“I see. And it would have killed him?”

Bustamente uttered a croaking, incredulous laugh. “Certainly, it would have killed him. Imagine if it had happened to you.” To illustrate, he jabbed a bony forefinger into Sandoval’s chest at about the same spot. “It would have exploded your heart, devastated it.”

“Ah,” said Sandoval, whose heart was, in fact, feeling more than a little devastated. Murder. Tumult. Inconvenience. The State Procuraduria de Justicia taking over his office, taking over the whole municipal building, all four rooms of it. The policia ministerial giving him orders, making clear their contempt for him, swaggering and bullying their way through the village. Detectives… judges…

It was only what he’d expected, he thought with a resigned sigh. Expect the worst, his stern, cheerless father had counseled him on many an occasion, and you will get what you expect. Only it will be worse. Sandoval had quoted it to one or two people and they had laughed. But his father hadn’t meant it as a joke, and the message had sunk in.

“And if by a miracle that were not enough,” continued Bustamente, “the fall would have finished the job.”

“He had a fall too?”

“A long one. There are many broken ribs. Was he perhaps found at the foot of a cliff or mountain, a height of some kind?”

“Yes.”

Bustamente was pleased. “You see?”

Sandoval heaved a forlorn sigh. “This means I will have to report the matter to the policia ministerial, doesn’t it?” he said glumly, already knowing the answer.

“The sooner the better, I would say. I would not waste any time. They don’t like delays.”

“And what happens to the body? Do you take it away with you?”

“Not me!” exclaimed Bustamente. “”I submit my own report. That’s the end of my responsibility.”