by Paulo Levy
“I couldn’t make it to the hospital,” he said, shaking his lieutenant’s hand. “But while your son was being born White Powder Joe was dying in the canal. Life and death at the same time, eh? It got crazy around here.”
“Don’t worry about it, sir. And thanks for the flowers. My wife loved them.”
Dornelas was pleased that Marilda had done a good job. Whatever it was the receptionist had chosen and written on the note had gone over well. He would thank her later and that would be the end of it.
“I wasn’t able to come sooner because the baby had that skin thing,” added Peixoto.
“Jaundice?” completed Dornelas.
“That’s it. He had to stay under a light.”
“Phototherapy.”
And before Peixoto could turn it into a long story, Dornelas sat down and phoned Marilda to bring coffee and water for everybody. As soon as they were settled the inspector spread his hands on the table and said:
“Well boys, for those of you who aren’t familiar with the case, now would be the time to catch up.”
Along with the hot coffee and cold water Dornelas went over each and every step of the investigation so far; every doubt, every statement taken, every unanswered question, every nook and cranny looked into. But when he was finished, the expression on his subordinates’ faces showed they still didn’t understand why he had called the meeting in the first place.
“I want you all at the funeral today, in plainclothes, merely as observers. I don’t want anyone carrying a gun. We’ll be spread around the place and circulate with hidden radios – but no bullshitting among yourselves. Watch the people’s faces, their expressions and bearing, see if we come across anybody acting suspicious. I have a feeling the killer’s going to mix in with the crowd purely for the morbid pleasure of savoring the result of his work for the last time. I know it’s like looking for a flea in a bull’s tail, but I don’t think we can pass up the chance without giving it a shot.”
Dornelas took a sip of his coffee and went on:
“We have to keep in mind that it’s possible the two cases have no connection to each other, although I believe they’re both intimately linked. The impression I have is that Marina Rivera was very well liked in the city, especially in poor neighborhoods, and I believe this is going to help us get information about her killer. That’s why I’m suggesting we work backwards this time; let’s first go after who killed Marina. It may well lead us to White Powder Joe’s murderer, given that we’ve already clarified a lot of the details surrounding his death. Any questions?”
The detectives looked around at each other. Nobody answered.
“Great. If anybody needs to go home to change, go ahead. I’m going to the hospital to accompany the body to the cemetery. It would be good if you all did too. Okay?”
In unison they all agreed. Dornelas finished his water, got up and addressed Peixoto.
“Meanwhile, I want you to stay here and keep an eye on things at the precinct,” is what he said while thinking ‘this way he won’t get in the way’.
“Copy that, sir.”
One by one they got up as Dornelas added, “I don’t have to tell you that I don’t want anyone,” and he turned pointedly to his lieutenant, “absolutely no one, saying one word to the press. Are we understood?”
Nodding his head, Peixoto cringed like a dog with his tail between his legs. Dornelas went to his office while each of the others went his own way.
*
It was four-thirty when the inspector got to the hospital.
He decided to stay outside in the street and mingle with the other people while the funeral home employees prepared to place the coffin in the hearse that would take Marina Rivera’s mortal remains to the cemetery.
A crowd waited outside the hospital’s viewing hall, spread around the sidewalk and a good part of the street, making it impassable to traffic; a traffic cop had cordoned off the area with a row of rubber cones.
From his spot on the street, Dornelas could see Marina’s brother deep inside the hall helping to close the coffin. He looked drawn, his eyes red and hollowed. In his weakened state he appeared to be about to have an emotional breakdown. Nildo Borges stayed near him, as did two others who were crying – people Dornelas had glimpsed during his visit to Nildo’s cabinet in the City Council.
Six men lifted the coffin up by the handles and carried it outside to the hearse.
The inspector noticed he hadn’t seen Wilson Borges.
As soon as the vehicle started to move the crowd began the procession to the cemetery. Instead of using a siren to control traffic, the way it’s done in big cities, the driver played Mozart’s Requiem Mass in D Minor – chosen personally by Nildo Borges – on the speakers.
The distance from the hospital to the cemetery was relatively short. The multitude of people gave the ceremony an even greater magnitude. Under a metal-grey sky swallows flew in circles while the people swayed along behind the hearse, at times straying, whispering, lulled by the chords of the sorrowful and plaintive music; a torrential river of human lives.
‘The people really cared for this woman’, Dornelas decided, recognizing that of all those who were there, only one was a family member.
Trying not to get emotionally involved, Dornelas followed the slow procession on the outskirts of the crowd, looking to the sides and behind him, almost walking backwards against the flow. He saw Solano in the distance, on the other side of the mass of people. Lotufo followed further behind. Caparrós would be somewhere around, blending in, invisible in the middle of the crowd.
Sweeping his eyes over the sea of people, Dornelas saw Maria das Graças not too far off. She looked sad, her eyes bloodshot and looking at the ground. Touched, Dornelas approached her.
“Did you know her?” he asked.
“I did, really well,” answered Maria das Graças. “She used to visit our neighborhood all the time, she’d stop and talk to people on the street. Dona Marina was a really nice lady. She’s gonna be missed a whole lot.”
“I’m sure she is.”
Maria das Graças didn’t answer, just kept going, eyes still looking down. Not knowing whether to leave or say something, Dornelas decided to walk with her.
“What kind of work did she do?” he asked and immediately regretted it. He hadn’t meant to turn the funeral procession into an interrogation.
“Is this gonna show up in my testimony, Inspector?”
“Forgive me. It’s just that I didn’t have time to get to know Marina well enough to understand what it is she did. I got the impression that she was very involved with the community.”
With a hint of resentment, Maria das Graças stopped, lifted her eyes and stared at him for a few seconds. And then she decided to let herself go. She went up to Dornelas and took his arm. Now side by side, they continued walking.
“She was a wonderful woman. She didn’t have a man around to always be givin’ her a hard time, wantin’ to screw her all the time. She spent her time workin’ for the people, really workin’. If the city didn’t come collect the garbage all you hadda do was call her and she’d get after the company what was supposed to do it. Same thing if the gutter was clogged up. But where she really made a difference was in the schools. Marina believed the only thing could make this country better was education, if the people could read and write, think and decide for themselves.”
“What kind of work did she do?”
“She did all sortsa things. She made sure the Christmas baskets got to the families at Christmas and didn’t get lost, if you know what I mean. She even made some of the deliveries herself. Dona Marina was always in the schools with the teachers. The woman wanted to understand their problems, listen to their complaints, help ’em find solutions. She’d even deal sometimes with some of the parents.”
Dornelas thought about what Maria das Graças had said and decided to keep his mouth shut. The final strokes on Marina Rivera’s personality had been painted and he had nothing to ad
d. The inspector regretted not having known her better. Right or wrong, Marina had been coherent in what she said and did and had produced concrete results. She had truly changed people’s lives, and changed them for the better. Telling himself he wasn’t directly responsible for her death couldn’t stop an enormous weight from falling on his shoulders.
They continued on and reached the corner of the hospital on the way to Mangueiras Hill, above and behind the city, where the cemetery was located. From here Dornelas could already see the crumbling walls, the dead flowers, the dismantled crosses, the principal uphill cobblestone path that leads from the entrance gate to the top of the hill where stood the old house where autopsies used to be performed. Between the tombs eroded by time and abandon were many irregular narrow alleys of packed dirt, like tracks made by rats.
Perched on the hill, Mangueiras Cemetery offered a lovely view of Palmyra Bay; perhaps the most beautiful and certainly the least known. It would have made for an incredible postcard if it weren’t for the state of abandon and ruin it was in.
Passing by the Emergency Ward entrance, then past an inn and a forgotten alley, the crowd began shambling up the parallelepiped street lulled by the Lacrimosa movement of Mozart’s Requiem Mass. The mournful chords lent such gravity to the ceremony that the people seemed heavier, dragging themselves along, as if carrying a knapsack full of rocks uphill.
As the hearse approached the cemetery gate, it braked, the disorderly multitude halting behind it, as a sudden dry crack was heard, a shot. People threw themselves on the ground and began to scream. Maria das Graças did the same. Dornelas got down but only on his knees, head up. He was looking for the shooter or some sign of him.
He saw half a dozen people surrounding Nildo Borges, who was lying on the ground. He carefully snuck through the screaming crowd. As he got close to the councilman, who was now writhing on the ground, he saw that the shooter had aimed for the heart but had missed his target: Nildo’s right hand was squeezing a stain of blood on his left arm. The inspector got his cell phone and called for an ambulance.
When he saw that there wasn’t that much blood and that Nildo was talking to the people surrounding him, Dornelas concluded that the politician’s life was not in danger. Acting on instinct, he got up and started running away from the crowd, towards the entrance to the cemetary.
Over the sea of people Dornelas could see Solano running up the packed dirt alleyways, zigzagging between the tombs in pursuit of a man running away. Caparrós was doing the same on his right, next to the wall. Lotufo was a little farther behind.
Reacting contrary to what to him seemed obvious, that the shooter would try to escape through the opening in the high rear wall, right behind the old autopsy house, and from there into a dense forest, Dornelas decided to turn around, get out of the cemetery and follow along the outside of the wall. If the guy changed his mind and went for the neighboring open field, he’d have it covered.
Running uphill, panting and unarmed, Dornelas rounded the curve around the wall and came upon a rifle on the ground, no doubt the weapon used in the attempted murder. He took off his jacket and a calling card from his wallet and threw them both next to the gun. Maybe that way no one would touch it until the forensic lab people arrived.
Taking up the chase again, his illogical suspicion proved correct: the man had jumped over the wall further up the hill and was running through the open field with the three cops hard on his tail. Visibly tired and out of breath, Dornelas kept going. And then, worn out, he stopped. His detectives, besides being younger and much spryer than he, were closer. Let them make the arrest.
From what he could see, the man was unarmed because he was running through the cultivated lot with his arms swinging free and easy. The area had recently been expropriated by the city to become an extension of the old cemetery – it was the second phase of the project – because there was no more space available to bury the corpses except in special cases such as this one. The municipal burial service in Palmyra was in chaos, the result of indifferent politicians and people who insisted on dying. In a way Dornelas was grateful; the odds of catching a man in open ground were a lot better than in a forest.
It didn’t take long for his men to get their hands on the character who was just about to reach the heavy forestation on the other side of the property.
Wearing a loose shirt and old, torn pants, they quickly had the man handcuffed. Still panting and resting his hands on his knees, Dornelas was glad he had trusted his instincts; the decision to bring his team to the funeral had been the right one. He waited for his detectives to bring him closer.
“Good work, guys,” he said to his subordinates and then to the man, “And you, what’s your name?”
No answer. Like the inspector and his team, the shooter was out of breath and sweating profusely.
“I’m going to ask you once more. What’s your name?”
Dead silence.
“Very well. Take him to the precinct. But don’t start questioning him without me,” said Dornelas while trying to collect himself, tuck in his shirt, straighten his tie and pat down his mussed up hair. Even though physically exhausted he had an image to maintain; he was still a police inspector.
“Come with me,” he said to Caparrós.
They went down to where the rifle was. Dornelas put the card in his pocket and threw the jacket over his shoulder.
“Call the lab and don’t budge until they get here. I don’t want anything to touch that rifle, not even an ant.”
“Copy that, sir.”
The inspector went on his way. Caparrós took off his jacket and sat against the wall. The lab would take a while. He’d use the time to get his breath back and, who knows, take a little break.
*
Nildo Borges was fine. Wounded, but fine. Sitting in the back seat of the hearse he had bandaged his wound with a white handkerchief donated by a lady who had deserted the scene out of pure fear. The bullet had gone through his biceps without hitting the bone. His shirt was bloodstained down to his elbow. Augusto Rivera and some people Dornelas didn’t know were standing around him.
The music had been turned off and the funeral put on hold until further notice. Nobody knew exactly what to do. Dornelas went to talk to Nildo.
“I’ve already called an ambulance. How’s your arm?” he asked.
“It hurts a lot. Did you get him?” asked the councilman, who twisted around in his seat and bared his teeth like a baboon.
‘Yeah,” he mumbled. “Right now he’s being taken to the precinct.”
Augusto, pale and trembling, approached them and interrupted:
“Do you think this attack has anything to do with my sister’s murder?”
“It’s too soon to say,” replied Dornelas. “Are you going to go ahead with the burial?”
Marina’s brother was at a loss and looked over at Nildo, who replied with a “why not?” indicating that even injured, he was still in charge of the situation.
The councilman turned slowly to give instructions to the driver, a frightened young man who wouldn’t let go of the steering wheel. The boy opened the door and got out to go around to open the back. With help from Augusto, Dornelas and another four men who were standing around, the casket was slid out of the vehicle and carried up the hill.
The attack had scared off a lot of people. Those who stayed were just milling around. But as soon as the procession started up again, they all gathered behind the coffin and went on to the cemetery. From inside the hearse Nildo once again put on Mozart’s Requiem Mass in D Minor, backtracked the CD to the Lacrimosa movement and got out of the car to bury his friend, lover and chief of staff.
Chapter 18
After opening the door and entering the room with the suspect, Solano removed his handcuffs and politely asked him to sit in the only plastic chair, cold and hard, in front of a big mirror. Dornelas followed them in and sat in a more comfortable chair next to him. Seeing that the boss wanted to conduct the interrogation, Sol
ano made himself comfortable in the chair behind the table from where he could watch attentively and be able to assist the inspector if needed.
It was a small soundproof cubicle with a low ceiling and nothing on the walls, not even a light switch. Inside only the little table and the three chairs. The atmosphere in the room was purposely stifling, a physical setting planned to increase the man’s discomfort and feeling of impotence; he looked around nervously with a “get me out of here” expression stamped on his face.
“Before we begin it’s important that I inform you that this conversation is being filmed.” said Dornelas.
The man didn’t move, he didn’t even look around the room for the camera. Even if he had, he wouldn’t have found it. Anderson was handling the filming from the other side of the two-way mirror. Lotufo and Caparrós were also following the interrogation from there.
“Are you comfortable?” asked Dornelas pleasantly, opening with an attempt to establish a connection with the guy.
He got no response.
“Can you tell me your name?”
Silence.
“Alright. But you must have a name. I can’t talk to anybody who doesn’t have a name. How about João?”
The man looked at him.
“Right or wrong?”
“Teodósio,” he said, lowering his eyes to the floor, “but they call me Téo.”
“Great, Téo. You can relax. Don’t be afraid of us. We’re all good guys here.”
The man raised his face again and with a serious expression stared at him for a long time.
“I’m scared of the cops, sir.”
“I get that and I’m really sorry. But I promise you that in my precinct we don’t mistreat anyone.”
He looked down at feet again. Dornelas’ words clearly had not put him at ease.
“Let’s just have a pleasant chat. What do you say?” Dornelas leaned over in his chair, got closer and put a hand on Téo’s shoulder, causing him to quiver like a skittish pony. The objective of this approach was to try to establish a positive rapport thereby making it easier for him to open up to the police.