“And the blows to the face?” Manuel insisted. “Can you determine from trajectories if the attacker was right-or left-handed?”
Ophelia gave a start. “Hmm—now that you mention it, it’s true that his face had been struck everywhere. That’s to be expected if you’re moving your head from side to side during the beating.” She mimed defensive movements. “But the most devastating blows—the tooth that was knocked out, the fractured cheekbone, and the cracked portion of the jaw—were on the left side. That probably says his attacker was right-handed; though both fists are used in fights, it might suggest that the person who struck his face and the one who stabbed him weren’t one and the same. And there’s more: the attacker must have been strong. It’s true that To?ino weighed only a bit more than 150 pounds, and he was thin and not very tall. At the scene of the crime I saw one sneaker was missing and the sock on that foot had slid down so far that it was dangling from his toes. At first I assumed that in the spasms that are typical when someone is hanged, he’d kicked off his shoe, but in fact we found it about thirty feet away, near the car. And during the autopsy I detected several antemortem scrapes and scratches on his heels. I think he was dragged that distance, and that would have required someone strong. You have to be muscular to hoist a person from the ground and hang him from a tree branch. Granted, he wasn’t very high off the ground, but even so a lot of brute strength was required. That would leave marks on the assailant’s hands as well, though less pronounced if the attacker was wearing gloves. We’re examining the rope for any residue of skin or epithelial cells. But on first inspection we saw none.”
The three sat in silence for a few moments. Manuel was the first to speak. “I think it’s essential to establish the time To?ino died, since we already know where and when álvaro ran off the road.”
“Look, Manuel,” said Ophelia with a sigh, “despite what you might have seen on television, it’s very difficult after the first few hours to establish the definitive time of a death. Unless of course the victim’s watch stops at that exact moment or you have a credible witness. In most cases, we put together a picture from various pieces of information and posit an approximate time of death. But after so many days the state of decomposition of the body makes it far more complicated. As I said, not until I receive the results of the tests I’ve requested, as well as the report from the technical examination of the vehicle, can we even begin to speak of making an approximation.”
Manuel accepted his defeat.
“And another thing.” Her face assumed a formal expression as she handed to him an envelope that she’d had beside her on the table all this time. “Here are the lab results of the comparative analysis of paints. There’s no better way to get a quick turnaround than by paying up front. There’s an exact match between the paint residue on álvaro’s vehicle and the sample you took at the seminary.”
The two men exchanged astonished glances. Nogueira was the first to respond. “And you’ve waited until now to tell us?”
“Curb your enthusiasm, Nogueira. You of all people should understand that this has zero value either for the police or for the courts. The sample was taken by a private individual without permission or a warrant. We can’t use it. It proves nothing.”
“Dearest sweet little Ophelia,” Nogueira replied as he snatched the paper from Manuel’s hands. “I’ve been retired for ten days, but I still have a pretty good idea how to do the job. This test may not serve as evidence, but it’s more than enough to justify a call on the prior.”
“I’ll go with you,” Manuel said.
“No, Manuel, you’d better not. He knows who you are and that you’ve been investigating, but it won’t do us any good if he makes the connection between us.”
“Are you sure he won’t cause you problems if you keep turning the screws on him?” Manuel asked.
“No, I’m not. I wasn’t so sure last night, but my hunch has now been confirmed by the fact that he didn’t mention anything about álvaro, your visit, or mine. We already know the prior has his reasons to keep quiet; now we need to determine whether he’s covering up only that night in 1984. Or also what happened the day both álvaro and his nephew died.”
“We’re still not sure,” Ophelia replied.
“Everything’s pointing in that direction, though, isn’t it? It’s time to have a chat with him. I’ll drop by to express my condolences and see how he’s going to explain the business about the pickup truck.”
Ophelia nodded but clearly was not happy about it. “What will you do, Manuel?”
“I’ll go back to As Grileiras. After all, everything seems to begin and end there.”
Nogueira looked up at the office windows on the second floor of the monastery. They reflected the gray morning sky, but beyond them was visible the vague shape of the prior watching him. The blurred shape retreated as soon as Nogueira looked up. The policeman’s slight smile was hidden by his mustache. He lit a cigarette and took his time smoking it, giving the prior’s mood time to transition from apprehension to anxiety as the man racked his brains trying to guess the reason for the lieutenant’s visit.
He snuffed out the cigarette and amused himself a bit more by greeting the aged monks along his path, prolonging the conversations by asking about their health. By the time it started to drizzle he calculated that the prior must be properly wound up. He walked through the front door and went up to the second floor.
The office door stood open. As he walked toward it the lieutenant imagined an indecisive prior opening it and closing it repeatedly, trying to figure out how to receive him. The man was sitting behind his desk. In stark opposition to Nogueira’s imagined picture, he made no pretense of being engaged with work. He wasn’t wearing his reading glasses, and there was nothing for him to read. The desk gleamed bright and empty.
Nogueira shut the door without a word and crossed toward the desk. The prior stared warily at his visitor and waited to hear from him. Nogueira didn’t waste his breath with small talk.
“I know what happened that night in 1984. I know what was blacked out of the document signed by Brother Ortu?o. I know To?ino found the original in this office and decided to blackmail álvaro Mu?iz de Dávila, who came here to demand an explanation from you on the day he died.”
As if activated by a spring mechanism, the prior flew to his feet, overturning the desk chair in which he’d been seated. He clamped a hand over his mouth in an unmistakable effort to keep from throwing up. He ran past Nogueira toward the bathroom door tucked between the bookshelves. Nogueira didn’t budge. He heard the man vomiting, coughing, and panting for a long moment. The toilet flushed and water ran in the sink. When the prior emerged from the bathroom he was pressing a damp towel to his brow.
Nogueira ignored the overturned chair behind the desk. He set the visitors’ chairs face-to-face, seated himself, and with a gesture obliged the man to take the other one.
The prior didn’t need any more persuasion. All semblance of assurance had disappeared. He vomited out his confession with the same lack of restraint with which he’d purged his stomach.