Requiem for a Killer (15 page)

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 time.

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

A
fter 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.

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.