Requiem for a Killer

by Paulo Levy

  Dornelas came through the entrance gate fifteen minutes before the press conference was to begin. The hot sun made the air oppressive. The Brazilian, state and city flags hung from poles stuck in the ground in front of the big, two-story building recently painted an immaculate white. The intention was clear: to hide the stains on City Hall’s reputation.

  Reporters, photographers and cameramen were smoking outside. When they saw the inspector arrive there was a collective dropping and stamping out of the cigarette butts as they all began running in his direction.

  “Only at the press conference, I’m sorry,” Dornelas said before being hit by a burst of questions.

  “But Inspector, was the body really a drug dealer’s?” insisted a skinny reporter with a microphone in his hand. A prim little man, his small black eyes and tuft of hair parted in the middle gave him the appearance of a little Chinese dog, servile and irritating, just like one Dornelas had seen being obedience trained on a TV program.

  “I’m sorry. You really will have to wait for the press conference.”

  And he went through the door to be met by a breath of fresh air. Much to his relief, the City Hall air-conditioning was working full blast.

  He identified himself at the reception desk and was directed to the last door on the right, at the end of the hall. The press people were leaning against the walls on both sides. Dornelas was reminded of a game called “Polish Corridor” he and his cousins used to play at their grandfather’s house as children. They would draw straws and the loser was pummeled with pillows and kicks in the ass while running down the corridor formed by two lines of children. Dornelas used to have a lot of fun playing that game.

  He entered the room and right away saw his boss standing next to the table on the dais.

  “Good afternoon, Joaquim,” said Amarildo.

  “Good afternoon. Where do you want me to stay? What do you want me to do?”

  As soon as he asked, Dornelas saw a little plaque with his name on it on the table, next to the boss’s.

  “I want you to sit next to me. You’re going to be my support in case some smart-ass reporter tries to trip me up with details I know nothing about.”

  “Okay,” he agreed, proud of the respect and confidence his boss had in him.

  “You were going to tell me if your friend identified the body.”

  His satisfaction was short-lived.

  “I’m sorry, but unfortunately, no. Not directly, at least.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “My friend hasn’t seen José dos Anjos in over twenty years. When he saw the body he couldn’t be sure it was his former classmate. A face can change a lot over that much time. But he remembered the boy was always thirsty. The teacher called it a disease.

  “Diabetes,” Amarildo summed up.

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, that’s something. Although it’s still not the definite proof we need.”

  “I agree. Even so, I think it’s better we don’t give the name out to the press yet, however improbable it may be that Palmyra has two powerful drug dealers who suffer from diabetes.”

  “Improbable, but not impossible,” pondered the boss. “But I agree with you. Let’s keep the name under wraps until we’re absolutely sure.”

  Dornelas nodded at the same time the Secretary of Public Security’s chief of staff interrupted.

  “Dr. Amarildo, Inspector, shall we begin?” she said.

  “It’s up to you,” the boss replied.

  Palmyra’s Secretary of Security, the Regional Commander of the Military Police, the coordinator of the Organized Crime Combat Group, Amarildo and Dornelas, both of the Civil Police, as well as the Municipal District Attorney, in that order, sat in the chairs behind the name plates in case some uninformed journalist didn’t know who to direct his questions to.

  Several microphones were lined up like famished serpents on the table, their tangled wires hanging over the edge.

  When they noticed the authorities starting to move, the reporters ran to take their places and the cameramen turned on their cameras in the back of the room while the photographers took up the small amphitheater’s first row. In a few minutes the room was full, with people sitting on the floor and leaning against the walls, giving the event an importance that Dornelas would never have imagined.

  The case had definitely stirred up public opinion, thanks in part to a large dose of exaggeration. This would not be the first, nor would it be the last drug dealer found dead, but because the press was in short supply of shocking stories the Mangrove Crime became the perfect case to satiate readers’ avid appetite for fresh blood.

  The Secretary of Public Security picked up the only microphone resting on a small pedestal while the room filled with absolute silence.

  “Good afternoon ladies and gentlemen. My name is Rodney Silvestre, I’m the Secretary of Public Security of the city of Palmyra. I thank you all for coming today.”

  The man uncapped one of the bottles of water on the table, poured some into a glass and took a couple of sips. He cleared his throat.

  “Excuse me. We called this press conference for the purpose of providing more facts regarding the crime, a crime committed at one of the best known places in our city.”

  ‘So that’s the reason for this circus’, thought Dornelas. ‘Because the body was found at the site of the city’s picture postcard, the photo that makes Palmyra a well-known and sought after tourist destination all over the world: the sea, the pier, Santa Teresa church, the market, the imperial palms, the mountains in the background.’

  To avoid scaring off the tourists – the geese that laid the city’s golden eggs – City Hall needed to send a signal to public opinion, both Brazilian and international, that drug trafficking in the city was under control and that this crime was an isolated case, an unfortunate and unique event. A body in the mangrove was no more than collateral damage.

  “That is why,” continued the public servant, “we have summoned here the appropriate city authorities to give all of you more information.”

  After each authority had stated his position on the case, a succession of questions was fired at each one. The answers provided nothing new. The show went on and Dornelas remained quiet, waiting for instructions from Amarildo should he be needed. A girl in a tight suit was in charge of taking the microphone to the journalists. The little Chinese dog raised his hand. The girl went to him and he grabbed the microphone.

  “This is a question for Inspector Joaquim Dornelas.”

  Caught by surprise, Dornelas sat up in his chair.

  “Inspector, can you confirm that the body found in the mangrove was White Powder Joe, or better, José Aristodemo dos Anjos?” he asked while reading from a piece of paper on his lap.

  Amarildo Bustamente opened his eyes wide and turned to Dornelas, who tried not to show surprise.

  “I cannot. We still don’t have a definite identification of the body.”

  “Does that mean it may be White Powder Joe?”

  ‘How I’d like his handler to give this dog a beating’, fumed Dornelas to himself.

  “It merely means we don’t know yet who he is,” replied the inspector in the hope of putting the issue to rest.

  The reporter lowered the microphone thoughtfully. He seemed satisfied. Amarildo relaxed. All of a sudden the little Chinese dog picked up the microphone again.

  “One more question, Inspector. Do you know who threw a brick through one of the windows in your house yet?”

  Amarildo was jolted in his chair and stared at Dornelas, who suddenly became livid. No doubt Dona Carmelina had been shooting off her mouth. An assault on a police inspector’s house was too interesting a story to keep secret.

  “Not yet. But we’re investigating to see if the assault is connected to the case.”

  “Thank you.”

  The girl took the microphone from the reporter and gave it to another one, who asked one of the other authorities a pointless question and received
a bureaucratic answer. And this went on until the end of the press conference. Visibly irritated, Amarildo called Dornelas over to a corner as soon as the room emptied and the buzz of conversation had died down.

  The inspector prepared himself to be severely rebuked.

  “How do you explain a reporter knowing the dead man’s identity if we didn’t give that information to the press?”

  Dornelas racked his brain, remembered the events of the day and had an epiphany. He told his boss about the visit to the morgue, the crowd outside, the press, the escape out the back door.

  “The only explanation is that this reporter was also covering the demonstration in front of the morgue and somehow got the information from a frightened employee.”

  “But if your friend didn’t identify the body, how could he?”

  “His name was on the report. It was just waiting for confirmation.”

  “I see.”

  “Or maybe,” Dornelas went on, “he has a connection to the same source Nildo Borges does.”

  “That seems more likely.”

  “I’m going to meet Nildo in a while. And I’m going to look deep into the source who gave him the information about White Powder Joe.”

  “Watch out for that guy.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “And why didn’t you tell me about the attack on your house?”

  “Dr. Amarildo, I didn’t have time,” he spurted out.

  “Joaquim, when it’s just the two of us, drop the ‘Doctor’, please.”

  Dornelas nodded and continued:

  “It happened last night, right after I got home, around seven. The brick came through one of the front windows and had a note wrapped around it with a piece of string.”

  The boss looked around and approached Dornelas conspiratorially, eager to hear more.

  “The note said: ‘Don’t go sticking your nose where it don’t belong’.”

  Amarildo slowly digested the phrase.

  “We’re meddling with a snake pit, Joaquim. There’s something much bigger hiding under this corpse,” said the boss in a fortune-teller’s voice. “Be careful.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “And please keep me informed of every step you take. The press is all over my back too.”

  They shook hands and went their separate ways. Dornelas left City Hall and went directly to the precinct. It was a quarter to four and he still needed to get Solano before going to Peixe Dourado.

  *

  When he got to the precinct Solano was already waiting next to the car with the key in his hand, as eager and courteous as a car salesman delivering a new car.

  “While I talk to Nildo Borges, try looking around, walk around a bit. Two pairs of eyes are better than one,” said the inspector as they got on the road that circled the bay. That’s where Peixe Dourado was located, outside the city.

  Solano nodded, silent and smiling because he knew exactly what he was supposed to do. Dornelas trusted him and he knew it.

  “Copy that, sir.”

  A brief silence and then the inspector said:

  “I don’t know what to expect at this meeting. I’m flying blind here.”

  The confession took Solano by surprise because it wasn’t like the inspector to open up this way.

  “Why do you say that, sir?”

  “Think about it. If Marina Rivera had told Nildo about our conversation, the councilman would have already disappeared by now with all the company’s records and anything else that could incriminate him, assuming there is anything. If she didn’t tell him, and Nildo is just playing the part of a helpful politician, maybe the incriminating documents are at the company. Again, if in fact they exist. Do you follow me?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “Good. And even if she hasn’t told him and the records do exist, we can’t get our hands on them without a warrant. And if we give him cause to suspect that we’re going to get a warrant for the company books, he’ll end up disappearing with them as soon as we’re out the door.”

  “I understand... but at the same time I don’t.”

  “What don’t you understand?”

  “So what are we looking for?”

  “We’re going to look for what he wants us to find, whatever that is. Depending on what it is, we’ll know how helpful he really is or if he’s hiding something.”

  “But why do you think these records, if they exist, are at the company? Why would he keep incriminating files or slush fund records in the company itself?”

  “It’s a good question for which I have a good answer: because Peixe Dourado is located far from the city, on the other side of the bay, on the open ocean side. In the event of any type of official inspection or search, escape would be quick and easy. It’s the safest place to keep the files. And if the company is involved in drug trafficking, it’s the perfect place, because I figure the payments to the fishermen are always made in cash as soon as the merchandise is handed over. Give-and-get, old friend.”

  “Makes sense. But where does White Powder Joe fit in?”

  “Hey, you’re really on the ball today, aren’t you!”

  Solano ignored the sarcasm because he knew the inspector’s poke at him was only evidence of an older brother type of friendship. And that pleased him.

  “White Powder Joe is the link between Peixe Dourado and the fishermen,” explained the inspector. “A respectable company like this one would never have one of its own employees deal with this, they’d get someone from the outside, a known dealer, so that if there was ever any trouble the company would be able to distance itself from it, claim it knew nothing about it.”

  Solano was impressed with his boss’s reasoning.

  “So that’s why I want you to look around very discreetly. I’m going to act like the Queen of England. You’ll be my eyes at this meeting.”

  “You got it.”

  Chapter 12

  The guard, impressed to see a police car arriving, pushed a button and opened the gate before the vehicle even stopped, as if by magic. Without asking to see any identification, the man told them to proceed directly to the reception desk.

  Dornelas parked the car in front of the main building, a ground floor construction made of concrete blocks painted white, with sliding glass windows, set above a small bay. A narrow paved road wound around the hill down to the sea connecting the headquarters to two other buildings: a similar one, half way up, and another much larger one, a kind of industrial hangar, from which a small pier protruded. Four fishing boats were moored to it.

  The inspector got out of the car and went crunching up the gravel path to the reception. Solano followed him. It was past four in the afternoon. The sun hadn’t let up all day. They walked through the glass door and were happy to be hit by the efficient air-conditioning.

  The receptionist was a wizened woman wearing a bright yellow pants suit, her hair in a bun and too much makeup. While she talked into a little earphone, her fingers flew over the keys of some machine hidden behind the counter that she used to answer and redirect calls with incredible efficiency. Dornelas imagined her standing up in the aisle of a commercial flight giving passengers instructions with a life vest around her neck.

  “Can I help you?” asked the telephone operator as soon as there was a lull in the phone calls.

  “We have a meeting with Mr. Nildo Borges. I’m Inspector Joaquim Dornelas and this is Detective Vladimir Solano. We’re a bit late.”

  She was not impressed.

  “One second. I’ll announce you. Please, sit down,” she said, pointing to three low, soft-looking armchairs surrounding a small coffee table with old magazines on it.

  “Thank you.”

  They both sat down.

  Before they had time to choose a magazine the flight attendant came to take them to a conference room next to the reception area. As soon as they sat down and the woman had left, an impeccably dressed serving maid appeared with a tray, two cups of coffee and two glasses of ice water.
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br />   “Thank you,” they said in unison before the maid left, gently closing the door behind her.

  It didn’t take long before Nildo Borges burst into the room, almost yanking the door off its hinges.

  “My dear Inspector Joaquim Dornelas.” He stuck his hand across the table; it was promptly shaken as soon as the inspector got up, with Solano following suit.

  “Good afternoon, Councilman. Sorry we’re late. We had a press conference at City Hall that went longer than expected.”

  “Not Councilman. Here I’m just Nildo.”

  “So be it,” replied Dornelas. This is Vladimir Solano. He works with me.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  Solano and Nildo shook hands. Everyone sat down.

  “I watched the press conference on TV. From what I saw the investigation is going sideways, isn’t it Inspector?” asked Nildo with open sarcasm.

  “Not at all,” retorted Dornelas.

  “Then you must know things I don’t.”

  “The same way I don’t know anything about what happens in the City Council.”

  “True, true,” said Nildo, with a treacherous expression like that of a reptile. He took a drink of water and sipped his coffee.

  Dornelas noticed that Nildo Borges was not his normal self. Something about him was out of place, out of balance. And it wasn’t the lack of a tie and jacket, nor his hair, usually combed and gelled, now unkempt and disheveled, giving him the shaggy look of a sea dragon just up for air. It wasn’t that, it was something much deeper, below the surface, something Dornelas wasn’t able to identify and that bothered him. Then again, maybe this was the real Nildo Borges and not the other one, the elegant, well-dressed man he’d met at the City Council.

  “But let’s make the best of your visit, Inspector. I have a lot to show you about how this business works.”

  “It will be a pleasure.”

  The three of them got up, left the building and got in an electric cart, the kind used by lazy golfers. Nildo drove with Dornelas next to him and Solano in the back.