Blood of the Wicked cims-1

by Leighton Gage

"What the hell has that got to do with it?" Muniz snapped.

  "The law states," Silva said, "that the government can appropriate uncultivated land by paying a fair price for it. The law further states that the government can grant land thus appropriated to landless farmers. If you, judge, would entertain an act of appropriation, I'm sure the league people could be convinced to leave the property until the case is settled."

  It was Muniz's turn to look shocked. "Are you insane? Whose side are you on, anyway?"

  Before Silva could answer judge Cunha intervened. "Do you own any land, Chief Inspector? I'm not talking about a piece of property with a house on it, or a little chacara. I'm talking about real land, a fazenda."

  "No.'›

  "No. I didn't think so." The judge looked at Muniz and gave a faint nod, as if he'd just scored a point. "Then we could hardly expect you to understand, could we?" he said to Silva.

  Muniz stood. The interview was over. "We'll solve it our own way," he said. "The way we always have. We don't need your help anymore. Go home."

  "I'm afraid I can't do that," Silva said. "I wasn't sent here because of your son, and I have my orders."

  "We'll see about your orders. Get out."

  "MERDA," THE director said twenty minutes later, and he said it loud enough to cause Silva to move the cell phone away from his ear. "I told you to treat him with kid gloves. What am I going to tell the minister? Get on a plane and get out of there. Muniz won't stay for more than a day or two. You can go back just as soon as he's gone."

  "You're the boss, but…" out what?"

  "It's pretty obvious what Muniz is up to. He's got a local judge in his pocket, and I have no doubt he's got more than the two capangas I saw in his suite. He'll have brought them in from one of his other fazendas, or from Paraguay. This town is already packed with people from the national press. If Muniz gets his way there's going to be a slaughter, and when there is, the journalists are going to spread it all over the media."

  The director reflected for a moment, considering the consequences.

  "I'll have the minister talk to him," he finally said.

  "As you wish. But if you do, and if Muniz ignores him and goes ahead with his plans, the minister won't have any deniability. He might not thank you for that."

  There was a long silence on the other end of the telephone. Finally, the director said, "Well, then, get that State Police Colonel Whatshisname to stop it."

  "With respect, Director, Colonel Ferraz will do what judge Cunha tells him to do, and the judge will do what Muniz tells him to do. Ferraz, by the way, has a large landholding of his own."

  "A cop with a fazenda?"

  "Yes, Director, a cop with a fazenda, and that should give all of us an idea about what kind of a cop he is, don't you think? Anyway, he's got no sympathy for the league. If they need his protection, the odds are that he'll be somewhere else. He might even be the person they'll be needing protection from."

  "Can't you get that judge to do something?"

  "No. But I'm sure Muniz can. I'm also sure that, if he does, we're not going to like it."

  "So what do we do?"

  "I'll try to defuse the situation. Meanwhile, I'll keep trying to find out what happened to the bishop and to Muniz's son. It's possible the two events are connected."

  "Connected? How?"

  "I'm not sure, and I could be wrong. I just have a hunch."

  "What's your next step?"

  "I still want to go to Presidente Vargas and talk to the bishop's secretary."

  "That again? We've been through that already. You want to leave Cascatas? At a time like this? Not on your life."

  The director seemed unaware that he'd just undergone a complete reversal of position.

  "Just for the day," Silva said. "I-"

  "Out of the question," the director said. "Not on your life. You stay right where you are. Send that nephew of yours."

  Chapter Fifteen

  Father Francisco Caporetto was in his midthirties and darkly handsome. When he met Hector in the reception area, he was wearing a tailored black suit that fit him like a glove. They shook hands, and he led his guest down a long corridor toward the back of the building.

  "This is-was-Dom Felipe's room," he said, opening a door. "Shall we sit over there?" He pointed at two chairs nestled into the alcove of a bay window.

  The late bishop's office was a spacious chamber with white-painted walls, modern furniture, and an oil painting which Hector thought might be a Pignatari above the fireplace.

  The two men sat, and the bishop's erstwhile secretary rang for coffee.

  The novice who brought it, a girl of seventeen or eighteen, couldn't seem to take her eyes off Father Francisco. She used no makeup, was radiantly beautiful, and smelled of toilet soap. Hector suppressed a libidinous thought and waited until she left before he got down to business.

  "Have you been with Dom Felipe a long time?"

  "Since before he took up his most recent appointment. It would have been three years, this June," Francisco said, without betraying whether he thought three years was a long time.

  "You were his friend?"

  "I was his secretary, Delegado. I don't believe the bishop had any friends."

  "De mortuis nil nisi bonum, eh?"

  Father Francisco smiled, but not, Hector thought, because he found it funny, only to show that he understood the Latin. The priest settled back in his chair and crossed his ankles.

  "Did you like him?" Hector persisted.

  "It wasn't my place to like or dislike him."

  "That's not what I asked."

  Francisco looked through the bay window. Hector followed his gaze. Two boys were kneeling on the street, playing with a wooden top. Hector hadn't seen a wooden top for at least twenty years.

  "Hardly any television here," Francisco said, as if he could read the thought. "No antennas. No cable. Some of the wealthier people have satellite dishes, of course, but most of the children are still being raised without it. They play the same games their parents and grandparents used to play."

  "Nice."

  "A little dull, actually. But to get back to your question: No, to be frank, I didn't really like him. He was severe with himself and severe with others. Mind you, I'm not saying he was unjust, just severe."

  "Father Gaspar called him a friend."

  "Did he?"

  Father Francisco lifted an eyebrow. Hector waited for him to say more. When he didn't, Hector went off on a new tack. "How about enemies?"

  "No one who hated him enough to kill him."

  "Pardon me for asking this, Padre, but I have to: A relationship?"

  The urbane priest seemed to take the question in stride. "A relationship of a sexual nature you mean?"

  "Yes."

  "No. I think not. He never struck me as a man who had to struggle to maintain his vow of chastity. He really wasn't interested in women. And he often expressed a distinct dislike of homosexuals and homosexuality. He found it an aberration."

  "Money, then. Was he particularly fond of money?"

  "Some people might say so. He was always trying to raise money to build a new church, or a new school. He was good at it, too; some of the donors wouldn't have been anywhere near as generous if Dom Felipe hadn't been so persistent."

  "What did he think of liberation theology?"

  The sudden change of theme caused Francisco's forehead to crease in puzzlement. "I thought you were exploring motives."

  "I am. Please answer my question."

  "Liberation theology? What did the bishop think of it?"

  Hector nodded.

  "He opposed it. He had to. It's been condemned by Rome."

  "So it's likely his successor will condemn it as well."

  "It's not `likely,' Delegado, it's certain. Dom Felipe's successor will certainly condemn it."

  "What would you say to a suggestion that another priest, a liberation theologian, might have killed the bishop?"

  Francisco shook his
head. "That's absurd."

  "Is it? Why?"

  "First of all, because there are no longer any priests who are liberation theologians. All of them either renounced the doctrine or left the Church. Second, because any priest, no matter how radical, would know that killing the bishop wouldn't change anything. Liberation theology is a discredited doctrine, and the death of a hundred bishops won't alter that."

  "I see."

  Francisco leaned forward. The gold frame of his eyeglasses reflected a pinpoint of light from the window. "But there's one possibility you might not have considered. Have you heard of a man called Aurelio Azevedo?"

  "The activist? The man they nailed to a tree?"

  "Yes, the man they nailed to a tree. Did you know that they killed his wife and his two children as well?"

  "Yes."

  The priest paused for a moment, as if he expected Hector to comment on the barbarity of it all. When Hector didn't, he went on. "All of us were outraged, the bishop in particular. Several weeks before he died he went to Cascatas and preached a sermon in the old church. He drew his inspiration from Psalm Fifty-eight, verse ten: The passage reads `The righteous shall rejoice when he seeth the vengeance: He shall wash his feet in the blood of the wicked.' His thesis, in a nutshell, was that whoever spills innocent blood is evil and deserving of having their own blood spilled."

  "I gather he didn't believe in turning the other cheek?"

  "No, Delegado, he most certainly did not. The bishop leaned toward Old Testament solutions, an eye for an eye. He enjoined anyone with information about the death of Azevedo to come forward, told them their souls would be in peril if they didn't."

  "Did he specifically accuse any individual or any group?"

  "No. He stopped short of that, but people got the message."

  "And those people included the big landowners, I suppose."

  "Most certainly. Several of them stood up and walked out while he was still speaking. I was there. I saw it."

  "Did it work? Did anyone come forward?"

  "Possibly."

  "Possibly?"

  Francisco looked out the window, gathering his thoughts. Hector followed his gaze. The children who'd been playing with the top were gone.

  "About a week after the sermon," the priest resumed, "Dom Felipe received a letter, postmarked Cascatas, and signed by someone named Edson Souza."

  Hector made a note of the name. "Go on," he said.

  "Souza claimed to have knowledge of a crime and wanted to speak to the bishop personally. He gave a date and a time when he was going to call."

  "May I see the letter?"

  "It's gone. Missing. After the bishop's death I searched for it, but I haven't been able to find it. I don't think anyone took it, though. Perhaps the bishop discarded it."

  "And did this Souza actually call?"

  "He did, but the bishop was unable to speak to him. At the date and time specified he had a longstanding engagement elsewhere. He instructed me to give Souza an alternate date and time to call him back."

  "Which you did?"

  "Which I did."

  "What did Souza sound like? Can you describe his voice?"

  "Young. Poorly educated. Local accent. I'm afraid I can't be more specific than that."

  "What do you mean by a local accent?"

  "He's from around here somewhere. Sao Paulo State for sure."

  "Any speech defects? A lisp, perhaps?"

  "No, nothing like that."

  "When did this conversation take place?"

  The priest stood up, walked to the glass-topped desk and consulted a calendar. "The… eighth of last month."

  "At what time?"

  "Eleven o'clock in the morning."

  "What number did he call?"

  "Number?"

  "The telephone number that Souza used to contact you."

  The priest rattled off some numbers, and Hector made a note of them. "Then what happened?"

  "Souza agreed to call back."

  "And did he?"

  "He did. He called the next day at the same time. The bishop spoke to him. I was curious, so I went into his office just after he'd hung up. Dom Felipe was staring down at the surface of his desk. When he heard me come in, he looked up. He was as angry as I've ever seen him. At first, I thought it was because of my interruption. But no. He told me to place a call to Father Gaspar Farias in Cascatas."

  "And did you?"

  "I did."

  "What did they discuss?"

  "I have no idea. He offered me no information about either call. Not the one from Souza, not the one to Father Gaspar. Not then. Not later."

  "And you never asked him?"

  The priest shook his head and smiled, as if the question struck him as naive. "Oh, my goodness, no. I'd never take that kind of liberty with the bishop."

  "Do you think the two calls were related?"

  Father Francisco toyed with his empty cup and thought about the question. Then he pushed cup and saucer aside and leaned back in his chair. "They might well have been."

  "Might they both have had something to do with Azevedo's murder?"

  "I'd be speculating, but… yes, I think so."

  "Why would he talk to Gaspar about it and not to you?"

  "I'm here. Father Gaspar is in Cascatas. The bishop preached his sermon in Gaspar's old church, and he was going to Cascatas to consecrate the new one. Perhaps he wanted some information about a parishioner, or wanted Gaspar to take some kind of action prior to his arrival. That's my best guess, but I really don't know."

  "Did you speak to Dom Felipe on the morning of his death?"

  "No. As you now know, having made it yourself, it's a long drive to Cascatas. I wanted to be there when he arrived. I left very early in the morning, long before he came down to breakfast."

  "Why didn't you accompany him in the helicopter?"

  Father Francisco shook his head. "He wouldn't have welcomed it."

  "Why not?"

  "Well…" For the first time during the interview Father Francisco seemed to be at a loss for words. "… the bishop was-how shall I put this?-publicity conscious." He seemed pleased with his phrasing and repeated it. "Yes, publicity conscious. He was making a grand entrance into Cascatas. My presence on the helicopter would have been… a distraction."

  "A prima donna was he? A publicity hound?"

  "I didn't say that, Delegado."

  "No, Padre, of course you didn't. Let me ask you this: Did his arrival achieve the intended effect?"

  "Oh my, yes. It was a great success. He must have been very pleased."

  "His idea? The helicopter?"

  "Mine. More coffee?"

  Hector accepted the coffee. His interview with Father Francisco went on for almost another hour, but nothing of any further significance came to light.

  Silva was in a taxi when his nephew's call came through.

  "Where are you?" Hector asked.

  "On my way to see Anton Brouwer, that priest Diana Poli mentioned. You?"

  "Just leaving Presidente Vargas."

  Hector gave his uncle a quick summary of his conversation with the bishop's secretary. Toward the end of his account, the signal started breaking up. "… bring… Sao… leg…"

  "What?"

  "I said… bring Arnaldo… Sao Paulo… legwork."

  "You want to bring Arnaldo from Sao Paulo to do some legwork?"

  "Yes. I… you fine."

  "Well, I can't hear you. Okay, call Arnaldo. Tell him to drive. We could use another car."

  Silva could see the cabdriver's face in the rearview mirror. The man's mouth tightened when he heard the part about another car. More cars meant fewer customers for taxis.

  "Did you start a trace on the bishop's incoming calls?" Silva said.

  "… already underway. If… home phone, we'll get him."

  "Don't count on it. Anything else?"

  But Hector was gone.

  The cabdriver pulled onto the unpaved shoulder of the road, put
one arm over the back of the seat, and pointed with the other.

  "Father Brouwer's place is over there. You go down that alley between the banana trees," he said. "You want me to wait?"

  Chapter Sixteen

  A friendly mongrel with a gray muzzle came padding up to Silva as he started down the path. He paused to scratch the dog behind the ear. When he resumed walking the animal, panting in the heat, fell into step behind him. The path ended at a little house with a tile roof and stucco walls badly in need of paint. Wooden steps led up to a small porch. The dog brushed by, sought a place in the shade, and lay down with its head between its paws.

  As Silva mounted the last step the front door opened and a priest in a black cassock appeared. He smiled at his visitor and then bent his head to light the unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.

  The priest was frail and very old. Silva had expected a younger man. "Father Brouwer?"

  "Oh, my goodness, no. You flatter me. I have thirty-seven years on Anton," he said. "I'm Father Angelo." The priest stuck out a hand. There were amber tobacco stains on his index and middle fingers.

  Silva shook hands and introduced himself. If the priest was impressed to be speaking to a chief inspector of the Federal Police, he didn't show it.

  "What can I do for you, my son?" Father Angelo was a small man. The top of his head didn't quite reach Silva's chin, and he had a sparse rim of hair that encircled it like a white laurel wreath.

  "Actually, Father, I'm here to talk to Father Brouwer."

  "Nothing I can help you with? You sure?"

  "I wanted to talk to him about liberation theology."

  "You've come to the right place. Have a seat."

  He pointed to one of four chairs that surrounded a wicker table. Silva sank into it, and Father Angelo sat down in another. "He doesn't like me to smoke inside the house," he said.

  "He?"

  The priest ground out his cigarette in the ashtray, fished a half-empty pack of unfiltered Caballeros from somewhere within his cassock, and immediately lit another one. "Anton. Father Brouwer."

  The old man coughed, took out a handkerchief, put it over his mouth, and coughed again. Before he put it away he studied the surface of the cloth and nodded to himself, as if pleased. "I'd offer you coffee," he said, his voice like a rasp on hardwood, "but he doesn't like me mucking about in his kitchen."