Requiem for a Killer (17 page)

“Do you produce one hundred percent of the
seeds in this room?” asked Solano.

“Unfortunately, no,” replied Nildo. “We only
produce one third of what we need here. In order to complete our
breeding stock we buy seeds from other nurseries. We also collect
seeds directly from the ocean using tiles and two-liter plastic
bottles with the bottoms removed. In order for the seeds to
properly attach themselves and then be easily removed the tiles and
bottles are bathed in a solution of lime, plaster and fine
sand.”

A small stack of dry tiles was waiting to be
bathed on a table in the middle of the room. Unlabeled plastic
bottles were lined up underneath it. Nildo continued:

“We’re one of three certified
Crassostrea
rizophorea
producers in the state of Rio de Janeiro, the
species most commonly found along the Brazilian coast. But because
these native oysters sometimes atrophy and don’t grow properly, we
have to buy the remaining third from Brazilian universities or from
overseas producers of the
Crassostrea gigas
species, the
Japanese oyster, more resistant and well accepted in the market.
However, this species requires water at a lower temperature, which
demands more care on our part. But it’s worth it.”

“And how is the farming done?” asked
Dornelas, afraid he was showing his complete ignorance of the
subject.

“In the case of the Japanese oysters we use
a system of fixed lamps suspended from fifty meter long lines
spread along the bay, spaced five meters apart from one another.
We’re in a sheltered cove. Anything less and the baby oysters
wouldn’t get enough nourishment to develop.” And before they could
ask him, he hurried to say, “We’re authorized to do this.”

He began to walk slowly by the tanks, every
so often dipping his hand in the bubbling water. Dornelas decided
to keep his attention on the politician so that Solano, further
behind, would be free to look around. Nildo’s demeanor was
intriguing him because he was obviously making an effort to hide
something, albeit behind a decent job of acting.

“We insert pre-selected seeds of between 5
and 7 millimeters in each cylindrical lamp of approximately 2.5
meters in height and 30 centimeters wide, on the 5 or 7 levels that
each one has. We use mesh nets with openings of 3, 8 and 12
millimeters, depending on each oyster’s stage of growth: nursery,
intermediate or final.”

Rolling up a shirt sleeve, Nildo stuck his
arm in the water and took out a tile with oysters the size of a
fist stuck to it, possibly the matrixes. Dornelas eyed the shell
with a certain wonder, imagining the irregular evolutionary
trajectory that had transformed an antediluvian mollusk into modern
man, as Darwin had suggested. And he felt sorry that the human
species, in its stupidity and greed, had become one of the biggest
predators of its own ancestor.

Nildo put the tile back on the bottom of the
tank and got a towel from a hook on the wall to dry his arm. He
went on:

“The final maturation stage runs from March
to the beginning of May every year, with harvesting expected to be
in the month of October, although it can be done until the
beginning of December, at the latest. If we don’t get it done
before the heat of summer arrives we lose everything.”

He crossed the room and pointed to the
inside of one of the tanks, without touching the water.

“Now for this native species, easily found
here in the city’s mangrove, besides the
Crassostrea
brasiliana
, we use a type of tray we call a pillow. The pillows
are fixed horizontally on tables placed at the shallow bottom of
the sea and are made of 16-millimeter heavy steel square bars.

The councilman conducted his explication
with broad gestures, arms waving in the air. Dornelas watched him
fascinated as the man carried on without pause.

“The tables are installed along the shore.
We position them at a depth where the baby oysters will stay
submerged and only rise above water at very low or lunar tides,
when we manage them back underwater. There they can filter 24-hours
a day and grow bigger. In order for them to eliminate parasites
they need to be castigated, which consists of leaving them
uncovered every fifteen days.”

“After they’re harvested, how are they
commercialized?” asked Dornelas, trying to figure out if there
might be a gap in one of the production stages in which some sort
of illegal business could occur.

“We sell them
in natura
, that is, in
their shells, or “caught” as we say, in refrigerated and returnable
plastic boxes in units of a dozen. To receive the seal of
certification we’re inspected by the sanitation authorities through
all stages of the cultivation, from the nursery to harvesting and
to the means of transportation. For reasons of hygiene and product
quality, we only deliver to clients in our own van within a radius
of 150 kilometers. Anything further away the clients have to pick
them up themselves.

“Who are your clients?”

“Restaurants, supermarkets, fishmongers. The
latter on a smaller scale.”

“Do you export?”

“Oysters, not yet. But I’m planning to soon.
Foreign markets create absurd rules to protect their own producers,
which ends up limiting the chances for this kind of business.”

“Protectionism,” completed Solano.

“Exactly. In order to avoid some of the
barriers, mostly related to the shells, which carry parasites, we
even considered commercializing them by processing the oysters,
removing them from their shells and packaging and refrigerating
them. Even though I could make more money this way, I gave up on
the idea. It’s too much work and I don’t have people qualified to
do the job yet. And the bureaucracy will drive you crazy. Maybe in
the future.”

‘
If there’s something wrong here, it’s
not in the oyster business,’
thought Dornelas, impressed not
only with the installations but also by Nildo Borges’ knowledge of
the subject.

“Let’s go down to the pier. I want to show
you what we do with the fish.”

The three of them left the room and the
building and got back in the electric cart. The late afternoon sun
was melting on top of the bay’s calm waters, its reflection
stretched out like a Salvador Dali painting. The torpid air that
came in scalding wafts made Dornelas feel like he was being cooked
in an open-air microwave oven.

Nildo drove the cart down the hill with the
help of the brakes, and parked it in the shade of an enormous,
rectangular industrial shed built on the shoreline. The metallic
structure, a gigantic cage, was covered in undulating plates of
galvanized steel that were painted white, as was the gable roof. It
looked more like an airplane hangar than a fish processing
plant.

In the middle of it there was an immense
gate through which a refrigerated truck could easily pass. There
were some employees moving around wearing short coats and white
helmets. Attached to the shed a tangle of silver, blue and yellow
tubes and cylinders let off smoke in every imaginable direction. It
made Dornelas feel as if he were about to enter the villain’s
headquarters in a James Bond movie.

“This is our processing unit,” said Nildo,
opening his arms wide as they entered the immense open space. “On
the right we have the training and conference room, the doctor’s
office, the clinic, the work safety room, the laundry, locker rooms
and dining hall.”

Nildo took a few steps to the other
side.

“And on this side, production management,
quality control, the federal inspection service, the processing
room as well as, of course, the engine room, where the
refrigeration units are located. We would not be able to guarantee
the quality of our products without the cold.”

As if pulled by a magnet, Dornelas was drawn
to the rear gate, exactly the same as the entrance gate, from which
a long cement ramp connected the shed to a small, floating pier.
Four fishing boats were docked at it, the same ones he’d seen when
they arrived. Plastic boxes filled to the top with crushed ice were
being unloaded from one of them, an old boat with its paint peeling
off and the name
Cê Que Sabe – ’S Up to You
– crudely
written on the bow. As soon as they were taken off the boat the
boxes were placed on an electric cart parked next to it on the
small pier.

Solano immediately guessed his boss’s
thoughts.

“Come see the processing room, Inspector.
You’ll see what beautiful work we develop here.”

As if the invitation had been extended only
to his boss, Solano broke away from the little entourage and
surreptitiously went toward the ramp while Nildo ushered Dornelas
to one of the rooms on the left side.

What Solano saw next intrigued him. While
two fishermen unloaded the plastic boxes from the boat, a third
one, standing on the deck, was talking to a short, fat character,
with long hair pulled back in a ponytail. He wore khaki pants, a
yellow shirt and had on sunglasses exactly like Steve McQueen’s in
The Thomas Crown Affair
. They were talking business, because
at one point the fat guy took a thick wad of cash out of his pocket
and gave it to the fisherman, who took a quick look at it and
furtively stuffed it in the pocket of his shorts. When they
finished the exchange they didn’t even shake hands. The fat guy
jumped from the boat onto the pier and went off toward the
building. Solano discreetly turned around and slipped away, certain
that the objective of their visit had just been accomplished.

He leaned up against one of the shed’s
pillars, took his cell phone out of his pocket, dialed his boss’s
number and waited.

In the processing room Nildo was explaining
to Dornelas the procedures for unloading the fish, details of the
Fishing Institute’s inspections, the sizes and weights of the fish,
the thickness of the fishing nets and the respect they had for the
rules. Dornelas listened to it all, visibly bored. Maybe this was
the true purpose for the visit as far as Nildo was concerned: to
stuff the inspector so full of useless information that he would
lose his interest in trying to ferret out information about the
company more thoroughly.

When he felt his phone vibrating in his
pocket, Dornelas opened it and saw the number on the screen. He
raised his index-finger, excusing himself for a minute from the
councilman and went to a corner of the room to murmur out of
hearing:

“What’s up?”

“Sir, I just saw a man giving a fisherman a
whole lot of money,” said Solano, following the fat guy with his
eyes as he entered the building, went up a flight of stairs and
entered a room on the mezzanine.

“Do you know who he is?”

“I have no idea but he doesn’t look like an
employee. Something’s going on.”

“Good. Where are you?”

“Inside the shed, leaning against a pillar
next to the gate that goes to the pier.”

“Stay there. I’ll hurry things along
here.”

They hung up. Dornelas went back to
Nildo.

“Councilman, I have to go. My team just made
a flagrant arrest that requires my immediate presence. You know
what these things are like.”

Nildo’s animated expression wilted like a
sunflower at the end of the day.

“Can’t I show you the quality control?”

“Unfortunately, no. In any case, I’m very
satisfied with the visit. You’re to be commended, sir. I’ve never
seen anyone so knowledgeable about their business.”

“The competition doesn’t forgive fools,
Inspector. In this business, like in any other, either you know
what you’re doing or you’re going to be run out of the market.”

“Tell me something, does your brother work
here too?”

Nildo’s eyes opened wide in surprise.

“Not directly. He has an office from where
he runs his own businesses.”

“Could we have a quick word with him before
we leave?”

“If he’s available, why not?”

They left the room, Nildo closing the door
behind him, and began walking through the indoor patio, toward the
rooms on the other side. After a few steps Dornelas spotted Solano.
They exchanged glances as the inspector continued following behind
the councilman.

Right at that moment the electric cart
carrying the plastic boxes came up the ramp and entered the shed,
going past Solano and on to the processing room where Nildo and the
boss had been. The cart stopped in front of the door and the driver
got out and opened it. His helper jumped out of the cargo bed and
carried the first box into the room.

Solano watched the operation out of the
corner of his eye, curious to know what was in them. Unable to
restrain himself, he walked over there.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the shed
Dornelas and Nildo were going up the red metal stairs with wide,
recessed steps that connected the ground floor to the mezzanine on
the first, and only floor. The stairway was located in the middle
of the building, equidistant from the shed’s two sides. It provided
the only access to all the rooms on the upper floor.

From the mezzanine the inspector had a good
view of the entire system. He was pleased to see Solano chatting
with the employees in the processing room. Nildo rapped his
knuckles on the last red door of the left wing, heard a muffled
“come in,” and entered with Dornelas at his heels.

“Wilson, this is Inspector Joaquim Dornelas.
He’s investigating the Mangrove Crime.”

Wilson lifted his hands from the notebook
keyboard, took his reading glasses off, let them rest on his chest,
hanging by a cord around his neck, and looked at them.

“Mangrove Crime?” he asked with a measure of
resentment characteristic of those who live in an alternative
reality.

“Yes, the body they found in the bay this
week. It was Inspector Dornelas who pulled it out. And he’s the one
now in charge of the investigation.”