Requiem for a Killer (8 page)

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 his 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

D
ornelas 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.