The Mystery of Rio (2 page)

Every predator's courage grows in inverse proportion to the fear exhibited by the prey. With the policeman it was no different. He thus leaped in pursuit of someone who could only be a grave robber.

There was no struggle, so to speak. Straight away, the officer arrested an old man dressed very plainly, with a large cloth sack worn bandolier-style across his chest.

“I came to do a job. It's for a private client. Don't ask me his name.”

At the Mauá Square police station, the seat of the First District (with jurisdiction over the port as well as northern downtown, from the old wharf of the Mineiros all the way to the Mangrove canal, near Formosa Beach), they found the following objects among the old man's possessions: shells, stones, tiny implements, wood chips, stubs of magic
pemba
chalk, tallow candles, macerated leaves, tiny vials with mysterious brews, cartridges of gunpowder, as well as other small things. They also found a bottle of cachaça and fragments of animal bone.

But what most surprised authorities were the gold pieces. Specifically, a pair of earrings in the shape of seahorses. The sergeant on duty, who earlier had received a description of Fortunata—brown-skinned, tall, approximately five feet six inches, wearing a turquoise taffeta dress and gold earrings shaped like seahorses—concluded that this could not be mere coincidence, and that those earrings had not long ago been on the ears of the woman they were pursuing.

“That's payment for my services.”

He was known to police, the old man was. He went only by Rufino, and he was reputed to be a great sorcerer. An old-time character in the city, he lived high in Santa Teresa, in a remote area where there were half a dozen shanties by the entrance to the forest, but he was frequently seen at Rosario Church, at the Pedra do Sal, at Lapa Square, and Misericodia Hill, where even the wealthy, in search of prayers, potions, and amulets, could find him. He rarely saw clients in the hills, except for serious cases, procedures that needed to be performed on the patient's actual body.

Word had it that he was over 100 and the owner of a vast buried treasure, although few gave credence to such legends. In fact, he was feared and respected, and his power derived from the odd trait that he had never told—and was, in fact, incapable of telling—a lie.

The sergeant, however, was the skeptical type. He wanted to know when and where Rufino had obtained jewelry belonging to a fugitive sought by a direct order of the chief of police.

“A man gave me this gold.”

It was not his answers that surprised the sergeant, but rather the solemn and reverential reaction of his subordinates.

“Believe him, chief. The old man doesn't lie.”

Rufino revealed that the earrings had belonged to the man who had hired him for the job, given to him in appreciation for his trips to the cemetery, and that this man would be visiting his home, high up in Santa Teresa, within two weeks' time, in order to complete the spell.

After wavering, the sergeant had him arrested until he had further word from his superiors, whom he had notified. The jewels were retained as material evidence in a possible crime tied to Fortunata—although he had no idea what she was actually wanted for.

The sorcerer objected, saying he was being robbed. Before he was led to his cell—escorted with great respect by the officers, who even went so far as to apologize—Rufino looked one of them in the face.

“If you ever need my help, sir, don't bother.”

The old man was brash.

 

Interestingly, the day after the murder, the obituaries reported that the death of the Secretary to the Presidency of the Republic was due to a case of sudden cardiac arrest.

No mention was made of murder or of the incident at the English Cemetery. No mention was made, either, of the searches in Conceição Hill, and the name of Fortunata was never brought up. Only one newspaper was more astute than the others and published a brief article that made reference to a “strange death,” “ignored circumstances” and “the silence of the authorities.” However, no further suspicions were raised.

Since this is a police narrative, it is important that the reader know exactly the way things transpired. Let us then go back to the night in question, so as to know the exact chronology of facts and to understand how such a scandalous tragedy could have been concealed from the public.

It is true that Dr. Zmuda's influence, because of his ties to people in power, was decisive in covering up the crime. The first measure he took, as soon as he confirmed the absence of breathing and a pulse, was to order that nothing be touched. He also instructed that no more clients be let in that night and that all the nurses remain in the oval parlor until further notice.

Fortunately, it was a Friday, a slow day. The Polish doctor said goodbye to the remaining clients, who did not suspect a thing, and a little after 8
p.m.
he telephoned the chief of police.

Since 1907, the chief of police of Rio de Janeiro was directly subordinate to the minister of justice, who appointed him. Below the chief of police there were three auxiliary chiefs, followed by, in decreasing hierarchical order according to rank and seniority
,
the district-wide captains and lieutenants—not to mention, of course, the officers.

In this instance, the chief of police might have had the backing of the minister, because certain actions needed to be taken immediately. Due to the case's political overtone, he did not allow an inquiry to be launched in São Cristovão, where the crime had occurred, and he assumed personal control over the investigation, arriving at the House of Swaps before 9:15
p.m
.

From there, on the telephone, after hearing a brief report of the incident and writing down a description of the suspect, he ordered the searches, which began around 9:30
p.m
.

Time was against the chief of police. He could not delay notifying the family for too long. But he did not want the relatives to see the body in that state, before the bruises could be hidden, especially around the neck.

On the other hand, an examination of the crime scene, even a cursory one, was essential. After all, there could be sinister motives behind the assassination, and extremely serious political implications. It was while in the throes of these thoughts that he asked the doctor, “Tell me something, Zmuda: which men from the department come here?”

The Polish doctor never gave out such information. He hesitated for a moment. In this situation, he could not withhold the information without putting his own position at risk. Not including those that went to the House infrequently, he replied, the following were regular clients: the police captains of Lapa, Botafogo, Gávea, Tijuca, Santa Teresa, Mem de Sá, Madureira, Meier, and Bandeira Square; one lieutenant from Vila Isabel, who had ties to the
jogo do bicho
lottery, and a fingerprint expert.

Some coincidences really help the novelist—the chief of police happened to know this expert. What's more, he held his ambitious nature and keen intelligence in high regard, so much so that he had made him head of the criminal identification services.

Thus, while the search for Fortunata was in full swing, the chief hurriedly called this important individual, who will yet shine on these pages. And it was to this individual that the chief of police assigned the investigation of the case, to be carried out with the highest level of confidentiality.

While the expert exercised his duties at the scene of the crime, the chief of police had no trouble convincing Dr. Zmuda to provide a false statement for the death certificate as to the
causa mortis.
After all, it would not be the first time that the Polish doctor had committed a criminal offense. And because he trusted—with the guarantee of the doctor himself and his head administrator—that the nurses would not dare reveal anything to the contrary, he was able to construct a final version of events: the secretary, after leaving a classified meeting with high-ranking government officials, suddenly fell ill as he passed through São Cristovão in a cab, and he asked the driver to take him to Dr. Zmuda's residence—the closest medical clinic that it would occur to anyone to go to at that location. The Polish doctor attempted emergency procedures, but the patient finally succumbed.

This was the story they told the widow, the children, other relatives, and the press. When, at around 4
a.m.
, the body arrived for the viewing at the Catete Palace, it was already prepared and dressed in a beautiful high-collared robe. No one could detect any evidence of the crime.

 

The residence of the marquise—the lover of Pedro I—is not the only building in this city rumored to have secret passageways. In fact, the most notorious cases involve two of the oldest religious orders in Rio de Janeiro: that of São Bento, located on the hill of the same name, and that of the Jesuits, who erected a college on Castelo Hill.

The Benedictines were accused many times of promoting smuggling through a secret tunnel, which even had a wharf inside. Late at night, every so often, a rock would be moved to allow small skiffs or even boats filled with merchandise to pass through and furnish supplies to ships anchored near Paquetá.

The Jesuits, on the other hand—as has been long known—had opened similar passageways: one that began at the high altar of the college's old church and then branched out into various tunnels (one of those mouths was discovered in 1905, during construction on Central Avenue) and another that connected the priests' library to Calabouço Point. It was through this latter one (so they say) that they managed to carry off their fabulous treasure, shortly before they were expelled from the city after putting up a resistance, in 1760.

There were others too. For example, in 1831 a narrow hideout was discovered beneath the planks of one of the customs piers, which would have served as a hideaway for capoeiras and rebel fighters to then escape to the Atlantic.

The flight of these captives and convicts onto waiting galleys was promoted by an extensive network of so-called “enticers of slaves”—in actuality a criminal organization made up mainly of free Africans, in cahoots with a brotherhood of blacks and members of the military who served in the terrible prison of the navy's armory, where detainees were submitted to forced labor in the quarries of Cobras Island. 

What is incredible about this story is that, once in the basement of the customs building, the fugitives would proceed through an underwater tunnel—the first in the world of its kind—to the arsenal, where they would then be smuggled onto the galleys.

It is also said that a high-profile Carioca murder is tied to the secret passageways, one involving Jean du Clerc, a captain in the French Navy. The renowned pirate was defeated and imprisoned during his failed invasion of Rio de Janeiro in 1710. Detained in the lap of luxury at the home of a local nobleman, du Clerc was killed by a band of masked men who curiously gained entrance into the house without being noticed by the sentinels.

A few months after the crime, in 1711, another important pirate, Captain René du Guay, taking advantage of a dense fog, was able to attack at Gamboa Beach with more than five thousand men. This time around, the invasion of the city succeeded, thus avenging du Clerc's defeat. Although he managed to extort a fabulous ransom, René du Guay did not find what he had been looking for—Lourenço Cão's lost map, which had been in du Clerc's possession when he set sail from La Rochelle.

This map not only untangled mysteries concerning a hypothetical discovery of Guanabara Bay by Phoenicians, it also showed the way to the precious Irajá mines and the location of a city of women, as well as many other important sites, including the mouth of the underground lagoon that contained the brackish water of immortality, which one could reach through a vast stone tunnel (most likely a natural concavity in the rock), the entrances to which were so hidden that they were unknown to the Indians themselves.

A secret tunnel also figures in the history of Rio de Janeiro's most illustrious crime: the murder of the ruffian Pedro the Spaniard in the dungeons of Aljube, where he was found dead on the morning of the day he was meant to be hanged.

Pedro was a Galician, not a Spaniard. The nickname was given to him by the common folk of Rio in order to get under his skin. His sad story began at a very young age in his native Galicia, where he killed friends and relatives. He fled to Portugal, and there he violently killed a rich and beautiful lover who had showered him with gifts. Then he fled to Rio de Janeiro.

Pedro the Spaniard was never a capoeira: he killed through treachery, almost always from behind. He would kill benefactors, eliminate fellow gang members, and commit unnecessary acts of cruelty against helpless victims. It was not a matter of greed, or lust, and much less so ideology. I will leave it at that. Those who have the intestinal fortitude and wish to know the details can read José do Patrocínio's novel.

He enters Rio's criminal annals not as a murderer but as a victim. On the morning of the day he was to be hanged, Pedro the Spaniard was found dead in his cell. There was talk of witchcraft and poisoning; there was also talk of secret passageways. However, there was no official inquiry into his death, and in fact they may not even have realized that he was already dead.

For, against all of the laws of nature—or perhaps deliberately—they led the prisoner in that state to the gallows at Prainha. A large crowd witnessed the execution of the abominable bandit, who shook and swung just the same, hanging from the rope as he died a second time.

 

Days before leaving office, in November of 1910, President Nilo Peçanha inaugurated the Central Police Palace on Relação Street (corner of Inválidos). It was designed by Heitor de Melo, perhaps the principal exponent of the French style, which had been so in vogue for major city buildings ever since João VI.

The historical importance of the building transcends art, for it was at that same palace that the new forensic departments were located, whose mission it was to give technical support to the precincts, employing the most advanced forensic and criminological methods then available. It was also where the College of Police Sciences and the fascinating Crime Museum were established.