Its knees, poking just above the water, swayed from side to side.

As the body bobbed, details were revealed. The dead man’s legs and arms were bound with rope. His head was wrapped in packing tape. His body was coiled with chains, padlocked to a pail filled with concrete.

This was not anything too unusual in the hardscrabble corners of the Philippines’ capital.

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Since President Rodrigo Duterte rose to power more than two years ago, the death toll from his war on drugs has kept climbing. Authorities report that more than 5,000 “drug personalities” have been killed in police operations around the country. Human rights groups believe the death toll could be four times higher, with many cases either going unreported or carried out in the shadows by government-backed hit squads.

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Manila also has homegrown perils. Drug gangs, loan sharks and random street crime account for the thousands of deaths each year in one of the region’s most dangerous cities.

Rights groups estimate at least 20,000 killings and drug-related deaths since 2016 around the country. That is a rate well below some of the world's most dangerous places in Latin America and the United States. But it is among the highest in Southeast Asia...

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Whether the deaths are mostly related to Duterte’s war of drugs is unclear. But what it all has in common is a kind of numbed silence.

The names of those killed in Manila and elsewhere are rarely known beyond their families and friends. Their stories — and, by extension, the stories of Manila’s dark side — are seldom told.

The body that floated under the bridge Jan. 14 could have been dumped there for many reasons.

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The Washington Post found the victim’s name: Ferdinand Jhon Santos, or Dingdong to those who knew him. He was 44. His life unraveled after a bright beginning: dreams of ad­ven­ture, striving for a foothold in Manila’s middle class. Then came drugs, a shattered marriage and the lure of fast cash.

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His is a portrait of one more life broken — and one more death left unexplained — in a city with many such stories.

Part I: Manila

The police arrived. But not before the crowds.

The body’s fair skin drew cries of “foreigner” from children peeping from the bridge.

Some residents claimed they heard him being thrown off the bridge in the early hours of Sunday — about 36 hours before the body was spotted the next day. “He was still kicking,” said one person who insisted he knew details of Santos’s last moments.

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No one called the police that night.

The next day, the coast guard struggled to bring his body aground.

The body smelled of the river: fetid, dank. The flesh was peeling off. Flies swarmed.

The Duterte government has persistently claimed that it is investigating each and every death.

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Yet thousands of cases remain in legal limbo, classified as “deaths under investigation” by the Philippine National Police and never brought to prosecutors. Authorities claim that many fall into the category they call “summary executions,” which they blame on criminal networks.

Advocacy groups including Human Rights Watch assert that many such killings are either directly or tacitly sanctioned by the government as part of its crackdown on drug use. Officials deny this.

Summary executions are often characterized by bound limbs, taped faces, cardboard signs reading “I am a drug addict” and — in cases like Santos’s — dumped in the city’s waterways. The bodies are often found stashed in metal drums and loaded down with concrete, to try to keep them from floating.

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The method is eerily reminiscent of Duterte’s campaign promises to dump drug pushers in Manila Bay to “fatten all the fish there.”

When asked about the Santos case, Manila police told The Post that they could not open a full inquiry without a witness stepping forward. Thousands of other cases face the same dead end: no witnesses or, if there are, they are too scared to speak.

In private, however, families allege that local police engineer the killings. In return, the police dare them to prove their claims.

“The drug war and the fact that many of the related murders remain uninvestigated has made it a lot easier to eliminate people these days,” said Carlos Conde, a Philippines researcher for Human Rights Watch. “This violent environment enables extrajudicial killings, whether related to the drug campaign or not.”

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A lack of legal repercussions or consequences for extrajudicial killings feeds a tense relationship between residents and police.

A day before Santos’s body was found, his family, unable to contact him, drove to where he worked south of the capital to report that he had been possibly abducted.

The next day, Jan. 14, they saw a news report showing a body being pulled from a Tondo river.

“We recognized his knees on the news, you know, his skinny legs,” said one of his cousins, speaking on the condition of anonymity because of fear of reprisals from authorities.

At a morgue in Manila, Santos’s estranged wife, who last saw him in October, identified him by a mole on his face.

Part II: 'Goodnight'

Fruit stalls and funeral parlors dot the highway leading to San Jose del Monte in Bulacan on Manila’s outskirts.

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Once an agricultural pocket, Bulacan is now being swallowed by the capital.

On the evening of Jan. 19 — five days after his body was found — an image of Santos’s smiling face beamed down from a banner tacked to a glass window at the San Fernando Funeral Homes.

“I never thought this would happen to him,” his sister said in tears. “He would always tell me, ‘Who among us will go first, you think? If I go ahead, bury me in our lot in San Juan. If you go ahead, don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.’ ”

Santos grew up under his grandmother’s roof, part of a sprawling extended middle-class family. He was closest with his older sister.

He studied to be a seaman but never seemed to get the paperwork done to find work on a ship. In his 20s, he joined a private choir that had been set to perform in the United States. Santos hoped to be among the singers and possibly make contact with his half-siblings from his father’s side who live in the states. His U.S. visa application was denied.

He took up work as a driver for different companies. He met his future wife in 2003 in Bulacan when she was in college. They would have three children. But the marriage was strained. Santos was growing more erratic. A methamphetamine habit was taking a stranglehold.

In 2010, his life began to fracture. He moved out of his wife’s house and jumped from job to job, family members said. Like his cousin and wife, all of his relatives spoke on the condition of anonymity.

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A colleague accused him of stealing from trucking deliveries and embezzling cash.

His meth habit deepened. He stopped visiting his children.

“He hardly texted. He would also hardly show up,” his wife said. “He always had this series where he’d disappear for some months.”

He checked himself into rehabilitation, where he spent seven months in 2015.

Among his belongings: a folder of carefully collated documents and neatly marked lists. Loan applications. Advances on his pay. Debts.

He had promised to pay it back. But it was mounting beyond his reach: 44,000 pesos, or about $840 on one debt; 110,0000 pesos, or nearly $2,100, on another.

His wife had no idea he was in financial trouble. “Sometimes he would tell me one story and tell another to [his sister], and we don’t know which one is true,” she said.

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His sister nodded. “I was still hoping, to the last minute, that he was fooling me.”

The night he went missing, Santos called his sister at around 8:10 p.m. “I love you, Ate,” he said, using the Tagalog word of endearment meaning big sister. “Goodnight.”

At 11:30 p.m., from Santos’s phone, the sister received a missed call.

Part III: The final hours

Cavite, Manila’s industrial port, bulges its way into Manila Bay.

It’s a gateway to the country — for legal goods and drugs. In August 2018, the Philippine Drug Enforcement Agency, citing informants, claimed that a shipment of meth worth $126.4 million had slipped into the country through Cavite.

At the port, trucks battle their way through a maze of stacked shipping containers, headlights jumping nervously in the dirt-licked roads. This was also the route for Santos’s last job at a trucking company.

At 8 a.m. on Jan. 13, the phone of Santos’s cousin rang.

“Something happened to [us] last night,” a colleague of Santos told his cousin, who recounted the conversation to The Post.

The colleague said that between 11:30 p.m. and midnight on Jan. 12, masked men entered the truck compound and the garage where the drivers slept. They announced themselves as National Bureau of Investigation agents. They were looking for somebody named John.

Nobody answered.

Santos then spoke up, showing his ID. “There is no John here — just Ferdinand Jhon,” the colleague told Santos’s cousin.

“So, you are the one!” one of the agents said.

According to the colleague’s account, one of the men claiming to be a government agent said: “Don’t fight us. He’s the only one we need.” He meant Santos.

The men locked the 12 other drivers inside a container van, the colleague said.

No one called the police. The man who made the call to Santos’s cousin has left the company. The other drivers have found work elsewhere.

Santos’s cousin kept a text message, written in Tagalog, that circulated among the drivers of the company. It was allegedly sent by the company owner, although that cannot not be proved.

“Tell this to everyone who is there. I know who uses meth there. You don’t know what I’m capable of doing to all of you. This is my last warning to you all. If I see you, or my assets see you, or my cameras see you, I’m sorry it has come to the point — but I am so mad at drugs! And addicts! Just try me, so you can find out who I really am! I’ll drag your families too! Spread the word! You’ve made a pigsty out of my garage, so you’ll see how I’ll make pigs out of you!”

Manila police said they are not investigating the trucking company. Again, no witnesses have come forward.

The company also did not file a missing person’s report. Santos’s colleague claims the CCTV camera was removed.

Epilogue: A cold case

It was a brief church service on Jan. 22. Santos’s ashes were tucked away behind a tomb in the family mausoleum at a cemetery in San Jose del Monte, Bulacan.

Most relatives did not stay to see the hole in the wall closed up. No friends or co-workers dropped by.

Far fewer people attended than had been expected — confirmed by a half-full box of sandwiches and bottled water, sweating in the heat.

No one was crying.

His family is unlikely to pursue a police investigation. “It could be dangerous for us,” one relative said. “They could come back for us.”

Autopsy results have not been released to his family.

While many cases like Santos’s remain unresolved, this doesn’t stop human rights advocates and families of the victims from believing these killings were done in the name of the police and the war on drugs.

Two other bodies were pulled from the water under the same bridge on Jan. 14.