You try asking the policeman who escorts you, his arm gripped tightly around your bicep, but his English might actually be worse than your non-existent Portuguese. Going with the flow until someone will inevitably have to talk to you, you’re fingerprinted and placed inside an interrogation room that looks like it was modeled after a US cop show.
A young man barely old enough to have graduated high school comes in to take your testimony. Turning on a digital recorder, he says, “Please recount tonight event.”
Oh, boy. Please, God—please let them understand your English better than they speak it. Imprisonment due to a loss-in-translation is not your idea of a good time. Still, you spill everything, harping on your innocence, repeating the details several times, employing various synonyms, and hoping something will stick.
Once you finish your story, you freely give the information on your hostel and the room numbers of your friends, imploring the man to let them know you’re okay.
A sketch artist is called in to depict the suspect you saw and the likeness that comes through isn’t bad. His angular face, the through-line of his jaw, the thoroughbred’s cheekbones, and his swooping nose all come across quite nicely. What’s wrong is the eyes. They just look like ordinary, run-of-the-mill eyes. What’s left out is the life, the blazing passion in his eyes. The man you saw had eyes more like a falcon’s.
Then the men leave, and you’re left to simmer in apparent guilt for the better part of two hours while they corroborate your testimony.
At length, the door opens and the two detectives who brought you here enter.
“Hello, I’m Detective Irma Dos Santos, and this is my partner, Lucio Muniz,” she says, introducing herself once more. Her English is flawless, though there is a slight accent. “We’d like to hear your version, once more, before we let you go—if that’s all right.” When you hear the words, “let you go,” you could reach over the table and kiss her. Instead, you nod.
All you can do is replay the events in that room. What was it, anyway? Some kind of drug dealer’s meet-up spot? There were no decorations, no fixtures, just a tile floor, cracked plaster walls, poor lighting and a creepy-as-hell crate with a note inviting carnage. The woman’s body—the detectives show photos of her gore-spattered face in order to gauge your reaction—was completely unharmed. She was shot point blank.
“Execution-style,” Muniz says.
Detective Dos Santos closes her file folder. “We’re going to let you go. The time stamp on your digital camera, as well as the series of pictures leading up to your discovery of the body, confirms your story and you’re no longer a suspect.” Her accent is thicker around hard Cs. ‘Digital Key-mera’ and ‘Peek-tures.’
“There were also no powder burns on your hands, so we know you didn’t fire the weapon,” Muniz adds.
“There’s only one detail that doesn’t add up,” the woman says, rubbing an index finger over her full lips. “The revolver is in our evidence locker, but we found no such ‘pick me up’ note. The follow-up team didn’t either.”
“It was right there, on the crate!” you blurt.
She shrugs.
* * *
Once you are discharged from the police station, you head out to look wearily for a cab, only to find a pair of men waiting for you. They’re in their mid-thirties, clean-cut, wearing tailored Ralph Lauren suits and stern grimaces. One is slightly taller, thinner, with razor burn on the creases of his neck. The other is broad-chested and has a trimmed, manicured beard.
The tall one says, “How’d it go?”
“Fine, I guess,” you reply.
“I’m Special Agent Danly,” the man continues, producing a badge, “and this is Special Agent Bertram. We’re with the United States Diplomatic Security Service.”
Bertram nods his thick, ruddy beard in greeting.
“You’re here to help me because I’m American?” you ask.
“Yes and no,” Danly says. “The murdered woman you stumbled upon was positively identified as an employee of the State Department. She worked at the Rio consulate, so we’ll be launching our own investigation and we’d like to ask you a few questions.”
You unconsciously let out a bone-tired sigh.
“But it can wait until morning,” Bertram says.
“Thanks,” you say, managing a slight smile.
Detective Dos Santos comes back out of the station, hurrying to catch you, and hands you a business card. “If you remember anything else, please call,” she says, then adds a few words in Portuguese to the agents. It’s lightning-fast, and utterly meaningless to you, but one word does jump out: Testemunhar—the word from the mural in the alley.
She smiles politely, then after a nod to the three of you, ducks back inside.
“What did she say?” you ask.
“They might need you as a witness, in case of a lineup,” Agent Danly answers.
“Do you think they’ll catch him? The murderer?”
“Not likely,” the bearded Agent Bertram says. “Brazil has plenty of excesses, including their crime rate. And in Rio at the start of Carnaval? I’d be surprised if they even have a man dedicated to the case.”
“Let me put it this way,” Danly adds. “In order to clean up their public image for the Olympics, Rio now enjoys the lowest murder rate it’s had in a decade.”
“Isn’t that a good thing?” you ask.
He nods. “Except that their ‘unsolved missing persons’ cases are the highest they’ve ever been. The fact that we have a body is a big red flag. It’s a common tactic here to hide the body and claim ignorance.”
“C’mon, we’ve got a car waiting,” Agent Bertram says, starting to walk away. “We’ve got you set up in a new hotel for the night. Don’t worry, DS will pay for it. You’re the only person who can identify a suspected murderer, so it’s worth lying low until he’s brought into custody.”
• “No, thank you. I’ll be fine.” Back to your hostel.
• “If you think that’s best.” Go to the new hotel.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Detecting!
“Fine, but don’t touch anything. Wouldn’t want you contaminating two crime scenes. You know what? Just keep your hands in your pockets.”
This is it! Your chance to release your inner bloodhound. You’ve seen the crime shows, now let’s see how observant you are. Hmmm, where to start…?
You walk past the gaggle of cops, around the cocaine, and into the kitchen. Everything is meticulously cleaned and organized. No perishable foods are out; no bread, fruits, nothing. You use the bottom of your shirt to open the refrigerator handle without leaving your fingerprints. Inside the fridge, it’s a similar story. The kitchen seems very…unused. Like she might’ve spent more time at her fiancé’s apartment than her own.
“Rookie, knock it off!” Danly calls.
You close the refrigerator and move on. Around the corner is an office nook. It’s the kind of space-saving technique that an apartment like this, which can’t be larger than 300 square feet, has to employ. You scan that area, but it doesn’t look like Ms. Nightingale used that space much either. She doesn’t have a computer, at least not here, and it seems like her main purpose for this nook was to display pictures. There’s a graduation photo, an old pre-instagram-faded picture which is most likely her mother holding her as a baby, and of course, a picture of her up at the Cristo Redentor statue with her arms volant as if she’s preparing to fly away. She smiles playfully in that last picture…. maybe her fiancé was the photographer? Oddly, there appear to be no portraits of him.
Moving on, you find your way to the bedroom. Following the theme of spartan décor, the bed is crisply made, like a newly rented hotel room or a military cadet’s lodging. The room itself is only big enough to hold the bed, a nightstand, and a small bookcase. On the nightstand you find a pad of paper, but there’s nothing written on it. You can see the impression made from previous notes now ripped off, so you decide to try the old shade-over-the-note-to-see-wh
at-was-written-on-it trick.
She wrote with a firm hand, so you pick up several layers of text as you lightly brush the pencil diagonally across the page. Most of it is too overwritten to make out, but you can see a reminder to make a dental appointment. Hmmm, that doesn’t tell you much. Still, you did learn one thing—hers wasn’t the handwriting from the “Pick me up” note you found at the crime scene.
The last room in the house is the bathroom. Surprise, surprise, it’s barren. There’s not even so much as a toothbrush. You know what would be a good question? When did she move in here? You make a mental note to ask Danly. With a tissue pulled from a small Kleenex box, you grasp the handle and open the medicine cabinet. Inside is the standard cocktail: ibuprofen, over-the-counter allergy medicine, a packet of throat lozenges, and a bottle of Pepto-Bismol. You close the cabinet and head back into the living room.
Agent Danly looks up from the coffee table as you enter. “Come on, Rookie, I want to get back to the hotel and review Ms. Nightingale’s files.”
Then, looking to Irma Dos Santos, he adds, “Detective, I’ll be by tomorrow to see about a trip into the favelas. We should get to the bottom of this drug angle.”
“Okay, I’ll see what I can do,” she replies with a nod.
Danly puts his sunglasses back on as you leave the apartment. Once you’re in the SUV and driving back, he says, “Listen, you’re doing great, but I’m not sure you should stay with me. I aim to get to the bottom of this, even if that means coming head-to-head with the drug cartels in the favelas. You can’t even imagine what it’s like in there—gangsters dance in the clubs while shooting AK-47s in the air. Even the kids are armed and they won’t hesitate to shoot you if they think it’s worth a laugh. I can’t put your life in jeopardy like that.
“Tonight we’ll meet up with Agent Bertram and decide how to proceed.”
• Head to the DSS hotel.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
De-Tour
You rush forward and shout, “Turista!” the last syllable coming out in a cough of blood.
As you fall to your knees, you realize you’ve been shot. You manage a glance back, and see Irma lying dead on the ground, just as you fall onto your stomach. The Elite Squad member walks back to the armored vehicle without a second thought about ending your life.
This is one Brazilian experience your friends won’t share.
THE END
The Devil Ray
Letting the suspect escape, you follow Irma away from the action. After you’ve jogged for another few minutes to a spot she’s deemed as relatively safe, you stop to catch your breath.
“What is it, Irma?”
“That man… I know of that man.”
“Who is he?”
“We call him Jamanta—The Devil Ray, but the word has a double meaning, it’s also ‘The Juggernaut’ and both names apply to this man. He’s the most dangerous assassin in all of Rio—in all of Brasil.”
The way she pronounces her country sounds like “Brass Seal.” She shakes her head and continues, “We must go; once he sets his sights on you, you’re as good as dead.”
You dry-swallow the lump in your throat. You’ve never seen her so afraid like this.
“Who does he work for? The mafia? Elite Squad?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen him before tonight… Let’s go, I’m taking you back to your hotel.”
• Return to your hotel.
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
Did You Say “Tapas” Bar?
It’s not hard to find a prostitute in the slums. A fact you’re quickly learning, the terms “legal” and “illegal” seem to have interchangeable meanings here. Back out into the favela proper, Viktor asks where to find the best action, and you’re directed to one of the larger nightclubs in the shantytown.
At this time of day, the club is nearly deserted, but seems to be always open for business. There is only one reason to show up here before the nightlife hours begin, so the greeter at the entrance merely bids you to follow him without so much as a word.
He has a surprisingly young, pimpled face with tired eyes and gelled hair. He wears a black button-up, jeans, and angus cowboy boots. He leads you into the club, past the grand open-air discoteca dance hall, and into the VIP area. With a gesture of his hand, he offers you a seat at one of the tables.
Viktor takes out his money clip, setting it before him in such a way as to be obvious to the sordid cicerone. The man disappears back out into the club, leaving the two of you alone for a moment.
“What exactly are we doing?” you ask.
“Soliciting a hooker. We’ll be paying for her companionship, but the only need she’ll be fulfilling today is our desire for information. It should be a welcome break for the girl, who I imagine is mentally preparing to ‘perform’ as we speak.”
Mr. Acne returns with a shrink-wrapped case of local Brazilian beer. He takes out a knife from his pocket and cuts through the red plastic that keeps the cans tethered together. As he works on this, three women arrive behind him: one with high-European Portuguese ancestry, her skin pale and her hair in ruddy curls; a bronzed, Amazonian type with straightened hair and glittering gold lipstick; and an Afro-Brazilian with curly hair to her shoulder, great hooped earrings and a studded nose ring. Apparently they give their clients the Neapolitan option here.
The man folds the knife, leaving the dozen beers for you, and then exits with a deferential nod and Viktor’s money clip in his hand. Each woman wears heavy makeup and is clad in nothing other than high heels and a bedazzled jacket covering just below the cat’s meow. One blue, one golden yellow, and one rosy pink, respectively.
“Ah, this is called a ‘can-cup,’” Viktor says, claiming one of the beers, his back to the women.
The three graces try to gesture for you to choose one of them, but all you can muster is an embarrassed shrug. At length, they all point to the one closest to your own skin tone and you simply shrug again, shaking your head uncertainly, eyebrows raised to the ceiling. They all smile at your coyness.
“You see,” Viktor explains, holding down the red and gold can, “You can peel off the entire top of the beer so it becomes a cup.”
The three women peel off their jackets, revealing nothing beneath. At the same time, Viktor opens the can of beer, pulling back the entire top like a can of sardines, and the beer gives off a crisp hiss of carbonation. He slides the beer over to you and takes another for himself.
“It’s marketed as ‘reusable,’ but really, it’s just…what’s the word? It’s a…gimmick! Yes, that’s all it is, is a gimmick.”
With the woman you “chose” in the center, the other two pour massage oil on their hands and begin to rub down her nude form. She simply stands there with a smile, staring at you, her newly moist flesh glistening in the low light.
“Umm, Viktor?” you cough out. You grasp the beer, ready to take a drink.
“Ah, yes. Saúde!” he says, clinking his can to yours in a toast.
You guzzle the beer while the bizarre show goes on behind your companion. It’s almost like they’re prepping her, like you’re witnessing the start of a cattle auction. It wouldn’t be surprising if they opened her mouth to show off the quality of her teeth.
Viktor finally notices your gaze and turns to the women. “Oh, nossa! Ta louco!”
He rises and persuades the three women to put their coats back on. The two with oil only on their hands hurry out of the VIP lounge.
“What do you want?” the third asks in English.
“Please, sit.”
She does so, arms folded across her chest, wary of your intentions.
“You speak English?” you say, confirming the obvious.
“Yes. I worked in clubs in Copacabana with many international clients.”
“Then what are you doing working the favelas, and the day shift, no less?” Viktor asks.
She slips her hair behind her right ear, revealing a long, thick scar which runs from her temple down tow
ard the bottom of the ear itself. “This happened last time a client paid for an unusual request.”
You offer her a beer. “All we want to do is talk.”
She hesitates, but takes the drink.
“Today is your lucky day, I promise,” Viktor says. “Just tell us the name of the cop your boss bribes, or get a phone number for us, then we share a couple of drinks and relax until the time we paid for expires.”
“That’s it?” she asks, incredulous.
“I told you; your lucky day.”
She shakes her head and smirks, “That’s easy. We see cops all the time for dates. I can write the number down for you right now.”
Viktor smiles at you.
• Finish the “date,” then arrange a new one to meet with the cops.
• “As long as we’re on the clock, why don’t we have a little fun…?”
MAKE YOUR CHOICE
The Difference between Dirty and Corrupt
You move quickly; Detective Muniz has already left the station and you rush to catch up with him lest he throw you off for good. The sun sets in the sky as you ride in the passenger seat of Irma’s personal vehicle. After all, you don’t want to arouse suspicions by showing up in a squad car. Even so, she’ll stick out like a sore thumb in her detective’s pantsuit, but there wasn’t time to change.
“According to his call sheet, he’s on patrol,” she says. “But what this really means is that he’s out collecting bribes.”
She lets that information sink in before continuing. “The police get their cut of petty crime: drugs, arms deals, that kind of thing. Cops have shit for pay, as you say, so the need to supplement our income is high.”
“Even you?” you ask.
“I do not want you to think criminals get a free pass here, but we don’t hold bake sales. If that money doesn’t go to us, it just funds more crime. I tried keeping my nose out of it, but no one on the force trusts a cop who doesn’t take bribes. Do you understand?”
MURDERED: Can YOU Solve the Mystery? (Click Your Poison Book 2) Page 8