Blood of the Wicked (24 page)

Chapter Forty-six

A sheepish expression came over Palmas’s face, and he looked down at the handcuffs shackling his wrists.

The fact that he let the old bastard get the drop on me,
Ferraz thought,
is something I’m never going to let him forget. Never.

The old bastard in question, Father Angelo Monteiro, had been standing out of sight, and just to the right of Colonel Ferraz’s front door, when Palmas rang the bell. So the only person Ferraz had seen through the peephole was Palmas, and Palmas was one of the few people, maybe the only person, for whom Emerson Ferraz would have opened his door without having been given a damned good reason first. So he
had
opened the door and now here he sat, in his own house, wearing a pair of his own handcuffs, with his ankles firmly bound to the chair he was sitting in.

Palmas was in another chair, and he was even worse off. Father Angelo had forced Ferraz to run a long length of clothesline around and around Palmas’s chest and to fasten him firmly to the backrest. When he was finished, the old man made Ferraz stuff one of his own handkerchiefs into Palmas’s mouth. Finally, he was instructed to tie a second handkerchief around Palmas’s head, and over his lips, to make sure the first one stayed in place.

Ferraz, in his fury, had made the second handkerchief a good deal tighter than it had to be. He could see that Palmas was feeling the pinch.
Well fuck him. He deserves it.

The gun Father Angelo was holding looked like an antique. It was a military revolver of some kind. There was a ring on the butt that you could hook a lanyard to, and the thing had a huge bore. The old piece of hardware seemed to be well-oiled, but a lot of the bluing had worn off. If the priest really knew what he was doing, he would have exchanged it for one of the more modern weapons Ferraz had in the house but the old goat hadn’t thought of that. He obviously felt he was doing just fine with what he had.

And the thing that really pissed Emerson Ferraz off was that the priest was right. He
was
doing just fine. There wasn’t a damn thing that Ferraz, or his deputy, could do to put him in his place which, as far as Ferraz was concerned, was two meters underground. The colonel was immobilized and angry but he wasn’t afraid. Not much, anyway. He didn’t think the old man would shoot him on purpose. The trouble was that the antique firearm was fully cocked. The damn thing could go off anytime, doing just as much damage as if the priest had meant to shoot him in the first place. With that in mind, the colonel had decided that his only recourse was to do the old bastard’s bidding and be patient until he went away.
But once he
does . . . once it’s all over, I’m going to find him, and I’m going to
hurt him really, really bad before I kill him.

“You did well, Colonel,” Father Angelo said.

“I don’t get it. If you’re going after Muniz, why did you tell me to warn him?”

“That needn’t concern you, Colonel. Now there’s just one more thing I want you to do for me.”

“What’s that?”

“I’m going to hold that telephone handset up to your ear again so that you can make another call. Just one, and then we’re done. A little more than half an hour after you’ve made that call, I’ll be gone.

“Who is it this time?”

“You’ll be talking to one of your men, and you’ll tell him exactly what I say. No tricks now, Colonel. Don’t even think of trying to summon assistance. If you say one wrong word, I assure you that I
will
shoot.”

Chapter Forty-seven

“That Chief Inspector Silva?” someone lisped.

Silva raised himself to a sitting position and glanced at the numbers on the face of the digital clock. It was 2:14 in the morning.

“Yeah. Who’s this?”

“Sergeant Menezes.”

Silva turned on the bedside lamp. “Who?”

“Sergeant Menezes. State Police. I took you up to the body of Muniz Junior, remember?”

It was that fat sergeant with the gap between his teeth, the one who’d gone up the hill puffing like a steam engine.

“I remember. What is it, Sergeant?”

“You know that priest, Gaspar?”

Some of the water was still dripping off the surface of the table. Silva looked around for something to mop it up and settled on the terrycloth bathrobe he’d draped over the back of a chair. The telephone cord was just long enough for him to reach it.

“What about him?”

“He’s dead.”

Silva sat down again, the robe still in his hand.

“What?”

“Dead. Shot his manservant and then killed himself. Colonel says you better get over here.”

* * *

“I told you I’d leave, Colonel,” Father Angelo said. “I don’t recall having said anything about letting you loose.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Let’s return to that subject in a moment, shall we?” The priest lifted the sleeve of his cassock and consulted his cheap plastic watch. “Moreover, it’s only been twenty-seven minutes since you made the call.”

He took another puff on the cigarette dangling from his lips, removed it from his mouth, and extinguished it in an overflowing ashtray.

“But twenty-seven minutes might well be long enough. Let’s see.”

He took out a pack of cigarettes, but instead of a smoke, he removed a small piece of paper he’d inserted between the pack and the outer wrapper. His reading glasses were inside some kind of a pocket accessible through the neck of his cassock. He fished them out, put them on his nose, and pulled the telephone toward him. Consulting the paper, he dialed a number. While it was ringing, he put a finger to his lips enjoining Ferraz to silence.

The colonel heard a faint click as someone picked up the receiver.

“I know it’s terribly late,” Father Angelo said, “but might I speak to Father Gaspar?” Then, after a short pause, “Father Angelo Monteiro. And you?” Another short pause. “Oh, hello, Sergeant. What in the world are
you
doing there?”

Ferraz couldn’t hear a word of the other end of the conversation, but the man who Angelo had addressed as “Sergeant” went on talking for quite some time. When next the old priest spoke, his voice conveyed concern. “That’s terrible. Just terrible. But thank you, Sergeant, for telling me. I’ll pray for them both. Yes. And a good night to you, too.”

He put the telephone back on the cradle, fished out another cigarette, and lit it.

“Good work, Colonel. Your men are already there. I would imagine they’ve also called Silva by now.”

“What the fuck have you done?”

Father Angelo secured the cigarette with his lips, dangling it as he spoke. A fine rain of ash fell onto the lap of his black cassock.

“Who killed Diana Poli and her roommate, Colonel? Was it you?”

The question took Ferraz by surprise.

“I didn’t kill anybody,” he said, sullenly.

“No?”

The priest picked up the revolver. It had been lying on the coffee table for the last twenty minutes and was still cocked.

Ferraz watched him like a hawk.

“So it was Palmas who killed both of them?” Father Angelo said, absently waving the muzzle of the antique weapon in the major’s direction.

Palmas’s eyes bulged and he leaned aside.

“Watch out for that thing,” Ferraz said. “Stop pointing it at people. It could go off.

“Answer my question.”

“Fuck you.”

The explosion caught Ferraz by surprise. It was tremendously loud in the confined space of his dining room, seemed louder still because Ferraz hadn’t been expecting it. Major Palmas slumped in his chair. There was a spreading stain on the front of his uniform. The stain looked black in the dim light.

“You see?” Angelo said, conversationally. “Just like me. Old, but it still works.” He didn’t seem to be in the least perturbed that he’d just shot a bullet into a man’s heart. He put the revolver down while he fished out, and lit, another cigarette. “Answer my question, Colonel. I really want to know. Was it him, or was it you? Who killed Diana Poli and her roommate?”

For the first time since the priest invaded his home, Ferraz felt real fear. This was no longer the man he’d helped to string up all those years ago. This was a new Father Angelo Monteiro.

“He did,” Ferraz said, inclining his head toward the body in the chair. “He killed Vicenza, too, and Pereira, and some of those people at the encampment. Not all. A couple of the other guys were shooting too. I wasn’t. I didn’t kill anybody.”

“Who were these ‘other guys’?”

Ferraz gave him the names: Tenente Lacerda
,
Sargento Maya, Cabo Cajauba, and Soldado Prestes.

Father Angelo took out a little notebook and asked Ferraz to repeat the names. Then he said, “You, Palmas, and another four men. Is that it? Are those all of the men who compose your death squad?”

Ferraz nodded.

Father Angelo leaned forward and closed his hand around the grip of the revolver.

“There are two more,” Ferraz said hastily. “Soldados Porto and Najas. They weren’t there that night. But they were there . . . other times.”

Father Angelo made a note of those two names as well. Then he lit another cigarette with the still-burning butt of the one he’d been smoking. He crushed the butt into the ashtray.

“And lastly, Colonel, we come to the subject of my friend, Anton Brouwer. Who killed him?”

“Palmas.”

“Come now, Colonel. There were cigar burns all over his body. Palmas didn’t smoke cigars, did he?”

Ferraz didn’t answer. His eyes swiveled back and forth.

“Did he?”

Father Angelo lifted the revolver and aimed it at Ferraz’s heart.

“No. Okay, I admit I burned him, but I didn’t kill him. Palmas did.”

“Anton Brouwer was a good man, Colonel. You may find this hard to believe, but I think he would have forgiven you for what you did.”

“Really?” There was a flicker of hope in Ferraz’s eyes.

“Oh, yes—but unfortunately for you,
I
can’t.”

He stood, walked to within a meter of Ferraz, and pointed the revolver at his face.

“Wait,” the colonel said. “What are doing?”

“In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit—this.”

And Father Angelo Monteiro put a bullet into Emerson Ferraz’s forehead.

Chapter Forty-eight

This time it was an eager rookie.

“Hey, hey, hey, where do you think you’re going?” he said, appearing from nowhere and blocking the doorway to Father Gaspar’s home.

Silva waved his gold badge under the youngster’s nose. “Where’s the colonel?” he said.

The rookie leaned forward, read the lettering around the seal of the republic, and addressed Silva with newfound respect.
“
Sorry, Chief Inspector, he’s not here. The senior man is Sergeant Menezes.”

“And where is he?”

“In Father Gaspar’s study, where the bodies are. If you gentlemen will follow me—”

“We know where it is. Thanks.”

Silva led the way down the hallway.

“Where’s the fucking medical examiner?”

The lisp was distinctive. It was the fat sergeant’s voice, coming from inside the room.

“Just arrived,” Hector said as they entered. “We saw him outside, talking to the paramedics.”

Sergeant Menezes turned to face the two federal cops. “You guys sure got here quick,” he said. He didn’t bother to introduce any of the other six men in the room, four of whom were in uniform and two of whom were not. One of the civilians was holding a digital camera. He gave Silva and Hector the once over, then went back to photographing the body of Euclides Garcia.

Garcia was face-up on the carpet with a small hole in his forehead. Father Gaspar was slumped at his desk. There was an equally small wound in his temple and a pistol in his right hand. There was little bleeding in either case. The room still smelled of lilacs, strong enough, even, to conceal the smell of death.

“Well, what a surprise,” Hector quipped. “They must have been killed by someone from out-of-town.”

“How do you figure?” Sergeant Menezes said.

“Neither one had his throat cut.”

The sergeant frowned, maybe because he was puzzled, maybe because he was annoyed.

“Looks like a .22,” Hector said.

Menezes nodded.

“Yeah, a .22. Just a little popgun. Hi, Doc. Glad you could finally make it.”

This last, a weak attempt at humor, was directed to Ishikawa, who entered the room to a chorus of mumbled greetings. The medical examiner clucked his tongue a few times and squatted next to the body of Euclides.

“Colonel left already?” Silva asked.

“He didn’t come,” the sergeant said.

“Didn’t come? But you said—”

“It’s like this. I’m the senior man on duty tonight. A little after midnight, I got a call from the colonel. He said he got an anonymous tip that something had happened here. He said to check it out, and if there was really anything wrong to get in touch with you. As for him, he said, he’s going back to bed and doesn’t want to be disturbed before eight o’clock tomorrow morning.”

“Doesn’t sound like him at all.”

“Oh, yes it does. You don’t know the colonel. He keeps banker’s hours. Likes a good night’s sleep, the colonel does.”

“I meant the part about calling me. He’s normally not so cordial.”

“Oh. Well, I wouldn’t know about that. I just do what I’m told.”

“How about Palmas? Where’s he?”

“No idea, but you don’t often see him without the colonel. They’re like Siamese twins, those two. Anyway, I sent a patrol car over here. They found the house all lit up and the front door unlocked, but nobody was answering the bell. They tried calling on the phone. No answer. So I took a chance and authorized them to walk in. This”—he waved his arm, taking in both bodies—“is what they found. Murder and suicide. Pretty obvious.”

“Not to me. Not yet,” Silva said.

“Ah, but that’s because you don’t know,” the sergeant said smugly.

“Don’t know what?”

“About the note.”

“What note?”

The sergeant wouldn’t be hurried. He was enjoying the opportunity to show the big city boys a thing or two. “It was right here on the desk. I had my doubts at first. So what did I do? I went to that file cabinet over there and looked for samples of Father Gaspar’s handwriting. Then, I put them side-by-side with the note, and compared them. No doubt about it. A perfect match.”

“So Gaspar wrote something. A suicide note?”

“Not exactly,” the sergeant said. “Something better. Much better. He confessed.”

“Confessed to what?”

The sergeant dropped what he thought was his bombshell. “Killing the bishop,” he said.

He was visibly disappointed when Silva showed no sign of surprise.

“So he confessed to that, did he?”

“Sure did. Turns out he was a pedophile. The bishop found out about it, and they killed him to make sure it didn’t come out.”

“They being?”

“Him and that guy on the floor over there. He was the one who actually pulled the trigger. It’s all in the confession. Want to read it?”

“I sure as hell do. Where is it?”

“I’ll get it.”

Sergeant Menezes walked over to one of the crime-scene technicians, exchanged a few words, and came back with two plastic envelopes, a rose-colored page of stationery in each.

“So I guess the colonel was right,” he said. “We didn’t need you guys after all.” He extended the envelopes to Silva. “Here. See for yourself.”

Silva read both sides of the first sheet, passed it to Hector, and went on to read the other.

The confession contained details that only the murderer would know. There was information about how and where the rifle had been purchased, and even the price that had been paid for it. It revealed that Euclides, during his military service, had been trained as a sniper. What it did
not
say was that the writer had decided to end it all, or that he’d intended to take his manservant with him. It was, most definitely, a confession but it wasn’t a suicide note.

Silva walked over to Ishikawa, who was examining the wound in Father Gaspar’s temple. “Any preliminary conclusions, Doctor?”

“Two cases of death by gunshot to the head, inflicted with a small bore weapon, consistent with that one there.” Ishikawa pointed to the semi-automatic pistol still clutched in Father Gaspar’s right hand. Then he pointed to the area around the wound. “Powder burns. The muzzle was right next to his head when the shot was fired. Probably a .22 caliber short. No exit wound on either body. The bullets are still inside their skulls.”

Silva reached into his pocket, pulled out a pair of latex gloves and put them on. “You already photographed this?” he asked the crime scene technician, pointing at the hand clutching the gun.

The man nodded.

“You painted the skin for powder residue?”

“Sim
,
senhor.”

“And found it?”

“Also.”

“Good. May I touch this?” He pointed to the weapon. The crime scene technician looked to Sergeant Menezes.

“Go ahead,” the sergeant said with a verbal shrug.

Silva gently pried the weapon from Gaspar’s grip, removed the clip, ejected the round in the chamber and counted all of the cartridges. He came up two short of a full magazine.

“You see,” Menezes said. “Two wounds, two dead men, two shots. Case closed.”

“Excuse us for a moment, Sergeant.”

Silva put pistol and clip on the desk and drew his nephew aside, out of earshot. “What do you think?” he said.

“I don’t buy it,” Hector said. “A few hours ago Gaspar was denying everything. He knew damned well that we had no proof. Then he’s suddenly overcome by his conscience, kills his accomplice, and shoots himself? Not likely.”

“No,” Silva said, “not likely at all. Conclusion?”

“Someone else did it.”

“And the powder residue on Gaspar’s hand, and the fact that there were only two shots fired?”

“Everybody who watches television knows that a pistol shot leaves residue on the skin of the person who fired it. Without it, it’s not suicide. The killer would have wanted to make sure that Gaspar’s hand had the necessary traces of gunpowder.”

“Good boy. So?”

“The killer added another cartridge to the magazine after he shot them. Then he put the gun into Gaspar’s hand, and pushed his trigger finger to fire off a third shot. That way, Gaspar would test positive for the telltale powder residue, but there’d still only be two cartridges missing from the magazine.”

“Take it a step further.”

“Somewhere in this room there’s another bullet hole, and the bullet we dig out of it will have been fired from the same weapon.”

“My thinking exactly,” Silva said. “Let’s find it.”

Fifteen minutes later they did. It was in the wall, behind one of the curtains. Silva told the crime scene technician to remove the section of plaster and concrete, bullet and all.

“We’ll want a ballistics comparison between the bullet in there and the ones that the M.E. is going to take out of the bodies.”

“Of course. I understand.”

The technicians had already discovered two empty shell casings. They now went on to search for a third, but they didn’t find it.

“So three bullets and only two casings,” Hector said. “The murderer must have taken it.”

A careful search of the remainder of the room turned up nothing more of interest except for a box of ammunition and some stains in Gaspar’s top right hand drawer.

“.455 caliber,” Hector said, rolling one of the cartridges from the box between his thumb and forefinger. “Very unusual.”

Hector was the expert on firearms. Guns were nothing more than a tool to Silva, but for his nephew they were a hobby as well.

“What would they fit?”

“Nothing I can think of other than a Webley.”

“A what?”

“A Webley. It’s a British service revolver. They were made by the thousands and used in the trenches during the First World War. These cartridges, though, aren’t antiques. Look, no corrosion. They’re recent reloads.”

Hector put his nose close to the drawer and sniffed.

“Nitro solvent,” he said, “and gun oil. Offhand, I’d say the revolver was kept here too. But, if it was, what happened to it?”

“Maybe the killer took it,” Silva said.

“Why would he?”

“Maybe because he had to leave his .22 to make it look like a murder/suicide, and he needed another gun?”

“For what?”

“I wonder. . . .”

Sergeant Menezes appeared at Silva’s elbow and interrupted his ruminations. “You guys are something else,” he lisped with admiration in his voice. “Without you, the son of a bitch would have gotten away with it. I wish I could be a fly on his wall when the colonel finds out we really needed you guys after all. He’s gonna be pissed.”

The last word came out “pithd.” Menezes had come over to their side. His enthusiasm was beginning to carry him away.

“Now, let’s go through it together, okay? The way I figure it, the same guy who killed Father Gaspar, and forced him to sign that bullshit confession, must have killed the bishop, too.”

“That’s what you think, is it?” Silva said.

The sergeant looked hurt. “Well . . . yeah, sure. Why else would he force Father Gaspar to slander himself?”

“Libel himself,” Hector said.

“Huh?”

“Slander is spoken. Libel is written. It was a written confession, so if it wasn’t true it would be libel, not slander.”

“
If it wasn’t true?
What do you mean by that?” Sergeant Menezes said indignantly. “It’s as plain as the nose on your face. You just got through proving it. He didn’t kill himself. Whoever forced him to write that confession did. Don’t tell me you believe any of that crap?”

“As a matter of fact,” Silva said, “I do.”

“That he had his manservant kill the bishop? Come on, Chief Inspector. He wouldn’t do anything like that. He was a priest, for Christ’s sake.”