The Secret in Their Eyes by Eduardo Sacheri Read Free Book Online Page B

nobody knows them. Get the picture?”
    Romano paused, as though certain I was enthralled by his arguments. Then, after a show of deciding whether or not to reveal the clincher, he shook his head, thrust his chin forward, and added, “Besides, they’re two little dark-complected guys. They look like thieves, if you see what I’m saying.”
    In those days, whether because I was young or because I was tenderhearted or both, it was hard for me to categorize people I knew as sons of bitches. But every time Romano was around, he seemed determined to make me less inclined to go easy on him. More than once, I’d seen him making fun of people in custody who were dark-skinned and looked poor. I’d also seen him fawning on the more or less distinguished lawyers he had to deal with. I spoke the first words that came to me: “I see. Well, if you want to charge them with being dark, let me know. “
    I thought about adding,
Hold on and I’ll check the Penal Code to see which statute applies,
but for fear of ruining the effect, I decided to keep the naive irony to a minimum. In any case, I could see that Romano was making a fierce effort not to insult me, and when he spoke again, not the smallest vestige of the casual camaraderie he’d started with remained in his voice. “I’m going to the police station. Sicora told me they’ve got the prisoners ready for interrogation.”
    “Ready for interrogation?” I’d moved beyond annoyance and was now ready to explode. “That means they’vealready had the shit beat out of them. I’ll go myself. Don’t forget, it’s my case.”
    Generally, I disliked the judiciary zeal that led some of my colleagues to use possessives when referring to cases, but the guy had exhausted my patience. My parents had taught me not to call people names to their faces; therefore, I controlled myself, put on my jacket, and left with a curt “See you later.” The only indulgence I allowed myself was to shut the door with considerably more force than necessary.

9
    I entered the police station with the tough-guy demeanor I habitually adopted in front of cops, and which usually gave me good results. I identified myself and waited two minutes before Sicora came out to meet me, grinning with satisfaction. Evidently his friend Romano hadn’t thought it necessary to inform him that I was angry.
    “They’re ready to confess,” he said, brandishing two file folders with various legal documents sticking out of them. “Sebastián Zamora. Paraguayan, twenty-eight years old. Worker. Lives in Los Polvorines. The other one’s José Carlos Almandós, twenty-six. Also a worker. He’s an Argentine, at least, but he lives in the shantytown at Ciudad Oculta.”
    Trying to sound natural, I asked, “Did you put them in a lineup?”
    Sicora looked at me with his mouth open.
    “Have you talked about these suspects with the other witnesses? I mean the ones Báez interviewed.”
    Overcoming an incipient stutter, Sicora replied, “Not yet. I called the court, and Deputy Clerk Romano told meto keep things moving forward. He said he’d take care of informing the husband, and—”
    “I’m not talking about the husband,” I said, cutting him short. “I mean the neighbor woman who lives in the apartment at the end of the hall, the one who saw the murderer leave and called the police. Or the owners of the other apartments, including number 3, where the suspects were working.”
    When I saw the disconcerted expression on Sicora’s face, I realized that the fellow’s idiocy was so vast I’d never be able to apprehend it in its full glory. “You’re not telling me you didn’t compare notes with Báez, are you?” I asked. The question produced another period of silence, at the end of which I said, “Bring me Báez’s papers. And I want to see the two suspects, right away.”
    Sicora was too stupid to protest or complain about being ordered around by a civilian. He went off to fetch the statements Báez had