Finding Delilah

1

Finding Delilah2

“It looks obvious to me,” my partner Calucho said. “Gomez picks up some hooker. She ties him up. Then bam!” He clapped his rubber-gloved hands together. “She shoots him through the eyes.” 3

“I don’t know,” I said. “Somehow it just doesn’t look right. And why shoot him in the eyes?” 4

I leant over Gomez and had a closer look at the bloody tears still rolling down from his eyesockets. I shook my head. “Nah! Looks more like a scene from an arthouse movie. Or even a religious painting.”5

I looked up at Calucho for an answer. He was kneeling at the foot of the bed, examining one of Gomez’s feet. He stood up, cracking a few bones in the process. He looked back at me.6

“I think you’ve been watching too many Easter films, Solans.” 7

He popped another sunflower seed into his mouth. Crunched it. Spat it out in his hand and put it in his side jacket pocket. For two years I had watched him do it. It annoyed the hell out of me. He waved his shovel-like hands in the air. 8

“Do you think the lord came down and done this.”9

I smiled over at him. “Maybe it was revenge for all the crooks Gomez got off free.”10

Gomez was the Mossos d’ Esquadra’s nightmare. No matter how watertight you thought your case was, Gomez would find a minutiae of law that would throw doubt on it. A retrial or a postponement later, the case would either be thrown out of court, or the sentence would be greatly reduced.11

Calucho pointed a stubby finger at me and popped another seed in his mouth. 12

“Now you’re talking.” He crunched down on the seed. Went through his routine. “That’s the kind of God I’d pray to.” He grinned. 13

“Hey, Solans,” he whispered. “Come take a look at this.”14

“What?”15

“Come here.”16

I sidled over to him. 17

“You know what’s made my day,” he said. “Apart from seeing him dead.”18

“No. What?”19

Calucho cocked his head towards Calucho’s feet. “Take a look at those blisters on his souls. Now that’s what my uncle Sergi would call ‘twinkle toes syndrome. Said he saw it in th army. Biggest, hardest guys he ever met had it. You get that from running.” 20

“And your point is?”21

“Nothing. Just an observation.”22

Lleida was a small city. A population of around one hundred and thirty thousand. It had its fair share of stabbings, beatings the odd rape. Occasionally a murder. But nothing like this. If I was honest, I’d say it was just the type of case I’d always wanted. Until now, I thought this kind of thing only happened in America. And now it was our turn at the Mossos d’Esquadra, the Catalan police, to get a chance at something different.23

“So where to?” Calucho asked when we were outside in the unmarked car.24

I clicked in the seatbelt.25

“Let’s ask the padre up at the cathedral,”I replied. “Maybe he can shed some light on this.”26

“Still think it’s religious, huh?”27

I turned to him and smiled. “It’s the voices. They’re speaking to me.”28

Calucho started up the car. “You’re a fruitcake, Solans.” 29

Sunlight streamed through the clerestory and illuminated a priest who was pruning white roses with more care than I would cutting my fingernails. He was probably around thirty, receding hairline, bespectacled. He was in the garth, a little garden sourrounded by cloisters.30

I did the talking. 31

“Padre Pont.”32

Still crouched, he bent his head back and squinted. He held a hand up against the sunlight. Calucho and I flashed our badges. The padre gave us a tightlipped smile.33

“Bon dia. I’m Crisitina Solans of the Mossos d’Esquadra Crime Unit. And this is my partner, Pere Calucho. I was wondering if you could help us with our enquiries.” 34

He shrugged. “Sure.” He stood up. 35

I showed him the photo we had taken of the corpse. 36

“We found this man this morning who, for identification reasons we can’t tell you who he is but - ”37

The padre’s face suddenly turned as white as his roses. 38

“I’m sorry padre. I didn’t mean to upset you. It’s just, well, I was just wondering if it had any religious significance.”39

He blinked rapidly. “I-I-I mean, it does look like it.” 40

“Could it be a religious ritual of some kind?”41

But the padre’s mind seemed to wander somewhere. I looked over at Calucho. He just shrugged his shoulders. 42

“Ehm, maybe,” the padre said eventually. 43

I had to keep pressing for answers. “But what they did with the eyes. I’m guessing they didn’t want him to see something.”44

“Or to make it the last thing he ever saw.”45

“I’m telling you,” Calucho whispered in my ear. “It was a hooker.”46

The padre gave Calucho a cold look. 47

“It’s wrong to talk evil of the dead,” he said coldly. 48

Calucho blushed and shifted feet.49

“Was his hair cut?” the padre asked.50

I contemplated his question for a few moments. “Come to think of it. It did look shorter than usual. It used to be wavy, shoulderlength.”51

Calucho, who had been standing behind me the whole time, came round to the front of me. He popped a sunflower seed into his mouth. Cracked it open with his teeth and was on the verge of spitting it out when he caught the priest’s cold stare. Instead he put it in his pocket.52

“Wasn’t Samson blinded,” Calcuho asked. “And he had his hair cut. I think I saw it in an old Victor Mature movie. And ehm,” he snapped his fingers. “Who was the woman?”53

“Delilah,” the padre interjected. “Heddy Lamarr.” He jabbed a slender, manicured finger at the photo. “Were the eyes burned out with a red hot iron poker? That’s what happened to Samson.”54

“Maybe they couldn’t find a red-hot poker,” Calucho suggested. 55

“Could be,” the padre replied. “But there’s one thing you’re forgetting. Samson destroyed the baddies into the bargain.”56

I have a habit of rubbing my thumb along my lip when I’m thinking. I was doing it now. Meanwhile, the priest held his hands as if in prayer.57

“Then Samson prayed to the Lord. 'O Lord God, remember me. I pray thee, and strengthen me, I pray thee, only this once."58

I continued where he left off. 59

“O God, that I may be at once avenged of the Philistines for my two eyes.' Let me die with the Philistines!”60

“You know your bible, detective Solans. I’m impressed.”61

“Oh, save-your-soul Solans knows it all,” Calucho said.”62

“Shame you don’t have one,” I chastised him. I turned to the padre. 63

“So if it’s not Samson or Jesus, which biblical figure could it be?”64

The padre looked at me forlornly and shook his head. “I’ve no idea.”65

Two days later, the commisioner threw The Vanguardia on my desk. He jabbed a finger at the headline.66

“Look at that,” he roared. “The Blind Assassin. For crissake. In a city this small, the bastard can’t be that hard to find.” He slapped the desk hard. 67

“It’s not like it’s New York or Los Angeles, is it?”68

“But sir-”69

“I don’t want to hear excuses, Solans. I just want to hear that you and the doughnut-eating walrus next to you has got some leads.”70

I could hear Calucho sucking in some air. He and the commisioner had some bad history. Calucho met the commisioner’s wife at a club. Went back to her place and got caught by the commisioner. Word got round the station. Before Calucho knew it, he was the object of the commisioner’s anger at every turn.71

The commisioner stormed off. 72

“Give my regards to your wife,” Calucho said when the commisioner was out of earshot. Then he turned to me, red-faced. 73

“If I ever get a second chance with his wife again, I’ll do it just to spite him.”74

I lightly gripped his arm. “Just remember. No matter what he says to you, you put a smile on Mrs commsioner’s face, right?”75

A smile stretched across Calucho’s face. “You got that right.” 76

“Pull up a chair and let’s try and make some sense of this thing,” I said.77

I took out a pencil and some paper from a side drawer. Got Calucho to sketch the corpse we had seen earlier that day. He drew an incredible likeness.78

“Remind me,” I said, “how long did forensics say he had been dead for?” 79

“Maybe about eighteen to twenty hours.”80

“So we arrived at ten this morning. That would make it between two-ish and four-ish in the afternoon.”81

“What you getting at?”82

“Do you know how I told how I felt there was a religious element to all this.”83

"Ahuh!”84

“I figured out why? You see the story about Samson comes from the Book of Judges.”85

“But Gomez wasn’t a judge. Come on Solans. Don’t you think you’re pushing this a bit far?”86

“Hmm. I suppose you’re right. But those lines I quoted from the bible. Chapter sixteen, verses twenty-eight to thirty. Sixteen in this case could mean sixteen hundred hours. That’s four o’ clock. And verses twenty-eight to thirty. Twenty-eight minutes past to thirty minutes past. The murder was committed eighteen hours before we arrived.”87

Calucho sighed heavily. “Solans, now I’m sure all you God-botherers love this kind of stuff. But the rest of us just see facts. And the fact is, it must have been some hooker that tied him up. Why else do you think he took his clothes off. You know as well as I do, there were no signs of a struggle.”88

He was right. There were no abrasions on the fingers where a person would punch or claw their way out of danger. 89

“Maybe you’re right,” I said, defeated. “Must have been some hooker.”90

But somehow I still had that niggling feeling I was right. We explored some more possiblities. Some even more far-fetched than the Samson myth. But any crazy ideas were better than none. 91

Come eleven I was getting too tired to think anymore. I called it a night. 92

“Drop you off somewhere,” Calucho offered. 93

“Think I’ll walk. See you in the morning.”94

“See you.”95

Smilin’ Jacks is as close as Lleida has ever been to a jazz bar. Framed pictures of Ella, the Duke and countless others are plastered all over the walls. As is a glass-encased trombone, trumpet and saxaphone. Jack Daniel barrels used as tables enhance that jazzy feel. 96

Yet despite that, they only played pop music and a back catalogue of pop-rock for the thirty something crowd who frequented the place.97

I bought a gin and tonic and sat at one of the barrels. On a filmscreen on the far wall, Madonna was singing Like a Prayer. She was kneeling seductivley in front of a black Messiah, trying her best to look sexually provocative, as only Madonna could get away with. 98

I started thinking about Gomez. Background checks showed he didn’t frequent hookers. He didn’t have to according to an ex-flatmate. A steady stream of women came and left his bedroom. 99

Bruce Springsteen appeared next.100

Gomez wasn’t well-liked. But a far as we knew, nobody hated him enough to want to kill him. 101

Bruce was followed by a medley of sixties soul singers. 102

I was beginning to think that at twenty-six, I was maybe too young for this place. But it was better than being cooped up in my tiny flat. 103

As Aretha was singing her heart out, I kept asking myself why Gomez was shot through the eyes. Why not the head? The throat? 104

Then Tom Jones sang Delilah. Samson had his Delilah. Could it be that Gomez had his own Delilah? Who was she? Calucho thought she was just some prostitute. But why would she shoot him. He was tied up, thus rendering him helpless. 105

When I arrived home, I phoned Calucho and posed the same question.106

“One severely pissed off woman,”he replied. He yawned. “But I need to get some shuteye. Tomorrow we’ll go looking for her, okay?”107

“Pick me up round nine.”108

We did the rounds at the Nou jutjats (new court.) Every time I mentioned Gomez’s name, the interviewee would screw up their face like they had just had a sudden bout of toothache. 109

All except one. 110

The court reporter was a leggy blonde who seemed out of place in this solemn world of thieves and murderers. She was dressed smartly in a pinstripe suit whose skirt showed enough of her long, slim legs to garner appreciation from Calucho. We waited for her in the gallery until the case she was working on had finished. 111

“Miss Jimenez,” I said. 112

She was shuffling papers and about to put them into a briefcase. 113

She looked up, smiling. 114

“Yes.”115

“I just wondered if you could spare a few moments.”116

“Certainly.”117

We flashed our badges and introduced ourselves. 118

“Are you acquainted with an Albert Gomez?”I asked.119

“Yes, I was. Heard what happened. Tragic.”120

“Well this is just routine. But could you tell us where you were on Tuesday morning at ten?”121

She frowned. “Why certainly. I was here. In court. Judge Sans was behind me. It was a petty larceny case.”122

“And what was your relationship with the deceased?”123

“Sometimes we met up for a drink. Discussed work”124

“And was there anything personal between you. I mean, were you partners?”125

“Hahahaha! Albert? God no. Let’s just say he preferred his women to be a bit more butch.”126

“Butch. Could you elaborate, please?”127

“He preferred men.”128

“Strange. According to other sources, he was constantly seen with women.”129

“Oh, I don’t doubt that. He loved being with women. Just not for the reasons you might think.” 130

“So,” Calucho said when we were outside. “This gets better. For the first time in my life I wish he was alive. Hahahha! Your Delilah’s probably a man. Who’d have thought it?”131

We didn’t want to go back to the station. Instead we went to Café Paris for a coffee. 132

“Still have that Delilah theory,” Calucho asked, while stirring his coffee.133

“I just have a hunch, that’s all.”134

“We’ll need to trawl the gay bars.”135

“Are there any?”136

“No.” 137

“How do you know?” He paused. “Something you want to tell me Solans?”138

“Don’t excite yourself, Calucho. Besides, maybe you might see something you like.”139

“Cheap beer? So anyway. A gay guy gets tied up. His boyfriend decides to shoot him in the eyes. Just because he doesn’t want him to see something. Or tell anybody what he sees.”140

“I still think it’s religious.”141

“Aw come on, Solans. It’s just some freak getting his kicks. You know as well as I do.”142

“And the haircut?”143

“There was no hair at the scene. So obviously he got it done at the hairdressers.”144

Calucho snapped his fingers.145

“And people tell hairdressers more than they should,” Calucho said. 146

“I’m a genius.”147

“Let’s just see if you’re right Einstein.”148

“For crissakes let me finish my coffee first.”149

We decided to ignore the barber-only dives and go straight for the upmarket hairdressing salons. Ten salons later, we entered Carlos Cruz on Torre De Sanui, near the centre of town. It was tacky, calling itself stylish. Over-priced, as I found out once.150

Three women dressed in black teeshirts emblazoned with the proprietor’s name, sat chatting in the centre of the room. A tall, thin man was busy sweeping the floor. 151

We approached him. 152

“Excuse me,” I asked, “can we have a word with you?”153

He twisted round. Gave us a shocked look when we showed him our badges. He gestured to the hairwashing area at the back. We went on ahead. When we reached the sinks I turned to speak to him.154

“Mr ehm –“155

But he bolted out the shop.156

We chased after him, me leading. At the end of the street, the hairdresser ran across Avenida Balmes, a busy street that cut through the centre of Lleida. I turned to see where Calucho was. Obviously good eating counteracted his energy. 157

“I’ll catch up,” he shouted. 158

I gave him the thumbs up.159

The hairdresser ran across the street, and straight down Carrer Bonaire. Past San Marti church. Turned right, into Carrer Ronda De La Seu Vella. 160

The Seu Vella was a medieval cathedral nestled at the top of a hill. It was surrounded by an outer wall, punctured by an archwayed entrance. The hairdresser ran up a flight of steps leading to it. And kept running all the way up to the cathedral’s main entrance. 161

The heat was beginning to take its toll on me. But I was determined to catch him. 162

The hairdresser ran through the cloisters, past the garth where Calucho and I had spoken to the padre earlier, and up the belltower. 163

238 steps it said on a burnished plaque at the entrance to it. 164

Boom!165

At first I thought it was my heart exploding. 166

Boom!For a fifteenth century bell Old Silvestra, knew how to be heard.167

Boom.168

By the time I was halfway up the stairs, it had finally struck twelve. But I could still here her throaty voice reverberating round my head. 169

At the top of the belltower, there was an octagonal parapet, punctured by alternating openings called embrasures. Between the embrasures were raised sections called merlons which were diamond-shaped. The hairdresser stood between two of them.170

“I’ll jump,” he threatened. 171

I bent over double, holding my sides and panting furiously. A few tourists, stared at me bemused. I showed them my badge. “Please leave,” I said, panting the words out. “This is a police matter.”172

Two couples and a family of four ran towards the exit. I turned to the hairdresser. 173

“Look,” I said holding my palms up. “I just want to talk.”174

“No. This would destroy him.”175

“Who?”176

The hairdresser crossed his arms against his chest. Arched his back and looked skywards. 177

I bolted towards him. 178

Too late. 179

All I could do now was watch him plummet like a stone. When he hit the ground, a knot of tourists surrounded him, Padre Pont included. He cradled the hairdresser in his arms. The ancient cathedral reverberated with the sound of his wailing. 180

“Why-why-why?” the tearful padre screamed, looking heavenwards. 181

I wish I knew the answer. I doubt I’d find the answers at Smilin’ Jacks though.182