Page 102 of Nobody's Fool
“By date.”
“How about by crime or physical descriptions?”
“No, sorry.”
“Are foreigners in a separate binder?”
“No. I was wrong about that.”
“So,” I say. “Just by date.”
“Afraid so.”
I let loose a long breath. “Okay.”
“You want something to drink?”
I’m tempted to ask for a Rioja Blanco. “I’m good.”
“Let me know if you need anything.”
I expect this to take hours. It doesn’t. I find him in fifteen minutes.
I started with July 11, 2003, the day I ran from Spain, figuring Buzz and “Anna” remained active after me. The mug shots are much like the ones in the USA—two photos of the face, one a frontal view, the second a profile.
I was just settling in, getting a little rhythm going, when I hit pay dirt.
Buzz still had the purple spiked hair and nose ring. The date on the photo is four months after he’d scammed me. There is no name listed under the mug shot. There is no crime. There is just a number—9039384.
I lift the large binder, keeping it open to the correct page, and bring it to Osorio’s office.
“Found him,” I say.
Osorio looks at me over his reading glasses. “Let me see.”
I hand him the book. He studies the mug shot for a moment.
“Do you recognize him?”
“He is not completely unfamiliar,” Osorio says. “But there were a lot of guys who looked like this turd back in the day.”
“Do we know what he was arrested for?”
“We can’t put the name or crimes on here for privacy reasons. Article 18.4 of the Spanish Constitution protects personal data, including mug shots and police records.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning this can’t be accessed by the general public.”
“But you’re not the general public.”
“True, but you are. So step back and don’t look over my shoulder.”
Osorio types the number into his computer and starts to read. I wait.
“Well?”
“His name is Harm Bergkamp.”
