Requiem for a Killer Page 8

  “You didn’t tell me your brother was a diabetic.”

  “Since he was mixed up with drugs I didn’t think it made any difference. It’s such a common disease!”

  “It made a lot of difference. He died due to excess insulin in his blood. That’s what was in the syringe.”

  Maria das Graças’ eyes opened wide, her face went pale and then she slowly started slumping to her knees like a building being imploded. Dornelas was able to catch her under the arms before she crumbled to the floor. He took her back into the house, closed the door and laid her down on the couch. He got a glass out of the cupboard under the television, rushed to the kitchen and came back with a glass of cold water. She drank it slowly, in small sips. After a few minutes she had recovered.

  “I’m sorry, Inspector. I dunno what came over me.”

  “Don’t worry. We can talk about this later if you like.”

  “That’d be better. I need to rest.”

  He got up and turned on the TV to the same program the old lady was watching in her room.

  “Thank you. I’m gonna stay here for a while. I’ll finish my cleanin’ later.”

  “Are you going to be all right? Is it okay to leave you alone?”

  “Yeah, sure. My blood pressure musta gone down in this heat.”

  “Okay then. If you need me you have my number.”

  The inspector looked at her adding:

  “Take care of yourself.”

  “You too, Inspector.”

  As Dornelas reached the door the old woman’s voice echoed in his brain. He opened it wide and left.

  Chapter 8

  Needing to take a leak so bad his back teeth were floating, Dornelas went looking for a tree, a lamp post, a wall, just like a dog. He was in a strictly residential area and couldn’t very well just ring the doorbell at someone’s house and ask to use the bathroom.

  About a hundred meters from Maria das Graças’ house he found an empty lot surrounded by houses, closed off by a few stakes held together by three loose strands of barbed wire. There was no one on the street. It wasn’t easy but he got through the wire and went straight for the wall. He unzipped his pants and started pissing. It felt like a pool being emptied with a straw.

  Suddenly he heard the sound of a motor, a car approaching. The noise got louder until the car appeared, cruising slowly in front of the lot in first gear. Feeling the driver looking at him, Dornelas glued his eyes to the wall, held his breath, scrunched down as much as he could and stood stock still, like a statue, a urinating statue. What the hell, maybe he’d become invisible. The car went by and stopped in front of a neighboring house. The noise of the motor died and Dornelas could hear a car door opening and closing. A few seconds later a man appeared. The guy stopped, leaning one arm on a stake a couple of meters away from him.

  “Good afternoon, Inspector.”

  “Good afternoon,” he grunted.

  “I recognized you as soon as I went by.”

  “Aha.”

  “It’s good to see you around here. You know I even thought of stopping by the precinct.”

  “That’s great.”

  “But since you’re here, let me take advantage of your visit.”

  “Could you give me a minute?”

  “I’m sorry. Carry on.”

  The man went silent and looked at the ground, his watch, the sky. Dornelas kept going down to the last drop. Feeling relieved, he went back through the fence onto the street, stuck out his hand and…found nothing. He drew it back immediately, embarrassed. Making a face, the guy had already put both of his in his pockets. They exchanged a formal bow like two Japanese men.

  “Sorry about that…you know how it is. I couldn’t find anywhere else around here…”

  “No problem, Inspector.

  “Thanks. You said you wanted to go by the precinct…”

  “That’s right. Very late the night before last I heard screaming coming from a house right around here.”

  “Excuse me, but what’s your name?”

  “Luis Augusto dos Reis.”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you too. It’s not every day the cops show up around here, much less an inspector...”

  Dornelas gave him a kind smile and noticed the man had a tic. Every so often he would blink violently and move his head in a funny way; a spasm projected his chin forward, as if an electrical current was running through his spine and delivering a shock inside his skull. ‘This guy must have a 220 volt wire stuck up his ass,’ thought Dornelas childishly. He successfully resisted the impulse to look for a cable on the ground going up the back of the man’s pants.

  “You said you heard screaming the night before last.”

  “So loud it got me out of bed. I went to take a look from the window in the front room,” said the guy, pulling Dornelas by his arm to the gate of a small two story house and pointing to a window on the upper floor, “but I couldn’t see where it was coming from. A few minutes later I heard car doors slamming, an engine being turned on and then it sped right by here like a bat out of hell.”

  “What kind of car was it?”

  “A pick-up truck, foreign make, with a covered cargo bed. It was black, with tinted windows. You couldn’t see inside.”

  “Would it be asking too much if you can remember the make or the license?”

  “I couldn’t see it, even with the streetlights. It went by too fast.”

  “What time was that more or less.”

  “Around two. I often wake up around that time. I usually get up to take a leak, drink some water…”

  His face contracted again, another spasm. He continued:

  “You know, this is a residential neighborhood. Everybody around here is poor. Although there’s a lot of activity at Dona Maria das Graças’ house going on at all hours. And there’s always some big shot showing up there in one of those big cars.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, Dona Maria das Graças is one of those women…”

  “A prostitute?”

  “That’s right, she’s very active, with a lot of talents, so to speak. A lot of important people stop by there. There’s always some fancy car parked in front. These people arrive and leave the neighborhood slowly and with no fuss. People who don’t want to be recognized come by cab. That night was different though. The car took off with its tires squealing. A satisfied customer doesn’t do that.”

  “Are you trying to say the car came from her house?”

  “It had to. She lives four houses down from here and the car came from that direction. It’s usually really quiet around here at that time. The screaming sounded like it came from that direction too.”

  Another piece that fit in the jigsaw puzzle that was taking shape in Dornelas’ mind.

  “Can you think of anything else that might help us?”

  “No, that’s all I had to tell you.”

  Another shock hit the man. ‘This guy must be constantly short-circuiting,’ thought the inspector.

  “If you remember anything else please call me,” he said, taking a card out of his pocket and giving it to Luis Augusto. “And once again, sorry about the way we met.”

  “Forget it, I thank you for coming. And when you come around again you can always use the bathroom in my house. Just ring the bell.”

  Dornelas thanked him and said good-by with another Japanese style bow. You never know, one handshake and he might get electrocuted too.

  *

  The inspector went back and forth, stooping down and comparing the tracks. He assumed they were from wide band tires, definitely made by a heavy vehicle since the ruts were set deep in the damp earth. And the tires must be new because the grooves were well-defined. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and took several pictures.

  He found drag marks and countless footsteps that led down to the water. ‘Fishermen either push their boat from the bow or they pull it by the stern into sea,’ he thought. ‘So either the foot
prints are superimposed over the boat tracks or vice versa.’

  However, in the right corner of the mangrove that sloped down more gently and where mud prevailed, Dornelas came across a wide, continuous and well-defined track that went down to the water in two deep, longitudinal grooves.

  There were no visible footprints in them and nothing that looked like the keel of a hull in the middle. He did see several footprints on both sides running alongside it to the sea, probably belonging to two or more men dragging a body by the arms, with its heels making the grooves in the mud. He took some more pictures and left.

  *

  Police headquarters was in an uproar.

  “What happened?” Dornelas asked Lotufo, who was racing through the reception area.

  “Some cuckolded husband killed his wife’s lover in the middle of the street,” replied the detective. “It all happened really fast. There wasn’t even time to let you know.”

  “Did they arrest the guy?”

  “He was caught red-handed. After shooting the poor sucker five times, point blank, he sat down on the sidewalk and started crying.”

  “That makes it easy. Have one of the duty cops deal with it.”

  “Right away, sir.”

  Four reporters were sitting on the bench in the reception, anxiously waiting for Dornelas to throw them a look; that would be the cue for an interview. He picked up his messages from Marilda and went straight to his office.

  As soon as he entered he was faced with a stack of papers waiting for his signature. He sat down dispiritedly, unlocked his drawer and saw his treasure-trove next to the pen: a chocolate bar.

  Conscious of the crime he was about to commit against the scales, Dornelas made sure no one was coming – no footsteps in the hall – before carefully unwrapping the tin foil to reveal two little squares of pure joy. He carefully and delicately broke them off from the bar with his fingers and placed them on his tongue. He was in heaven.

  While the chocolate was melting in the corner of his mouth he put away the rest of the bar, picked up the pen and closed the drawer. If he didn’t keep it locked up his pen would be gone in no time, forget that this was a police station. He pulled the stack towards him and began working. Solano rapped on the open door.

  “Come in,” he said. And felt a childish relief he’d put the chocolate away in time. Now he wouldn’t have to share it with anyone.

  “Inspector, I’ve got information on Marina Rivera and Nildo Borges.”

  It was the excuse he needed to leave the paperwork for later. He pushed the stack away, dropped the pen on the desk, pushed the melting chocolate to the other side of his mouth with his tongue and settled in his chair.

  “Great. Give it to me.”

  Solano sat down and opened a file full of papers on his lap.

  “Marina Rivera was born in Rio de Janeiro on June 26, 1962, but grew up in a small town upstate, São Francisco de Itabapoana. Her father and grandparents are Cuban. They found asylum in Brazil after the 1959 revolution. In fact, they were able to escape just before the Bay of Pigs invasion in 1961. Penniless, they went first to Miami and with the help of friends were able to start a new life. They ended up in Brazil where the grandfather owned some land in the countryside of the state that he had bought when they lived in Cuba. Her parents, Alonso and Zuleika – who’s from Minas Gerais – met soon after and had Marina not much after that. She has a brother named Fernando Rivera who works in the import-export business and lives in Miami.”

  “That’s it?”

  “There’s more. She graduated from law school at the Federal University of Rio de Janeiro in 1984 and that’s where she met Nildo Borges.”

  “Excellent.”

  “From then on their paths crossed several times. But there’s nothing that points to any relationship between them other than professional.”

  “That’s hard to believe. If you saw the two of them together you’d see there’s something deeper going on there. Go on.”

  “Nildo Borges was also born in Rio, had a normal middle class upbringing with nothing noteworthy to mention. In college however, he went off on a new tack: he discovered politics. By the sound of it, it was love at first sight. He and Marina met in her freshman and his senior year. He was a student leader, was arrested in 1979 and reappeared a few years later on the political scene running for councilman in Rio. Marina acted as a vote canvasser and was his communications coordinator. He lost. He’s married, has two kids and lives in an enormous house in the Historical Center.”

  “Why did he end up here in Palmyra?” asked the inspector. “Although he certainly has more power here than he ever would in Rio,” he added, answering his own question.

  “His father was born and died here. He founded Peixe Dourado, a small fishing company that evidenced tremendous growth after Nildo took over when his father died, nearly twenty years ago. He has a brother, Wilson Borges, generally considered an idiot, who runs the business while Nildo concentrates on politics. Still, revenues have grown by double digits over the last five years.”

  Dornelas was puzzled by this last piece of information.

  “I presume Marina followed him here?”

  “Correct. With no family or future prospects in Rio, Marina followed Nildo Borges here and today lives alone in a little house, also in the Historical Center. She’s never been married and there is no information of any kind regarding a boyfriend or lover.”

  “Do you have anything on the City Council building?”

  “It’s the same old shit. An invitation to bid was published, eleven companies showed up with proposals and only one met all the requirements.”

  “The one made by Raimundo Tavares. An invitation made to order,” concluded Dornelas, who now remembered the engineer’s name from newspapers and TV.

  “That’s right. The job ended up costing a lot more than it was supposed to, two additional budget allocations were needed for its completion and it took almost two years more than planned to be concluded.”

  “Let me guess: Nildo Borges was the president of the City Council at the time.”

  “You got it. Besides overseeing the elaboration of the project, it was he who got it approved in the City Council. They say Nildo followed the work very closely for a long time. But the job took so long that eventually there ended up being a new City Council president. Councilman Jurandir Botman, from an opposing party, was who took over. He discovered the irregularities by chance, when he bought a car to use in the legislature. Because of this car, and since work on the building was still going on, he decided to build an underground parking lot. Much to his surprise, an engineer on the job then told him that that wouldn’t be possible because of structural and documentation irregularities affecting the building. So the president installed an official legislative hearing and a full investigation was made. The report raised some very serious issues, including seepages, purchases of materials different from those originally approved, flaws in the rain drainage system, leaks, paving problems that impeded waterproofing of the indoor flooring, the lightning rod system below standard, exposed piping, a fire prevention and safety project different from the one that was actually executed, as well as documentation irregularities beginning with the approval of the original plans. It’s really ugly, sir.”

  “And this all happened under the supervision of our friend, engineer Raimundo Tavares!”

  “Not directly. Another engineer from his company had been named to do the job. That’s the excuse he gave at the hearing and as a result he ended up hanging his own employee. The company obviously suffered since all payments were suspended while the official investigation was going on. But after the issue cooled off and stopped making headlines construction was authorized to restart and payments began again. On the grapevine they say that all he got was a slap on the wrist and then the whole thing went away.”

  “And City Hall never noticed anything during their inspections?”

  “It looked the other way until the hearing began
. The property wasn’t even legally deeded. For sure somebody was being paid off by Raimundo Tavares. Apparently it was all done very quickly so that the cash could be misappropriated without any fuss.”

  “We now have a connection between Raimundo Tavares and Nildo Borges. If Maria das Graças gave us his name to cover up for someone else we’ll figure it out. One thing’s for sure: she helped us a lot, whether she knows it or not. And that puzzles me. Anything else?”

  “That’s it so far.”

  “Good work.”

  “Thanks, sir.”

  Solano left and Dornelas picked up the phone and dialed three numbers.

  “Anderson, Joaquim Dornelas, how are you?”

  “Everything’s going fine, Inspector, thank God.”

  “Great. I have more photos for you to download from my cell phone and burn on to a CD. Can you do that now?”

  “I’ll be there in two minutes.”

  “Thanks.”

  And he hung up. The stack of papers on his desk seemed to be calling to him with a voice of its own, and Dornelas was being seduced by it like Ulysses by the mermaids in the epic Greek poem. But he pushed the stack aside and stood up. He began wandering haphazardly around the office to help him think more clearly.

  He took deep breaths and the images stored in his subconscious began coming forcefully back to him. One by one they flashed through his mind in a sequence that made no sense; the freshly painted and unfinished wall under the window in Maria das Graças’ room, the drag marks and the tire ruts on the little beach, the place where the body was found, the syringe, the round band-aid on the dead man’s arm. The connection between these facts and the information regarding Nildo Borges and Raimundo Tavares was still somewhere out there, off in the distance, flimsy perhaps, but it was clear to him that it existed.

  “Can I come in, Inspector?” asked Anderson, standing in the doorway.

  “Please do.”

  “Is this the cell phone?”

  Dornelas nodded. Anderson picked it up from the desk.