Requiem for a Killer (27 page)

“After I went in I heard the noise of the
shower running. I went up the stairs, into the bedroom and then
into the bathroom and there she was under the shower, rinsing her
hair. She didn’t even see me come in. So I strangled the woman
right there. When I heard the knock on the door I remembered I
hadn’t locked it when I came in. I ran down the stairs and hid in
the pantry. That’s what saved me.”

The story matched exactly with what Dornelas
assumed had happened.

“And Nildo Borges, why kill him too?”

“Mr. Wilson’s a really complicated man, sir.
He never did anything right. His father thought he was a
good-for-nothing and only cared about his brother, gave him
everything. If it wasn’t for his mother, who’s old but still alive,
Wilson would be begging on the street. And to top it off, he’s
crazy jealous of his big shot politician brother, famous and
powerful.

Dornelas turned to Solano.

“Marina most likely told Nildo about his
brother’s involvement with drugs as soon as Wilson refused to get
out of the business. Nildo must have threatened him in some way,
maybe cutting off the money, I don’t know. Remind me to clear this
up with Nildo,” he asked Solano, who nodded.

“And what were you planning on doing after
killing Nildo Borges?”

“I was going to escape through the forest
and go back to Mr. Wilson’s house.” answered Teodósio with an
indifference that irritated Dornelas.

“Did you expect the cops to be at the
funeral?” asked the inspector.

“No sir.”

Dornelas felt proud for having trusted his
intuition. It turned out to be the decisive move in closing the
case within the time limit he’d set for himself.

“One last question: why’d you do it, why’d
you kill those people and try to kill Councilman Nildo Borges?”

“Why, for the money of course, sir!”

Dornelas was amazed by the man’s
callousness. He felt like slugging him one right then and there.
But he was a lawman and he had a job to do.

“Okay, Teodósio,” said the inspector,
getting up from his chair, “we’ll keep our part of the bargain
regarding the plea agreement, but that doesn’t wipe out of the fact
that you committed three serious crimes. You’ll have to pay for
them.”

The man looked at him without a word. He
seemed calm. Dornelas offered him his hand and Téo shook it.

“Solano is going to take your confession.
Goodbye.”

“Goodbye, sir.”

Exhausted, Dornelas went to his office and
called Amarildo.

He told his boss about Teodósio’s testimony,
was congratulated, hung up and sat down. He opened the drawer,
unwrapped two chocolate squares and put them in his mouth, letting
them slowly melt. He was so tense and angry that he barely tasted
them. Now he had to wait for Caparrós and Lotufo to bring in Wilson
Borges for questioning, confront him face to face with the
caretaker, request a temporary arrest warrant and go through the
rest of the bureaucratic requirements until the investigation was
taken over by the district attorney.

His part was done, except for the Doorman’s
three men.

He felt discouraged when he realized he
didn’t have enough men, much less the heavy weapons needed, to go
into the slums on Monkey Island after three men who he couldn’t
identify. In order to uncover and eliminate the drug syndicate that
he, Dornelas, had only just scratched the surface of, and maybe
arrest the Doorman, he would need the help of the Military Police,
not to mention the Federal Police.

That was the only way to get to the bottom
of this crime once and for all.

But was there a political willingness to do
it?

From this point on it was up to the boss.
Amarildo was the expert in dealing with the exasperatingly slow
procedures and frustrating politics that were the rule within the
State Secretariat of Public Security. He’d take it up with him
later.

In any case, Dornelas, knowing all too well
how the wheels of power turned in the Brazilian public sector, was
already resigned to the fact that this would be just one more
unsolved murder on the Doorman’s résumé.

He picked up his cell from the desk and
called Dulce. She answered and he told her everything. He felt
relieved.

“I don’t know what time I’ll be getting out
of here,” he said. “If it’s not too late we can order a pizza from
my house.”

“That sounds good. Call me as soon as you’re
done.”

“Okay.”

“Kisses.”

“To you too.”

They hung up.

Dornelas leaned back in his chair and closed
his eyes. Inside he felt the energy and peace of mind that always
came when a case was closed. He was pleased that his intuition had
led him brilliantly through yet another web of truths and lies. But
he also thanked his luck, which had always been with him. He
thought of his children. If nothing got in the way, next weekend
would be spent entirely with them. He started to call them but
decided against it as soon as he reached for the phone. He’d call
them when he got home and had more time to talk with no
interruptions.

The phone rang. He picked it up right
away.

“Dornelas.”

“Inspector, Caparrós.”

“What’s up?”

“A disaster, sir.”

Dornelas sat straight up.

“What happened?”

“Wilson Borges... he’s dead.”

“What do you mean?”

“We got to Peixe Dourado but he’d already
left. The guard couldn’t tell us where he’d gone but said he was in
a big rush. We stopped at a Highway Patrol station where we were
told that a car on the way to Rio had a head-on collision with an
auto carrier truck. We just got here. It’s him all right. What’s
left of him is just mush, sir. His wallet was in the door and the
license plates match. The truck driver is alive but he’s
unconscious. According to witnesses in another car, Wilson was
driving like a maniac.

Dornelas said nothing, lost in thought,
immobile, the phone suspended in the air.
‘For sure Wilson
decided to run as soon as he found out that Teodósio had not only
failed to kill his brother, but that the cops had caught
him’
.

“Sir, are you still there?” asked Caparrós
on the other end of the line. Dornelas could hear the sound of the
voice buzzing from the phone, as if a gigantic mosquito had invaded
his office.

“So be it,” replied the inspector. “The man
dug his own grave. It’s a Highway Patrol case now. Make sure the
paperwork gets here as fast as possible. I want to attach it
together with our investigation and get it off to the district
attorney ASAP.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Stay there as long as it takes. If anything
comes up, call me on my cell phone. Good night.”

“Good night, sir.”

They hung up. Dornelas was having trouble
figuring out his feelings. He certainly wouldn’t have had an easy
night facing Wilson Borges in an interrogation. But that was the
least of it. If that was the job, he’d do it like any other. But
one thing was for sure: Wilson’s death would spare Nildo from the
media, which now wouldn’t have a field day with stories about the
councilman’s brother being involved in trafficking drugs.
Initially, at least, the headline regarding Wilson’s death would be
reduced to an automobile accident.

Secretly, deep down he was glad the guy died
violently. He felt avenged for the brutality that had been meted
out to Marina Rivera, a young, beautiful, well-intentioned woman
with her whole life in front of her. That was the biggest injustice
in the whole case.

He got his things and went home.

*

He turned the key and found Lupi waiting
patiently for him. The couch in the living room was intact and
unsoiled.
‘Neide must have taken him out before she left’
,
he thought. He looked around after he had entered: the silence, the
dog, the tidy house. It didn’t make him feel sad; on the contrary,
he felt comforted. An aura of a new beginning hovered in the
air.

He went up to the children’s room, saw the
empty beds. He picked up the phone and called them. He got the
answering machine. He’d try again later. He was supposed to call
Dulce, but he’d do that later too. He wanted to take a shower and
enjoy the triumph of starting life anew on his own terms, at his
own pace, and in his own time.

He was thankful for the career he had
chosen. It was what had kept his mind sound during the most
difficult period of their separation, in the beginning, when Flavia
left him. To escape depression he had dived into his work. And it
was his work, the work Flavia so criticized, that saved him. If it
hadn’t been for the police he might never have gotten over the
emotional shock of abandonment and the devastation it had wreaked
on his life.

Deep down he realized that the Mangrove
Crime had been different from the others. Not that it had been
solved faster or slower, or that it had gone unsolved, but because,
for the first time in his career, his work and personal life had
walked hand-in-hand, without conflict, each part contributing to
feed what his soul most needed. Recognizing this gave him immense
satisfaction.

Dornelas went downstairs and poured himself
a shot of
cachaça
. He made a toast to Our Lady of Aparecida,
whose image he kept on top of the sideboard in the living room,
took a sip and went upstairs to the bedroom. He undressed slowly
and got into the shower with the glass in his hands.

He put it on the rack in the shower stall,
next to the bottle of shampoo. And when he put his hand on the
faucet to turn on the water he thought of José Aristodemo dos
Anjos, White Powder Joe, Dindinho, the beginning of it all.

It came to him that the police still didn’t
know the guy’s identity for sure. With no documentary or scientific
proof, neither Dornelas nor anyone else could say with absolute
certainty that the man was who everybody was saying he was.

In short, with the case practically solved
the police could not positively state who the body that Dornelas
had taken out of the bay belonged to.

But that was an issue he’d take up with
Dulce Neves tomorrow.

Author’s Notes

The Mangrove Crime came in to my mind during
a vacation in July, 2010. All the characters, without exception, as
well as their names, are part of the fertile land of fantasy and do
not, in any way, correspond to reality.

I am extremely grateful to the people who
actively collaborated, each one in their own way, so this book
could see the light of day. My brother Joca, the dear friends
Antonio Cabral and Guilherme Britto for their invaluable
contributions; Carminha Levy, for her wisdom; and a former Civil
Police professional for his orientation regarding police
procedures.

Keep in touch with the author

e-mail:
[email protected]

website:
http://www.paulolevy.com.br

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