Clipped to it were two pages of onionskin paper, carbon-copy flimsies. One was the police report, the other from the medical examiner. I gave that one to Bembo and took the other. It had been single-spaced on a manual typewriter, and I had to look close to make out some of it.

     Anonymous telephone call at approximately six A.M., 12 Mar. … elements of Bacolod Police, Precinct Six … edge of a gully beside the Granada Road, near the five-kilometer marker … body of white male, identified from passport … shot in face at close range …

     “This man is not the coroner of Bacolod,” Bembo said. He seemed indignant. “This is a military document.”

     “The P.C. is handling it.”

     “They are responsible for crimes of national significance.”

     “That's what this is—that's what they said last night.”

     The little moustache wrinkled, but he said nothing.

     I went back to my page. Single shell casing, caliber .45 ACP, recently fired, discovered within three meters of body … notification made to Philippines Constabulary, as evidence suggested involvement of communist armed city partisans … extensive interviews of nearby habitations disclosed several local residents awakened by gunshot. Residents Arnulfo Militante, Modesto Echevarria, and Pert Eval placed time of gunshot at approximately two-thirty A.M.

     “This is pretty good,” I said. “Last night I gave them a hard time because they didn't have anybody who heard the shot. This morning they've got three. Looks like they talked to half the neighborhood overnight.”

     “Nothing happens that fast.”

     “What are you telling me, they made it up?”

     “Why not? Who's going to correct them?”

     When we were both finished, we exchanged sheets.