Blood of the Wicked

by Leighton Gage

  “Hey, hey, hey, where do you think you’re going?” he said, appearing from nowhere and blocking the doorway to Father Gaspar’s home.

  Silva waved his gold badge under the youngster’s nose. “Where’s the colonel?” he said.

  The rookie leaned forward, read the lettering around the seal of the republic, and addressed Silva with newfound respect. “Sorry, Chief Inspector, he’s not here. The senior man is Sergeant Menezes.”

  “And where is he?”

  “In Father Gaspar’s study, where the bodies are. If you gentlemen will follow me—”

  “We know where it is. Thanks.”

  Silva led the way down the hallway.

  “Where’s the fucking medical examiner?”

  The lisp was distinctive. It was the fat sergeant’s voice, coming from inside the room.

  “Just arrived,” Hector said as they entered. “We saw him outside, talking to the paramedics.”

  Sergeant Menezes turned to face the two federal cops. “You guys sure got here quick,” he said. He didn’t bother to introduce any of the other six men in the room, four of whom were in uniform and two of whom were not. One of the civilians was holding a digital camera. He gave Silva and Hector the once over, then went back to photographing the body of Euclides Garcia.

  Garcia was face-up on the carpet with a small hole in his forehead. Father Gaspar was slumped at his desk. There was an equally small wound in his temple and a pistol in his right hand. There was little bleeding in either case. The room still smelled of lilacs, strong enough, even, to conceal the smell of death.

  “Well, what a surprise,” Hector quipped. “They must have been killed by someone from out-of-town.”

  “How do you figure?” Sergeant Menezes said.

  “Neither one had his throat cut.”

  The sergeant frowned, maybe because he was puzzled, maybe because he was annoyed.

  “Looks like a .22,” Hector said.

  Menezes nodded.

  “Yeah, a .22. Just a little popgun. Hi, Doc. Glad you could finally make it.”

  This last, a weak attempt at humor, was directed to Ishikawa, who entered the room to a chorus of mumbled greetings. The medical examiner clucked his tongue a few times and squatted next to the body of Euclides.

  “Colonel left already?” Silva asked.

  “He didn’t come,” the sergeant said.

  “Didn’t come? But you said—”

  “It’s like this. I’m the senior man on duty tonight. A little after midnight, I got a call from the colonel. He said he got an anonymous tip that something had happened here. He said to check it out, and if there was really anything wrong to get in touch with you. As for him, he said, he’s going back to bed and doesn’t want to be disturbed before eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”

  “Doesn’t sound like him at all.”

  “Oh, yes it does. You don’t know the colonel. He keeps banker’s hours. Likes a good night’s sleep, the colonel does.”

  “I meant the part about calling me. He’s normally not so cordial.”

  “Oh. Well, I wouldn’t know about that. I just do what I’m told.”

  “How about Palmas? Where’s he?”

  “No idea, but you don’t often see him without the colonel. They’re like Siamese twins, those two. Anyway, I sent a patrol car over here. They found the house all lit up and the front door unlocked, but nobody was answering the bell. They tried calling on the phone. No answer. So I took a chance and authorized them to walk in. This”—he waved his arm, taking in both bodies—“is what they found. Murder and suicide. Pretty obvious.”

  “Not to me. Not yet,” Silva said.

  “Ah, but that’s because you don’t know,” the sergeant said smugly.

  “Don’t know what?”

  “About the note.”

  “What note?”

  The sergeant wouldn’t be hurried. He was enjoying the opportunity to show the big city boys a thing or two. “It was right here on the desk. I had my doubts at first. So what did I do? I went to that file cabinet over there and looked for samples of Father Gaspar’s handwriting. Then, I put them side-by-side with the note, and compared them. No doubt about it. A perfect match.”

  “So Gaspar wrote something. A suicide note?”

  “Not exactly,” the sergeant said. “Something better. Much better. He confessed.”

  “Confessed to what?”

  The sergeant dropped what he thought was his bombshell. “Killing the bishop,” he said.

  He was visibly disappointed when Silva showed no sign of surprise.

  “So he confessed to that, did he?”

  “Sure did. Turns out he was a pedophile. The bishop found out about it, and they killed him to make sure it didn’t come out.”

  “They being?”

  “Him and that guy on the floor over there. He was the one who actually pulled the trigger. It’s all in the confession. Want to read it?”

  “I sure as hell do. Where is it?”

  “I’ll get it.”

  Sergeant Menezes walked over to one of the crime-scene technicians, exchanged a few words, and came back with two plastic envelopes, a rose-colored page of stationery in each.

  “So I guess the colonel was right,” he said. “We didn’t need you guys after all.” He extended the envelopes to Silva. “Here. See for yourself.”

  Silva read both sides of the first sheet, passed it to Hector, and went on to read the other.

  The confession contained details that only the murderer would know. There was information about how and where the rifle had been purchased, and even the price that had been paid for it. It revealed that Euclides, during his military service, had been trained as a sniper. What it did not say was that the writer had decided to end it all, or that he’d intended to take his manservant with him. It was, most definitely, a confession but it wasn’t a suicide note.

  Silva walked over to Ishikawa, who was examining the wound in Father Gaspar’s temple. “Any preliminary conclusions, Doctor?”

  “Two cases of death by gunshot to the head, inflicted with a small bore weapon, consistent with that one there.” Ishikawa pointed to the semi-automatic pistol still clutched in Father Gaspar’s right hand. Then he pointed to the area around the wound. “Powder burns. The muzzle was right next to his head when the shot was fired. Probably a .22 caliber short. No exit wound on either body. The bullets are still inside their skulls.”

  Silva reached into his pocket, pulled out a pair of latex gloves and put them on. “You already photographed this?” he asked the crime scene technician, pointing at the hand clutching the gun.

  The man nodded.

  “You painted the skin for powder residue?”

  “Sim, senhor.”

  “And found it?”

  “Also.”

  “Good. May I touch this?” He pointed to the weapon. The crime scene technician looked to Sergeant Menezes.

  “Go ahead,” the sergeant said with a verbal shrug.

  Silva gently pried the weapon from Gaspar’s grip, removed the clip, ejected the round in the chamber and counted all of the cartridges. He came up two short of a full magazine.

  “You see,” Menezes said. “Two wounds, two dead men, two shots. Case closed.”

  “Excuse us for a moment, Sergeant.”

  Silva put pistol and clip on the desk and drew his nephew aside, out of earshot. “What do you think?” he said.

  “I don’t buy it,” Hector said. “A few hours ago Gaspar was denying everything. He knew damned well that we had no proof. Then he’s suddenly overcome by his conscience, kills his accomplice, and shoots himself? Not likely.”

  “No,” Silva said, “not likely at all. Conclusion?”

  “Someone else did it.”

  “And the powder residue on Gaspar’s hand, and the fact that there were only two shots fired?”

  “Everybody who watches television knows that a pistol shot leaves residue on the skin of the person who fired it. Wi
thout it, it’s not suicide. The killer would have wanted to make sure that Gaspar’s hand had the necessary traces of gunpowder.”

  “Good boy. So?”

  “The killer added another cartridge to the magazine after he shot them. Then he put the gun into Gaspar’s hand, and pushed his trigger finger to fire off a third shot. That way, Gaspar would test positive for the telltale powder residue, but there’d still only be two cartridges missing from the magazine.”

  “Take it a step further.”

  “Somewhere in this room there’s another bullet hole, and the bullet we dig out of it will have been fired from the same weapon.”

  “My thinking exactly,” Silva said. “Let’s find it.”

  Fifteen minutes later they did. It was in the wall, behind one of the curtains. Silva told the crime scene technician to remove the section of plaster and concrete, bullet and all.

  “We’ll want a ballistics comparison between the bullet in there and the ones that the M.E. is going to take out of the bodies.”

  “Of course. I understand.”

  The technicians had already discovered two empty shell casings. They now went on to search for a third, but they didn’t find it.

  “So three bullets and only two casings,” Hector said. “The murderer must have taken it.”

  A careful search of the remainder of the room turned up nothing more of interest except for a box of ammunition and some stains in Gaspar’s top right hand drawer.

  “.455 caliber,” Hector said, rolling one of the cartridges from the box between his thumb and forefinger. “Very unusual.”

  Hector was the expert on firearms. Guns were nothing more than a tool to Silva, but for his nephew they were a hobby as well.

  “What would they fit?”

  “Nothing I can think of other than a Webley.”

  “A what?”

  “A Webley. It’s a British service revolver. They were made by the thousands and used in the trenches during the First World War. These cartridges, though, aren’t antiques. Look, no corrosion. They’re recent reloads.”

  Hector put his nose close to the drawer and sniffed.

  “Nitro solvent,” he said, “and gun oil. Offhand, I’d say the revolver was kept here too. But, if it was, what happened to it?”

  “Maybe the killer took it,” Silva said.

  “Why would he?”

  “Maybe because he had to leave his .22 to make it look like a murder/suicide, and he needed another gun?”

  “For what?”

  “I wonder. . . .”

  Sergeant Menezes appeared at Silva’s elbow and interrupted his ruminations. “You guys are something else,” he lisped with admiration in his voice. “Without you, the son of a bitch would have gotten away with it. I wish I could be a fly on his wall when the colonel finds out we really needed you guys after all. He’s gonna be pissed.”

  The last word came out “pithd.” Menezes had come over to their side. His enthusiasm was beginning to carry him away.

  “Now, let’s go through it together, okay? The way I figure it, the same guy who killed Father Gaspar, and forced him to sign that bullshit confession, must have killed the bishop, too.”

  “That’s what you think, is it?” Silva said.

  The sergeant looked hurt. “Well . . . yeah, sure. Why else would he force Father Gaspar to slander himself?”

  “Libel himself,” Hector said.

  “Huh?”

  “Slander is spoken. Libel is written. It was a written confession, so if it wasn’t true it would be libel, not slander.”

  “If it wasn’t true? What do you mean by that?” Sergeant Menezes said indignantly. “It’s as plain as the nose on your face. You just got through proving it. He didn’t kill himself. Whoever forced him to write that confession did. Don’t tell me you believe any of that crap?”

  “As a matter of fact,” Silva said, “I do.”

  “That he had his manservant kill the bishop? Come on, Chief Inspector. He wouldn’t do anything like that. He was a priest, for Christ’s sake.”

  Chapter Forty-nine

  FOR THE SECOND TIME in seven hours, a ringing telephone jarred Silva awake. He rubbed his sticky eyes, put the receiver to his ear, and grunted.

  “Chief Inspector Silva?” Father Angelo’s distinctive rasp.

  Silva cleared the phlegm from his throat. “What can I do for you, Padre?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “About?”

  “I don’t want to discuss it over the phone. I’m leaving now to meet Orlando Muniz in the breakfast room of your hotel. How about nine o’clock, in the same place?”

  Silva glanced at the bedside clock, blinking to bring the numbers into focus. He’d have half an hour to get ready. He threw the sheet aside and put his feet on the floor.

  “All right. What do you want with Muniz?”

  “It’s a personal matter. Take a table. I’ll come to you when I’m done.”

  IN CASCATAS, things follow the rhythm of the countryside. Nine o’clock is late for a country breakfast, so most of the hotel’s guests had already gone about their business by the time Silva and his nephew arrived.

  Near one of the windows, a middle-aged couple was lingering over their coffee. Arnaldo, back from his trip to Riberão, had taken a place in the middle of the room. Orlando Muniz, seated alone and devouring an omelet, was in the far corner opposite the door. The couple ignored them. Arnaldo waved. Muniz stopped chewing just long enough to give them a hostile nod. The fazendeiro had brought two of his capangas. They were leaning against the wall near his table.

  “Good trip?” Hector said, slipping into a seat next to Arnaldo.

  Arnaldo nodded.

  “A little over seven hours, out and back,” he said, and bit into a pão francês heaped with guava jam.

  Silva gestured for the hovering waiter to pour him coffee. “Black,” he said.

  Arnaldo raised an eyebrow. Silva normally took his coffee with milk.

  “You look like hell,” Arnaldo said.

  “So do you.”

  “Yeah, but I look like hell all the time. Besides, I’ve been driving all night. What’s your excuse?”

  “Up most of the night.”

  “So what? I hear you old guys need less sleep.”

  Silva snorted. Arnaldo was only two years younger than he was and both of them knew it.

  “Gaspar and that guy Euclides are dead,” Hector said. “Shot. Both of them.”

  Arnaldo gave a low whistle. “Any suspects?”

  “Not yet,” Silva said and flicked his eyes in the fazen-deiro’s direction. “How long has he been in here?”

  “Not long. Maybe ten minutes.” Arnaldo popped the last morsel of bread into his mouth and washed it down with some café com leite. “He came over here before he sat down. Asked me what the hell I was doing here.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “That I was having breakfast, which happens to be the truth. So then I asked him what the hell he was doing here.”

  “And?”

  “He’s waiting for Father Angelo. Said the old guy called him. Told him he had information about his son’s murder. Wanted to meet him here,” Arnaldo glanced at his watch, “at nine. Yep, there he is. Only about five minutes late.”

  Silva looked over his shoulder.

  Angelo Monteiro, a lighted cigarette in hand, was standing in the doorway. He nodded and smiled at the three federal cops, then focused on Muniz.

  The capangas stopped leaning against the wall and moved a little closer to their boss. Muniz pointed at the chair in front of him. Father Angelo crossed the room and took it. For a long moment, the two men stared at each other. Then the priest deliberately reached across the table and ground out his cigarette in what remained of Muniz’s omelet.

  Muniz reddened and started to say something, but Father Angelo didn’t wait for him to finish. He leaned forward and spoke. The hand he’d been using to hold his cigarette left the table and crept
down to his lap.

  Suddenly, Muniz’s face contorted in fury. His hand, too, dropped out of sight. Less than a second later there was a sharp report.

  Father Angelo’s chair tipped over backward, spilling him onto the floor. He clapped his hands to his abdomen. Muniz’s hand came out from under the table, gripping a revolver. The fazendeiro sprang to his feet, put the still smoking muzzle up against the black fabric of the priest’s cassock and fired again.

  The sudden violence took all three of the federal cops by surprise.

  Arnaldo was the first to react.

  “Drop it,” he said, drawing his Glock.

  Both of Muniz’s capangas reached for their pistols.

  “Calma, garotos,” their boss snapped, dropping his revolver and raising his hands.

  The capangas froze, looking back and forth between Arnaldo and Muniz.

  “Calma, I said,” Muniz repeated. “Put the guns down.”

  The gunmen relaxed and lowered their weapons. It wasn’t enough for Arnaldo. He went up to each man, relieved them of their pistols, and patted them down. Muniz watched it all with a confident smile, a smile that didn’t change when Arnaldo went over and frisked him as well.

  “Clean,” Arnaldo said at last, and holstered his pistol.

  Silva went to the prostrate man, knelt and placed two fingertips on the carotid artery. Father Angelo’s skin was warm to the touch, but there was no pulse.

  The room was filling with people.

  Muniz took the opportunity to play to the crowd. “It was self-defense,” he said, raising his voice. “Self-defense. He had a gun under the table.”

  “There’s no gun, Senhor Muniz.”

  “What?”

  “There’s no gun,” Silva repeated.

  “No? Then what’s he got in his hand?”

  “A pack of cigarettes.”

  “Cigarettes?” Muniz said, mystified. “No. Look again. He said he was going to shoot me, said he had a gun.”

  “He said that, did he?”

  “You’re goddamned right he did.” Muniz’s surprise gave way to anger. “And that’s not all he said. He said he killed my boy. Junior may not have amounted to much, but he was mine. Was I supposed to just . . . why are you looking at me like that?”

  “You just murdered an unarmed man, Senhor Muniz.”