by Paulo Levy
Although he hadn’t wanted to give it serious consideration up until now, he couldn’t completely disregard the hypothesis that the crime may have been committed by someone who had no connection to Palmyra’s drug trade, that the motive may have been as banal as the dumb crimes on television police series.
Going over the case chronologically, he asked himself about some of the things they didn’t know, pieces still missing from the puzzle: where did the criminals come from? Who owned the black pick-up truck that Luis Augusto saw driving past his house? If there was a one hour interval between the injection and the time of death, would it be correct to assume that they wouldn’t dump José dos Anjos on that little beach while he was still alive? And what did the criminals do during this one hour gap? Where had they waited? Most certainly hidden somewhere, in a garage or on a road or lane between Maria das Graças’ house and the beach.
It was a relatively short distance.
Leaving the island to then come back made no sense. The car would be easily identified as soon as it crossed the bridge over the canal, given that there were fanatic fishermen who spent the whole night on the bridge after needlefish. Most likely they had hidden on the poorer side of the island, in the middle of the slum, where the drug trafficking was heaviest and even the police were afraid to enter.
But he couldn’t ignore the fact that an imported pick-up truck would call a lot of attention in a slum. Unless, pondered Dornelas, the vehicle had remained on the island, was well-known in the neighborhood, and its rich owner lived around there. But who had a lot of money in a slum?
There was no doubt.
The fact that the murderer knew about José dos Anjos’ disease and used it to kill him puzzled him. Except for a few isolated cases, nobody recognizes a diabetic on the street since the disease is easily controlled with daily insulin shots, something that’s done at home as easy as swallowing a pill with a sip of water.
Why then wasn’t José dos Anjos killed with a gun or a knife? The simple fact that the murderer, or whoever ordered it, was familiar with the consequences of an insulin overdose by itself pointed to a sophistication uncommon among traffickers who usually resort to much cruder methods to eliminate their enemies.
But there was another issue that bothered him: the unfinished wall in Maria das Graças’ bedroom. Dornelas didn’t trust her statement that the work was done right after the crime. The light grey color of the dry cement between the bricks made him believe that the doorway had been closed and the wall erected longer ago. And if that were true, why had she lied in her statement?
“We’re almost there, sir,” announced Claudio, pointing to the horizon.
A triangular hillock with a band of grey rocks washed by the waves could be seen behind Poita Island. On the top of it was a little green tuft with a naked palm tree; Hunger Island.
“I’ll get the rods ready,” said Dornelas.
Claudio held the engine steady at 5 knots in the rough sea and got as close as possible to the steep wall on the opposite side of the island.
With fast-action equipment in his hands – a rod for a 25-pound line and a reel with a 100-meter line 0.40 millimeters in diameter – Dornelas cast a barbed mid-water artificial bait into the foam of the breaking waves and began quickly reeling it in, working the bait as if it were a small fish in flight.
Two, three, five tries and nothing.
Claudio skillfully maneuvered the boat in the waves that were trying to push it against the rock wall.
Dornelas dropped his rod on the floor of the boat and picked up another identical one, but with a different bait. He cast the Jumping Jig bait in the same place and a hard tug stretched the line with a buzz, bending the tip of the rod.
“Take it slow, sir,” said Claudio, taking the boat out of the surf and into the open sea.
“It’s a big one.”
A clean fight followed. The reel’s drag screeched at the fish’s first pull. Dornelas knew he would have to tire it before bringing it in close to the boat. To avoid the line snapping he had to first work the fish. He let out the drag a bit. By yanking and then loosening in an irregular “zigzag” pattern, the inspector tried to keep the line taut every time the fish tried to free itself from the bait.
After a while the sharp jerks were replaced by maintaining the line permanently and unyieldingly taut. When he saw signs that the fish was tiring Dornelas slowly lifted the rod and, without asking too much from the equipment, lowered the tip while reeling in the line, furiously spinning the spool.
A silver figure passed close to the boat. Sensing the excitement, Lupi got up with his front paws on the gunnel and started barking non-stop.
Dornelas carefully drew the fish next to the hull and leaned over the side. He grabbed it by the tail to pull it out of the water when a light went on in his brain and he just stood there, static, holding the fish by the tail for a few seconds, as if waiting for someone to take his picture.
When he realized what he was doing he quickly put the fish on the floor of the boat. The anchovy, with its big head, protruding jaw, wide mouth and sharp teeth struggled on the deck. Its bluish back and silver-colored flanks shone under the hot sun.
Being careful not to hurt the fish even further and add to its suffering, Dornelas took the needle-nose pliers that Claudio handed to him and skillfully removed the hook from the large bleeding mouth.
Without hesitating, Dornelas caught the anchovy by the tail with a quick move and threw it back into the ocean. Claudio was astonished by what his friend had just done.
“Why’d you do that, sir?”
“We have to go back.”
“But we just got here. That one was just the first.”
“I’m sorry, but we have to go back. I need to check something.”
His friend stood there paralyzed, his jaw hanging open.
“How many kilos do you think it weighed?” asked Dornelas.
“Four, five…I don’t know.”
“I’ll pay you the equivalent, plus the fuel.”
Not understanding what was going on, Claudio accelerated the boat, turned it around and pointed the bow back to Palmyra.
Chapter 14
The doorbell at the house next to Maria das Graças’ rang more than once before a woman appeared, muttering something as she wiped her hands on her apron.
“What do you want?”
“My name is Joaquim Dornelas, I’m a police inspector,” he said, showing the woman his badge through the bars on the gate.
She drew close to the badge and studied the policeman from head to toe: the running shoes, the shorts, the T-shirt. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“Please excuse me. It’s Saturday and I’ve been out fishing,” added the inspector.
The woman remained stock-still, racking her memory. Dornelas waited until he saw a small light go on in the woman’s eyes and she became immediately helpful.
“Inspector Dornelas! Now I remember. I saw you on TV dragging a body out of the bay. How brave, Inspector! What can I do for you?”
“Can I come in for a minute?”
From inside the house came a deep roar that sounded like a bear inside his cave.
“Who is it Matilde?”
“The Inspector,” she shouted from the garage.
Dornelas put his index finger on his lips, asking the woman to lower her voice. He didn’t want Maria das Graças to know he was there.
“I’m sorry. Please, come in.”
She opened the gate and he went in, following her down the driveway towards the car parked in the back, and came upon a man in boxer shorts, sleeveless undershirt and an open checkered bathrobe standing in the doorway. His big body, tall and wide, his tousled hair, his three-day beard, and the thick, black hair covering every visible inch of his skin gave him a truly fearsome look. A remarkable figure, superhuman, the lost link the archeologists had always searched for.
He scratched his balls with his left hand and stuck the other out to shake the inspector�
��s hand.
“So what do you want with us?”
Visibly intimidated by the caveman, and sorry he had kept ringing the doorbell, Dornelas held out his hand, scared the man might rip his arm off.
“I just want to take a peek over the wall at your neighbor Dona Maria das Graças’ house.”
“Are you up to some dirty stuff, Inspector?” asked Dona Matilde, raising her right hand as if she were going to slap him in the face.
Bigfoot gave a lewd grin and disappeared into the house.
“No, not at all. I need to check on something regarding her murdered brother. I’ll be gone in two minutes.”
“Then why don’t you go over there and ring the doorbell?”
“I don’t want her to know I’m here.”
Dona Matilde looked at him suspiciously. Her husband came back carrying a chair that in his hands looked like it was a child’s, and put it on the ground against the wall.
“Thank you.”
Dornelas took off his shoes and under the woman’s stern look got up on the chair. His suspicion was confirmed. The wall under Maria das Graças’ bedroom window had been coated with cement and plaster. Dark, damp spots indicated that the work had been done recently. It was only missing the spackling and a paint job to look exactly like the rest of the house. He got down.
“Thanks a lot.”
“That’s it?” asked the husband, clearly disappointed.
“That’s it. Like I said, I only needed to check something.”
Dona Matilde relaxed when she realized the inspector had no evil intentions.
“Would you like some coffee?” she asked.
“I’d love some.”
“Please come in,” said the man, standing aside for him to enter.
Contrary to what he was expecting, the bear cave was bright and pleasant. Everything was in its place, perfectly arranged, with no sign that a savage beast had raged out of control. Dornelas even caught the scent of pine, as if the house had been thoroughly cleaned just before his arrival. The only thing out of tune was one of the cushions on the couch in front of the TV, sunken by excess weight and overuse. It didn’t take much to guess that the man spent his days sitting there, because that’s where he went as soon as he stepped into the room.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” said Dona Matilde, disappearing into the kitchen.
“You have a very nice house,” Dornelas said to the husband.
“Thanks. Matilde takes good care of it.”
“And what do you do?”
“Nothing,” he said without hesitation. “I took disability retirement last year.”
“What did you do before?”
“Power line maintenance. I fell off a ladder and hurt my back. It still hurts a lot to walk.”
“Did you see or hear anything the night your neighbor’s brother was killed?”
“A hell of a racket in the middle of the night. I got out of bed to look out the window. I saw a car parked in front of her house. Then three men put what looked like her brother in the back.”
“A black pick-up truck?”
“That’s right.”
“Do you know who it belonged to?”
“Of course. Everybody on the island knows. It belongs to the Doorman, Monkey Island’s drug king. You know him?”
“No, but I know what he does to his enemies.”
“That’s right. I’ve done some installations near his house in the past.”
“What do you mean?”
“Hotwire power hook-ups. I’ve hooked up illegal power for lots of people in the city, especially here on the island, for ten, twenty bucks.”
“But didn’t you work for the company that supplies the power?”
“I did. But for what I made... besides, who’s man enough to deny a favor to friends of the Doorman? Poor people can do without food and are willing to drink dirty water, but they can’t do without their soap opera, sir.”
Silently Dornelas lamented the poverty, the slums, the lack of security throughout the city, and especially the drug business with its medieval system for controlling the distribution points. He felt helpless knowing that the police were way behind organized crime, and at the same time hated that there were cops involved in the dirty business from top to bottom.
“Let me ask you a more direct question, then: knowing the Doorman as you do, do you believe he killed Dona Maria das Graças’ brother?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It’s not his style... stuffing the guy in a car and killing him with an injection? No way. That only happens in the movies. The Doorman is pure evil, sir. If he doesn’t like a guy, he has him picked up and beaten in the public square and then parades the man, practically dead, back to the hole he lives in so everyone can see. Only then does he finish the guy off, shoots him in the face or turns on the microwave oven.”
‘Another suspicion confirmed’, Dornelas thought to himself.
Dona Matilde returned to the living room with a tray and two full cups of coffee.
“Sweetener or sugar, Inspector?”
“Sugar, please.”
She put in sugar and passed him the cup. She drank black coffee from the other.
“You don’t drink coffee?” the inspector asked the husband.
“I can’t. I have a sensitive stomach.”
‘At least this man is sensitive to something’, thought Dornelas, then drank the coffee, thanked his hosts and went out into the street.
*
“What time can we talk?” Dornelas asked Marina on his cell phone.
“In an hour. Is that okay?
“Yes. Where?”
“Have you had lunch?”
“No.”
“Are you going to?”
“With you.”
“Good. Come to my house, I’ll make some pasta. That way we can talk more comfortably. Do you have the address, sir?”
“Not sir, just Joaquim. And no, I don’t.”
He memorized the address Marina gave him.
“See you in a bit then.”
“See you.”
And they hung up. Dornelas went home. He needed a shower and some clean clothes.
*
When he knocked on the door it creaked open a few centimeters.
“Marina?”
He waited a bit. There was no answer. Hoping to hear some movement coming from inside he waited a few more seconds. Nothing. He cautiously opened the door a bit more and glanced around a part of the room. Nobody.
“Marina?”
He decided to go in.
Suspicious, Dornelas took a few steps into the house and heard a meow. A spotted cat emerged from behind the TV cabinet, its tail waving back and forth; a sure sign in cats that they’re upset.
It was a small and narrow two-story house: from the ample living room on the ground floor he could see a colorless patio in the back that occupied half of the long property. The glass door that led to it was open. Through it he saw very high walls and two birds chirping in a cage hanging on the wall. The other half of the property held an American-style kitchen.
Two steps from where he was a staircase led to the upper floor.
Not wanting to let his presence be known, he quickly closed the door without letting it creak. He didn’t want the cat to get out. He put his hand on his waist and regretted leaving his gun at home.
He took off his shoes and walked along the burnt cement floor in his socks towards the kitchen. He stopped next to the dining room table, listened carefully and heard the sound of water coming from upstairs, the shower maybe. He decided that Marina, not wanting to keep him waiting outside, had left the door ajar. He relaxed.
He pulled up a chair and sat down. She’d taken the time to set the table. A pot bubbled on the stove. He was sorry he hadn’t brought a gift, purely out of good manners.
The birds were chirping in the cage, the cat was purring and rubbing up against his shins. The sound of the shower continued and
began to bother him. He decided to check it out. He got up and stopped at the foot of the stairs.
“Marina?”
No answer. He decided to go up.
Staying near the wall, holding on to the handrail, Dornelas went up slowly, trying unsuccessfully to prevent the old wooden stairs from creaking. He stepped in something wet and saw splatters of something on some of the stairs. Like an animal stalking its prey, he opened his eyes wide and pricked up his ears as he cautiously advanced.
He reached the upper floor where the staircase ended in a small hall with only one door open, a bedroom. Sneaking carefully forward, his field of vision widened as he entered the room. He realized the shower was still running, and that puzzled him.
“Marina?” he repeated, this time more loudly.
There was no answer.
From the doorway he saw a spacious room, the same size as the living room, decorated in Spartan fashion: a bed, clothes thrown on an antique chair, a night table and lamp and a few books. Across the room, a row of closets, a few pictures on the walls and nothing else. He looked towards the bathroom and saw two bare legs on the floor; they were moving. He rushed in.
Marina was lying on the cold floor, sopping wet and completely naked, her eyes wide open staring at the ceiling, her tongue sticking out of her mouth, her arms motionless alongside her body and both legs twitching. On her neck the mark of a thick and uniform bruise going all the way around.
Dornelas immediately placed his fingers lightly on one of her carotid arteries for a few seconds. Her irregular pulse made him anxious. He turned off the shower and then ran to the bedroom, yanked the bedspread off the bed and went back to cover her. Being warm would help. Her wide, staring doll-like eyes frightened him.
With no way to know how serious her condition was, he called the emergency ambulance service, identified himself and requested that one be sent urgently. He went back to the bathroom, knelt down beside her and while maintaining light pressure on the carotid called the precinct and spoke to Solano.
“Marina Rivera’s been strangled.”