Requiem for a Killer Page 6

  ‘A real pro, this Tavares.’

  After going over Maria das Graças’ account step by step, Dornelas could see that either the guy had carefully learned Maria das Graças’ story by heart, or it really was him having a good time with her the night of the crime.

  “One last question. What line of business are you in?”

  “Construction.”

  “Any specific area?”

  “Concrete structures, tunnels, bridges, buildings. The City Council building is one of mine,” he responded proudly.

  Dornelas was nearly jolted out of his chair. Not wanting to lose the line of thinking that was just beginning to take shape in his mind, he got up and with a handshake apologized once again for his delay, then accompanied Tavares to the reception desk and saw him out. On his way back he ran into Solano and Lotufo.

  “I want to speak to both of you in my office. Where’s Caparrós?”

  “In the bathroom,” answered Lotufo.

  “Get him too.”

  As soon as the three of them entered they came across a very excited inspector, as if he’d been energized by a live wire. They approached the desk.

  “Have we gotten the results from the lab yet on the liquid in the syringe?”

  “Pure insulin, Inspector,” answered Lotufo.

  “Great. That makes sense. Anything on Nildo Borges and Marina Rivera?”

  “Not yet. I’m still waiting for some information they promised to send me later today. As soon as I get it I’ll bring it in to you.”

  “Okay.”

  He was silent for a few seconds and then went on:

  “I want you to find out all you can about the City Council building. Our friend Raimundo Tavares, longtime client of Maria das Graças, is who built it. I want to know who approved the plans, mayor, councilmen, everything you can find. And if there was a commission that analyzed it, I want to know who presided over it. Got it?”

  “Got it,” all three of them said with one voice.

  Dornelas sat down and picked up the phone. He pressed three numbers. Seeing that the brief meeting with the boss had ended, the detectives left. Lotufo closed the door on the way out.

  “Marilda, call Dr. Amarildo Bustamante, please.”

  “Right away.”

  He hung up. The neurons in his brain were working overtime.

  The information he had from the investigation, transformed into electrical impulses in his mind, was now being processed at breakneck speed, interconnecting in an intricate web of associations. Dornelas was in a hurry to fill in the gaps between the facts and the accounts he had obtained so far, because he knew very well that an investigation, like a mosquito, grows old and dies in a few days.

  A professional and well-equipped police department is not able to keep a case open solely because it wants to. Without the active cooperation of a complex network of interests linked to public opinion, the press and politics, nothing happens. And even when the investigation identifies the guilty party based on irrefutable proof, the bureaucracy of the courts does its part in helping the bad guy go home.

  The telephone rang.

  “Inspector, Dr. Amarildo on the phone.”

  “Thank you.”

  After a few seconds the boss’s deep voice came on the line.

  “Joaquim, how you doing?”

  “Very well, Dr. Bustamante.”

  “Forget the ‘doctor’ bit. I know we’re boss and subordinate, but when it’s just between us we’re Joaquim and Amarildo. That okay?”

  Amarildo Bustamante was Dornelas’ direct boss and a longtime friend. They had graduated from law school together and nurtured a brotherly liking for one another.

  The boss, who was a few years older, had never been a man of action, but he compensated for it with his natural ability to play politics, which he did to perfection in the complex and complicated political world that was the police department.

  He had recently been named to the position of Sectional-Inspector by the new department head. Everyone in the hierarchy above this rank had been changed after the new state governor had taken office. The police department was not an organ of the state, as it had been in the past, but of the government, and therefore subject to the party in power.

  When the top of the food chain is altered, the little fish below are promptly substituted. Dornelas, being part of the local Palmyra society – the more privileged part – along with the priest, the district attorney and the judge, was just a small a fish on the organization chart. And as he was seen as an honest and competent professional who got along well with whatever party was in office, nobody ever bothered him. That’s why he always kept his position, regardless of who was in power.

  “It’s okay with me.”

  “Great. I’ll be in Palmyra tomorrow for a press conference at two p.m. at the City Hall auditorium. It’s about the body found in the mangrove.”

  Since the body had been out in the open for several hours the press smelled blood and latched onto the case like a dog with a bone. And when they found out there was a connection to drug trafficking, a subject that always grabs society’s imagination, the mayor quickly got involved in order to show that he was on top of things.

  By scheduling a police press conference at City Hall headquarters, Amarildo Bustamante was not only appeasing the press’ hunger but allowing Dornelas to do his job and stay out of the public eye; let the mayor deal with the journalists. The police would only have to supply information about the ongoing investigation, meaning, of course, only what was in its own interest. It made for a much more comfortable situation, and one the boss was not going to give up.

  “Just let me know if you need me.”

  “What I really need is you there. Don’t worry, leave the press to me. But first I want to be briefed on everything that’s happening so I’ll be ready. Can you talk now?”

  “Let’s go.”

  “Good. The information we have is that the dead man was a well-known drug dealer in town. José Aristodemo dos Anjos, or White Powder Joe, right?”

  “For the time being, yes.”

  “Please explain.”

  “We still haven’t been able to positively identify him. We’re checking the sources that gave us the information. We’ve run into difficulties because we don’t have a consolidated electronic database, we have to research everything manually. What I mean is that there’s no record of him in the city. Either he never got an ID card, which is not entirely impossible, or he was born in another state, or his records have disappeared from our files.”

  “But that would be a very serious accusation.”

  “And I have no way to make it yet. But I will if I have to. In any case, Councilman Nildo Borges told me who he was, as did a prostitute who claims to be his sister. I confess I don’t trust, or rather, I’m obliged not to trust either one of them. But I fully trust another source that went to school with José Aristodemo dos Anjos, who, according to this source, was nicknamed Demon in school as a child, and not White Powder Joe.

  “That does seem to be the more trustworthy source. Are you going to bring him in to identify the body?”

  “Tomorrow morning, as soon as Dr. Dulce can see us. Until then I can’t state who died.”

  “Well, let me know as soon as you can. It’s crucial I know for the press conference.”

  Bustamante coughed and a succession of strange noises emanated from the other end of the line. He hit something – probably his chest – cleared his throat, blew his nose, spat and continued.

  “These cough drops are a pain in the ass,” he said, speaking to himself. “Well, sorry… Do you know the cause of death yet?”

  “I was told off the record. Dulce Neves is an old friend.”

  Bustamante’s sarcastic side produced a mysterious “aha” on the other end of the line.

  “He was diabetic,” continued Dornelas, ignoring the boss’s ribbing. “According to her he had a very large dose of insulin in his blood, large enough to result in hi
s death due to the lack of glucose in his blood.”

  “No sign of drugs?”

  “Just traces of marijuana.”

  “That’s very strange.”

  “I agree. But the so-called sister I mentioned gave me a syringe she claims to have found right outside her house, near the doorstep. Forensics told me it contained insulin. From what she says, the house was broken into in the early morning hours and some men, she couldn’t say how many, held down White Powder Joe, stuffed something in his mouth so he couldn’t yell and injected him with something. Maybe the insulin from the syringe.”

  “She might be lying about being his sister, but you have to admit that the story about the syringe, about the injection, it all makes sense.”

  “I think so too. But today I interrogated the client who says he was with her in the next room, someone who could confirm the fact. I’m not convinced it was really he she was in bed with.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Pure intuition. That’s why I want to check other sources.”

  “Which ones?”

  “Councilman Borges, for example. My friend, the one who’s going to identify the body in the morgue, told me White Powder Joe was buying drugs from the fishermen and distributing them in the city.”

  “Isn’t it Nildo who owns a fishing business around there?”

  “That’s him. If there’s a connection between Nildo and White Powder Joe, I need to check it out.”

  “Be careful what you’re getting into. Nildo is a powerful and influential politician in Palmyra, although he’s in the party that’s the opposition to the state government,” the boss weighed in after a brief pause. “I suggest you step very cautiously in that area. Remember that the person our governor just recently replaced was from his party, and tempers are still hot about it.”

  “I understand the situation. I’ll be careful.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Yes. Everything indicates that the body was not mechanically dragged or thrown off a boat at the scene where we found him. I’m convinced he was thrown into the ocean from a little mud beach on Monkey Island and he floated down from there until his body got stuck in the low tide at the place where I took him from. I checked my theory this morning while the tide was going out and I believe that’s exactly what happened.”

  “Are you sure he was dead when he was left there?”

  “Given the approximate time of death and the route, almost 100%.”

  “What’s the approximate time of death?”

  “Between two and five in the morning.”

  “Very good,” the boss paused reflectively. “I think that about covers it, don’t you?”

  “I think so.”

  “Great. Call me as soon as your friend identifies the body. If not, I’ll see you tomorrow. Have a good one.”

  “You too, sir.”

  “You can drop the ‘sir’.”

  “It’s not so easy.”

  They hung up.

  *

  With most of the team out to lunch, Dornelas said good-by to Marilda, left the precinct and went to a photo enlargement shop to order prints of the pictures he had taken of the body the day before. He gave the CD to the attendant, paid, stuck the receipt in his pocket and was told to come back in half an hour.

  With some time on his hands, he decided to go by Vito’s bar.

  “Good-a afternoon, dottore. Some cachaça today?”

  “It’s too early, Vito. Just some coffee, please.”

  He sat down to think. Lost in thought, he was as still as a statue. A few minutes later Vito, recognizing the meditative state his client was in, slid the coffee across the table in front of the inspector like a ghost. Staring at the floor, his fingers gently pinching his lips as if pulling a thought from somewhere in his brain, an idea hit him. He sipped his coffee mechanically, paid the check and left.

  Chapter 7

  Dornelas rang the doorbell, waited a bit, and then the door opened and there she was, although not as stunning as she had been the day before.

  As he was taught to do in the police academy, the inspector studied her clinically. He started at the bottom and worked his way up: beat-up sandals, corns on her feet, chapped, fatty knees, threadbare shorts and a white apron full of holes around her waist. He continued moving up, up, until his eyes filled with pleasure: at the level of her breasts the T-shirt was pulled to the sides and pushed out in the front, like a bouquet. Her curves stretched the fabric until her nipples stood out in a most interesting manner. They looked free and loose underneath. Dornelas imagined their size and shape. As he reached her face, noticing the absence of makeup, he saw her watching him with eyes like two diamonds, crystalline and with an intense glow; a look acquired from countless years of suffering and resignation. The inspector was charmed by what he saw, only to be disappointed a few seconds later by the rollers in her hair.

  “What a surprise, Inspector!” said Maria das Graças, putting her hands up to pat her hair in veiled embarrassment. “If you had told me you were comin’ I woulda fixed myself up a bit.”

  “Please excuse me, but I have to speak to you. Are you busy?”

  “Not at all!” She leaned the broom against the doorjamb and threw her arms open. “Come in. Please excuse the mess. I’m doin’ some spring cleaning today.”

  Dornelas cautiously left the afternoon sun, crossed the threshold and entered a dark space. As his eyes were getting used to the poor light in what seemed to be a living room, he noticed the odor of wet brick, cement and plastic putty.

  He entered a narrow room with only two pieces of furniture, a two-seat couch covered in blue fabric in front of a white Formica sideboard of medium height, the kind purchased in life-long installments.

  A 42-inch LCD TV, spanking new, caught his attention because it stretched across the entire top of the sideboard besides clashing with the rest of the room, especially with the two fake mother-of-pearl statuettes on one of the windowsills: a pink unicorn and St. George stabbing a dragon with his lance. On the bottom part, behind glass-paned little doors, a variety of glasses and two stacks of assorted plates and chinaware.

  “Some forensics people came by this morning, some guy called Chagas. Is that right?” broke in Maria das Graças, trying to get the inspector’s attention away from the house he was so carefully studying, not missing any detail.

  “If he hasn’t said anything to me yet it must be him,” responded Dornelas laconically while thinking: ‘He’s playing cute with me because I was the one who removed the body from the mangrove’.

  The inspector went back to his examination of the room. Maria das Graças wiped her hands on the apron.

  Not many photographs on the walls. All of them old, in sepia, of people wearing fancy clothes. Most of them wore hats. From the shadows and expressions on their faces it looked as if they had been taken under the hot sun.

  He concentrated on the largest one.

  The tall man in the middle was flanked by two men in black suits on the left and by two women wearing white lace dresses on the right. He was also wearing a suit, and a cangaceiro hat, like those worn by the old outlaws in Brazil’s northeast, which caught his eye and led him to ask:

  “Family?”

  “My grandpa,” answered Maria das Graças. “The two men in black are his brothers. The woman next to him is my grandma. The other one is the wife of one of the other two.”

  Maria das Graças stepped next to the inspector and pointed to the photo beside it. A lady with black, well-coifed hair covered with white lace was sitting on a bench with a baby bundled up in her lap. Standing next to her was a boy of about six in short pants and a buttoned up shirt.

  “My mom, my brother and me.”

  “Where’s your father?” asked Dornelas, looking for a photo of someone who could fill that role.

  “He was killed right after I was born,” she answered sadly. “After that we came here.”

  “When did that happen?”

 
“1972.”

  “Can you tell me what happened?”

  She left the room and returned dragging a chair with metal legs and a white Formica seat and backrest. The chair and sideboard were probably part of a set. The chair’s twins and a table were likely in the kitchen.

  “Sit down, sir,” said Maria das Graças, pointing to the couch.

  Dornelas made himself comfortable.

  “It’s a long story,” she said.

  “I’ve got time.”

  Maria das Graças clasped her hands together.

  “My grandpa was a cangaceiro up north in Pernambuco. He was shot when he and his gang were ambushing a police patrol. After the fight was over, and almost everybody was killed, they went over to him and thought he was dead. They just left him there in the sun. He was rescued by a family and survived. They say the wound wasn’t even that bad, that he was just playin’ possum to get away. With the little money he had, he made the best of his luck and ran away to Minas Gerais. He hid in a little town out in the countryside and met my grandma. They got married and had three girls, my mother and my two aunts. This picture was taken years later at a birthday party. He was real proud of havin’ been a cangaceiro. But he loved life more than the cangaço, so the hat was the only thing he saved.”

  “Did he fight with Lampião’s gang?”

  “No. Anybody who joined Lampião’s crew only got out dead. My grandpa got into the cangaço life of highway robberies a little after Lampião was killed in Grota de Angicos, in 1938. He fought with Dadá and Corissco, but by then that style of life was nearly endin’. He didn’t stay in the cangaço long.