Read Online The Secret in Their Eyes by Eduardo Sacheri - Free Book Online
Authors: Eduardo Sacheri
Tags: Contemporary, Mystery
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no longer felt obliged to disguise Romano’s and Sicora’s responsibilities in thematter—as far as I was concerned, they could go straight to hell. I ended my account by explaining that I’d just filed a complaint against the two of them in the Appellate Court, and that I was waiting for the medical examiners’ report on the injuries suffered by the two workers.
“Poor guys,” Morales said. “What a mess they got dragged into.”
He spoke in a tone so neutral, so lacking in emotion, that he seemed to be talking about something totally unconnected with himself. I’d been afraid that Morales would disapprove of my actions and insist on clinging fanatically to the case Romano and that other moron had built up out of the smoke of their own stupidity. But now I was starting to realize that the young man was too intelligent to find solace in any story that wasn’t the truth.
“If you catch him, what will he get?” Morales spoke without turning his eyes from the rain, which had finally turned into a thin drizzle.
I couldn’t help remembering the relevant articles of the Penal Code, one of which decreed that the punishment in such a case was life imprisonment, while the other provided for a concurrent sentence of imprisonment for an indefinite period of time, as stipulated for anyone who “kills in order to prepare, facilitate, commit, or conceal another crime.” I didn’t think Morales could be hurt by any hard truth at that point, simplybecause his soul was so thoroughly wounded that another wound wouldn’t matter. I said, “It’s first-degree murder. Article 80, paragraph 7 of the Penal Code. The sentence is life imprisonment.”
“Life imprisonment,” Morales repeated, as if making an effort to grasp the idea entirely.
I took a chance: “Does that disappoint you?” I was afraid I’d sounded insolent, asking him such a personal question. After all, we were two strangers.
Morales looked at me again, and his sudden perplexity appeared sincere. “No,” he replied at last. “It seems fair.” The young man continued to surprise me.
I kept quiet. Maybe it was my duty to explain to him that unless the culprit had a prior murder conviction, he’d be able to leave prison on parole in twenty or twenty-five years, even if he’d been sentenced concurrently to confinement “for an indefinite period of time,” in accordance with article 52. But I had the feeling that such an explanation would increase his grief.
So I said nothing and kept my eyes fixed on Morales, who for his part was staring at the sidewalk. I saw his brow suddenly darken, and he made a sign of vexation. I too looked outside. It had stopped raining, and the bright sun was lighting up the wet streets and reflecting in the puddles as if shining for the first time.
“I hate when this happens,” Morales said, all of a sudden. I was apparently supposed to know what “this” was.“I’ve never liked to see the sun come out after a storm. My idea of a rainy day is that it ought to rain all day and into the night. If the sun comes out the next morning, fine, but this? This is unforgivable. The sun’s butting in where it’s not wanted. It’s an intruder.” Morales stopped for a second and gave me a quick, absent smile. “Don’t worry. You’re probably thinking the tragedy has scrambled my brains. It’s not that bad.”
I had no idea what to say, but once again Morales didn’t seem to expect a reply.
“I love rainy days. Ever since I was a little boy. I always thought it was ridiculous when it rained and people called it ‘bad weather.’ Bad weather for what? You yourself complained about the rain when we first sat down, didn’t you? But I suspect you were just making small talk because you felt uncomfortable and didn’t know how to fill up the silence. Doesn’t matter, really.”
I kept on saying nothing.
“Seriously. It’s only natural. I suppose I’m a rare case, but I believe that rain has a bad reputation it
“Poor guys,” Morales said. “What a mess they got dragged into.”
He spoke in a tone so neutral, so lacking in emotion, that he seemed to be talking about something totally unconnected with himself. I’d been afraid that Morales would disapprove of my actions and insist on clinging fanatically to the case Romano and that other moron had built up out of the smoke of their own stupidity. But now I was starting to realize that the young man was too intelligent to find solace in any story that wasn’t the truth.
“If you catch him, what will he get?” Morales spoke without turning his eyes from the rain, which had finally turned into a thin drizzle.
I couldn’t help remembering the relevant articles of the Penal Code, one of which decreed that the punishment in such a case was life imprisonment, while the other provided for a concurrent sentence of imprisonment for an indefinite period of time, as stipulated for anyone who “kills in order to prepare, facilitate, commit, or conceal another crime.” I didn’t think Morales could be hurt by any hard truth at that point, simplybecause his soul was so thoroughly wounded that another wound wouldn’t matter. I said, “It’s first-degree murder. Article 80, paragraph 7 of the Penal Code. The sentence is life imprisonment.”
“Life imprisonment,” Morales repeated, as if making an effort to grasp the idea entirely.
I took a chance: “Does that disappoint you?” I was afraid I’d sounded insolent, asking him such a personal question. After all, we were two strangers.
Morales looked at me again, and his sudden perplexity appeared sincere. “No,” he replied at last. “It seems fair.” The young man continued to surprise me.
I kept quiet. Maybe it was my duty to explain to him that unless the culprit had a prior murder conviction, he’d be able to leave prison on parole in twenty or twenty-five years, even if he’d been sentenced concurrently to confinement “for an indefinite period of time,” in accordance with article 52. But I had the feeling that such an explanation would increase his grief.
So I said nothing and kept my eyes fixed on Morales, who for his part was staring at the sidewalk. I saw his brow suddenly darken, and he made a sign of vexation. I too looked outside. It had stopped raining, and the bright sun was lighting up the wet streets and reflecting in the puddles as if shining for the first time.
“I hate when this happens,” Morales said, all of a sudden. I was apparently supposed to know what “this” was.“I’ve never liked to see the sun come out after a storm. My idea of a rainy day is that it ought to rain all day and into the night. If the sun comes out the next morning, fine, but this? This is unforgivable. The sun’s butting in where it’s not wanted. It’s an intruder.” Morales stopped for a second and gave me a quick, absent smile. “Don’t worry. You’re probably thinking the tragedy has scrambled my brains. It’s not that bad.”
I had no idea what to say, but once again Morales didn’t seem to expect a reply.
“I love rainy days. Ever since I was a little boy. I always thought it was ridiculous when it rained and people called it ‘bad weather.’ Bad weather for what? You yourself complained about the rain when we first sat down, didn’t you? But I suspect you were just making small talk because you felt uncomfortable and didn’t know how to fill up the silence. Doesn’t matter, really.”
I kept on saying nothing.
“Seriously. It’s only natural. I suppose I’m a rare case, but I believe that rain has a bad reputation it
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