Merry Christmas, Jovi

By Andrea Banatao

Jaime entered the crime scene the way he always does. His hair muzzled from the rain, smoke
hovering by the corner of his cheek, and a poker face more difficult to discern than a game of
Sudoku. His eyes were the only ones in town that looked like an insomniac’s, but at the same
time, it was sharper than anyone else in the room, even compared to mine.

My brother pressed his cigarette butt against the handkerchief from his coat pocket when his
eyes met the victim.

“Chief Inspector, why is Mr.Gutierrez here?” The police officer next to me said, incredulous,
“You hired him again?”

“His Office was near the condominium. Have you gathered the list of potential suspects?” I
asked.

“It’s Christmas Eve, sir. We’re supposed to be enjoying time with our families, doing last minute
shopping.” He said, his hands directing at the body that laid motionless on the bed, “It’s clearly a
suicide. Why must we investigate further?”

Jaime came forward to examine the body, his hands wondering like the touch of a feather; it
was as if the person was still alive to him. Laying down on his soft, angel-like bed was a man in
his early twenties. The gun was placed on his left palm, where blood had soaked his duvet like
the clouds of late sunset.

“He’s wealthy, he’s young, and he’s right handed.” My brother said, “It wasn’t a suicide.”

The police officer scratched the back of his head, frustrated.

“That’s it, goodbye Christmas for me.”

I placed a hand over my brother’s shoulder. He turned to me.

“Jaime, what can you get from this?”

My brother walked over to the victim’s desk. It was rather wide, full of different working
accessories, ornamenting a dull-colored table like sprinkles on Greek yoghurt. Amongst the
messy pile of wires, chargers, and pens sat a framed picture by the right side. It included the
victim and his family. They were all smiling, spending a Christmas dinner by a fancy-looking
Christmas tree. I wondered how they’d react upon knowing that they weren’t going to be
spending Christmas with him this year.

Jaime carefully absorbed everything he saw. Then, in a split second, I saw him break a smile.

“He’s a lot like Jovi.” He said.

“Jovi?” I asked, as I felt a tinge of pain in my chest. I haven’t heard his name in years.

We met Jovi across a learning center for reading and mathematics. Jaime was around ten years
old then. He and I had spent most of our childhood days selling taho around that area, because
the kids there were ignorant as much as they were rich, and it was easy money for us. But one
day, a foreign mestizo approached us and attempted to say, “Hello, my name is Jovi. What is it
that you’re selling?” in Filipino. Jaime had never laughed so hard in years. Jovi had the most
innocent eyes, and the way he spoke reminded my brother of Jazz in the radios. He was difficult
to understand, but you’d want to listen to him talking for hours. They became best friends, and
Jaime would play in his house almost every day (because Jovi wasn’t allowed to play in ours).

Even though Jovi was a half American, he was sensitive. But above everything else, he was
kind.

“I’ll be there for you whenever you need me.” He said often to Jaime, because unlike my
brother, he was more expressive, “Once we graduate, I’ll help you get a better job for your
auntie and brother. You won’t need to carry heavy tanks of taho in the streets anymore.”

Again, he tried to speak in Filipino. I hoped my brother understood him.

Jovi’s family was full; from the money to the looks, he had everything. Whenever Jaime looked
at the mirror, he wondered how our father looked like, because neither of us ever saw him once,
but neither of us wanted to do so all the same. He was the reason why our mother died from
drug abuse. Because of that, we landed in our aunt’s house where she had taken full custody of
Jaime and me. We had our education, but everything beyond that wasn’t under her care. Our
lives weren’t the terrible kinds that would make Jaime wish he had never been born, though.
There were many things he stayed alive for. Like the aesthetic glow of cigarette butts during the
night, or the crippled pages of our aunt’s old mystery novels covered in dust. Perhaps, even the
life of Jovi’s eyes had kept him alive. But, he could have never known that it would all slip away
so suddenly.
Jaime was in high school when I gave him the call. Something had happened in Jovi’s school.
They said that the police and the ambulance had arrived because of a certain incident, but
neither of us knew if Jovi had been a part of it. Days passed, and it still remained a mystery. It
was odd how this wasn’t in the news. Jaime wasn’t allowed to enter Jovi’s house the way he
used to. His family’s body guards didn’t allow him to enter. They would throw him belittling
glares, curse at him, as if they finally found an excuse to do so. He punched the security guard,
kicked his shin and ran away before the sounds of gunshots started to roar. In the end, he had
been chased down, and brought to the police station. At the interrogation table, he was beaten
with questions. With his hands shackled by handcuffs, he answered the officer for the first time,

“I just wanted to know what happened to my best friend.”

At first, the officer had raised his eyebrow. He didn’t believe Jaime. Seconds later, his face had
folded crinkles in his forehead. He looked down for a moment and then cleared his voice.

“Your best friend?” The officer asked, his voice rusty, “The boy who lived in Garamond Street?”

“Yes”, Jaime answered.

“He’s dead.” The officer said, “killed himself in school.”

I paid for his release. When he saw me enter the police station, I could see the world crumbling
in his face. Like earthquakes, the sound of his cries had erupted a stream of unstoppable tears.
I rushed to take him in my arms before his legs had failed him.

There was a drag in each step he made on our way home. When his mind became silent, he
asked me, his voice weaker than I’ve ever heard,

“What killed him?”

On that night, I couldn’t answer. I didn’t know what killed him either, but I remember wishing that
I had. It was the least I could have done for Jovi.

The sudden howl of wind against the victim’s curtains swayed me back into where I stood, and I
was fully woken from my thoughts. I shook from the chills.

“Mr. Gutierrez, do you know who the killer is yet?” The police officer asked Jaime again after
what seemed to be the umpteenth time.
My brother gave one more look at the body before leaving to check the forensics team for more
information.

“No.” He said, “But I’ll find out. This man deserves at least that.”

It was raining so heavily outside, that using an umbrella would still get you sprayed with water
like cold vapor. Jaime’s hair was going to dampen again, and his glowing cigar was going to
fade in the night, but tomorrow was Christmas day, and like a gift to the person he vowed every
single case he’s ever solved, he was going to do it again.