Requiem for a Killer (13 page)

*

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

W
hen 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.