Insects 2: The Hunted

by John Koloen

  “You don’t have to send a team. I can do it,” he said. “I can pick him up.”

  “You can? Where are you? Do you have a car? You’re sure he’s not dangerous?”

  “He’s not dangerous. I found him hiding under a bed. I gave him my card. He trusts me.”

  “You didn’t make friends with him, did you, Dias? I’ve told you before you should not let your personal feelings get in the way of your judgment. Who knows these days who is dangerous and who is not?”

  “I know, I know. You send a team, they’ll break down the door and treat him like a gangster. He’s not like that, I assure you.”

  “Well, do you have a car?”

  “No, I was taking the weekend off and didn’t check one out.”

  “OK, how about I send someone to pick you up and he’ll go with you to pick up the suspect?” the captain said.

  “That’s fine. I’m at the Picanha Mania on Ramos Ferreira Street. How long do you think it will take?”

  “Probably thirty minutes.”

  “You know, maybe he should just pick me up at my apartment.”

  Dias left the restaurant without ordering a meal and, once at his fourth floor apartment, turned his TV to Rede Bandeirantes. Sitting in front of the TV, he used his laptop to check out CNN. Although his English wasn’t bad, he was more comfortable reading English than speaking it. After viewing a video from the news conference and a written account he found himself with more questions than answers.

  “I need to interview that American professor,” he said as his phone played its default ringtone.

  “Olá, I’m Estella Oliveira. Is this Eduardo Dias?”

  “Yes, who are you?” Dias said.

  “Captain Santos sent me to pick you up.”

  “I’ll be right down.”

  Dias put his holster and Taurus PT 24/7 on his hip and dashed down the three flights of stairs where he found the Volkswagen Golf double-parked in front of his building.

  “Hey,” he said, as he settled into the front passenger seat. The pair exchanged fist bumps. He gave her the address and watched as she input it quickly into a dashboard-mounted GPS. Without waiting for the route to appear, she pulled into traffic.

  “The captain didn’t tell me much,” she said. “We’re picking someone up, I understand.”

  “Yes, a young man accused of homicide.”

  “Really! That’s exciting. I’ve never done a murder investigation before.”

  “You new to the department?”

  “I was with the Federal Highway Police until a few months ago. I’m still on probation here.”

  “So, how do you like it?”

  “You mean the civil police?”

  Dias nodded.

  “So far, so good. But tell me about this guy? Is he dangerous?”

  “Have you seen the news about the American killed in the forest?”

  “I’ve seen some stuff. Something about being killed by bugs of some kind?”

  “Yeah, that’s the story. The guy we’re picking up killed the American.”

  25

  DIAS STOOD ON a small concrete slab at the front door of the house where he’d found Antonio Suarez. Estella Oliveira stood behind him, warily eyeing the nearby houses.

  “Antonio, it’s Eduardo Dias with the civil police. We talked yesterday.”

  Dias glanced at Oliveira. He knocked again, harder.

  “Antonio, please answer if you’re here. I need to talk to you.” He tried the knob but the door was locked.

  Oliveira noticed a curtain move in one of the nearby houses.

  “The neighbors are watching,” she said.

  “I was hoping we could do this quietly. Tell you what, you stay here and I’ll go around back. He was hiding under a bed yesterday. Maybe that’s what he’s doing now.”

  “What if he comes out?” Oliveira asked nervously.

  “You have a gun?”

  “Yes.”

  “Use it. Shoot him in the leg if you have to. I can’t afford to let him get away, not after I told the captain I’d bring him in.”

  “I’ve never shot anyone before.”

  “Neither have I. Just point it at him and tell him to lie down. Anyway, if he’s in the house, I don’t think he’ll run. He’s not a criminal.”

  “He’s charged with homicide, right?”

  “Not yet. Technically, I’m bringing him in for questioning.”

  “Oh, all right, then. I’ll wait here.”

  “Good girl,” he said fatuously. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound asinine.”

  “Don’t worry,” she smiled. “I put up with worse with the highway police. Much worse.”

  Dias made his way quickly to the patio. He noticed that the window-mounted air conditioner was running. The back door was unlocked and he quickly pushed past the curtains into the kitchenette and listened for movement but all that he could hear was the whirring of the air conditioner. He let Oliveira in through the front door and asked her to holster her gun.

  “If he’s here, we won’t have to shoot him,” he said. “I think he’s in the bedroom, but you stay out here and scream, I mean yell, if you hear or see him.”

  Oliveira nodded, her eyes darting around the living room as if looking for snakes.

  Approaching the bedroom, Dias said calmly, “Antonio, it’s Eduardo. I just want to talk to you.”

  “Antonio, I know you’re here,” he said. “Come on out. I don’t want to come in to get you. I want to help you.”

  “No you don’t,” Suarez replied forcefully. “You’re here to arrest me. You think I murdered the American. I saw it on TV.”

  “I’m not here to arrest you,” Dias said calmly. “Now come out and we’ll talk about it like human beings. OK. There’s another officer with me. She’s new to the department.”

  Dias called Estella to step forward.

  “Estella, please ask Senhor Suarez to come out of the bedroom so we can talk.”

  Oliveira gave Dias a puzzled look.

  “Just talk. A woman’s voice is reassuring,” he whispered.

  “Yes, Senhor Suarez. I’m Estella Oliveira and I want to help you,” she said, looking at Dias to make sure she was doing things correctly. He smiled.

  “We just want to talk to you. We want to get your side of the story,” she said in a soothing voice.

  “I told you everything yesterday.”

  “Not quite,” Dias said. “You left out the part about killing the American.”

  26

  THIS IS THE worst day of my life, Howard Duncan thought as he sat in his darkened living room, the blinds drawn and a half-empty bottle of cabernet on the coffee table. He’d watched as much coverage as he could stand and then switched channels to a show about survivalists in Alaska. Would the media hound him to Alaska?

  While he understood why colleagues at the university weren’t manning barricades on behalf of academic freedom—no one wanted to be associated with supporting an activity that cost the life of a student—he was amused that the farther away from the campus the coverage developed, the more likely it was that people were taking sides. There were those who wanted him to be charged with a crime, even though no actual crime was committed, and there were those who claimed that it was a matter of survival and that in such circumstances everyone took his or her chances. Survival of the luckiest or strongest. And because of the absence of live specimens, there were those who doubted the insects existed and who believed that the government was covering up what really happened.

  Cody Boyd, who was still employed as Duncan’s assistant, found himself in a role he’d never intended to play as the supportive underling. Duncan reacted angrily when the dean had suggested he take the semester off, peremptorily removing Duncan’s class assignments. A meeting Monday would determine whether he would have access to his lab. This ate at him Saturday morning as he deleted messages from his cell phone and blocked persistent callers.

  Duncan was grateful that Boyd was stil
l on his side and agreed to meet him at a restaurant far enough from campus that he would be safe from prying eyes and microphones. Wearing cargo shorts, a collared short-sleeved Patagonia-shirt, ventilated hiking shoes with quarter socks and a Panama hat, he covered the three miles in forty-five minutes. Of course, several reporters were stationed outside his apartment building at the time and he was proud of the way he was able to leave through the back entrance with the reporters none the wiser. Even as he left the neighborhood he felt that surveillance of him would only increase and that he had to make decisions about whether to give in to their demands for interviews or figure out an escape plan.

  “You know, maybe the dean is right,” he said, as he and Boyd sat at a small, Formica table with retro vinyl chairs. “Maybe I should lay low for a semester, let things blow over. Or, better yet, continue my research. More than ever, I need to get back into the field. I need to collect live specimens, that’s really the next step. Whaddya think?”

  Duncan didn’t often ask advice from Boyd and the young man was nonplussed. He wasn’t certain if Duncan was speaking as his boss or his friend, or equal, the way he had when they were in the rainforest. He worked with middle-aged guys all the time but he didn’t hang with them.

  “You know, you’re probably right. I don’t see what you’ve got to gain by, you know, staying the course and all that. It’s not like you can hide from the media on campus.”

  Duncan smiled appreciatively.

  “Yeah, but I’ve got to have something to do or I’ll drive myself crazy. That’s why I’m thinking about going back.”

  Boyd nodded and buried his head in the menu.

  “You think it’s too soon?” Duncan asked.

  “I don’t know. I mean, yeah. It’s too soon. It would be like you’re insensitive to the situation.”

  Boyd felt a tightening in his throat, as if he’d said too much. He studied Duncan’s face for clues.

  “I was thinking about that myself, but I can’t just sit in my apartment all day watching talk shows, which by the way, suck really bad. I never realized how bad daytime TV is until this. Now, man, I’m beginning to think we’re a country of idiots.”

  “Did you get any advice from the university on how to handle all this? I mean, I thought they were in charge of media and stuff.”

  “Oh, they are, when they want to. It’s like everything else, when it’s easy everyone wants to play, when it’s hard you’re on your own. I don’t know why I’m surprised by that.”

  Duncan asked for tips on how to keep his phone from filling up with messages he didn’t want to listen to or read. Boyd suggested he buy a prepaid phone.

  “You could give the number to people you trust so at least you can talk to people on your terms. That’s what I’d do.”

  “What about this phone?”

  “Well, it’s a target. They’re not gonna stop and the beauty of a burn phone is that you can toss it anytime and get another one, all with different numbers.”

  “You know, I would never have thought of that myself,” Duncan said admiringly. “It’s almost devious.”

  Boyd grinned.

  As they left the restaurant and approached Boyd’s car, Duncan asked sheepishly, “Do you have time to help me buy this burn phone and set it up?”

  27

  AS DUNCAN FEARED and expected, the university offered a paid sabbatical for the semester and encouraged him to spend it elsewhere, which he’d already decided to do. Boyd set up Duncan’s cell phone so that calls from people on his contact list would be forwarded to his prepaid phone. For days he paged through the calls and messages on his original phone to gauge the level of interest. The volume picked up as soon as it was announced that he was taking a sabbatical, and then leveled off. It happened this way all week, with each new development resulting in a crescendo of calls that soon went pianissimo. One thing did pop up at mid-week, which appealed to his curiosity. He received several calls with the country code for Brazil. Since his voice mailbox was perpetually full, no messages were left.

  Then he got a call from university public affairs that was forwarded to his burn phone. It was Jacob Turley.

  “Dr. Duncan, I’m so glad I can reach you. How are you doing?”

  “I’m OK. How are things in public affairs?”

  “Still a madhouse, I’m sorry to say. I worked at newspapers before I came here and I gotta say I’ve lost respect for the media. Anyway, I’m calling because a lawyer in Brazil has been trying to reach you and I told him I’d let you know. It’s up to you if you want to call him back, but he said there was a person he’s representing that you may know who’s been charged with killing Carlos Johnson. It’s been in the news. I don’t know if you’re aware of it.”

  Duncan hesitated, his eyes on his muted TV. Glancing at the screen intermittently he wasn’t certain why he kept it on. Morbid curiosity perhaps. He paged down to the calls originating in Brazil. There were three, several hours apart. Turley passed on the lawyer’s name and number.

  “I told him it’s up to you if you want to call him back,” Turley said.

  28

  DUNCAN DEBATED WHETHER to return the lawyer’s call, but he realized he didn’t have a choice; he couldn’t abandon the one person who had been responsible for his survival. And there was no question that he had witnessed everything. Even so, when he reached the lawyer, Andre Montes, he was stunned to learn that Suarez was in custody. The lawyer explained that the arrest was based on news reports from the United States.

  “They have no actual evidence,” Montes said through a bad connection. “The authorities are simply reacting to publicity. In cases like this, they’ll pick a scapegoat just to make it look like they’re doing something.”

  “They do that here, too.”

  “Well, in Brazil it’s, ah, ah, what’s the word, its S-O-P. That’s a word, right? As you can tell, I’m still working on my English.”

  “You speak much better English than I speak Portuguese,” Duncan said.

  Montes explained that he had been appointed by the court to represent Suarez and that Suarez was just one of many indigent clients that he represented.

  “Usually, unless we get credible testimony, we take a plea. After reading about what’s being said in your country, someone like you could make a difference. You’re a scholar, a professor. An affidavit from you would carry weight,” Montes explained.

  While Montes described what he needed, Duncan’s mind wandered. He didn’t know why, but his mind flooded with images of his stay in Manaus, the heat, the humidity, the effort he had made to plan and launch the expedition that eventually resulted in Suarez’s arrest.

  “Of course, you should know, with my caseload, if there’s any way you can find a lawyer who can devote the time this young man deserves, I think he has a chance to avoid jail,” Montes said. “I have other clients who are in worse shape, who have been in jail and can’t get out. I have to make choices and what I see with this young man is that he needs someone who will be on top of his case and I’m afraid I’m not the one. Sorry, but that is the reality here.”

  Duncan promised to send an affidavit but after ending the conversation wondered whether it would do any good. What good was an affidavit without an attorney?

  29

  AT FIRST, HAVING a burn phone appealed to Duncan. It gave him a sense of control, but the more he thought about it, the more it made him feel like he was hiding, which he was. At the same time, he was looking for a way to escape the media attention. He was determined not to hole up in his apartment like a criminal. While reporters weren’t camped out on the front lawn, there was always someone standing in the shade of a nearby live oak with a camera. He could see them in the opening between the curtains. Definitely, he would leave town. There was no point in remaining. The university had closed the door on that by forcing him to take a sabbatical. Perhaps he’d go to Houston and lose himself in the anonymity of a big city. That would be a start, but he could quickly see that without mean
ingful work to do he’d be as bored in a high-rise as he would in his apartment.

  As soon as he’d resolved to leave the campus, and before he’d finished packing and rented a car, his thoughts returned to the conversation he’d had with Suarez’s attorney. He could not dismiss the feeling that he was at least partially responsible for the guide’s arrest and he knew that he couldn’t turn his back on him.

  The media had it all wrong, he thought, but it seemed whenever he tried to correct the record shouting matches erupted and the message was lost. He clearly wasn’t a media expert, and he was certainly not a legal expert, but he felt that somebody had to do something to help Antonio. Who besides himself could it be?

  The question lingered over him like a dark cloud. Everyone seemed quick to convict. The family wanted action. The university wanted it to go away. George Hamel was out there fanning flames. No one was helping.

  30

  “YOU KNOW, THAT sounds like a good plan, getting out of Dodge,” Cody Boyd said over lunch at a diner miles from campus. Boyd picked up his boss several blocks from his apartment.

  “Are they stalking you, still?” Boyd asked as they drove.

  “I can’t tell. I’m just being careful. If I was them I’d probably put somebody in the alley.”

  “You’d think that. Maybe they’re doing it and you don’t know it. Didja ever think they got cameras in trees and they control them remotely? Or drones? Seen any drones?”

  Duncan laughed.

  “It wouldn’t surprise me, but, you know, they’re getting everything from Hamel and now with the police arresting Antonio they’ve got a lot more to work with. Maybe they don’t need me anymore.”

  “As if.”

  “Yeah, that’s why I need to get away. Get some breathing room. Get ready for the next step.”

  Boyd was uncertain about what the next step would be, but when Duncan had a plan he generally let his assistant know because often it involved him. Secretly, Boyd hoped his boss was going to tell him that he would continue to be paid during his sabbatical.