Blood of the Wicked (21 page)

Chapter Thirty-seven

Ferraz called Silva to tell him about it. “He stuffed her in a culvert that runs under the road to Miracema,” the colonel said in a matter-of-fact voice.

“What makes you so sure the murderer was a ‘he’?”

“I’m getting to that. She could have been there forever, or at least until the rains came and they started looking for the blockage. As it is, we got lucky. The kid’s dog was attracted by the smell, went in there to sniff around and, when the dog wouldn’t come out, the kid went in after him. It’s a real mess, the corpse is. Scared the shit out of the kid.”

“When was this?”

“A little after four.”

Silva looked at his watch. “That was more than three hours ago. And you’re only telling me now?”

“That’s right. I’m only telling you now. It’s really none of your fucking business, and I’m only doing it out of professional courtesy. You want to hear the story, or not?”

“Cause of death?” Silva asked. He was damned if he was going to give Ferraz the satisfaction of provoking him into losing his temper.

There was a pause. Ferraz was taking his time in the telling, relishing every second of it. Silva heard the clink of ice cubes on the other end of the line, then the satisfied smack of the colonel’s lips.

“Somebody cut her throat,” he said at last. “Just like those two dykes.”

“And just like Pereira’s nine-year-old daughter.”

“Yeah. Funny you should mention that. Ironic, huh?”

Silva was surprised to hear Ferraz use the word, surprised that he even knew what it meant. “What do you mean by ‘ironic’?”

“We found a knife next to the body. Ishikawa says it’s probably the murder weapon, and guess whose fingerprints are all over it?”

Then it was Ferraz’s turn. Preliminary examination, he said, suggested that the victim had been raped. He related the discovery of the knife and revealed that Roberto Pereira’s fingerprints had been found on the handle. He concluded that Pereira had committed a sexual assault on the reporter, then murdered her to conceal his crime. When he’d finished speaking, a solemn-faced news anchor headlined the next story, some kind of political flap in Brasilia, and promised to be right back after the commercial break.

Silva picked up his cell phone and waited for it to ring, which it did, seconds later. “Well, that’s one down, no thanks to you or your people,” the director said, getting stuck into it immediately.

“He didn’t do it,” Silva said.

“What?”

“Roberto Pereira didn’t kill Vicenza Pelosi.”

“What makes you so damned sure?”

“For one thing, Pereira’s nine-year-old daughter was killed in precisely the same way. Her throat was slit from ear to ear, just like Vicenza’s. It’s like a signature. The same person killed them both.”

There was a stunned silence from Brasilia. Silva waited it out. Finally, the director said, “Maybe he did his own daughter to protect her from being raped.”

“No, Director. He didn’t.

“All right. All right. So if Pereira didn’t kill Vicenza, who did?”

“I’m working on that, Director.”

“Not fast enough to suit me. Remember that goddamned Nazi? That whatshisname? The one they call the ‘law-and-order deputado’?”

“Domingos Logullo?”

“Domingos Logullo,” Silva heard the director snap his fingers. “That’s him. He brought the whole business up not two hours ago in the Chamber of Deputies. Now it’s a game of political
futebol
and the opposing team is scoring points off of us like crazy.” The director was in rare form. He went on for another five minutes, made the usual blustering noises, and terminated the conversation as abruptly as ever by slamming down the receiver.

Silva stuck his forefinger into his ear, massaged the lobe, and swore that he wouldn’t take another telephone call that night. But he reversed himself, some three hours later, when Hector told him it was Luis Pillar, calling from Brasilia.

“I just heard Ferraz is telling people Roberto Pereira killed Vicenza Pelosi. That’s a bucket of shit.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you.”

That brought Pillar up short. After a moment of silence he said, “You are?”

“I am.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to talk on this line. Call me back on my cell phone.”

“Okay. Give me the number.”

Silva did. Pillar called back immediately.

“I’m not used to having cops agree with me,” he said.

“Well, this one does. Why are you so sure your friend Pereira didn’t do it?”

Pillar paused, thinking about it, then said, “Look, Roberto wasn’t an angel, okay? Maybe he did some bad things in his life—”

“Like killing Muniz’s son?”

Another pause.

“Maybe. I’m not sure, but maybe. I talked to him before I left for Brasilia. He didn’t actually admit to it, but . . .”

“But what?”

“Well, frankly, I didn’t give him a chance to. When he touched on the subject, I told him I really didn’t want to know.”

“So you think he did?”

“No, I think he might have, but I know for a fact that he wouldn’t have raped and killed Vicenza Pelosi. He was a good family man, loved his wife, had two kids he adored. Not in a million years would he do a thing like that. And besides . . .”

“Besides what?”

“Vicenza Pelosi was one of the few friends we’ve got. He liked her. We all did. What do you know that I don’t?”

“One more question. Who, other than Orlando Muniz, would have an interest in raiding your encampment?”

“Nobody. There’s no doubt in my mind that the murdering bastard is responsible for the massacre. Him and his goddamned capangas.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What? Why?”

“I’m going to tell you why, but I want you to keep it confidential. Will you do that?”

“You have my word. Anyone who really knows me will tell you it’s good.”

“All right, then, listen: Rolando Pereira, Roberto’s son, witnessed the murder of his father. I interviewed the boy. He saw one of the murderers grab Roberto’s wrist and do something with his hand. It’s my belief that what he saw was someone imprinting Roberto’s fingerprints on the murder weapon.”

“Jesus Christ. Can you prove it?”

“No, I can’t prove it. Now, think about it. What advantage would Muniz derive from murdering Vicenza Pelosi and going to all that trouble to blame the murder on Roberto Pereira?”

“Maybe to discredit him?”

“Why discredit him at all? All Muniz wanted to do was to get rid of him.”

“Hmm.”

“So that leads me to believe that what was made to look like an attack by Muniz and his capangas was, in reality, something else.”

“Which was?”

“An attempt to lay blame for the death of Vicenza.”

“I see. Go on.”

“So then I have to ask myself who would have had a reason to kill Vicenza and blame it on Muniz?”

“And you think you know?”

“Ah, yes, Senhor Pillar. I think I know. But I can’t prove it.”

“Who?”

Silva considered for a moment, and then decided to trust him.

“Colonel Emerson Ferraz.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s involved in some dirty business and Vicenza Pelosi found out about it.”

“How?”

“By interviewing a street kid.”

“That whatshisname? Edson? The one she mentioned a couple of times in her broadcasts? The one she asked to contact her?”

“Him. He
did
contact her. They spoke. Immediately after that, she was murdered.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

“Senhor Pillar? Are you there?”

“I’m here. So why trust me with all this?” Pillar asked suspiciously.

“Because I want your help. We’ve got no friends in this town, but you do, and I need to find that kid before Ferraz does.”

Another silence, and then, “All right, Chief Inspector, I’ll do what I can. What’s that boy’s full name?”

“Souza. Edson Souza. And I don’t want it known
why
we’re looking for him. All the rest of what I’ve just told you is confidential.”

“Understood. You think Ferraz killed Diana Poli too? Her and that girlfriend of hers?”

“Yes, I do.”

“The son of a bitch. If ever anybody deserved killing, it’s him.”

“There’s no death penalty in this country, Senhor Pillar.”

“For people like him, there should be.”

This time it was Silva who remained silent.

Chapter Thirty-eight

Methuselah was on the front porch with his head between his paws. When he saw them coming, he rose painfully to his feet and started to whine.

Arnaldo bent over to scratch his neck. The dog nuzzled his leg but the whining didn’t stop.

Hector rapped on the doorjamb, got no response, and opened the screen door.

The dog brushed by him, went to the naked body on the living room floor and began to lick at the blood that had pooled from a massive wound in the corpse’s neck.

Silva knelt down for a closer look. Arnaldo picked up the phone and started dialing. Hector took Methuselah by his collar and dragged him outside.

Father Brouwer’s eyelids and genitals, and the soles of his feet, showed circular burns, some mere blisters, others much worse. In some cases, the flesh was actually charred.

“Too big for cigarettes,” Hector said, coming back and squatting down next to his uncle.

“Yes,” Silva agreed. “Cigars.”

Arnaldo had the telephone against his ear. He put his hand over the mouthpiece and opened his mouth to say something, then dropped it again and spoke into the phone. “This is Agente Arnaldo Nunes, Federal Police. I’m calling to report a murder.”

There was a squeak of hinges. All three cops turned to look. Father Angelo was standing in the doorway, his eyes fixed on his old friend’s body.

Methuselah pushed past him and made a beeline for the blood, his tongue hanging out.

Hector headed the dog off and put him back on the porch.

Father Angelo walked forward until he reached the corpse and then dropped to his knees, as if he’d reached an altar.

For a while, no one spoke. Silva became aware of the distant chatter of a cicada, punctuated by the faint whining of the dog. He let a decent interval pass, and then cleared his throat.

“Father?”

The priest didn’t answer.

“Father Angelo?”

The old man raised his head and spat out a single word. “Ferraz.”

“Move away from him, Father,” Silva said. “There might be some trace evidence. We don’t want to contaminate it.”

Father Angelo got slowly to his feet, turned, and took two steps toward them. There were tears in his eyes. “A lifetime of service,” he said, “and this is the way he ends up. I should have . . .”

“Should have what?”

“Nothing, Chief Inspector, nothing. You must have questions for me. Go ahead and ask them.”

“Thank you, Father. Did you spend the night at home?”

“No. I spent the night at the league encampment. Ever since the massacre, Anton—” His voice caught in his throat. He cleared it and repeated the name, “Anton and I have been alternating, each of us staying there for twelve hours at a time.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“At around nine, last night. We always made it a point to have breakfast and dinner together. He came home, we dined, and I left.” He shook his head as if to clear it, looked again at the body, ran a hand over his bald spot.

“I always try to search for a meaning in things,” he said, “but this . . .”

His shook his head.

“You mentioned Ferraz,” Silva said.

The priest nodded. “Anton Brouwer, was my closest friend, Chief Inspector. We had no secrets from each other. I know about Ferraz’s activities, and I know about the conversation Anton had with you. Look at those burns. Look how he was killed. Tell me frankly, do you really believe that someone else could have done this?”

“No, Father, I don’t, but we have no proof, and without that . . .”

“Yes. I know. I know.”

“Do you have any idea what Ferraz might have been trying to learn?”

The old priest reached for his cigarettes, put one into his mouth, and lit it. “Do you?” he said.

“My guess is that Ferraz was trying to find Edson Souza. He probably thought your friend knew where he was hiding.”

“Perhaps. But if that was it, Anton didn’t tell them.”

“No?”

The old priest took another drag on his cigarette and reflexively looked around for a place to tip the ash. His gaze swept past, then returned to, the body of his dead companion. He sighed and flicked the ash directly onto the floor.

“No,” he said. “Because, if Anton had cracked under Ferraz’s torture, you would have found two bodies here instead of one.”

Chapter Thirty-nine

“We built this,” he said, rolling back the carpet that covered the entrance, “back in the days of the dictatorship. I told you we were tortured?”

“Yes, you did.”

Father Angelo set the carpet aside and dusted his hands. “We were fearful they might come again. We set to thinking about how we could escape them if they did.”

He inserted the tips of his fingers into a gap in the rough wooden flooring and started to pull, raising an oblong section about seventy-five centimeters long by fifty centimeters wide. “This was the solution. Anton’s idea, inspired by the hiding places built for English priests in the time of the Tudors.”

He set the section of floor aside, revealing a wooden ladder descending into a dark shaft. “We did all the work ourselves,” he continued. “It took us seven months. We kept the earth we’d removed in baskets and spread it around the garden during the night. Those baskets were heavy, to say the least. Fortunately, I was younger and stronger then.”

“Did you ever have occasion to use it?”

“Not until Edson came along.”

“Edson? Edson Souza? He’s down there?” Silva pointed at the shaft.

Father Angelo bent over and stuck his head into the hole.

“Yes,” he said. “Thanks to Anton, he’s still there. Come up, my boy. Come up and meet the people from the Federal Police.