you?”
“Yes, I am. But you’re not. Give me a break, will you, Félix?”
Trujillo inclined his head and blushed slightly. How had she found out he was married? “Okay. I’m sorry. I apologize. Are you mad at me?”
“No, I’m not. Got to make my watch report. Take care.”At a quarter past two, the inked fingerprint card was optically read by the LCC computer. The key features of the general pattern and local details provided a listing of candidates, ranked by a comparison algorithm. On-line, the fingerprint examiner asked for seventy-two cards from the national registry and started the long screening process. At 7:50 that evening, he dialled the DTI’s number and asked for Trujillo. He had to wait while the captain left his bed in the communal dormitory for senior officers, relieved himself, splashed water on his face, and, feeling reasonably alert at last, ambled to the phone on the duty officer’s desk.
“Captain Trujillo, at your service.”
“This is Captain Lorffe, from Fingerprints, LCC.”
“Yes?”
“You have a pen and paper?”
“Just a minute.”
Trujillo searched his shirt pockets. He found a bus ticket and a ballpoint.
“Okay.”
“Pablo Carlos Miranda Garcés,” Captain Lorffe dictated slowly. “A Cuban citizen. Born August 17, 1965, in Havana. The address on his identity record is 2406 Third A, between 24th and 26th Streets, Miramar, Playa.”
Trujillo copied everything down, then confirmed he’d got it right. “Okay. Thanks. Now, Captain, I mean no disrespect, but that ten-print was taken from a dead man. I’ve got to notify the relatives. Any chance of mistaken identity?”
Trujillo heard Lorffe sigh. “The card I’ve got has the prints of Pablo Carlos Miranda Garcés. There are more corresponding simple ridge characteristics than I’ve got hairs on my head. Now,if someone at the Identity Card office in Playa fucked up and misfiled this guy’s original impressions; if you left the IML card on your desk and somebody changed it; if someone –”
“I hope nothing like that happened,” Trujillo cut in. “Thanks a lot, comrade.”
Back in the dormitory, the DTI captain grabbed his briefcase, pocketed the key ring found on the corpse, had supper in the mess hall, then asked for a Lada from the car pool, got a Ural Russian motorcycle with sidecar, and rode to Miramar. First he questioned the man in charge of surveillance in the CDR. * José Kuan lived around the block from Pablo Miranda, on 26th between Third and Third A.
Kuan was the son of Chinese immigrants and appeared to be in his late thirties, so Trujillo estimated he was probably in his early fifties. He lived in a third-floor apartment with his wife and two boys, both under ten, and was assistant manager at a state-owned enterprise that marketed handicrafts. Kuan’s children were watching TV in the living room, so he walked Trujillo to the couple’s bedroom. His wife brought the captain a cup of espresso, which he accepted gratefully.
Yes, a man named Pablo Carlos Miranda Garcés lived around the block. Kuan said the guy was short, bald, worked at a joint venture two blocks away. Trujillo wrote down the company’s name and address. No, he hadn’t seen him in the last few days. No, he wasn’t married, far as he could tell, lived with his sister. No, she wasn’t married either. Nobody else lived there.
Trujillo asked to see the Register of Addresses. Kuan opened a closet and produced a file, with a page for each household in thearea covered by the CDR. The one for the dead man’s apartment also bore the name of Elena Miranda Garcés, and gave the woman’s date of birth. The name Gladys Garcés Benítez, born in 1938, had been crossed off in red ink in 1987 just after she moved to Zulueta, Villa Clara. Her surname was identical to the siblings’ second surname. If she was still alive, Trujillo calculated, their mother would be sixty-two now.
“What can you tell me about this Pablo Miranda?” Trujillo
“Yes, I am. But you’re not. Give me a break, will you, Félix?”
Trujillo inclined his head and blushed slightly. How had she found out he was married? “Okay. I’m sorry. I apologize. Are you mad at me?”
“No, I’m not. Got to make my watch report. Take care.”At a quarter past two, the inked fingerprint card was optically read by the LCC computer. The key features of the general pattern and local details provided a listing of candidates, ranked by a comparison algorithm. On-line, the fingerprint examiner asked for seventy-two cards from the national registry and started the long screening process. At 7:50 that evening, he dialled the DTI’s number and asked for Trujillo. He had to wait while the captain left his bed in the communal dormitory for senior officers, relieved himself, splashed water on his face, and, feeling reasonably alert at last, ambled to the phone on the duty officer’s desk.
“Captain Trujillo, at your service.”
“This is Captain Lorffe, from Fingerprints, LCC.”
“Yes?”
“You have a pen and paper?”
“Just a minute.”
Trujillo searched his shirt pockets. He found a bus ticket and a ballpoint.
“Okay.”
“Pablo Carlos Miranda Garcés,” Captain Lorffe dictated slowly. “A Cuban citizen. Born August 17, 1965, in Havana. The address on his identity record is 2406 Third A, between 24th and 26th Streets, Miramar, Playa.”
Trujillo copied everything down, then confirmed he’d got it right. “Okay. Thanks. Now, Captain, I mean no disrespect, but that ten-print was taken from a dead man. I’ve got to notify the relatives. Any chance of mistaken identity?”
Trujillo heard Lorffe sigh. “The card I’ve got has the prints of Pablo Carlos Miranda Garcés. There are more corresponding simple ridge characteristics than I’ve got hairs on my head. Now,if someone at the Identity Card office in Playa fucked up and misfiled this guy’s original impressions; if you left the IML card on your desk and somebody changed it; if someone –”
“I hope nothing like that happened,” Trujillo cut in. “Thanks a lot, comrade.”
Back in the dormitory, the DTI captain grabbed his briefcase, pocketed the key ring found on the corpse, had supper in the mess hall, then asked for a Lada from the car pool, got a Ural Russian motorcycle with sidecar, and rode to Miramar. First he questioned the man in charge of surveillance in the CDR. * José Kuan lived around the block from Pablo Miranda, on 26th between Third and Third A.
Kuan was the son of Chinese immigrants and appeared to be in his late thirties, so Trujillo estimated he was probably in his early fifties. He lived in a third-floor apartment with his wife and two boys, both under ten, and was assistant manager at a state-owned enterprise that marketed handicrafts. Kuan’s children were watching TV in the living room, so he walked Trujillo to the couple’s bedroom. His wife brought the captain a cup of espresso, which he accepted gratefully.
Yes, a man named Pablo Carlos Miranda Garcés lived around the block. Kuan said the guy was short, bald, worked at a joint venture two blocks away. Trujillo wrote down the company’s name and address. No, he hadn’t seen him in the last few days. No, he wasn’t married, far as he could tell, lived with his sister. No, she wasn’t married either. Nobody else lived there.
Trujillo asked to see the Register of Addresses. Kuan opened a closet and produced a file, with a page for each household in thearea covered by the CDR. The one for the dead man’s apartment also bore the name of Elena Miranda Garcés, and gave the woman’s date of birth. The name Gladys Garcés Benítez, born in 1938, had been crossed off in red ink in 1987 just after she moved to Zulueta, Villa Clara. Her surname was identical to the siblings’ second surname. If she was still alive, Trujillo calculated, their mother would be sixty-two now.
“What can you tell me about this Pablo Miranda?” Trujillo
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