The Secret in Their Eyes by Eduardo Sacheri

collected, but he didn’t take me to see the prisoners. A bad sign, I thought. I made myself as comfortable as I could at a desk covered with overflowing boxes of documents and pushed practically into the corridor that led to the cells. I started to look through Báez’s work and stopped almost at once, when I came to the declarations made by one Estela Bermúdez. I read her statement attentively, took it out of the folder,and put it aside. Then I looked up at Sicora, and I figure my eyes were shooting off sparks.
    “Have you gone over the statement from Estela Bermúdez?”
    Sicora gazed away, as if trying to recall, or taking time to decide how he should answer; then, almost immediately, he focused on me again, furrowed his brow, and said, “Who’s she?”
    I was expecting this question. “The woman who lives in Apartment 3, Sicora.”
    The policeman knew he’d lost his bearings.
    “When Báez took her statement,” I said, trying to make my voice sound peaceable, because that seemed the best way to humiliate him, “the woman declared that she had two guys working on her apartment, but they hadn’t come either Monday or Tuesday. Not on Monday, because it rained all day long, and the work they were doing was outside, on the terrace. And not on Tuesday, because they needed it to be good and dry before they could apply the tar. She said they’d called her up and arranged to wait until Thursday.”
    I held out the sheet of paper so that he could read it for himself, but Sicora, taking hold of the last shreds of his dignity, counterattacked: “So what? Couldn’t they have made that call just to cover themselves, gone to the apartment house anyway, killed the girl, and fled the scene?”
    “Look, Sicora, everyone who lives in the building—the woman in Apartment 3 and all the rest—they all stated that the main door, the door to the street, is always locked with a key. When they have visitors, they have to leave their apartment, go down the hall, and unlock the door for them. Didn’t you read that? It’s in all the statements. And the woman in the next-door apartment, the one who reported the crime—did you read her statement? She says again and again that she saw only one guy leave the scene. “
    I gathered up the stack of documents I’d made and pushed them across the desk, but Sicora made no move to take them. He kept staring at me, looking more wretched every minute. When I understood the reason why, a shiver ran down my spine, and the order I gave him was peremptory: “Take me to the suspects.”
    Sicora bounded to his feet as though he’d been sitting on a spring. “It’s … uh, it’s lunchtime. The meals are being served.”
    I insisted: “I can’t wait, and I can’t come back later. I want to see them. And I want you to put me in touch with Báez, right away.”
    Sicora kept dallying for another few seconds. Then he shouted a name, and a police officer emerged from the corridor. Sicora said, “Accompany this gentleman to the cell where those … where the two suspects are.”
    The policeman led me to the end of the hallway, which was flanked by the bars of four pairs of cells. We stoppedin front of the last one on the left. There was no smell of food. The officer manipulated the door, which opened with a screech. Inside the cell, the light was on. Two men were on the hard bunks that ran along each of the side walls. One of the two was asleep, and when we entered, he didn’t move. The other, who was lying on his back with his arms covering his face, turned on his side to look at us. I greeted him, and he mumbled a reply. We gazed at each other for a moment.
    “Call Sicora,” I ordered my escort. He hesitated.
    “I can’t leave you alone in the cell.”
    I was sick of them. When I spoke again, I raised my voice. “Call him or I’ll report you, too.”
    The policeman went away. Trying to keep the rage and horror out of my voice, I said, “How do you feel?”
    The man on the bunk seemed