Requiem for a Killer Read online

  “A walk only after the soap, old buddy,” he grumbled at the dog, making him cower even more.

  He threw open the windows to let the stench escape, poured himself a shot of cachaça, and turned on the TV in time for scenes from the previous episode. He settled on the couch, arranging the pillows to his liking, savored a sip of the cachaça and here came the commercials. As the latest model of a silver-colored automobile was speeding smoothly along a coastline highway, Marina Rivera’s sparkling smile was caressing his mind. As if under a spell, he rested his head on the back of the couch and his eyelids fell like lead. Sleep got the better of him.

  *

  It was after midnight when Dornelas was awakened by whistling he knew well. On the TV Coronel Nicholson’s ragged army marched through the jungle, paraded in front of the hospital tent – under the astonished looks of the wounded – and lined up bravely in front of brutal Coronel Saito’s cabin. The Bridge over the River Kwai, his favorite movie, was on TV. He asked himself how many times he’d seen it before. Nine, ten? Didn’t matter.

  It was the perfect remedy for the anger he felt as soon as he realized he’d missed yet another chapter of the soap. During the commercials he went to the kitchen, quickly made himself a goró and hurried back before the movie started again. He watched it to the end with relish.

  Dawn was rapidly approaching and Lupi still hadn’t gone for a walk. He got the leash and collar and a plastic bag and the two of them went out into the street. There was not a soul in sight. While the dog sniffed around, Dornelas used the time to try to figure out where the brick that had been thrown through his window had come from.

  It would be impossible to discover who had thrown it, but since he felt refreshed he decided to investigate just for fun.

  Looking at the window, he imagined the position of his daughter’s bed in the room and where the brick had fallen. He visualized the trajectory, placed himself in it, took two steps back and concluded that the brick had come from a point somewhere between the middle and the other side of the street.

  After tossing it the thrower would have hidden in the shadow of the bric-a-brac shop’s awning on the corner in front of his house and from there easily gotten away in a matter of seconds. It wasn’t likely that anybody had seen him, but not completely impossible. He’d ask around the neighborhood tomorrow.

  As he thought about it, he was bothered not so much by the assault itself, but by the identity of who ordered it. Maria das Graças, Raimundo Tavares, Marina Rivera, Nildo Borges, or even his idiot brother, wouldn’t dare expose themselves so openly in front of a police inspector’s house. This attack had been committed by a lesser henchman, someone on the bottom rung of whatever scheme the present investigation was threatening. That much was certain.

  Puzzled at the conclusion he had reached, Dornelas picked up the dog doo, threw the plastic bag in the public garbage can, called Lupi and went back in the house with him. He undressed mechanically and got in the shower for a long meditation session, one of those that nearly empties the water tank. He went to bed still intrigued.

  *

  His eyes still closed, he slowly began to realize that morning had arrived and it was time to get out of bed. He looked at the clock: ten after seven. He felt heavy and sleepy. What he really wanted to do was hide under the covers until eight. Out of habit he forced himself to get up, but only little by little. If he had to give in it would be on his own terms.

  He opened the windows to an intense, almost blinding light and went in the bathroom. He got undressed and studied his body in the mirror. His stomach had gotten bigger, grey hair had taken over his sideburns, and baldness was advancing on the top of his head.

  He had undoubtedly left his peak of manhood behind, but Dornelas felt good for a man his age; healthy, strong, his mind sharp and his body vigorous. He certainly wouldn’t age like his grandfather, who became an old man waiting to die at sixty. Times had changed, many preconceptions had disappeared and his age had begun to weigh less and less on both his shoulders and his mind.

  How many years he had lived were merely numbers that changed. What mattered was how he felt in relation to how he had lived, the present and prospects for the future. Last year, when he took his daughter to a rock concert in Rio, he felt sixteen. At a police event, eighty.

  He turned on the water and indulged in a long, relaxing shower. Despite the recent separation and his children being far away, he was taken by a peacefulness he hadn’t felt for a long time. ‘This situation will be settled over time,’ he thought, as he was struck by a bolt of lightning. ‘Jesus’, not only had he missed the soap, he’d forgotten to call Flavia to make plans for the children to spend the weekend with him. He turned off the shower and rushed soaking into the room looking for the phone.

  “Hello, Lindalva, is Dona Flavia there.”

  “She just left to take the children to school, sir.”

  “Thanks. I’ll try her cell phone.”

  He hung up and quickly called her number.

  “Flavia?”

  “Do you have any idea what time it is? And there is no Flavia here.”

  “Excuse me,” he said, but the woman had already banged the phone down. He checked his address book for his ex-wife’s number. That was the correct number. To make sure he hadn’t dialed wrong he tried it again and the same screechy, unpleasant voice answered. He hung up without a word. He figured they were even now. He called the house again.

  “Lindalva, did Dona Flavia change her cell phone number?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, sir.”

  “Could you check, please?”

  “Let me see.”

  Dornelas heard doors opening and closing, horns blowing, a bird tweeting, the cleaning lady grumbling because of the extra work he was making her do. An eternity went by before she returned.

  “I don’t have it, Mr. Joaquim.”

  “Okay. Please ask her to call me as soon as she gets back. It’s important.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  And he hung up, sure that she’d forgotten the message as soon as she put the phone down. Guilt hanging heavily on his shoulders, he got dressed and went downstairs. Lupi followed him and the two of them went out for their morning walk.

  While the dog was sniffing here and there, he went to speak to the owner of the bric-a-brac shop, Dona Carmelina, an obese and sweaty woman who spent her days watching the goings-on in the street from her stool behind the counter. If anyone had seen something it would be her. Unfortunately, the shop’s doors had been closed minutes before the incident. He asked around the Indian artifact bazaar, on the opposite corner. Nothing there either. Conscious of his failure, he left the dog at home and went to the precinct.

  *

  Onofre’s head must have been somewhere other than in the bakery.

  Only a weak mind would be capable of toasting a French bread with butter on the grill and making a cup of coffee with such disregard. Dornelas left half the coffee in the cup and bit into the bread with visible displeasure. It contained a mixture of all the flavors that had passed through that grill, who knew how long ago: sausage, onion, chicken, burger, bacon, eggs… a bit of everything except bread and butter.

  He gave up after one bite, paid the check and went away hungry.

  *

  “Good morning, Marilda.”

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Any messages?”

  “Councilman Borges just called. He asked that you return his call urgently.”

  “Thanks. Call him in ten minutes, please. Let me get to my office first.

  “Okay, sir.”

  Dornelas sat at his desk. The stack of papers waiting to be signed had grown. He got ready to tackle it, breathed deeply, unlocked his drawer looking for his pen, gobbled down two squares of chocolate and began to work.

  A little more than half way through the stack the phone rang.

  “Councilman Borges, sir,” said Marilda.

  “Thanks. Good morning, Councilman.
”

  “Inspector Joaquim Dornelas, what a great pleasure to speak to you.”

  “Likewise,” he replied, not very convincingly. “How can I help you?”

  “You’re a man of few words, Inspector.”

  “In my profession the less said, the better.”

  “Now in mine, as you know, I depend on an open and unrestricted channel connecting me with my people.”

  “I got a message that you wanted to speak to me?”

  “That’s right. I wanted to let you know that a little while ago a man, once again nobody I know, phoned my house to say that José Aristodemo dos Anjos, or White Powder Joe, was buying drugs from fishermen around here to resell in the city.”

  ‘The whole city has this man’s phone number,’ thought an impressed Dornelas. ‘Every other day somebody calls him with information about the case. You’d think the councilman could at least give the number to us here at the precinct.’

  “I assume this man didn’t identify himself.”

  “He hung up as soon as I asked his name.”

  “What a shame!” lamented Dornelas. “In any case I’d like to thank you immensely for your help. This is extremely material information; no doubt it will change the course of the investigation. I’m extremely grateful for your willingness to help us.”

  Incredibly, through the phone line Dornelas could actually see Nildo Borges puff out his chest as if he had just had a medal stuck on it. It was time to encourage the man.

  “But tell me; don’t you own a big fishing company in the city, the biggest, if I’m not mistaken?”

  His performance was bordering on hyperbole. If he wasn’t careful Borges would soon discover the ruse and he would be exposed to ridicule.

  “And I’m very proud of it. My father founded the company with his own hands. I merely erected the walls on top of the foundations he left.”

  “Would it be too much to ask if we could pay you a visit? I’d like to see how the fishing business works first hand.”

  “It would give me immense pleasure to receive you. When would be a good time for you?”

  “This afternoon at four o’clock?”

  “Perfect. Do you have the address?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Great. See you then, Inspector. Have a nice day.”

  “You too.”

  They hung up with Dornelas suspicious of all this goodwill. He went back to the stack, signed two sheets and stopped. Dropping the pen he picked up the phone and dialed three numbers.

  “Marilda, please ask Solano to come see me as soon as he gets in.”

  “I’ll tell him, sir.”

  He hung up and found himself at a loss. Even though it confirmed White Powder Joe’s connection to the fishermen, which Claudio had already told him about, Nildo’s call left him confused as to what direction the investigation should follow. ‘Is it possible that Marina Rivera had told the councilman about their conversation last night, or was this phone call just a coincidence?’ he wondered.

  In a corner of his mind, behind a tangle of doubts there shone a conviction, very small, that he shouldn’t give up on the path he’d chosen.

  He went back to the stack of papers, finished signing them, put them in the out-box and left. Maybe hunger was messing up his thinking.

  “Marilda, when Claudio arrives tell him I’m out but I’ll be right back. I’m going to get something to eat at the snack shop down the street.

  “Good luck, sir.”

  *

  The sight of the glass encased hot plate on top of the counter was enough to turn the inspector’s stomach. Hard-boiled eggs dyed blue and yellow shared the space with croquettes, puff pastries, little meat pies and drumsticks deep fried in batter. Little trickles of fat drained from below the snacks and gathered on the edge of the tray on top of cellophane paper.

  He sat on a bar stool far from the hot plate and as he put his hands on the counter he noticed that the whole place fairly glittered with grease: from the broken tiles on the wall to the counter and the floor.

  That was why Dornelas avoided this snack shop, even though it was only two blocks from the precinct.

  He cautiously ordered a cup of coffee, a glass of orange juice and a cheese bread. As he was taking the first bite Claudio came through the door.

  “Good morning, Inspector.”

  “Good morning. How are you?”

  “Everything’s good, thank God. Dona Marilda said I’d find you here.”

  “I’m having a snack before we go. I left home with no breakfast. You want something?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Not even coffee?”

  “I’ll take some coffee.”

  Dornelas ordered the coffee from the boy on the other side of the counter when he brought the orange juice in a greasy glass.

  “Do you think you’ll be able to identify your friend from school?”

  “Not friend, classmate.”

  “Excuse me.”

  “But I think I can. You might have to give me a break though. I haven’t seen this guy in a long time.”

  “I trust your judgment.”

  “What if I can, what’s going to happen?”

  “To you, nothing. As for the case, we’ll know for sure whose body we took out of the bay.”

  “You’re sure it’s okay, then? I don’t want any problems.”

  “Don’t worry,” said Dornelas, patting his friend on the shoulder.

  Claudio eyed him suspiciously. Dornelas paid the check and they went to the precinct to get the car. It would be a forty minute drive to the morgue.

  Chapter 10

  When they arrived at the morgue they ran into a throng of women barring the entrance. The female residents of the community were complaining loudly about a septic-tank truck that wasn’t doing its job as frequently as it should. The morgue had an open-air sewer and the smell was bothering the whole neighborhood. The crowd was shouting protests, arms waving in the air.

  When they saw a police inspector approaching, his badge on his belt, the women surrounded him. Dornelas was told that a school was supposed to have been built there. One of the women, young and extremely skinny who resembled a walking two-by-four with bleached hair, blocked his way and looked straight at him.

  “Inspector, you’ve got to help us! This can’t go on. We’ve been here all day protesting and nobody will come and listen to us. We deserve some respect.”

  “It’s absurd!” shouted another girl in the back.

  Off to the side a TV camera was filming the demonstration. A woman with a desperate look on her face got in front of it and started screaming:

  “Mayor Roberto, the whole community voted for you. We believed you when you promised to take the morgue out of the middle of our neighborhood. Where are you now, Mr. Mayor? What you’re doing to us is absurd.”

  Alarmed, being pressed by the crowd and having a tough time getting to the entrance gate, Dornelas was afraid to say that this township was out of his jurisdiction. And even if it weren’t there was nothing he could do; this was a matter for the Military Police that, so far at least, was nowhere around.

  By pushing and shoving Dornelas was able to snake through the mass of women. At one point he picked up his pace after being shocked by a hand grabbing his ass and squeezing hard. He identified himself to the guard at the gatehouse who let him in. Claudio followed a few steps behind. Once he got over his own scare he noticed the fear on the faces of the people inside the building looking out from the corners of the windows.

  When they entered the lobby a screaming woman was pulling at her hair and tearing at her clothes. The receptionist, taking it all in routinely, let Dulce Neves know they had arrived; she appeared immediately and pulled them into the hallway.

  “I try to avoid the family members,” she said after shaking Claudio’s hand and giving the inspector a loud kiss on the cheek. “It’s not that I’m cold or insensitive, it’s just that things around here are tough enough as it is.”r />
  Claudio was wide-eyed. And Dornelas, even though he was used to the harsh nature of the profession, was also shocked by this animal-like demonstration of human despair.

  “Oh, and I only talk to the dead,” Dulce added as they went down the hall toward one of the autopsy rooms.

  Dulce Neves was wearing green pants, a white medical coat, a disposable paper hair net - the kind they give you when you visit restaurant kitchens – and yellow rubber shoes. In one of her hands she was holding a clipboard decorated with Superpowerful Girls stickers.

  In the first room a coroner was sawing the skull of a young man, the son of the woman whose screams they could still hear echoing in the lobby. If he closed his eyes and blocked out the buzz of the electric saw, Dornelas could swear he was in a torture chamber during the Middle Ages.

  Dulce invited them into the second room from which emanated the odor of formaldehyde and clotted blood. A body covered by a white sheet lay on top of a steel work bench. Claudio entered with his arms crossed and showing the dread of someone who was about to have an audience with the Antichrist himself.

  “You know, Joaquim, I’m scared of those people, of them storming the building. Good thing it’s only a bunch of women. If it were men I’d call the cops.”

  “Have you taken any special measures?”

  “We called City Hall. They promised to send another truck to clean the cesspool by the end of the day. Would either of you like a glass of water?”

  “No thanks,” replied Dornelas.

  Claudio remained silent, his eyes glued to the sheet. The inspector turned to him.

  “Can you do this?”

  His friend nodded. Dornelas did the same in Dulce’s direction and she lifted the sheet, uncovering the body to the waist. As soon as he saw the corpse the fisherman relaxed, perhaps because in its present state the body looked like a scarecrow.