Catanduanes Forum

"It didn't occur to you that his death was not of his choosing." The Inspector amusingly chastised the Coroner.

Who could have thought of that slant? And, of course, yes. On that fateful day, someone found it convenient to end his life. "Are you implying someone might have caused his death?" The Coroner responded with his usual scowl.

"There is no compelling evidence to the contrary suggesting otherwise. Look at those fingernails with meats of flesh in it. He didn't give in easily. He fought the battle of his life." The Coroner was speechless for awhile. He and Beraud had argued about all sorts of things but always found common groundwhen dealing with dead bodies and unexplained phenomena. And there would be no argument about good police work. Unwrapping his surgical gloves, he asked. "Could it be that the man was still breathing when they dumped him the water. He could have just drowned."

"Yes, he was but unconscious. Pending completion of your autopsy, I will speculate drowning as the immediate cause of death. Most likely, he regained consciousness and tried vainly to swim ashore. But strong currents swept him further away. The man was heavily clothed; it slowed him down considerably."

It was a quiet afternoon. And the body was getting colder as the frigid, hoary weather set in. Cordoned off from eager spectators, the death scene was now less of a crowd. The police and the Coroner's staff gathered more specimens and finally ordered the body wrapped up to its final destination...the local morgue.

Inspector Beraud was in deep thought formulating questions; debating the logic behind it; and abandoning them as more challenges became inviting. The nature of things does not lend themselves easily to rational understanding and coherent interpretation. For instance, if someone were to take the life of another for some unjustified reason, would that person even care at all about the logic of his actions? Yet murder is murder and no amount of rationalization justifies the act.

He jauntily went about his usual walk toward the tavern, the milieu where people of various callings milled around to end the rest of the evening. Inspector Beraud was now a familoiar face among the barflies, having spent some considerable time with the locals, blending in with a young rambunctious crowd. What struck him, not with awe, was a nineteen year old turk whose face he failed to discern. Cautiously, he approached the lad now seated in a stool several yards away. "I could not tell you from the rest of the crowd. I am Beraud and pleased to meet you."

Taken aback at first, the young man extended his right hand and returned the greeting.
"Same here, sir; it a pleasure indeed. I came from the Eastside and decided of altering the venue for a change. Have a seat, please."

Beraud thought of just standing there throught out the night, but the politeness was so compelling and refusing the offer might slight him. "So what's new around town? People are having scary thoughts about a corpse along the river front," the Inspector jumpstarted the conversation with the usual somber tone.

"That's old news about police business, Mr. Beraud. The mdeia splashed the murder over the radio and TV stations last night and again this morning. We must spend the rest of the evening with other things in mind. That girl behind the hidden table, isn't she ravishing?" The Inspector gave it a nod and the lad took it as cue. Beraud must admit that he was too fast for him. Pierre was there in a flash, exchanging pleasantries with the girl...another stranger whose face the Inspector could not unravel. Beraud decided not to interfere with Pierre's business; it was his style. Instead, he nursed his bottle with care, ordering for some more hard liquor and studied the faces of the crowd. Pierre now topped the list. And there was the growing awareness of more future encounters.

The city morgue seemed to be a relic of the past; it was home for those destined not to return to the earth's fringes. All through the night, the Coroner labored over the naked body, taking notes, and recording his observations with relative precision. Before him was a body of evidence that must reveal coherent clues that could lead to the murderer. And the task of identifying the assailant proved to be just as elusive. He lifted the victim's fingernails and removed the flesh embedded underneath. Was the killer white or black? It wasn't easy to tell. Finding out was crucial to narrow down the search to just a group. The Coroner summoned for help and Victor came.

The Inspector walked past him, settling at the far end corner of the laboratory. "Any real progress so far?" Beraud asked.

Victor should be able to tell us whether the murderer is a black man or otherwise. The flesh shrunk together with the skin making the analysis rather difficult."

"How about hair and fiber samples from his clothes, does none of those reveal anthing?"

The Coroner was quick in his response. " The current must have washed away any trace or shreds of hair of the assailent."

Silently, the Inspector walked away without uttering a word. The lack of foresight and anticipation from the Coroner bothered him most. Did he really care whether the murderer was colored? The approach smacked with prejudice it not race baiting. The river front was home for a mixed neighborhood predominantly populated by white inhabitants in their late 60s. He was past the door when Victor approached him.

"Could I bother you for a moment?"

"What's in your mind?" The inspector gazed at Victor.

I personally know the dead person. He went by the name of Maugham. The man owned several pawnshops in the eastside. Well, he struck hard bargains. The type who breaks your knees. My friends introduced him to me just in case the need for mony arose."

Eastside...didn't Pierre tell him he came from that end? Must be just some coincidence, Beraud mused. "How well do you know this guy?"

"I was a client of his. Money was tight and I ended up borrowing from him. For a thousand dollars, I returned it back in a month for $1,300. I didn't bother asking again, having found another source with a lesser payback. Maugham told me that he would always be around, should another need arise."

"The Inspector curbed his inquisitiveness, suspecting that Victor might clam up. He busied himself looking at Maugham's frame for some tell-tale signs. There were no gaping or exit wounds either. Except for those contusions in the face, the upper and lower torsos were spotless. Tattooed on his chest were words of defiance, "TO THE ENDS OF THE EARTH, I WILL BE." Eerie, Beraud thought. Maugham met his end from an adventurist who feared not the words emblazoned in black India ink, but the specter of his own demise; it was time for the Inspector to return to that watering hole, hoping that Pierre would still be there. He bade the Coroner and Victor goodbye and waved at a waiting cab.

The bar was now teeming with rowdy patrons. Pierre eas not among them. Beraud scoured the dark corners. chancing that he might be lurking out somewhere. To no avail, he dashed out of the tavern and hid himself to lit a cigar. He savored the smell of his Havana; it was his way of sorting out his convoluted thoughts with his eyes transfixed toward those exiting the bar. And Pierre came out. He could not contain himself. With an empty beer bottle in his hand, Pierre ranted and raved, accosting everyone on sight; it was time to subdue his quest, Beraud thought.

"I would not do that, if I were you, Beraud cautioned Pierre. Yet he lunged at the Inspector. The latter parried the attack, holding the young man in a deadly embrace. More violence ensued, causing Beraud to inject more pressure on the locked arms of the assailant.

"Alright, no...please let go," Pierre pleaded in desperation.

"I could have finished you off!" Beraud stared at him as he loosened his vise-like grip.

"Now, sit down and catch you breath to clear up your brain." Beraud did not reveal himself, afraid that Pierre might become even more belligerent. His aim was to quiz him to close the case. He proceeded with caution.

"A man named Victor spoke about you and the dead man in the morgue. Someone by the name of Maugham. Do you know these characters?"

"Well, I know Victor personally. We used to be roommates. But, this Maugham, I have not met the guy. I heard of him when the harbor police retrieved his corpse from the river front. Beyond that, the man was a total stranger to me. Why are you so obsessed with him? And who are you by the way? The police are your best bet."

"Pierre, I am the police."

The conversation ended abruptly. Beraud asked Pierre to put himself together and to proceed home. The Inspector thanked him for his assistance, handing out some money for taxi fare; it would be a short trip to the morgue, Beraud surmised. He would not mind taking the next bus. But, a liesurely walk was best for his frayed thoughts.

And Victor would be there patiently waiting for his return.
Pierre