As the years went by and boredom grew, the police force’s fertile wit devised a most elaborate mythology around the figure, misadventures, and miracles of Braulio. According to this narrative, during his interrupted passage between this world and the next, Braulio had been adopted by a malevolent spirit who refused to go down to hell, feeling more comfortable in that Barcelona of the 1930s, which was—so experts maintained—its earthly equivalent.

* * *

“You still haven’t got yourself a girlfriend, Braulio?” asked Linares. “With this perfume of stale black sausage you let out, they probably throw themselves at you, begging for your favors.”

“I have plenty of girlfriends,” Braulio replied, winking with a droopy, purplish eyelid that looked more like a patch. “And they’re nice and quiet.”

“Stop uttering such filth and bring the body, Braulio,” ordered a voice from the dark. At the sound of his master’s voice, Braulio hurried off.

Dr. Andrés Manero, pathologist and Vargas’s old comrade in arms, stepped forward and held out his hand. “There are people you only see at funerals, but you and I don’t even manage that: we only meet for autopsies.”

“A sign that we’re still kicking.”

“You can say that, Vargas—you look as fit as a bull. How long since the last time?”

“At least five or six years.”

Manero nodded with a smile. Even in the faint light floating around the room, Vargas noticed that his friend had aged more than normal. Soon they heard Braulio’s uneven footsteps pushing the stretcher. The body was covered with a cloth that clung to it, becoming transparent where it touched the moisture.

Manero approached the stretcher and lifted the part of the shroud covering the face. His expression remained unchanged, but he turned to look at Vargas. “Leave us, Braulio.”

The assistant raised his eyebrows in annoyance. “You don’t need me, Doctor?”

“No.”

“But I thought I was going to assist with—”

“You were wrong. Go out for a while and have a smoke.”

Braulio threw Vargas a hostile look, being in no doubt that he was to blame for his not being allowed to take part in the forthcoming feast. Vargas winked back at him and pointed to the door.

“Clear off, Braulio,” Linares ordered. “You heard the doctor. Go and have a really cold shower.”

Visibly annoyed, Braulio set off, limping and cursing under his breath. Once they were rid of him, Manero removed the entire shroud and lit the strip of adjustable lamps hanging from the ceiling. A pale light of icy vapor carved out the outline of the body. Linares took a step forward, and after a quick glance at the corpse, let out a sigh. “God almighty . . .” Linares looked away and went over to Vargas. “Is it who it looks like?”

Vargas kept his eyes fixed on Linares’s, but didn’t reply.

“I’m not going to be able to cover this up,” said Linares.

“I understand.”

Linares looked down, shaking his head. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”