Murder in Buenos Aires (4/9)

IV  ALL HELL

[The story so far: When TV personality Lola Graf is found dead at the luxury resort Palacio Asti, it’s soon all over the news, not least because she’d been about to reveal the names of celebrities involved in a pedophile ring.

Detective Inspector León Marconi interviews the six people Graf had partied with the night before: footballer Diego Sosa, Instagram influencer Sandra Lopez, actress Kristin Ocampo, polo player Martín Gaviscon, scientist Juliet Harris and US tech billionaire Frank Giordano.  Two of these had a compelling motive: Kristin Ocampo lost her brother to suicide after being dumped by Graf, and the scientist Juliet Harris’s biological parents died after Graf hit them in a drink-driving accident. Frank Giordano starts making things as difficult as possible for Marconi, to the point that he gives himself a black eye to pretend he is a victim of police brutality.

Marconi’s secret weapon in the investigation is Christina Ortiz, a professional cleaner who has exceptional powers of observation. Posing as a hotel cleaner, she discovers that a gift basket of cosmetics and a black book (which contained the names of pedophiles) is missing from Lola’s room and that Martín Gaviscon is addicted to oxycodone. In Gaviscon’s wardrobe, she discovers Lola Graf’s missing gift basket and black book.]

Christina put her reading glasses on and peered over León’s shoulder to see the contents of the black book. Every line was filled and several of them were familiar to anyone familiar with the leading lights of Buenos Aires. At the top of the page, one name in particular stood out as if in neon:

Martín Gaviscon. April 2018. 15-year-old. Pedro X; mon. S.D. Villa 31

“Dios mío!” Christina breathed.

“Look,” León said, flipping through it, “There are several pages that have been ripped out.”

“What are you going to do now?” Christina asked.

“Make a copy, get the book to the sex-crimes department, and then have a talk to Gaviscon.”

“I’m worried León,” she said.

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“It looks like Lola was telling the truth,” said Christina, “In which case, the name we really want is on one of the ripped-out pages. I have the feeling that whoever murdered Lola will stop at nothing to prevent that name from coming out.”

“You don’t think Gaviscon killed Lola to protect himself?”

“Why would he leave his own name there? No. He may be a predator but he’s not at the top of the food chain. Someone was preparing to sacrifice him. The basket and the book were meantto be found.”

León nodded.

“I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit,” Christina said, hugging herself.

***

That night, Diego Sosa and Sandra Lopez were sitting up in bed next to each other. Sandra was reading a magazine and Diego was looking into the middle distance with a frown.

“What’s the matter, babe?” Sandra asked.

He shook his head and came back to the present. He looked fondly at Sandra. With her almond-shaped eyes, nose smattered with freckles and gentle smile she seemed especially girlish and lovable at that moment. He kissed her gratefully on the shoulder.

“I was thinking about Lola.”

She squeezed his hand.

“She’s at peace now, you know. More than she ever was in life.”

“You’re right. But there was something she said that night that keeps coming back to me. I was talking to her by the pool and she was talking about her funeral, that she wanted “Cactus” by Gustavo Cerati to play and that everyone there should release a hundred pink balloons into the sky. I told her not to be so morbid, she was too young to be talking like that. But she was serious. I think she knew she was going to die.”

“Well, yeah babe. It was suicide, right?”

“I’m not sure,” he frowned. “Ever since she started seeing that priest, she got pretty serious about religion. She told me that she wouldn’t try suicide again; he’d convinced her that life was the ultimate gift, that throwing it away was a terrible sin.”

Sandra shrugged.

“Yeah, but you know Lola…she could change her mind pretty easily. Besides, that priest killed himself, so clearly he didn’t really believe that either.”

“But see, that’s the thing that I keep remembering: Lola said that he’d never have killed himself, not in a million years. She said the only way he’d die was by accident or if someone killed him. And she said the people who’d killed him were going to come after her too.”

Sandra shivered and pulled the duvet up to her chin.

“How awful,” she shuddered and thought for a few moments before saying in a small voice, “You don’t think this was a bad omen, do you?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean for us. It was our engagement party and it’s gone so horribly wrong. I feel like there’s a shadow over us now. And if it was murder, then…”

He tweaked her cheek. “Now I’ve scared you. I think you’re right, it was a tragic accident—she had too much of Frank’s powder. It’s sad she died but now it’s time for the living to live, and love…” he kissed her persuasively.

***

“What’s up, Doc?” Marconi asked. He never tired of using that joke when talking to the coroner. “Did you analyze that patch?”

“We surely did, León. It’s a fentanyl patch.”

“Could it have caused death?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

“Thanks Doc. Ever see anything like this before?”

“Thanks Doc. Ever see anything like this before?”

“I have to confess, I haven’t. There have been more fentanyl deaths lately but usually because it’s been cut with a party drug—cocaine usually, like that batch that killed all the teenagers recently. I’ve never seen patches kill anyone before. In the first place they’re not that common on the street and in the second place they’re not usually strong enough to kill anyone.”

“That’s what I thought.”

“How are you getting on?” Doc asked with a note of sympathy in his voice.

“Well enough,” Marconi lied. “Couple of new developments.”

“So I’ve heard,” said Doc with his trademark irony.

“What do you mean?”

“You should probably watch the news.”

León ended the call and looked up the city news online. The front page was decorated with a remarkable headline: “Billionaire vs. Bruiser Cop: Graf Case Marred by Allegations of Police Brutality.”

There was a photo of himself in an aggressive pose with a fist stretched out towards the news camera. He remembered when it had been taken; it was during a particularly nasty murder-suicide and the journalists were getting his face while he was trying to get to a relative to break the news to the couple’s teenaged daughter. Further down in the article there was a photograph of Frank Giordano in all his skinny frailty sporting the lurid bruise Marconi had seen in the morning. He could hardly bear to read the article, but noted that in the first line he was introduced as ‘The bruiser from Boca’.

Marconi cursed colorfully for two minutes non-stop. Then the phone rang. Rodriguez, his pug-faced boss.

“Good evening, sir.”

“Marconi, you know what I’m about to say.”

“Are you going to listen to my side of the story?”

“You’re suspended indefinitely, as of tomorrow.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Listen, it’s not my decision. I know you didn’t bust up Giordano’s face, you’re not that much of a moron, though it’s a close thing. His big-shot lawyer put the fear of god into the Chief Superintendent and he won’t listen to me. Giordano’s threatening to pull money he was going to invest in some government initiatives. It’s out of my hands.”

“So, who’s going to take over here?”

“I’ll get someone. Don’t worry.”

“Sir, I have a book of names that needs to be processed as evidence. Lola Graf’s sex-ring allegations—looks like they had some substance to them. It’s going to make a royal stink.”

Rodriguez sighed.

“Send it over, I’ll take care of it.”

Marconi hang up with a helpless, gloomy feeling. He felt as he did sometimes in dreams where he was falling from a great height and there was no help for it, no help at all.

***

When the hotel phone rang, Kristin Ocampo looked at it in surprise. She was of the generation that had grown up with smartphones. These things with buttons and cords were just props out of old movies.

“Hello?” she said uncertainly.

As she listened, her face became twisted with disgust.

“Who is this?” she said sharply. “How did you get this number? I’ll find you! You won’t get away with this, I swear on my brother’s grave!”

After slamming the phone down on its cradle, she threw herself on her bed and started sobbing convulsively.

***

Christina was cleaning (ie snooping) a room when she noticed that a small suitcase was lying on its back next to the bed. Its cover was unzipped.

She went over to the window and looked down. There was Juliet Harris sunbathing by the pool, talking to Frank Giordano who was sipping some kind of cocktail and reading the Financial Times.

Using the handle of her feather duster, Christina lifted the cover. She saw something that made her gasp. She whipped her phone out of her apron pocket, took a picture and then extracted something from the suitcase.

“We shall see,” she murmured.

***

Christina arrived at a down-at-heel parilla, peering around in the near-sighted way that made her look like a good-natured wombat. The place looked as if it had been steadily mouldering since the 1950’s, paint job fading, windows covered with thick dust. Plastic tables, faded and brittle from months of sunlight, were dressed with red-and-white checked vinyl tablecloths. The lone waiter looked to be in his 80’s and moved as if it hurt him to breathe, though his apron was shining white and freshly pressed. From the establishment’s open door came the not-unpleasant smell of burned meat, mingling with the less savory emanations of a nearby canal. A huge new casino, though far from beautiful, served to emphasize Da Mario’s dereliction. At last, Christina caught sight of a familiar figure smoking at an outdoor table.

“Well, what did you want to see me about darling?” she said, kissing him on the cheek before planting herself heavily in a chair.

“I haven’t seen you all day. And why are we meeting here? It’s a little out of the way, isn’t it?”

“What have I been doing?” León asked, raising a sardonic eyebrow. “Let’s see, I’ve been watching my professional reputation being dragged through the mud and there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve been suspended indefinitely pending an investigation into police brutality, i.e. by me.”

“What? You mean that lame trick of Giordano’s actually worked?”

“It worked with the people who matter, let’s say.”

“But who’s going to take over? You’re the best detective they have!”

He nodded immodestly.

“Yes, but that’s not the point. There’s a young up-and-comer. I just met her. She already seems determined to rule out any suspicions of homicide. I guess that was the message from the higher ups, who all seem to be falling over themselves to lick Giordano’s boots.”

“But you can’t just accept that!” Christina exclaimed, scandalized. “Look here,” she rummaged in her handbag and produced a box.

“What’s this?” León asked in puzzlement.

“Transdermal fentanyl patches. I took them from Juliet Harris’s suitcase.”

“You did?” León could not suppress a groan. “Why on earth did you do that?”

“Don’t you see?” Christina said, annoyed. “This proves it! This was how Lola was killed. Someone—either Juliet or Giordano or one of that ungodly crew—shaped one of these patches to look like a cosmetic face mask. That is pure evil, premeditated murder!”

“OK, yes, you have a point,” said León, “But at the same time it’s really not a good idea to just take things from people’s rooms. That could compromise the whole investigation.”

“From what you say the investigation is already compromised isn’t it? And the murderer’s plan has worked like a charm! He or she doesn’t have to worry about Detective Inspector Marconi getting his paws wet.” As usual when she was upset, her cheeks became suffused with pink.

León sighed.

“Calm down. I’m not giving up that easily. That’s why asked you here, you old goose.”

“Oh,” she said, abashed.

“I’m going to take advantage of my time off to do some private sleuthing. First stop: The monastery where Kristin Ocampo’s brother worked.”

“Which monastery's that?”

“The monastery of Santo Domingo in Villa 31. The Dominicans run a school for troubled teens there,” he said.

Christina looked at him, stunned.

“’Mon. S.D.’—so that’s what it meant! Next to Gaviscon’s name. Does that mean this school was the headquarters of that horrible sex ring?”

“I don’t know if it was the headquarters, but a hell of a lot of those names show up next to ‘Mon. SD’—more than half.”

“The priest must have been the one to tell Lola what was going on,” Christina mused. She thought for a few moments, watching the condensation on Marconi's beer glass.

“You can’t,” said Christina suddenly.

“I can't what?”

"Go to the monastery."

"Why not?"

“God’s balls! They’ll recognize you straight away, of course. You’ve been all over the news since Giordano blamed you for redecorating his face. They’ll know that you have no power to act and also that you’re on to them. They might kill you or anyone else who might out them. And you’ll be no closer to getting to the bottom of this if you’re six feet under.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“I’ll go instead. I’ll pose as a church lady and say I know some poor unfortunate boys who need a place, that I want to make sure the school is a good environment for them. That should give me a chance to look around.”

León put his head on one side.

“Bueno,” he agreed. “While you’re there, see if you can find about this ‘Pedro’.”

“Naturally,“ Christina said, looking him curiously. He felt as he had once at school when the teacher pitied him for being unable to multiply seven times nine.

***

So it was that instead of visiting the monastery and orphanage in Villa 31, León found himself in a very nice middle-class house in Lobos sitting across the table from a couple of grieving parents. They were neat, good looking, straight-backed, respectable. The house was cosy and windows and furniture polished.

“Mr. and Mrs. Ocampo,” he began, “I’m aware that this is an imposition but I would be grateful if you could enlighten me about the circumstances of your son’s recent death. My only excuse is that I am looking for information that could prevent other families experiencing the grief you are now going through.”

“You think he was killed, Kristin said. Is that right?”

“It’s a possibility, yes. And one that I would feel more peace of mind about if I could satisfy myself it isn’t the truth.”

The man and the woman exchanged a glance.

“After all, what difference does it make to us, Teresa?” said the man, reaching for her hand. She nodded, a gesture of surrender.

“It happened ten days ago,” said Mr. Ocampo. “Gustavo was staying with us for a few days. He was intending to go abroad for a year to do some charity work, so he wanted to spend time with us before he went. He liked to go for a long walk in the morning, there’s a nice trail near the house. When I got up on Saturday morning there was no sign of him. I figured he’d gone for his walk as usual and wouldn’t be back until ten o’clock or so.

“Well, when he still wasn’t home at midday, Teresa started to worry. He was always such a creature of habit you see, and he knew lunch was served at noon. He’d never been late before. I told her not to worry but…a mother knows. A farmer called the police in the afternoon. He’d found him hanging from a tree on their property, just off the side from his walking path. We went to the morgue to identify him. It was him.” His shoulders sagged.

“Had your son mentioned anything that was on his mind? Something unusual? Did he talk about any of friends or acquaintances?”

The two struggled to think through the fog of their grief. Mr. Ocampo shook his head slowly.

“He was a little moody lately, withdrawn. He didn’t open up to us much.”

Teresa took a breath as if to speak.

“Yes?” Marconi asked, encouraging her.

“He did say he was going to meet a friend, didn’t he Jack? Yesterday. And we were both surprised because we didn’t recognize the name.”

“What was the name?” León asked, trying to disguise his interest.

“I think it was Gigi. Was that it, Jack?”

“Yes love, that was it. Gigi. No idea if it was a man or a woman or what.”

“So he went to meet this Gigi. Do you know where they went?”

They shook their heads, no.

“How long was he gone?”

“Oh it was quite a while, wasn’t it dear? Must have been midnight when I heard the door shut. Now that was unusual for him too. Gustavo was never one to stay up past ten usually. But then…he’d been not himself for a few months.”

They lapsed into silence and Marconi sensed that it was time he left. He thanked them for their time and stood up to go. As Mr. Ocampo led him to the door, he put a hand on Marconi’s arm.

“For what it’s worth, Detective Inspector, we don’t think he did it. He was a believer, you see. He was against suicide. To him, it was a mortal sin.”

***

As Christina drove through Villa 31, a place she rarely visited, she felt a sudden wave of rage mixed with guilt. Most of the time she tried not to think about it, though it was always in the back of her mind, the knowledge that tens of thousands of people subsisted in this villa miseria. And those tens of thousands knew that they had been deliberately, wilfully forgotten. She thought of that Berni painting she’d seen in the hotel, “Juanito Dormido, 1974”—that was nearly fifty years ago now! And for the Juanitos nothing had changed.

Her van moved cautiously, navigating the mud-filled potholes and packs of stray dogs. This was a shanty town that existed and grew out of sheer necessity and ingenuity. There was no plumbing, no grid, no plan. Electrical wires were draped in perilous abundance over streets the width of alleys. The dwellings resembled poorly stacked cardboard boxes, bright primary colors going a small way towards countering an overwhelming impression of despair. Flies, stench, rubbish, propane tanks, inexplicable piles of rubble, sick cats...

Going on, Christina came to the part where the slum bordered, quite starkly, on a lush and manicured park surrounded by black wrought-iron palings. She saw a sign ‘Santo Domingo’ and parked the van, wondering if she should worry about theft; but after all, there were only a few cleaning supplies in the back.  Then she caught sight of two armed guards. No need to worry about security after all.

Walking past the guards up to the great gate, she saw a big grey-brick building that reminded her of Victorian church architecture. She thought of the names in Lola’s book. Going by that, this stately establishment had been the scene of waking nightmares for dozens of children. She felt a heavy weight in her stomach. It might have been that morning’s tostada, which had been slightly burnt, but it might also have been disgust and, to be honest, fear. She was afraid! Whoever could do that, systematically, was someone who had gone beyond the pale.

She spoke to the guard in the bullet-proof booth near the gate, slipped through its two wrought-irong wings as they opened to receive her and walked up the driveway hearing the gravel crunch under her feet.