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All designed to keep him awake, but deaden the physical pain so the shock of the multiple amputations
didn t kill him.
 Was there anything unusual about the cuts? I asked him.
 The guy s had training, Spielman said.  They were all done with very good surgical technique. But
any medical school in the world could have taught him that. He blew out a breath and an apologetic
smile flickered quickly across his face.  Some of them were already healed.
 What kind of time frame does that give us? Deborah asked him.
Spielman shrugged.  Four to six weeks, start to finish, he said.  He took at least a month to surgically
dismember this guy, one small piece at a time. I can t imagine anything more horrible.
 He did it in front of a mirror, I said, ever-helpful.  So the victim had to watch.
Spielman looked appalled.  My God, he said. He just sat there for a minute, and then said,  Oh, my
God. Then he shook his head and looked at his Rolex again.  Listen, I d like to help out here, but this
is . . . He spread his hands and then dropped them on the table again.  I don t think there s really
anything I can tell you that s going to do any good. So let me save you some time here. That Mister,
uh Chesney?
 Chutsky, Deborah said.
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 Yes, that was it. He called in and suggested I might get an ID with a retinal scan at, um, a certain
database in Virginia. He raised an eyebrow and pursed his lips.  Anyway. I got a fax yesterday, with a
positive identification of the victim. I ll get it for you. He stood up and disappeared into the hall. A
moment later he returned with a sheet of paper.  Here it is. Name is Manuel Borges. A native of El
Salvador, in the import business. He put the paper down in front of Deborah.  I know it s not much,
but believe me, that s it. The shape he s in . . . He shrugged.  I didn t think we d get this much.
A small intercom speaker in the ceiling muttered something that might have come from a TV show.
Spielman cocked his head, frowned, and said,  Gotta go. Hope you catch him. And he was out the
door and down the hall so quickly that the fax paper he had dropped on the table fluttered.
I looked at Deborah. She did not seem particularly encouraged that we had found the victim s name.
 Well, I said.  I know it isn t much.
She shook her head.  Not much would be a big improvement. This is nothing. She looked at the fax,
read it through one time.  El Salvador. Connected to something called FLANGE.
 That was our side, I said. She looked up at me.  The side the United States supported. I looked it up
on the Internet.
 Swell. So we just found out something we already knew. She got up and headed for the door, not
quite as quickly as Dr. Spielman but fast enough that I had to hurry and I didn t catch up until she was
at the door to the parking lot.
Deborah drove rapidly and silently, with her jaw clenched, all the way to the little house on N.W. 4th
Street where it had all started. The yellow tape was gone, of course, but Deborah parked haphazardly
anyway, cop fashion, and got out of the car. I followed her up the short walkway to the house next
door to the one where we had found the human doorstop. Deborah rang the bell, still without
speaking, and a moment later it swung open. A middle-aged man wearing gold-rimmed glasses and a
tan guayabera shirt looked out at us inquiringly.
 We need to speak to Ariel Medina, Deborah said, holding up her badge.
 My mother is resting now, he said.
 It s urgent, Deborah said.
The man looked at her, then at me.  Just a moment, he said. He closed the door. Deborah stared
straight ahead at the door, and I watched her jaw muscles working for a couple of minutes before the
man opened the door again and held it wide.  Come in, he said.
We followed him into a small dark room crowded with dozens of end tables, each one festooned with
religious articles and framed photographs. Ariel, the old lady who had discovered the thing next door
and cried on Deb s shoulder, sat on a large overstuffed sofa with doilies on the arms and across the
back. When she saw Deborah she said,  Aaahhh, and stood up to give her a hug. Deborah, who really
should have been expecting an abrazo from an elderly Cuban lady, stood stiffly for a moment before
awkwardly returning the embrace with a few pats on the woman s back. Deborah backed off as soon
as she decently could. Ariel sat back down on the couch and patted the cushion beside her. Deborah
sat.
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The old lady immediately launched into a very rapid stream of Spanish. I speak some Spanish, and
often I can even understand Cuban, but I was getting only one word in ten of Ariel s harangue.
Deborah looked at me helplessly; for whatever quixotic reasons, she had chosen to study French in
school, and as far as she was concerned the woman might as well have been speaking ancient Etruscan.
 Por favor, Señora, I said.  Mi hermana no habla español.
 Ah? Ariel looked at Deborah with a little less enthusiasm and shook her head.  Lázaro! Her son
stepped forward, and as she resumed her monologue with barely a pause, he began to translate for her.
 I came here from Santiago de Cuba in 1962, Lázaro said for his mother.  Under Batista I saw some
terrible things. People disappeared. Then Castro came and for a while I had hope. She shook her head
and spread her hands.  Believe it or not, but this is what we thought at the time. Things would be
different. But soon it was the same thing again. Worse. So I came here. To the United States. Because
here, people don t disappear. People are not shot in the street or tortured. That s what I thought. And
now this. She waved an arm toward the house next door.
 I need to ask you a few questions, Deborah said, and Lázaro translated.
Ariel simply nodded and went right on with her riveting tale.  Even with Castro, they would never do a
thing like that, she said.  Yes, they kill people. Or they put you in the Isle of Pines. But never a thing
like this. Not in Cuba. Only in America, she said.
 Did you ever see the man next door? Deborah interrupted.  The man who did this? Ariel studied
Deborah for a moment.  I need to know, Deb said.  There s going to be another one if we can t find
him.
 Why is it you who asks me? Ariel said through her son.  This is no job for you. A pretty woman like
you, you should have a husband. A family.
 El victimo proximo es el novio de mi hermana, I said. The next victim is my sister s sweetheart.
Deborah glared at me, but Ariel said,  Aaahhh, clucked her tongue, and nodded her head.  Well, I
don t know what I can tell you. I did see the man, maybe two times. She shrugged and Deborah
leaned forward impatiently.  Always at night, never very close. I can say, the man was small, very
short. And skinny as well. With big glasses. More than this, I don t know. He never came out, he was
very quiet. Sometimes we would hear music. She smiled just a little and added,  Tito Puente. And
Lázaro echoed unnecessarily,  Tito Puente.
 Ah, I said, and they all looked at me.  It would hide the noise, I said, a little embarrassed at all the
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