The Beggar's Opera (17 page)

“Miguel Artez gave a statement saying you came back to the hotel alone.”

“He may be right. That’s what’s so confusing. Cuban women aren’t allowed in the hotels. Neither are Cuban men. They have security all over the place to keep locals out except the ones who work there. Big guys, with walkie-talkies. I’ve seen them tell women who hang around the park across the street to stay away from the front door.”

“So Cubans can’t come in even if they’re with a foreigner, as a guest?”

“No, it’s illegal. Like a lot of things here.”

Jones flipped through the pages of the file until she found Miguel Artez’s statement. “He says you came back to the hotel sometime before midnight, towards the end of his shift. Maybe eleven or eleven-thirty. But definitely before midnight. Does that sound right?”

“I don’t know. Maybe,” Ellis said. “I heard car horns. Bells. That could make it closer to midnight. The celebrations come to a head at midnight here, like New Year’s Eve at home.”

Jones flipped through her notes. She changed the subject. “Had Artez ever seen Hillary with you?”

“Sure. Several times.”

“So he would have known this woman wasn’t your wife if he saw the two of together.” Jones shook her head, disappointed. “Maybe he’s just mistaken. Christmas Eve, busy night. He may have confused it with another night or confused you with someone else. But it means we have to find someone who saw that woman with you on Christmas Eve. Or find
her
somehow. The boy’s death, according to this report,” she tapped the autopsy report with her index finger, “happened sometime between ten
and twelve, likely closer to midnight. The body was moved a few hours later. That fits the time frame when you say you were with her. If she confirms that, it gives you a viable alibi. Do you remember her name?”

He shook his head.

“Well, you think about it. Maybe something will come back to you.”

She tapped away on her keyboard for a few minutes, then looked up at him from the screen. Her reading glasses had slipped down on her nose. She took them off and placed them on the table.

“They have a pretty tight time limit to turn their case file over to the prosecution. It has to be filed by tomorrow afternoon at two or they have to let you go. But they also have pretty strong evidence, Mike. I need to know the truth. Did you have sex with that boy?”

“No.”

“You’re sure of that? Your statement to the police was equivocal, to say the least.”

“I don’t know what was going on in that interview. I couldn’t think straight. I agreed with just about everything they said to me.”

Ellis looked out the window. The blue sky over the brown metal turret pointed to a beautiful day, the palm trees swaying lightly in the breeze. A group of tourists stood in front of the iron fencing, taking photographs of each other, mugging for the camera. A
policía
ran over and admonished them. He saw him take their camera away and remove the film, then hand the camera back, still wagging his finger.

“Is there any chance you were drugged in that bar? Or later, at the hotel maybe, by that woman?”

“What are you thinking, Celia?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m really just thinking out loud. But let’s assume the woman you picked up actually picked
you
up and that she planned to drug you and steal your money from the beginning. I’m willing to start from the assumption that she was with you that night and that Miguel Artez is wrong.”

“What difference does it make?”

“It would explain a lot of things: the way you blacked out, your suggestibility during the interview the next day. It would account for the capsule the police found in your room. It might help us get your statement excluded as unreliable if you were still under the influence of a drug when they questioned you. It doesn’t explain away the other evidence, like the blood they found, or the stains. But at the moment, this mystery woman is the only person who had access to your room. I don’t think we can honestly suggest that one of the maids was involved in setting you up. More likely to be the woman from the bar, right?”

Ellis concurred. “Look, I can’t explain how that kid’s blood ended up on my clothing. He wasn’t bleeding when I saw him. Maybe the forensic guy just got it wrong. It wouldn’t be the first time a pathologist screwed up evidence.”

There were several notable cases of wrongful murder convictions in Canada where forensic evidence had turned out to be not just mistaken, but concocted.

“I agree. I think we have to approach this the way you eat an elephant: one bite at a time. Let’s start by breaking things down. You say you can’t remember much of what happened. Have you ever had an alcoholic blackout like this before? I need to eliminate everything else before I suggest to the police or the court that I think you were drugged.”

“This is all confidential, right?” Ellis asked.

“Like I said, solicitor-client privilege,” said Jones. “Chief
O’Malley told me to help you. For the moment, that makes me your lawyer, not his. I won’t disclose anything you tell me without your consent. Agreed?”

Ellis nodded his assent.

“Good. Now, answer the question. Don’t make me nag.” She smiled, but she was deadly serious. “Blackouts?”

He took a deep breath. “I’ve been drinking pretty hard for months. Since Hillary lost the baby in June. I’ve had a few.”

“Enough to forget a whole night like this?”

“Parts of it.” He exhaled. There. One secret was out. The first step to recovery, he’d heard, was admitting he had a problem.

“As bad as this time?”

Ellis reflected back on what he remembered of the night. “Close, but nothing quite like this. It may sound silly, but it was almost like I was in a trance. Maybe she did drug me so she could steal my wallet. My safe was open the next morning and all the money in it was missing. I thought Hillary took it, but maybe the hooker did. But I don’t know how she would have gotten the combination to the hotel safe. We set it ourselves as soon as we got in.”

“She could have got it from you. That’s the whole point of a drug like Rohypnol, Mike. It makes people compliant; they do whatever they’re told. Women pose for pornographic pictures, have sex with complete strangers, then can’t remember anything about it. They act like zombies. You realize that if this woman drugged you, though, it raises a whole new set of problems. The police think you had an accomplice. It could have been her.”

“What do you mean?”

“She might have told you to rape and kill that boy, Mike. Maybe for a snuff film or hard-core child pornography, who knows? And it could be that you just don’t remember the details.”

THIRTY - THREE

Inspector Ramirez had thought about putting the female lawyer in the mirrored room, where he or Rodriguez Sanchez could watch her, but decided that might be too obvious. Instead, he posted an English-speaking guard outside the interview room to listen through the door.

The Canadian lawyer was smart, thought Ramirez, reflecting on their earlier meeting. She had, in only a few questions, exposed the only weaknesses in his case: the lack of a crime scene, weapon, transportation. He agreed with her analysis. He suspected, in fact, that Señor Ellis did have an accomplice. One with a car. One who might have killed the boy.

Not that it made any difference. Murder and conspiracy to commit murder carried the same penalties in Cuba. A death sentence was neither long, nor short: it was infinite.

Ramirez had pondered briefly whether to give Celia Jones copies of the police file but could see no harm in it. Hector Apiro’s work was solid; so were the interviews.

The lawyer, if she believed his evidence was sufficiently strong, could possibly persuade Señor Ellis to plead guilty and lead them to his co-conspirator. That would please the Ministry
of the Interior: a quick resolution to a politically ugly situation. It would please Ramirez too; he wouldn’t have to explain to the prosecutor that he still didn’t know exactly where the boy was killed or with what.

Celia Jones once again sat in Ramirez’s office. Ramirez put the CD in Sanchez’s laptop and hit “play.” The dead man stood behind him but fled when he saw the photographs.

“There are almost nine hundred images of children. Most are out of focus, but the content is unmistakable. None are of the dead child.” That made it worse somehow, the fact that so many other children had been violated brutally too.

They looked at the photos for a while together, until the lawyer said she’d seen enough. “Sadistic bastards.”

“Then perhaps you can understand why we are so cautious here about the internet. Castro wants to try to keep material like this out of Cuba.”

“I can understand the objective, Inspector. I’m not sure I even disagree with it. But the internet can be a highly useful source of information. More than just for distributing this kind of vile pornography.”

Ramirez nodded his head slowly. “Perhaps. But we are finding that more and more of these photographs are making their way into our country. It is a cause of great concern.” He sighed. Sanchez was busier all the time monitoring pornography on the internet. “Tell me, Señora Jones, would you like to see your client again before you leave?”

“I’m wondering if it might be possible to call him a bit later. I have some things I need to do at the hotel.”

Ramirez considered this for a moment. It was easier for him to eavesdrop on their phone conversations than their visits. “I don’t see why not, Señora Jones. You will need to call the cell
guards first whenever you would like to speak to him, so that a guard can arrange to take Señor Ellis to a room with a telephone.”

“Thank you very much, Inspector. I appreciate all your help.” “Not at all.”

Ramirez escorted her to the stairs, told her to show herself out and to make sure she signed the log-out registry when she left.

Then he called in the guard to find out the details of what she and her client had discussed.

THIRTY - FOUR

Inspector Ramirez was surprised when the Minister of the Interior’s clerk phoned to summon him to a briefing with the minister about the charges.

The minister, although responsible for the Internal Order and Crime Prevention section of the ministry, including the Cuban National Revolutionary Police, rarely spoke to Ramirez.

Ramirez was a high-ranking police officer, but his position in the food chain of Cuban politics was only slightly above that of an eggplant. At the evolutionary level of perhaps a chicken. Ramirez smiled at the thought.

He drove past El Paseo del Prado, one of the most beautiful avenues in Havana. The bronze statues of lions and cobbled pavement showed its former elegance, a contrast to the destruction of the tenements. He drove past a poster for the Museo del Auto Antiguo, the Old Havana vintage car museum. A redundancy, if there ever was one, thought Ramirez. The entire city was one big car museum.

He parked his small blue car and walked briskly down the cracked path to the government offices at the Plaza de la Revolución, although he expected he would probably have to sit
on a hard wooden bench in the hallway for at least an hour until the minister deigned to see him.

“Go in, Inspector,” the clerk said, motioning him through immediately. “He’s expecting you.”

Astonished, Ramirez pulled open the heavy wooden door to the minister’s private office.

“Inspector Ramirez.” The politician waved his arm expansively. “Please. Come in, come in. Sit down.”

Ramirez lowered himself into one of two soft leather armchairs on his side of the massive mahogany desk. It was an office designed for smoking, not working. The minister had a reputation for being one of the most bureaucratic and least efficient of Castro’s inner circle, which was quite an achievement, given the competition. Ramirez was surprised at being feted so warmly.

“You have a Canadian policeman in custody.”

Ramirez thought the politician looked worried. Or perhaps distracted. There was no mention of Christmas; none of the usual felicitations. It was unusual in his experience for a politician to get so directly to the point.

“Yes. Michael Ellis. I arrested him for the rape of a young boy. I expect to charge him with the child’s murder as well.”

“Was he beaten?”

“The boy? Yes.”

“No, the suspect. I have to deal with his embassy. I approved a prison visit by a Canadian consular official last night.”

“No,” Ramirez said. “Señor Ellis has been very well treated.” He filled in his superior on the details of the investigation.

“I want you to report to me on this matter directly,” said the minister. “And I want to review copies of all your reports, understood?”

“Of course. Whatever you wish,” said Ramirez, surprised at the minister’s interest. The last time he had seen the Minister of
the Interior quite this animated was after the ministry had seized a cargo of smuggled rum. The minister had insisted on sampling bottles from several crates personally. To ensure the rum was genuinely old.

“Are there any known co-conspirators?”

“We believe there was at least one.”

“Have any of these photographs shown up in your internet monitoring? And what about the other men in those pictures, are they identifiable?”

Ramirez shook his head. “Sometimes the faces were cropped. In others, the pictures were shot out of focus. There is nothing in the frames to identify where they were taken. As for the internet, Detective Sanchez handles that surveillance. I think if any of the pictures had been distributed online, he would know about it.”

“Good. It means there is still time to control this situation.” Ramirez wasn’t exactly sure what situation the minister was referring to.

“Thousands of sex tourists come here every week,” the minister said, frowning. “Fidel Castro does not want Havana to become a sex tourist destination. He is extremely worried about the incidence of AIDS, which at the moment, as you know, is very low. You know the president’s commitment to combating this disease.”

Ramirez nodded. Castro had recently sent dozens of Cuban physicians to Botswana to help fight AIDS. But he had also sent several thousand doctors to Venezuela in exchange for oil. With the American dollar no longer legal, Cuban doctors were the new currency.