The Unwritten
Entry 2: Their Story
I have seen their faces. It was a confounding scene I have witnessed. If last time I saw morbid deaths of victims, I came face to face with cold-blooded suspects.
I have felt their side of the story.
It was already half past eleven in the evening and my notebook only had few scribbles on it. That would only mean one thing. No big story for the night.
Beside me, at the backseat, was Des busy arranging her things in her bag. I rolled down the window. The street was free from deafening sirens. No alarm.
Next stop, home. I assured myself.
“CIDG lagi toh nga sakyanan. Naa gyud to’y sulod.” exclaimed Kuya Moy2x while making a sudden U-turn along Banilad Road.
Or not. Mr. Disappointment rubbed its mocking face in of front me.
The patrol car ran at a speed from 40/kph to 60/kph. By the time we reached the Cebu City Police Office, other radio reporters were bustling around the corner of the front lobby. Sir Ferdinand signaled me to go with him inside the room. I grabbed Des’ arms and we went down the lobby where some of the police officers ogled us evidently.
“Masscom intern mo day? Mga gwapa lagi kay mo.”, whispered one of them.
Kita ka’g bala nga mosulod sa imong baba ron. I was tired and easily pissed off. But the atmosphere changed once I sat beside with one of the suspects’ wife inside.
Sir Ramil Paican, the TV Patrol news reporter, was already there. Sir Ferdinand Maños introduced us to him.
“Kumusta man internship ninyo dri ABS dai? Wala mo gi daog-daog aning Ferdinand?” he said while laughing. I just gave a faint smile. I was staring at this woman beside me. She was wearing a pair of shorts and loose shirt. Her black slippers covered with earth dust. She had her hair pushed back with a rubber band in what seemed like a quick makeover. She touched her knuckles restlessly; eyes glued to the other door in the room. I followed her gaze and I’d read the sign that said Interrogation Room. His husband must be in there. She was indifferent from Sir Ramil’s continuing funny remarks or the entertaining evening show on the flat-screened television in the office.
Sir Ramil must’ve noticed my silence and turned his attention to the woman.
“Asawa ka anang naa sa sulod, ma’am?” he said evenly.
“O. Nakuratan man lang mi’g kalit nga nisulod man ni sila unya gipusasan na la’g kalit akong bana. Gikan pa intawn mi’g Carbon.” the woman said while glancing at the door from time to time.
An officer came out from the interrogation room and signaled Sir Ramil to go inside. I followed.
Inside was there men alleged to be thieves riding motorcycles.
One was dark, tall and sturdy with straight hair extending to the earlobes. The second one had chinky eyes with fair complexion and medium in height. The last man, and seemed to be the oldest, was short and had curly hair and guarded eyes. All wore the same expression.
Was it guilt or confusion written on their faces?
They kept on shrugging their heads while the officer reported his information to the media men gathered in the room. Some took pictures of their faces one by one. Each of them faced the camera as if it was Medusa. They cannot look at it directly. And I, same, to them. I cannot bear to add the scrutinizing stares they already had. Were they innocent? Or they simply seemed to be.
“Unya day, nalingaw ka nga masscom imo gikuha?” Sir Ramil suddenly blurted out the question after we got out from the room.
“O kaayo, sir.” I answered.
Or I simply seemed to be.
