Requiem for a Killer Read online

  He shrugged his shoulders and let himself be taken in by the starry sky and the dark shape of the mountains behind the city, the Historical Center, the houses with their closed windows, the streetlights still glowing. He lowered his eyes and admired the faint luminescence of the trails made in the water by each stroke of the paddle, as if they were navigating a shining space ship. The sound of the paddle cutting through the surface and the water’s soft murmur were all he could hear.

  He thought back to his childhood, fishing at night for squid using shiny bait and fishing rods with three sharp hooks. He and his father. The happy memory of getting filthy from the black ink the squid spit when fished out of the water came back to him. The next day they removed the pincers and beaks, his mother sliced up the little heads into rings and with their tentacles fried them coated in flour. Crunchy, cooked just right, they seasoned the squid liberally with lemon and gobbled them down as appetizers before lunch.

  “Left or right, Inspector?”

  The question jerked Dornelas out of his daze. It was now possible to see clearly the mangrove’s skinny trunks suspended above the cluster of roots holding fast like devilish hands in the black mud; a small mangrove that ended abruptly in the marsh used by the island’s residents to hoist in the skiffs.

  “Neither. Go upstream and let the boat loose in the middle of the river between the mud beach and the fence.

  On the other side of the canal a barbed wire fence protected an imposing summer house, which clearly highlighted the great contrast that was Palmyra: wealth and poverty, face to face, separated by a muddy, filthy, foul smelling canal.

  Claudio went a little beyond the spot Dornelas had indicated, adroitly turned the skiff around, dropped the paddle on the bottom of the boat and sat down.

  The tide would do the rest.

  “Do you know the name of the dead guy you took out of the bay?” asked the fisherman.

  Claudio had been a faithful friend for a long time and Dornelas trusted him blindly.

  “White Powder Joe. Ever heard of him?”

  “Vaguely.”

  Very slowly, almost imperceptibly, the current from the tide going out, sucking the water back into the ocean, began to drag their boat downriver towards the mouth of the estuary.

  “And José Aristodemo dos Anjos?”

  His friend’s eyes immediately opened wide apprehensively, his muscles tensed as if he were preparing his body for a blow that was coming any second. But after his initial reaction, realizing it was the inspector he was with, Claudio relaxed and let out with:

  “Demon? He was bad news, Chief”

  ‘Demon?’ Dornelas asked himself. Was it possible that besides Dindinho and White Powder Joe the man had yet another nickname? He pricked up his ears, doubling his attention.

  “But I don’t know anything about it.”

  And his friend clammed up tighter than an oyster. Holding on to the gunnels of the skiff Dornelas got up from the floor and sat down in the seat he’d been using as a backrest.

  “Claudio, please, it’s important you tell me everything you know about this man.”

  His friend eyed him pensively, picked up some tangled fishing line from the floor, found the end and began untangling it, wrapping it around a piece of wood.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Everything. In the first place if you’re sure José Aristodemo dos Anjos’ nickname was Demon.”

  “That was his nickname in school.”

  “How well did you know him?”

  “He was in my class in school when we were kids. But that sure didn’t last very long. That dude was bad from day one, he was born bad. My father had a saying that went ‘a branch that starts out crooked grows crooked.’ Demon left school early and got mixed up with a badass gang from the island that was mixed up with drugs. After that I didn’t see him much anymore.”

  Since Solano was having a hard time finding any documents in José Aristodemo dos Anjos’ name, his identification so far was based solely on the testimonies of a politician and a woman who claimed to be the deceased’s sister. If Demon, White Powder Joe and Dindinho were in fact the same person was something Dornelas would confirm later, but the connection with drug trafficking was something all three had in common.

  “You’ve never heard of White Powder Joe?”

  “I’ve heard of him all right, but I never knew that Demon and White Powder Joe were the same person.”

  “Me neither. I’m just assuming they are. Do you know what kind of trafficking he was into?”

  “I don’t know, Inspector. I don’t know anything about any drugs. But I know a lot of fishermen in the village are mixed up with the guy.”

  “How?” he asked without thinking, immediately regretting it. He was afraid if he was too anxious he would scare away his friend’s willingness to talk, given that he was already reluctant to collaborate.

  “The well just dried up, Inspector, that’s all I got. Fishermen around here will do anything to make a buck. They respect nothing, anything goes. Take shrimp, for instance. They fish whatever they can find: Atlantic seabob prawns, tiger prawns, white shrimp, no matter they’re tiny like this,” he said, pressing his thumb on the first bone of his pinky.

  Silence again. Claudio was searching for his next words on the bottom of the boat while he untangled the line between his fingers and mechanically wound it around the piece of wood.

  Dornelas respected the silence by also keeping quiet, although he maintained his undivided attention on his friend, like that a snake devotes to its prey. After a few minutes the fisherman continued:

  “These people don’t think about tomorrow. The only thing that matters is what they’re going to catch today. They’re shooting themselves in the foot and they’re going to finish off everything there is in the sea. Soon we’re going to have to find another way to earn a living because there’s not going to be anything left to fish anymore. And whoever respects the law, Inspector, they either live in poverty, like me, or start doing business with people like Demon.”

  On the mountaintops behind the city the sun’s frail light could be seen, slowly creeping out of its nighttime hiding place.

  “Did the fishermen deal his drugs?”

  “No way. He was the one who did the buying from the fishermen to distribute in the city.”

  This method of trafficking was news to Dornelas. Unfortunately, as was the case most of the time, the dealers were miles ahead of the police in terms of coming up with new ways of spreading their drugs throughout the city.

  For many years the efforts to combat drug trafficking concentrated on apprehending the drugs that entered the city on the highways, in the suitcases and bags of tourists who came by bus, car, motorcycle and even in taxis, with their passengers and drivers.

  Apprehensions at sea were less frequent, one or another fisherman, isolated cases, or some outsider who got caught up in the net of justice. Usually, when the police had previous knowledge of a big drop that was going to go down around the city, on the pier or on nearby beaches, the busts were always made on land, never at sea. The strategy was to catch both buyers and sellers in the act, at the same time.

  The fishing boats, on the other hand, were inspected by the authorities as soon as they docked at the pier. The cargo then goes on to the fisheries to be processed and to the city’s fish markets to be sold.

  “Did he have any connection to the Doorman?”

  “That I don’t know,” answered his friend as the skiff scraped the bottom of the canal for the first time. It only took another ten meters for the boat to become totally stuck in the mud, not far from where the body was found the day before.

  Satisfied, Dornelas picked up the spare paddle and helped Claudio get them out of there before the water dried up entirely. By this time the sky was already colored in shades of pastel tones that would disappear as soon as the sun reigned absolute over the city. On the streets people could already be seen walking and bicycling around, as well as
dogs stretching and peeing on the trees in the square in front of the Old Jailhouse.

  “Can you go with me to the morgue to identify the body?” asked Dornelas before jumping from the beach up onto the pier.

  “I really don’t like seeing dead people, Inspector. But if it’ll help you, you can count on me.”

  “Thanks. I’ll call you to set up a time. Have a good day.”

  “You too.”

  And he walked off towards home.

  *

  He reached the bank of the canal totally out of breath and saw no one. He could see the body that some anonymous informant had told the precinct about a few moments ago lying on top of the dry mangrove.

  He looked around and thought it strange to find himself completely alone in this part of town, a spot where you can always see someone at any time of the day or night. There was no crowd, no police car, no fire truck, not one of his detectives, absolutely no one.

  Instinctively he jumped into the mangrove, knowing the tide would come in soon and the body would then be lost.

  He struggled to walk in the black mud and cover the distance between the wall and the body. Tired, he recognized the filthy beige shorts, the open mud-soaked orange shirt, the arms spread open like Christ the Redeemer.

  He noticed the round band-aid on the inside fold of the left arm, he remembered the blood test and the disease. Everything was the same except for the black cloth that covered the face. Without hesitating, Dornelas pulled off the fabric and saw his head, his face, attached to the dead body. The eyes opened wide for an instant, staring up at him with a evil grin stamped on its face.

  Totally spooked, he freed himself from the sheets and got out of bed, gasping and bathed in sweat. He ran to the shower and took a long and very hot shower, hot enough to burn the feathers off a chicken. He got dressed, left the bedroom, went downstairs and found Neide sweeping the living room floor.

  “Are you off today, Inspector?”

  “I took the graveyard shift.”

  “Want me to fix you something, scrambled eggs, toast?”

  “No need. I’m going to get some goró.

  Goró was the recipe for a porridge that dated back to Dornelas’ childhood. A true gastronomical wild card, it was the answer for whenever hunger struck and there was no time for a more elaborate meal.

  He put six tablespoons of farinha láctea, a common baby cereal, in a bowl together with two of powdered milk and one glass of water. He substituted water for pure milk as soon as he discovered that powdered milk and milk, in the same recipe, produced a bombastic mixture capable of producing gas for the entire day.

  He finished it off it in a few spoonfuls, scrapping the bottom of the bowl, to Neide’s astonishment as she watched him open-mouthed.

  “A man of your upbringing eating that awful mess, sir!”

  “You should try it someday.”

  “Holy Mother of God!”

  Visibly disgusted, Neide threw her dusting cloth over her shoulder, picked up the broom and turned back to her cleaning. Dornelas slipped out of the house, worrying about his reputation if Neide were to tell everybody about his porridge.

  Chapter 6

  Well rested and properly bathed and fed, Dornelas crossed the doorway into police headquarters exuding satisfaction.

  “Good afternoon, Inspector.” said Marilda.

  “Good afternoon, Marilda. Any messages?”

  “The Sectional Director called and asked that you get back to him urgently.”

  “Thanks.”

  Marilda interrupted him as he turned to go on to his office.

  “Inspector, a man arrived at 9 a.m., a Raimundo Tavares. Solano and Lotufo are talking to him in the conference room.

  ‘Oh shit!’ thought Dornelas, putting his hands on his head. He’d completely forgotten he’d asked Solano to have Maria das Graças’ client at the precinct first thing in the morning. He crossed the reception area and went down the corridor to the conference room. He found no one there. He went to Solano’s office and still nobody. Lotufo’s, same thing. He went back to the reception area.

  “Marilda, where are they?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  That was when he heard loud laughter coming from the lunchroom on the other side of the station. He went in to find Solano, Lotufo and another man sitting around the little table with plastic cups in their hands, drinking coffee and grinning widely. The laughter disappeared as soon as they saw him. But as he was already three hours late – it was past noon – and he was visibly embarrassed, Dornelas simply walked in with his hand outstretched to greet the guy, who he presumed was Raimundo Tavares.

  “Please excuse my being late, Mr. Tavares. I worked the night shift and overslept and I’m afraid that’s the only excuse I can give you.”

  “No problem, Inspector,” said Raimundo as he shook hands with Dornelas. “We were just shooting the breeze.”

  “Have you gotten his testimony yet?” he asked Solano and Lotufo.

  “Done,” said Solano laconically – in fact too laconically.

  Dornelas was puzzled, it sounded as if there was something else behind that syllable.

  “Let’s talk in my office,” he said to Solano. And turning to Tavares, “Would it be too much to ask you to wait just a little bit longer?”

  Raimundo Tavares was a refined individual; hair fashionably cut, designer clothes, apparently discreet and well-mannered from the way he spoke and behaved. Dornelas did take exception to the pen and pencil in his shirt pocket though. It reminded him of an old schoolmate, a total snob who he had fistfights with everyday. The boy’s trademark was the designer pen and pencil set in his shirt pocket, a present from his father, an engineer on his way up in the city.

  “No problem. I’ve already told my office I’d be out all morning.”

  “Thank you. We’ll have more time to talk shortly.”

  Dornelas left the lunchroom, crossed through the station, went into his office and sat in his chair behind the desk. Solano, following right behind him, closed the door and sat down in one of the visitors chairs.

  “And?” asked the inspector.

  “The man’s clean, sir.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “He’s married, like Maria das Graças said, but his wife’s been away since last week. She gets back tomorrow. They have no children, it’s just him and the wife in the house. There’s a maid, a daily, who goes home every day at four p.m. after leaving dinner ready in the oven. I mean, nobody can confirm his alibi except for himself and Maria das Graças.”

  “Has he been her client long?”

  “For quite a while, from what he says. His wife owns a women’s wear store and travels a lot on business. She buys clothes in Rio de Janeiro and São Paulo to resell here at a good profit. He takes advantage of her trips to have his little escapades that, according to him, are what save his marriage.”

  ‘What a son of a bitch, this Tavares,’ thought Dornelas. ‘The guy not only cheats on his wife but manages to keep his marriage intact at the same time.’ During his fifteen-year marriage to Flavia he had never once cheated on her. Not that there hadn’t been any opportunities. The inspector was a good-looking guy and often felt attracted to many types of women, from the modest saintly ones to the most wanton. And they to him.

  On some occasions they had practically rubbed their pussies in his face so he would take them to bed. But he would always weigh a one night stand against his family, politely decline the offer and get on with his life. The next few days were pure hell though, because he spent the whole time fantasizing about the adventure he’d turned down, dealing with the frustration as best he could.

  In a way Dornelas admired, even while hating, men who were able to handle these situations so cleverly and at the same time so brazenly and shamelessly. Now, abandoned by his wife and with his children far away he felt like a real idiot for not having taken advantage of the opportunities that had knocked on his door. ‘Maybe Tavares’ wife ha
s a thing going on in the city too,’ he thought spitefully.

  “Does she know what her husband’s up to when she’s out of town?”

  “He says no. But he thinks his wife suspects something.”

  “Bring him in.”

  Solano went out and came back minutes later with Raimundo Tavares. The man entered and Solano left, closing the door behind him.

  “Please, sit down,” said Dornelas.

  “Thank you.”

  Raimundo Tavares sat down elegantly.

  “From what Solano tells me you’ve been Maria das Graças’ client for a long time.”

  “A good couple of years,” he said, crossing one leg over the other while he put his cell phone away in his shirt pocket, behind the pen and pencil.

  “What does your wife think of that?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never asked her.”

  Dornelas leaned forward in his chair, moving closer to him.

  “I’ll be more to the point. What will her reaction be when she finds out?”

  Raimundo Tavares’ pleasantness disappeared and a dark, cynical look took its place.

  “I think that like any woman, she’s not going to like it. But knowing her the way I do, I figure that as long as we maintain appearances and money in the bank, I’ll get a slap on the hand, suffer a few weeks of no sex, and that will be the end of it.”

  This marriage was more modern than Dornelas could have imagined. As much as Tavares pissed him off, albeit with a pinch of envy, blackmailing him in this veiled manner was ethically unacceptable. Time to back off.

  “Can you prove that you really were with Maria das Graças the night of the crime?”

  “As I told your detective, I can’t. I don’t really remember what time it was, but I imagine I was with her after midnight. I say this because my trysts always take place late at night.”

  “Any special reason?”

  “My wife goes to sleep early, wherever she is. Around nine, ten o’clock her body turns off and she’s ready to fall into a deep sleep. And whenever she’s traveling she calls me at home before going to bed. That night, as usual, was no different. What I do is wait for her to call, we chat, I tell her I’m going to read a book or watch a movie – which I often do – we hang up, I wait an hour and I go out. I know that’s how long it takes for her to fall fast asleep. I don’t remember her ever calling after that. And let’s be fair, Inspector, I may play around some but it’s not like I go out every night.”