Crimetime: Inspector SJ Tuason Case Files

PHOTOBOMBER

The last sound that the man heard before he died was zumba music pulsating from a boom box. It came from a tree-shaded area a few meters away, where a group of matrons stomped and grunted to the Latin beat, some of them missing a step or two.

As the man fell sideways on the stone bench, the sun sliced through Quezon Memorial Circle, glinting off the metal object protruding from his side, coaxing sweat from children racing in bicycles and joggers running laps. It was a relatively haze-free Saturday morning and the three angels atop the marble pylons that marked ex-President Quezon’s final resting place seemed less mournful than usual. No one paid any special attention to the man on the stone bench. He looked like someone just taking a nap.

Amid the sounds of laughter and joyful shrieks from the early morning activities that the man could no longer hear, taho and squid ball vendors were doing brisk business. When the zumba session ended, the ladies spread out, chugging water from plastic jugs, and wiping sweat from flushed faces. A woman took selfies, completely enamored by her new green shirt with the zumba logo under which jiggled flabby stomach that months of zumba could not conquer. She had been taking selfies even before the start of the session, preening and making duck faces.

Come on, groupfie, she hollered. Her companions huddled next to her. Click.

Closer. They squeezed their sweaty bodies together, while still making sure that their faces were at their best angles. Click.

Now wacky! They stuck out their tongues, or crossed their eyes, or simply spread out their arms, like geriatric loonies. Click.

See, we all look beautiful, she cooed, reviewing the shots. But the next instant, she frowned. Ugh. Photobombers, she said, glaring at one of the pre-session shots showing what seemed like two men seated on the bench a short distance behind her.

She was about to delete the picture, but decided against it. She looked radiant in that shot. As they walked to their cars, she noticed one of the photobombers still on the bench, this time asleep. She glared at him, only to notice a blood stain on the bench.

Eeek! The photobomber. He’s bleeding!

Her companions ran to her side.

Oh God, is he dead?

They took tentative steps closer to the man. Their eyes widened at the sight of a small icepick stuck on his left side.

Dear Lord, it’s no longer safe here in the Circle! A lady in pink made the sign of the cross. He’s been stabbed, and in broad daylight!

Good God, a dead man. You think he’s ‘gonna haunt the place?

"Don’t worry, beh. Quezon is buried right at the monument, and there’s been no haunting."

One of them had the presence of mind to call the police.

Blood tinged the left side of the body lying on the park bench. Inspector SJ Tuason checked for a pulse and found none. She tilted her head and frowned. The icepick could not have nicked the carotid artery, not the way it was angled, she thought. He would have had enough time to call for help before he bled out and died. But he obviously hadn’t, which suggested that he died instantly. Which in turn suggested that the icepick was poisoned. She straightened up, looking taller than 5’7" in her neatly tucked blue uniform and black leather boots. Her hair was severely pulled back from her face and twisted in a bun that emphasized her turned-out ears the shape of baby clams. Her mother told her that she was pinaglihi sa halaan. She swept the scene with her gray green eyes, a rare color in someone as dark as cinnamon. Then she puffed her cheeks and exhaled. Who would be desperate enough to kill in such a crowded place?

The Scene Of the Crime Operatives in their black shirts with SOCO inscribed in yellow, were busy collecting crime scene evidence. First responders had just cordoned off the area. They were now shooing away gawkers. These usiseros or usis usually hung around crime scenes as though they were watching a reality show and wanted to be part of it. Controlling the crowd on a Saturday was difficult. Quezon Memorial Circle was the weekend playground of those who were not rich or famous, a definite majority in the city. And now that almost everybody and his uncle owned a camera phone, crowd control was even more difficult. The first responders threatened to confiscate those cellphones.

Tuason’s partner, Police Officer 2 Joshua Rios hurried to her side, plastic cup in hand. Victim is Henry Campos-Villa. The wallet is intact.

Campos-Villa the scammer?

Hmmm, Joshua squinted. Maybe that’s why the name was vaguely familiar. I’ll check. If he’s the scammer, there’ll be a lot of people with motive. Anyway, I’ve canvassed the area. Nobody had seen anything suspicious. He shook his head and handed her the plastic cup of taho topped with brown sugar syrup and sago. She nodded her thanks. He continued, I guess with this many people and with the different activities going on . . . do you know there was a mass earlier? And there were several zumba classes going on simultaneously, it’s really hard to tell.

As she tipped the cup of taho, he went on. The taho vendor said he saw a tall wiry man in a black T-shirt with the victim. The squidball man said he saw a short fat man in blue with the victim. Joshua shook his head. Then he pointed with his lips at the zumba ladies. Those, I reserved for you.

She tossed the cup into a trashcan in a fluid motion. What’s the matter, not sexy enough for you?

Joshua had no time to reply as Tuason was well on her way striding on long legs to the group of matrons.

Typical Tuason, not waiting for a reply, he murmured, shaking his head once more. At 23, he cut a handsome figure in his police hat and uniform that hinted at a well-sculpted body. He always wore his police hat to hide the thinning hair that made him look ten years older.

Tuason sized up the group. The selfie-obsessed zumba lady seemed to be their leader.

Tuason approached her.

The zumba lady was reciting her litany of woes. When she saw Tuason, she said, This is terrible. I have a dead man in my pictures. She showed Tuason her cellphone.

Did you notice anything else, Ma’am? An argument, a fight?

She shook her head. I didn’t even know they were there. Oh dear, bad luck. This is bad luck, she kept muttering, while her friends shook their heads in sympathy. And please, call me Charlene. She forced a smile. And you are…

Inspector Tuason of Station 13. She preferred to be addressed by her surname. What time did you take those pictures, Charlene?

A little before seven.

Tuason asked Charlene to email her the pictures. Then she took their contact details. She checked her cellphone. Satisfied that she had received the pictures, she gave them her calling card and requested them to get in touch if they thought of anything else. Then she let them go.

Inspector, can we take a groupfie with you? Maybe in semi-profile? Your bun looks amazing.

Sorry, I’m on duty, Tuason said and went back to the body, even as Charlene the selfie lady was preparing to take a shot.

Where is he? The woman had a cultured voice and moved like someone used to the spotlight. Her toned arms were showcased by a sleeveless shift dress in red that hugged her body in just the right places. It was the body of someone who regarded working out as a religion. She twisted a lace handkerchief in her hands. Henry Villa. My husband. Where is he?

The personnel in Station 13 whispered among themselves. She looked vaguely familiar. Maybe she was some sort of celebrity. There were so many of them in Kyusi, a city which prided itself as being the entertainment capital of the country.

The personnel in Station 13 whispered among themselves. She looked vaguely familiar. Maybe she was some sort of celebrity. There were so many of them in Kyusi, a city which prided itself as being the entertainment capital of the country.

We’ll know more after an autopsy, Tuason said.

Mrs. Villa started crying some more. But he was such a sweet man.

Tuason and Rios kept quiet. They knew that victims, even the nasty ones, were usually described more fondly in death. After a few minutes, Mrs. Villa finally consented to an autopsy.

The banana cue vendor delivered the piping hot sweets-on-a-stick early in the afternoon as usual. Station 13 was her first stop. The station was nicknamed Lakeview although there were no bodies of water in sight, because years ago, during Typhoon Ondoy, the surrounding areas were unexpectedly inundated by floodwater. It was spared because it sat on a low hill. Tuason bought an extra banana cue for Joshua Rios, choosing the one with the thickest caramelized sugar coating.

Anything? she asked, handing him the banana cue. He looked up from his notes. You’re right. Victim was involved in a pyramiding scam a couple of years ago. He used to be a hotshot fund manager. After the scandal, he and his wife dropped the ‘Campos’ from their names. As if that would make people forget. Maybe one of his victims tracked him down. He also loves to gamble.

Tuason bit off a banana and looked at Joshua as she chewed.

She used to be overweight, you know.

Obesity’s not a crime, Tuason said, waving her banana cue to urge him on.

She used to be a housewife, then she went on this diet and exercise regime, and lost weight. She started to blog about it, and developed a following. She later self-published a book on her weight loss program, and became popular. And get this—she has now styled herself as a motivational giving talks on marriage. Dispensing tips on how to keep the love alive in a marriage and all that. So, from being a weight- loss guru, she had branched out as a marriage counselor. He widened his eyes as if to say, Wow!

Tuason crinkled her nose. Remember, it’s always those family values people who turn out to have none. She aimed her banana cue stick at the trashcan, and tossed it there, where it landed dead center.

But you see, Joshua said, Mrs. Villa was out of town when her husband was killed. She was in Batangas for a talk. That’s why she was able to come here only after lunch.

Traffic on East Avenue moved with the speed of molasses. Tuason gripped the steering wheel in a stranglehold, as though it would make the traffic move faster. By the stoplight at the intersection of East Avenue and EDSA, a street urchin ran to Tuason’s ten-year-old Sentra and started wiping the driver’s window with a filthy rag. Tuason knocked on the window to make her stop, but the child continued with her zombie-like motions.

Tuason leaned to her left and took something from the door pocket. Joshua stole a sidelong glance at Tuason the neat freak, as if fearing for the child’s fate.

Tuason rolled down the driver’s window and handed a packet of Skyflakes crackers to the child. Surprise flickered on the little girl’s face. In a flash, a group of children descended upon the Sentra. Tuason picked out the oldest-looking child and handed her the rest of the crackers. Here, take charge of distributing. The light turned green.

Don’t tell a soul about this, Tuason glanced briefly at Joshua, then turned left to EDSA.

He peered at her, as if wondering why she wanted to appear tougher than tough.

Finally, Tuason and Joshua arrived at Henry Villa’s office located in one of the old buildings near the Farmers Market in Cubao. There were only two clerks and a secretary in the small room. It seemed Henry had not yet fully recovered from the pyramiding fiasco. The smell of rotting vegetables permeated the office. The aircon must be as old as the building. The staff did not look like financial geniuses. They gave off the vibe of second-rate conmen-in-training.

Is it true about Henry…Mr. Villa? The secretary, Alicia asked. Her make-up could not hide the puffiness of her red-rimmed eyes.

They nodded.

Alicia paused from arranging files