Requiem for a Killer

by Paulo Levy

  The corpse had been sewn up perfectly with a thick needle and stiff fiber string, with a stitch every two or three centimeters. Two incisions descended from the collar bones, meeting at the sternum and from there continuing down in a single straight line, forming a “Y” that disappeared under the sheet and ended at the pubis. Beautiful work by a tailor for the dead.

  “So, is it him?” asked the inspector.

  “Hard to say. The last time I saw him we were kids.”

  Claudio began to study the features with the coldness of someone who’s analyzing a fish in a supermarket freezer.

  “The slant of the eyes, the nose…it could be, but…it’s hard to say.”

  Dornelas and Dulce waited for the final analysis patiently and in silence.

  “I haven’t seen him in a long time. He was really skinny when he was a boy. Now he’s fat, bloated. It could be, but I’m not sure, sir.”

  “It could be yes, or it could be no?”

  “It’s hard to say, I’m sorry.”

  “Okay,” murmured a discouraged Dornelas when he realized he was once again left empty-handed. “You tried and I thank you very much for that.”

  Realizing that the consultation had ended and everyone was getting ready to leave, Dulce faced the inspector. Her look demanded his attention.

  “Claudio, I need to talk to Dr. Dulce. Could you wait in the lobby? I won’t be a minute.”

  “No problem.”

  He left. As soon as they were alone – not counting the corpse on the metal slab - Dulce went up to him, ran her fingers down the lapel of his jacket, as if searching for a thread out of place and looked at him tenderly.

  “I’ve thought a lot about our conversation,” she said.

  Dornelas froze, his attention now fully focused on her. Dulce continued:

  “I agree to the conditions you suggested, the limits you set, that we only be friends. That doesn’t make me like you any less. But I want you to know that I think about you and that your friendship is very dear to me.”

  So as not to give a superficial answer and hurt her feelings, Dornelas took a deep breath, felt his feet growing roots in the floor and slowly let this information sink into his brain. Staring at each other, the silence seemed to Dulce to last an eternity.

  “Your friendship is very important to me too. Maybe I’ve reached an age where friendship is more important than marriage. But who knows, maybe we could nurture this a little and see where it leads.”

  Dornelas was surprised by his words as soon as they came out of his mouth, as if they had been said by someone else, not him. Dulce immediately lit up.

  “It’s a deal. I’ve got to tell you that I’m really happy with what you just said. Would it be pushing it to have dinner tonight?”

  ‘Right during the last chapter of the soap?’ thought Dornelas, with such intensity that it must have showed on his face because she immediately understood the reason for his hesitation.

  “At my house. I’ll cook and you watch the soap. What do you say?”

  “Tough to say no.”

  “Then it’s a date. I’ll expect you around, say eight, eight-thirty?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  “And please don’t fall asleep.”

  “I won’t.”

  She gave him another kiss on the cheek, sending him off down the corridor like a teenager, beet-red in embarrassment. He really would have preferred not to see Claudio right then. He didn’t want to have to give any explanations to him or to the impatient crowd still clamoring in the street.

  In order not to be cornered by the demonstrators, Dornelas decided to slip out the back door. With any luck nobody would notice them circling around the back of the parking lot to the side street where he had left his car. As he was going out the door, he heard someone yell:

  “Look, it’s the police inspector getting out the back.”

  He and Claudio speeded up. The crowd took a couple of seconds to realize that both of them were now running out of the building. They were precious seconds for Dornelas. It was either doing this or spending the whole day locked up in the morgue.

  They had cast the die.

  With the mob of women at their heels, they felt as if they were running for their lives. They had just enough time to get in the car, slam the doors, start the engine, hear a shoe slam against the back window and take off with tires squealing.

  There was total silence on the way back. Dornelas hoped the cameraman hadn’t caught the car speeding away on film, especially the plates. It would cause a public embarrassment he didn’t need. Claudio looked worried, something was eating at him. When they arrived at the precinct his friend opened up.

  “Sir, I remembered something about the Demon, from back in school.”

  “Shoot.”

  “I remember that he was always thirsty, he was drinking water all the time. The teacher used to say it was some kind of disease.”

  “That recollection helps more than you can imagine. Thank you.”

  Dornelas held out his hand and said:

  “Changing the subject a bit, are you going out fishing tomorrow?”

  Claudio returned his handshake.

  “I hadn’t planned to. But if you’d like to see if the anchovies are biting, we can try.”

  “What time?”

  “Seven at the pier?”

  “Done.”

  Claudio turned around and left.

  *

  When he entered the precinct Marilda handed him a piece of paper. Flavia had called. He took his cell phone out of his pocket and saw he’d missed a call from an unknown number. He probably received it when he was at the morgue, either when he was trying to get in or trying to get out. He went straight to his office and closed the door. A light knock and Solano’s head popped in.

  “You wanted to talk to me, sir?”

  “I still do. In five minutes, okay? I’ve got to make a call. I’ll call you.”

  Solano pulled his head back like a turtle and closed the door. Dornelas picked up the phone and dialed Flavia’s number.

  “Hello, Joaquim.”

  His ex-wife’s voice sounded cold and distant, as if it were coming from one of the Earth’s poles. On hearing her say his name Dornelas felt a kind of chill run down his spine. He took it as a sign that he had better manage this conversation with caution. He sat up in his chair and began, measuring his words.

  “Good morning, Flavia.”

  “You called me.”

  “I did. You had just left to take the kids to school.”

  “What do you want?”

  From the flat and overly business-like tone of her voice, Dornelas realized that Flavia was hiding behind a barrel of gunpowder with the fuse within easy reach. One wrong word and she would light it and this conversation would go up in smoke. The situation demanded the skill of a bomb squad negotiator dealing with a murderous terrorist.

  “I wanted to know if there’s any chance the kids could spend the weekend here with me,” he responded in a clearly sotto voce tone.

  “So you’re going to stand them up?”

  She had lit the match.

  “Not exactly,” he said, knowing it was exactly that. Dornelas could see the match getting closer to the fuse. He had to gain time, make her change her mind. “I’m in the middle of a complicated investigation. The press is all over the police. You know what it’s like.”

  “I saw you on TV pulling a dead body out of the bay. Quite a scene.”

  “So there you have it, that’s the case I’m working on. I can’t leave now. We have a press conference in a couple of hours and God knows how that’s going to go.”

  “I understand.”

  He felt relieved. The match had been put out.

  “But my answer is no.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “No; it’s that simple. I will not allow our children, our very young children, to get on a bus by themselves.”

  “But what’s the problem? All you have
to do is put them on it with an authorization to travel alone to see their dad and I’ll pick them up at the bus station three hours later.”

  “That’s exactly the problem. The bus makes two stops over those three hours, people get off, they go to the bathroom, go shopping, get back on and if they don’t get back on they’re left behind. Don’t forget that our children are still country bumpkins. They grew up in that little town of yours and haven’t been living in Rio all that long. They’re still lost here. Maybe one day in the future they’ll be able to make the trip. Maybe the best thing now would be for one of us to go with them the first time. But right now, at this moment, my answer is no.”

  Dornelas knew deep down that she was right and that he had no choice but to agree.

  “I understand,” he said with a deep sigh, crushed because he was going to have to let down his kids. “What time do they get home from school?”

  “Twelve-thirty.”

  “Are they going to have lunch with you there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. I’ll call them at lunchtime.”

  As if he hadn’t suffered enough already, Flavia came back with:

  “That job of yours is hell, Joaquim. It’s one thing for you to hurt me, to never be home, to put your work ahead of our marriage. But it’s another thing entirely to hurt our children. You know how upset they’re going to be when they find out you can’t come.”

  “I know. We’ll talk about it later, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “A kiss.”

  “Same.”

  He hung up, and with the end of the call the guilt he had felt while talking to his ex-wife disappeared. Inexplicably a new feeling of relief suddenly came over him. Dornelas discovered that the separation had launched him on a personal journey, along a new and unexplored path, one that didn’t exist before and that wouldn’t be there under any other circumstances. A path all to himself, one which would demand tremendous sacrifices like the one he was facing now: being forced to distance himself even further from his children.

  Life was testing him. He felt proud of himself for noticing.

  It shocked him, however, that to recognize his state of mind it had been necessary to break a promise to his children and argue with his ex-wife. In a strange way, the current investigation – part of the job Flavia so criticized – was what was helping him to keep going.

  He thought about how difficult it would be to try to explain all this to her. And even if he could, he wouldn’t. Not anymore. Flavia had moved on and left him behind and by so doing had somehow freed him from something that had been confining his very being. Dornelas felt in control of himself again. He felt relieved that it had not been his decision that had left him far away from his children. But he’d be in seventh heaven if they were closer.

  Resigned to what was, he left his office and went straight to that of his closest subordinate. Solano was working on his computer when his boss stopped in the doorway and asked:

  “Can you talk now?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “How about some coffee?”

  The detective nodded and followed Dornelas to the lunchroom. The inspector made two cups of coffee, leaned back on the sink and in half an hour filled him in on where the investigation was: his talks with Maria das Graças, Luis Augusto and Marina Rivera; the brick thrown through his window; the coming press conference with Amarildo Bustamante; the Nildo Borges connection and his confusion about it; the fact that Claudio was not able to identify White Powder Joe at the morgue; and the visit to Peixe Dourado scheduled for that afternoon.

  “I’d like you to come with me. What with Peixoto on maternity leave and the pressure from the press, I haven’t been able to go over the case with anyone else.”

  “Okay, sir.”

  “Where are Lotufo and Caparrós?”

  “Lotufo’s working on the case of that guy who mowed down his wife’s lover. And Caparrós is in the field returning a car that was stolen two weeks ago and found yesterday to its owner.”

  ‘Pure grunt work,’ thought Dornelas, head down.

  “Sir, I know it’s none of my business, but is everything all right?”

  “Family stuff. It’ll all work out.”

  “Let me know if I can do anything to help.”

  “Thanks.”

  Dornelas checked his watched. It was past noon. The press conference was scheduled for two o’clock at City Hall and he planned stop at home first to have something to eat, call his kids and take the dog out.”

  “Let’s meet here at three-thirty?” he asked.

  “I’ll be here,” replied Solano.

  The detective went back to his office and Dornelas went home. Out in the street the sun was scorching hot.

  *

  As he was entering his house he bumped into Neide at the door, purse under her arm, ready to leave.

  “Would you like me to make you something to eat before I go, sir?”

  When he thought of goró in this heat, he accepted.

  “A salad, please. Lettuce, tomatoes, carrots, and a handful of olives. And some of those little búfala mozzarella balls too, if there are any.”

  “Coming up.”

  Dornelas went right to the bathroom. A shower would improve his spirits, the ideal way to prepare for the talk with his children and for the press conference. He slowly started to get undressed, and when he got to his drawers, the phone rang.

  “Dad?”

  “Hey, dear, how are you?”

  “I’m good. How about you?”

  “I’m fine too... actually I’m sad because I won’t be able to spend the weekend with you guys.”

  “Mom told us.” There was no change in her voice as she imparted this information.

  “Are you good with that?”

  “Sure. No big deal.”

  “You’re not upset, not even a little?”

  “Not a bit. I understand your work, no kidding Dad.”

  Dornelas was surprised at his daughter’s maturity. He hadn’t expected such a grown-up attitude from a twelve year-old.

  “I’m sorry, dear. I’m working on a complicated case and I won’t be able to get out of town this weekend.”

  “I know. Relax.”

  “Really?”

  “For sure. Me and Luciano are fine here. You’ll come when you can, right?”

  “Right,” replied Dornelas, amazed.

  “Okay then, Dad, take care. I have a party tonight, at a friend from school’s house. Mom bought me a new dress, it’s like really beautiful.”

  “Have fun... just don’t get carried away, young lady.”

  With a daughter entering puberty, Dornelas couldn’t help playing the traditional but unpopular repressor role that most parents feel they have to once in a while.

  “Oh Dad, chill,” said an exasperated Roberta.

  “What about your brother, is he around?”

  “He’s on his way to soccer practice. Hey, hold on, he’s coming to talk to you. Big kiss, Dad. I love you.”

  “Me too, dear.”

  “Hi dad,” said Luciano, picking up the phone.

  “Hi buddy. How you doing?”

  “I’m on my way to soccer practice.”

  “Play hard.”

  “You bet.”

  “Forgive me again for not being able to spend the weekend with you. I spoke to your mother but we both think that it’s still not the time for you guys to travel by bus alone.”

  “I forgive you.”

  Luciano’s voice sounded peaceful in a way it hadn’t when they spoke the day before.

  “I love you, son.”

  “Me too, Dad. We’re buddies, right?”

  “Always.”

  “Okay then. Big kiss.”

  “You too.”

  They hung up. Dornelas got in the shower, his thoughts whirling around in his head. He could never have imagined that his two babies, aged ten and twelve, would be able to show so much maturity in such a short tim
e.

  A little over a month ago they were no more than two children hanging onto their mother’s apron strings. Although Dornelas lived with them, he was absent in spirit. And now, far away from him, in the big city, they were behaving like small adults, accepting and understanding their parents’ situation. ‘Maybe the separation has been good for all of us,’ he thought. It certainly taught them to fend for themselves, something that had happened much quicker than he could ever have expected. ‘Holding on to a loveless marriage was not such a good idea,’ he reflected.

  Without that necessary ingredient to pare the rough edges of day-to-day life, the marriage had turned into something sad and dreary, bureaucratic even. The suffering that had resulted contaminated the family like a disease that creeps up on you slowly, imperceptibly destroying the body’s defenses, a little every day. When he and Flavia realized what was happening, the situation was beyond repair.

  Fortunately there were signs that everyone was healing. The proof was only a long-distance call away. From what he had heard from his children, and from his conversation with Dulce, he was cheered to feel that the dark clouds that hung over his life were beginning to dissipate. His suffering was giving signs of coming to the end.

  He bathed happily, got dressed and went down to eat the salad Neide had left on the table. He ate it with gusto, took the dog out for a quick walk and left. The press conference was due to start in half an hour.

  Chapter 11

  After a succession of scandals involving over-billing, misappropriation of funds and payment of bribes – all duly reported by the media but that had led to not a single criminal behind bars – Palmyra’s mayor decreed, as soon as he took office, that he would keep one of his campaign promises: transferring City Hall from the Historical Center to the new part of the city.

  The objective of the move was to send a clear message to voters that the days of mismanaging public funds were over and done, left back in the old building. Time proved the contrary. The termites of public administration, impossible to eliminate, had already infiltrated the foundations of the new headquarters before the move even took place.