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Authors: Rodolfo Peña
Tags: Mystery
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lots of stuff we have to take care of.”
“ Well, thanks again.” Yet another handshake and Lombardo left.
Once in the parking lot, Lombardo lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke into the cool night air. Having heard hundreds of persons give testimony, witness accounts, and sundry information to the police, Lombardo had become very sensitive to nuances in speech and to the choice of words people used when describing something or recounting an event.
That had been the case when David had said that he hoped Lombardo would find the “people” who had killed Victor. Lombardo had written into his notebook two questions, “Why did David use the plural? What makes him think there was more than one?”
He also recorded in his little notebook that David had blanched when he asked him if he knew of any reason why anyone would want to hurt Victor. Why? Was that a reaction to feelings of guilt? He had written down: “Must look into that. Pry much more next time.”
The wind picked up and he closed his mackintosh against it. He started to walk toward the University Avenue entrance to the campus.
In the Investigations Department, colleagues had often criticized Lombardo for being “old fashioned” and “behind the times.” Lombardo had never bothered to counter the clichés people chose to describe him. He had often said that the less people thought he knew the more they revealed without knowing it.
He reached the campus entrance and signaled the first taxi he saw. It didn’t stop.
Lombardo had never told people at the office that he had a computer at home or that he often spent hours on it researching
things on the Internet. He never commented or much less boasted how well read he was. Although he had a couple of hundred books in his studio at home, no one at the office ever saw him read anything, not even a newspaper.
He had once startled a judge by quoting Horace’s words about a good judge preferring the honorable to the expedient.
A friend had once described him as “a catalogue of missed opportunities” to which Lombardo had answered that he “had never wanted to live his life according to anyone’s expectations, least of all his own,” which was another quote.
It was true that when he was a boy his teachers, amazed that a local newspaper had published a couple of his essays in the editorial page, thought he might become a writer or journalist and had encouraged him in that direction. But, of course, he had not. When he was a few years older, his ease with technical subjects and his ability to learn mathematics with little effort led his parents to think he might choose some sort of engineering career at University—again, he did not.
At the University, he was so evidently brilliant during his studies in economics and political science that teachers and fellow students speculated he might end up in government or in some think tank in the U.S. Instead, he had joined the urban guerilla movement.
Throughout his life he had dabbled in many things—photography, painting, computers, sports such as tennis and golf, and had become knowledgeable and even a good practitioner of most of them, but never mastered any and had eventually abandoned all. He often said that he was happy to know about things rather than be their master or slave—which to him were the two faces of the same coin.
He signaled another taxi and this one screeched to a stop in front of him. “Take me to the Public Ministry building on Ruiz Cortines Avenue,” he said. The taxi merged quickly into the river of rush hour traffic as Lombardo huddled in the back seat and stared out the window at the thousands of cars streaming down the avenues and boulevards. “They’re going home,” he murmured, “home to dinner, with family and friends.”
“ What’s that, sir?” asked the taxi driver.
“ Nothing, nothing at all.”
Chapter 10 : A Not Too Religious Meeting
“ Well, thanks again.” Yet another handshake and Lombardo left.
Once in the parking lot, Lombardo lit a cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke into the cool night air. Having heard hundreds of persons give testimony, witness accounts, and sundry information to the police, Lombardo had become very sensitive to nuances in speech and to the choice of words people used when describing something or recounting an event.
That had been the case when David had said that he hoped Lombardo would find the “people” who had killed Victor. Lombardo had written into his notebook two questions, “Why did David use the plural? What makes him think there was more than one?”
He also recorded in his little notebook that David had blanched when he asked him if he knew of any reason why anyone would want to hurt Victor. Why? Was that a reaction to feelings of guilt? He had written down: “Must look into that. Pry much more next time.”
The wind picked up and he closed his mackintosh against it. He started to walk toward the University Avenue entrance to the campus.
In the Investigations Department, colleagues had often criticized Lombardo for being “old fashioned” and “behind the times.” Lombardo had never bothered to counter the clichés people chose to describe him. He had often said that the less people thought he knew the more they revealed without knowing it.
He reached the campus entrance and signaled the first taxi he saw. It didn’t stop.
Lombardo had never told people at the office that he had a computer at home or that he often spent hours on it researching
things on the Internet. He never commented or much less boasted how well read he was. Although he had a couple of hundred books in his studio at home, no one at the office ever saw him read anything, not even a newspaper.
He had once startled a judge by quoting Horace’s words about a good judge preferring the honorable to the expedient.
A friend had once described him as “a catalogue of missed opportunities” to which Lombardo had answered that he “had never wanted to live his life according to anyone’s expectations, least of all his own,” which was another quote.
It was true that when he was a boy his teachers, amazed that a local newspaper had published a couple of his essays in the editorial page, thought he might become a writer or journalist and had encouraged him in that direction. But, of course, he had not. When he was a few years older, his ease with technical subjects and his ability to learn mathematics with little effort led his parents to think he might choose some sort of engineering career at University—again, he did not.
At the University, he was so evidently brilliant during his studies in economics and political science that teachers and fellow students speculated he might end up in government or in some think tank in the U.S. Instead, he had joined the urban guerilla movement.
Throughout his life he had dabbled in many things—photography, painting, computers, sports such as tennis and golf, and had become knowledgeable and even a good practitioner of most of them, but never mastered any and had eventually abandoned all. He often said that he was happy to know about things rather than be their master or slave—which to him were the two faces of the same coin.
He signaled another taxi and this one screeched to a stop in front of him. “Take me to the Public Ministry building on Ruiz Cortines Avenue,” he said. The taxi merged quickly into the river of rush hour traffic as Lombardo huddled in the back seat and stared out the window at the thousands of cars streaming down the avenues and boulevards. “They’re going home,” he murmured, “home to dinner, with family and friends.”
“ What’s that, sir?” asked the taxi driver.
“ Nothing, nothing at all.”
Chapter 10 : A Not Too Religious Meeting
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