina climbed ten stone steps and gently pushed open a huge wooden door and found herself in a cavernous and magnificent foyer. She blinked and shivered in the sudden cool and dark. Her eyes adjusted so that she eventually saw Spanish tiles and elaborate statues of saints dressed in luxurious cloth shot through with gold. She listened and noticed how hushed it was, though in the distance she heard almost imperceptible sounds of water gurgling in pipes, a soft footfall and something like a drawer sliding shut.

She looked around and saw a piece of A4 paper stuck to the wall at the foot of a staircase. She read the words ‘RECEPTION, THIS WAY’ printed on it in a large font.  Without thinking, purely out of habit and as a reaction to the vast cathedral-like environment, she crossed herself before attempting the stairs. She felt almost as she used to at Easter, mentally reenacting the Way of the Cross. She did not know what was waiting for her up there but she was determined to play her part.

When she got to the top of the stairs she saw a painting of Saint Dominic with his lilies. The image was dark and the corridor gloomy, so the whites of the saint’s eyes and fleshy petals of the lilies seemed almost fluorescent.

Peering along the corridor, Christina saw that a sliver of light was falling from one of the doors. She judged that this must be the reception office. Consciously setting aside her fear, she strode over to the light and enlarged it by pushing the door open, simultaneously knocking loudly on it.

“Buenos dias!” she said cheerfully, “ I do hope I’m not interrupting you. May I come in?”

A little person behind a desk stared at her in amazement, then struggled up to his feet, bowed politely. His chair and desk had clearly been custom made to accommodate his proportions. He was probably in his forties and was dressed in a suit that fitted him beautifully. He wore several gold rings and shoes that reflected the room in two dark mirrors.

“Not at all, not at all madam. Please come in. Make yourself comfortable. How can I help you?”

Christina sat, as told, with the air of a shipwreck survivor climbing into a lifeboat.

“Oh, thank you sir. That’s very kind. My name is Lily Ramez and I’m here on behalf of a couple of boys who have recently lost their mother. They live in this villa miseria, you see. I volunteer at the hospice there and dear Ariana was so distraught about them, their future. I promised her I’d do what I could. I’ve heard you take in troubled boys?”

“We do not take just anyone,” the receptionist replied, pursing his unusually plump lips. “We are a charitable organization, certainly, but even so we are particular about the type of student we accept. The child must demonstrate promise in some field of study or athletics.”

“Well the elder boy Teodoro is good at math. And Bartolomeo shows promise as an artist even though he’s very young.”

“I see,” he seemed to soften. “I should add, there are affiliated schools for students who are less…outstanding. So in any case we should be able to accommodate them somehow. I will ask you first to fill in these forms, and then we would also need to see a sample of their writing to get an idea of their educational level. After that, we’d ask them to come in for a short interview to get a sense of their temperament, aptitude, general health and fitness, all that.”

“They are good children really,” said Christina. “But there have been a couple of instances of shoplifting. I believe they only did it because they were acting out, you know, on account of their mother’s illness.”

“Understood. We are not looking for perfection, you understand, but potential.”

Christina nodded intelligently. The little man reached for a couple of glossy brochures and handed them to Christina.

“Here is the information about the school. As you can see, ordinarily you’d have to register earlier but in certain special cases an arrangement can be made. Here is all the contact information.”

“Thank you so much,” she beamed. “I wonder if I could trouble you for a favour?”

He inclined his head courteously.

“Could I take a look around the school—to get an idea of the learning environment?”

He hesitated.

“Certainly. Unfortunately I am indisposed at the moment but I can ask one of our seniors to show you around.”

***

Javier, a massive, glowering pigeon-toed youth led Christina through the school. The glowering was due to pain; he’d had brain surgery two years earlier (a terrifying operation where he’d lost a lot of cerebralspinal fluid) and the scar hadn’t healed very well—there was nerve damage on the scalp and it gave him trouble most days. In fact, his true nature was good-natured and chatty. He kept up a running commentary on the school’s architecture, history, staff politics and student gossip. For some reason Christina was reminded of The Divine Comedy, though here was a strange Virgil to her even stranger Dante.

He was clearly an intelligent lad, though, and knowledgeable. He spoke with a kind of pedantic lilt that seemed almost absurd in someone so young.

“This building is, architecturally speaking, a little schizophrenic,” he said. “From the outside, you’d think it was High-Victorian. Those are Doulton bricks specially shipped from England in the 1880’s. But then you get inside and it’s got shades of French Renaissance-revival. And the décor is pure Colonial and 19^th-century Spanish. Just mad,” he chuckled.

Christina had no idea what he was talking about but decided to pursue the matter.

“What was it originally, this building?” she asked.

“Originally? Well, there was a building here before—as far back as the eighteenth century it was a seminary. It was torn down in the nineteenth century and modified to include a residence for priests and an orphanage in one big complex. The orphanage was converted to a school sometime in the 1960’s.”

“But the seminary is still serving its original purpose?”

He nodded.

“And some of the priests teach at the school. The school itself was originally, I suppose, a sort of nursery for budding priests. Most of the students develop an allergy to religion.”

“And you?” she asked.

He shrugged.

“I’m agnostic but I can see the social use of the Church. After all, no one else cares much—in a practical way, I mean—about Villa 31, do they?”

“I suppose not. What are you hoping to do?”

“I’d like to be an architect. Failing that, maybe a historian. I got the second-highest grade in history in the country in my last history exam.”

“Congratulations!” she said. “Are your classmates all as bright as you?”

“No,” he said a little sadly. “Academics aren’t the school’s strong point to be honest, for all they bang on about being selective and exclusive. Though the teachers are good, some of them anyway. The best teacher is probably Father Sebastian,” he said. “He’s a bit eccentric but very sound on Latin American History and Classics.”

“What do you mean by ‘eccentric’?” she asked.

“Well, he’s a serious scholar,” Javier said approvingly. “Which sets him apart. And he’s a bit of a slob. Doesn’t brush his hair, very absent minded. Doesn’t care about rules or discipline.”

“I think,” said Christina, “That the son of a friend of mine taught here. The name was Ocampo. Did you ever meet him?”

Javier’s eyebrows shot up.

“Father Ocampo? Yes. He just, er, died, did you know?”

“Oh! How sad!” She put her hand on her heart.

“Yes,” he nodded gravely, “I hear it was suicide. But no one here is surprised. This is the cafeteria. The food’s pretty awful to be honest, but there’s a shop and some places around the corner if your boys would rather get their own food. Cheaper to eat here though, obviously.”

Christina looked absent-mindedly at the sterile mess hall that reminded her of pictures of field hospitals from World War I.

“What do you mean that no one was surprised by Father Ocampo’s death?”

Javier shrugged.

“Well, he’d been having trouble here. My friends and I think that he probably did it because of the business last year.”

“What business?”

“Oh, well, he had some kind of a breakdown. But it wasn’t really his fault. It was political, you know?”

“What do you mean?”

“There was a feud between him and Father Justus, who’s more or less the principal here. Father Ocampo had ideas for innovating the school. He was very energetic. He could have done a lot of good, but Father Justus wasn’t having any of it. And in the end he set the students against Ocampo. Father Francisco is fairly popular, you see, in spite of (or maybe because of) being an absolute autocrat. And it wasn’t very diplomatic of Father Ocampo to try to rock the boat as a newcomer, you know. And then, I suppose you know, Ocampo was defrocked?”

“Ah, yes,” Christina nodded. “The life of a priest isn’t for everyone.”

Javier nodded, a man of the world.

“Do you like Father Francisco?”

“Oh, he’s not the worst. But not my favourite teacher. He’s interested in games and things, especially soccer and rugby. I’m not so he leaves well enough alone.”

“I wonder…” said Christina, “Do you know a boy named Pedro? My friend’s two boys used to play street soccer with him when he was younger. I heard he’d come here. That’s why I had the idea that it might be the right place for them.”

“There are a lot of Pedros here. Which one?”

“He’d be…let’s see, I suppose about sixteen now.”

“Oh,” he glowered even more in the effort of thought. “He’s not here anymore. Left at the end of last term.”

“Nothing wrong, I hope?” Christina asked, suddenly worried.

“Oh no, he just got a job, that’s all. Wasn’t the studious type.”

“Do you happen to know where he went? I thought I might talk to him about his experience here, you see.”

“Hmmm, I think it was a modern art gallery somewhere in Palermo. Hey, gordo!”

Javier waved at a chubby boy who was sitting on a bed with earbuds in. He slowly removed one.

“What is it?” he said with some hauteur.

“Pedro B. Where does he work now?”

“Mirage Gallery,” the boy said, then replaced the ear bud.

Christina thanked Javier, suddenly remembered she had a ‘dental appointment’ and excused herself.

***

León was attacking a milanesa at a restaurant in Lobo when he caught sight of someone familiar on the edge of his vision, a distinctive long-limbed grace. He might not have brought it fully to consciousness, though, because Kristin Ocampo was wearing dark glasses and athleisure wear, clearly dressing down for anonymity’s sake. She walked straight over to his table.

“I thought I’d find you here,” she said, sounding a bit out of breath. “It’s the only decent lunch place in this neighborhood.”

He dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a napkin and politely indicated that she should sit down. She did and he regarded her with interest. There was no longer any of that initial callous bravado that had seemed to define her. Had she been acting? Or had something changed? She looked nervous, even afraid.

“I have to talk to you,” she said in a low voice.

“OK, but before you say anything, I should let you know that I’m off the case. If you want to make an official statement that may be of use to the investigation of the murder of Lola Graf, then you really should go to Detective Inspector Malfi, she is the right person to talk to. Effectively, I am a civilian.”

She made an impatient, dismissive gesture and drew her chair closer to him. He inhaled a not unpleasant scent of sweat, cigarette smoke and some exotic floral perfume.

“Don’t be a pendejo. I’m talking to you because I need advice and you seem trustworthy.”

“Bueno,” he nodded slightly and waited. She took a lighter and cigarette out of a little bag and lit up. Her hands were strange, almost comically long and slim, and they trembled slightly. She exhaled and gave him a quick, scrutinizing look.

“I’ve been getting anonymous phone calls. Someone is trying to make money from my brother’s corpse. It has to stop.”

León waited.

“They’re demanding money.”

“OK,” he said, and gave a little shrug.

“What do you mean ‘OK’? What’s ‘OK’? This pelotudo is trying to blackmail me!” She looked furious.

“What do you want me to do about it?” he said, genuinely confused.

She took a deep breath and flicked off the ash with irritation.

“One, I want to know who he is, and two I want to stop him. By any means necessary,” she looked at him significantly, imploringly. Her eyes were huge and a mesmerizing deep blue. The smell of her breath was acrid with smoke but curiously arousing. She touched his hand, more imprecation. Her skin was feverishly hot, she must have run here to see him. She saw him looking at her and ran her tongue lightly over her upper lip. Something about the calculated nature of this repelled him, an abrupt warning in the midst of a pleasant dream.

He laughed and the spell was broken. She drew back as if bitten, shocked and dismayed. She dug into her little bag and pulled out an envelope, pushing it across the table to him.

“I’m serious,” she hissed.

“You think I’m a thug for hire?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

“Aren’t you all?” she asked contemptuously, a last defense.

He gently pushed the envelope back and put his hands to his lips, anticipating the flood of abuse she was about to hurl at him. She checked herself, though it clearly hurt her to do so.

“I’ll help you,” he said, “But there are a couple of things you need to understand. I’m not going to break the law. I’m looking for a murderer, that’s the most serious matter as far as I’m concerned. If you want me to help you with this blackmail matter, you need to be honest and forthcoming about what you know. OK?”

“I—” she caught his look and stopped herself. “All right,” she agreed.

“Good,” he said. “Now, there are some questions I want to ask you. First one is, what did this anonymous caller want?”

Kristin’s face was suddenly drained of blood, she looked as if she might be going to be sick.

“He wants money. A thousand, at first. Otherwise he’ll go to the tabloids with a story about my brother having a sexual relationship with another man. He says he has a photograph.”

León nodded.

“Excellent. You’re doing well. I know this isn’t easy.”

She smiled bitterly.

“Next question. How does Lola fit into this?”

She hung her head and sighed.

“When I went to the party, I wanted to punish her. I didn’t know—” she bit her lip, stopped. “I thought,” she began again, “That she was responsible for what had happened, that she’d lured him away from God like some kind of 21^st-century Bathsheba!” she laughed mirthlessly. “But now I know it’s not like that. I know for sure. When I got back to my parents’ house this morning, I found this. It’s a letter from Gustavo.”

She handed him a folded up piece of paper and watched dully as he opened it and started reading:

Dear Kris,

I’m writing because I don’t know what will happen to me. I suspect I may not have very much longer to live, you see, and I wanted you to know how fond I am of you and how much I appreciate having you in my life.

I feel I owe you an explanation for everything that’s happened. I know you felt the shame of my leaving the priesthood keenly on behalf of our parents. You were right, of course, but what I want you to know is that Lola was innocent of everything. Lola was helping me out, trying to protect us all from a worse shame. I will be forever grateful to her and I ask you to be kind to her, for me, when I’m gone.

My dear sister, I am asking God for the strength to tell you the truth. What I am about to write will hurt but I owe it to you.

I have known I was gay for a long time. The truth is that that’s part of the reason I chose to become a priest. No one would expect me to go through the whole charade of marriage, and I’d be bound to a celibate life. I’d never have to face my feelings squarely. I thought it would be an easy ‘out’.

When I became a teacher, I met another priest and we fell in love. He’d been teaching at Santo Domingo’s for a year already and one day he told me he was worried that some students were being abused. He asked me if he should go to the police. I told him I’d try to find out more. To make a long story short, after undertaking (very discreet and sensitive) research, I realized that there was a very sophisticated operation going on and it was using the school as a cover for horrific abuse. I compiled a list of the names of the abusers, the victims, the places where each incident happened. There were powerful men on that list and I knew at once that the police had been protecting them.

I went to the school’s principal and confronted him. I told him I knew what was going on and I wanted some assurance that the abuse would stop immediately. He pretended not to know what I was talking about. He suggested I was cracking up and calmly threatened to expose my relationship with the other priest. He said the reason I thought of such things was due to my own perversion. In turn, I said he was the lowest kind of pimp and the world would soon know it.

I decided to go to the media. I’d met Lola Graf at a charity and she seemed very sincere. I decided to put my trust in her. I met her and explained everything. I entrusted her with the book and said I wanted her to let the world know what was going on. She was very brave, a woman with a heart of gold.

I then quit the priesthood. But I wasn’t ready to admit who I was to you, to our parents. I was a coward, a real coward. My beloved decided to continue on the religious path. He has repented of our love. He asked me to break all contact with him.

Dearest Kris, I am very much alone in this world and feel I have lost everything. Please understand. My one consolation is that, thanks to Lola, these crimes will become known. The victims will no longer suffer in silence. Maybe they will get justice.

Please help our parents in this.

Yours,

Gustavo

León put the letter down and thoughtfully ran a hand across his sandpapery jaw. Kristin was crying silently.

***

Christina had three jobs in the morning, but she took the afternoon off to take a trip to Palermo. She did some window shopping in some new boutiques, admired a florist’s display and stopped for a caffe con leche and lingua di gatto at a fancy confitería. Finally, she felt fortified enough to tackle the art gallery.

The building was a fantastical example of French Art Nouveau, with bulging wrought-iron balconies ornamented with William-Morris like leaves and flowers. Jarringly, the gallery’s sign “Mirage” was purely twenty-first century and evoked youth and edginess.

When Christina stopped into the foyer, she saw an exquisite young trans woman in high-heeled sneakers and an off-the-shoulder minidress. She had long curving nails that were whimsically decorated with a tartan print. Her long lashes and large eyes gave her a fragile, doe-like appearance.

“Buenos dias,” she smiled. “Have you come to see the Climate-Terror exhibition?”

“In fact, I’m looking for someone named Pedro. He went to Santo Domingo school. Perhaps you know him?”

The gallery attendant hesitated for a couple of moments, long enough to confirm Christina’s hunch.

“There is a Pedro who works here,” said the girl, “Would you like to leave a message for him?”

“Is he expected back soon? You see, it’s quite important. And private.”

The attendant wrung her hands slightly, looked around and gestured to a door behind the desk.

“Please wait in there. I’ll see if I can find him.”

Christina walked into a little room containing an assortment of oddities: a sculpture in the form of a giant corncob, a fiberglass cube, a cabinet full of tiny glass unicorns. She sat down on a couch that was supposed to resemble a fluffy pink cloud.

Eventually, the attendant returned and shut the door behind her. She sat down on a prop that resembled an electric chair and looked at Christina that was half fearful, half defiant.

“I’m Pedro,” she said. “Well, I was. Now I’m Monica. But when I went to that school I was still Pedro. So…what do you want to tell me?”

“Well,” said Christina, groping for the right words. “The thing is, your name has come up, your old name, in connexion to…events connected to…”

“The sexual abuse, you mean?” said Monica, with a perfectly arched eyebrow.

“Yes,” said Christina, annoyed at herself for fudging it. “Gustavo Ocampo had a black book, you see, and it contained the names of victims and abusers. The book ended up being in the hands of Lola Graf, who was murdered this week. And your name was there, so I wanted to talk to you about it.”

Monica looked at her doubtfully.

“Sorry to be rude, but who are you?”

“My name is Christina Ortiz. I’m a…private detective.” She decided to leave León out of it. “I’m trying to establish who killed Lola Graf and circumstances suggest that her death had something to do with the abuse that was going on at the school.”

“You mean the abuse that is still going on?” said Monica wryly.

“Well, yes, you're right. I fear so,” said Christina. “I believe Lola Graf was trying to put an end to it, in her way. And perhaps she lost her life for it. So, you see, I need your help.”

Monica nodded. She stared at the unicorn cabinet for a while, then shrugged.

“So, what do you want to know?” she asked.