Wilfredo called the front gate of the complex. Yes, he was told, Ebed had left near midnight, on the motorcycle. No, he had not come back.
They went first to the Criminal Investigations Division, where they filed a missing person report. Next they went to the Juvenile Justice Division, then to the Children’s Hospital. Maybe Ebed had had a motorcycle accident or had stayed overnight at a girl’s house — though he’d never done anything like that before. Maybe he would come home, apologizing sheepishly.
He wasn’t in jail or at the hospital. Finally, the Yaneses went to the police homicide division. The officers knew nothing about his son, they told him, but they did find a motorcycle next to the body of an unidentified young man. There had been a party in the neighborhood, they said, and somebody from the party must have killed him.
“We have the motorcycle here. Do you want to see it?”
The family walked across a parking lot and from a distance Wilfredo recognized his red motorcycle. He knew what it meant.
“Is it him?” asked his wife.
“Yes, it’s him,” Wilfredo said. She fainted and he barely had time to catch her before she hit the ground.
At the city morgue, Wilfredo told his wife and daughter to wait outside. Beyond the bare reception area the morgue was full, well past its 45-cadaver capacity, and nearly a dozen bodies lay on the floor, each in a white plastic bag. That’s where Wilfredo found his only son, with a broken jaw that hadn’t even seen its first shave, and an exit wound next to his mouth.
As shock set in, they handed him a bag of Ebed’s belongings: his BlackBerry, a broken helmet, a set of house keys.
That night, at the wake, Wilfredo stood before the family and friends who’d gathered to pray and made a promise for Ebed, and for his country too. Although deeply religious, he did not believe in leaving this horror in God’s hands. God rewarded you for what you did in this life, and he had to take action. “My son will not be just one more statistic,” he vowed.
Wilfredo kept thinking about what the police had told him. His son was the victim of a street crime? He didn’t believe it. On his way to the funeral, he took a detour to the police station a block away from where his son had been found. Two policemen on duty told him they had heard shots late Saturday, but they hadn’t gone out to investigate. There were only the two of them, after all, and they were afraid.
He didn’t blame the officers. Wilfredo didn’t care for politics or criticize the government. But he was a practical man who knew police were unlikely to investigate, and without a case the government would never deliver justice. If he wanted answers, he’d have to get them himself. He climbed back into his car and drove to the block where Ebed had died.
One neighbor, a woman, said she’d heard loud gunshots, three rounds from a large caliber gun, but had been too scared to look outside. A young man who rented an apartment nearby did look, and he told Wilfredo he had seen six to eight masked soldiers in dark uniforms approaching a body. They poked it with their rifles, then picked up the empty bullet casings and went back to their vehicle parked at the entrance of the alleyway. It was an unusually big pickup truck, a four-by-four, with a double cabin.
After the sun came up, residents said, they went outside and gathered bullet casings that the soldiers had failed to find. They gave them to Wilfredo, who carried them to his son’s funeral, feeling the weight of their significance in his pocket and in his gut: Good God, he thought, his son wasn’t killed by party-goers. He likely was shot by the army.