The Body Snatcher (17 page)

I vomited twice more undetected. To outward appearances, I was calm.

Dalva kept coming to me in the garage with unusual questions. How did the criminals get hold of Junior's body? Were they in the plane? Or did they find Junior dead after the accident? And where did they keep the body, in a refrigerator? Why didn't they kidnap Junior alive? Junior alive must be worth a lot more money than Junior dead, she said.

There came a moment when the questions grew more heated. Doesn't your girlfriend work at the morgue? What does she do exactly? Can she tell, looking at a cadaver, that
it's really Junior's? Or if it's another person? Are there tests for that?

It was obvious, I thought; of course they would make the association. You're going to get caught, over. I called Sulamita several times. Keep calm, she told me, don't ruin everything. You have to stay calm, that's all. No one knows anything. Isn't that what Dalva said?

After lunch, Mr. José called me into his office.

When I entered, he was talking on the phone to one of his ranch hands and gestured for me to wait.

I observed the wilted hibiscuses outside the window. They hadn't even bloomed and were already dead. That was life in Corumbá.

Dalva told me your girlfriend works for the police, he said, hanging up the phone.

I confirmed the information. And on impulse asked if there was anything we could do to help.

He looked at me, thinking of the best way to tell me what must be said.

Then Dona Lu came into the office. It's impressive what pain can do to people. The damage is greatest in the face. When I looked at that defeated woman, the sound of Sulamita breaking the bones of the cadaver, a sharp sound almost like a crack, was ringing in my ears.

Lu, the rancher said, his fiancée works for the police.

I know, she said.

She looked at her husband and then at me, distressed, as if fearing some piece of bad news. Then in her gentle way she asked me to leave them by themselves.

They spoke loudly; I couldn't help but hear. I stopped in the middle of the living room, hearing everything they said. Dalva came in with a tray of coffee and stood beside me. Listen to what I'm going to say, Dona Lu said. I want
my son. I have the right to bury my son, she said. I'm going to bury my son even if it's the last thing I do on earth. And you're not going to stand in my way. She repeated this several times amid sobs. And she cried, imploring her husband to listen, not to take a stance, not to call the police, not to ask anyone for help. Including me. Because nothing that could be done, however well it might be done, would bring Junior back. Even if the police discovered who the mentally ill person blackmailing them was, Junior would still be dead. And she would rather die than not bury her own son.

After that, we heard nothing but her crying, which was neither sobs nor moans but only the phrase “I want my son,” intoned like a prayer or mantra.

I saw that Dalva was crying too. I myself had a knot in my throat. I took her to the kitchen and went into the bathroom to vomit again. It had been horrific to witness that scene, but on the other hand I felt safer. They're not going to alert the police, I thought.

That day I made five trips to the pharmacy to buy medicines for Dona Lu. The doctor came to see her and spent the afternoon at the house.

At six, I met Sulamita at the entrance to the morgue. I told her what had happened, in detail.

You're sure that was all? she asked.

Yes.

He didn't ask anything further about my work?

No, and I didn't say anything. There wasn't time. Dona Lu interrupted our conversation. But Dalva asked questions. Maybe Dalva suspects, I don't know. She also asked about my life in São Paulo. But maybe it's nothing.

We were in the car, and the heat was making me dizzy.

What about him? Mr. José? Think he suspects you? asked Sulamita.

I've changed my opinion on that several times during the day, I replied. I've thought yes and no. Sometimes I think everything is so obvious. You, the morgue. On the other hand, I know how these things go. When you're in the middle of it, suffering, you can't have an overall view of the situation. When I think about my mother, for example, I believe he would come to me for help. That's all.

Rich the way he is? Why doesn't he ask the secretary of public security for help?

Because Dona Lu wants to bury her son. Because the police can get in the way. They might scare off the kidnapper.

She's not going to alert the police?

No. You can take that to the bank.

We had talked about it a lot. Sulamita believed the problem might arise in the future. There are moments, she said, when they'll have to bring in the police. When they receive the body. They'll have to do a DNA test for the burial. It's normal procedure. The police will ask questions.

However, Sulamita knew a worker in the Brasilia laboratory where the tests in the region were carried out. She believed we could convince him to help us.

How? I asked.

For six hundred, she said. You can convince a guy to do anything for six hundred. All you have to do is pay.

Now, she said, the important thing is to use the strategy of silence. We're going to terrorize them. We're going to disappear for a time. Silence is our most powerful weapon.

31

When you commit a crime like this the problem isn't the others. Much less the reality. The evidence. The problem is you yourself. The slip-up you make when you're asked a question. The imperfect actions. Your inappropriate reaction in a given situation. Not to mention the urge to confess that arises time and again. That's common, said Sulamita. Guilt is the feeling that usually leads to fatal consequences at such moments. People simply don't take into account the extra weight they begin to carry. They want to be free of it so they can sleep. Actually, confession has more to do with relief than with repentance. It functions like a salve. A discharge. Afterward, people repent having confessed, but then it's too late.

Our conversations in bed were always about such matters. How we should act in this or that situation. Self-control is the watchword, Sulamita said. Permanent self-control.

I had relapses, but in general I did all right. It didn't matter what Dalva asked or what happened at the house. I remained firm until we decided the moment had come.

On a Monday, around nine in the evening, we went to the neighborhood square, taking Junior's cell phone.

The first call was tense. They wanted to know why their son's phone was still working: Didn't you say you found my son in the water? They were quite nervous, and I took advantage of that. I said they had ample proof, that the mere
fact of me talking to them from that number was one more piece of evidence, and that we wanted $200,000 to hand over the cadaver.

I don't have that amount, stated José Beraba. And I don't even know for sure that you're telling the truth.

In less than two hours I called back twice. I threatened, said that if they called the police they would never learn how to find their son.

Later, as we had ice cream in the square, I summarized the conversations for Sulamita.

The rich are goddamn tough, she said. Even at times like this they want to bargain.

The night was stuffy, and on the way home we decided to buy a bottle of vodka. Sulamita also bought chocolates, peanuts, and potato chips.

We stayed at home the rest of the night, watching a science fiction film muted. At times, groggy from the vodka, I managed to doze off. And would wake up immediately, with a start, a sharp sound in my ear, like the crack of a whip.

When the cracking stopped, I fell into a heavy sleep and dreamed of Rita. I had a load of explanations to give; I was ready to ask forgiveness, but Rita only wanted to show me that damn sonogram. See this spot here? she asked. I couldn't see anything. It's our child, she said. And suddenly we were fucking like two dogs, in the cemetery where Sulamita and I had bought the cadaver. You can come inside me, she said.

I awoke with my orgasm, feeling terrible. Sulamita wasn't in the bed.

When I went into the bathroom, I found her in the shower. I haven't slept a wink, she said. I saw she'd been crying.

I took off my clothes, got into the shower, and we started kissing. She licked my neck, went on kissing me, and I
thought I wouldn't have the strength for fucking at that moment.

When I came it was slow, weak, like an echo.

The next morning, when we left for work, I heard Eliana bellowing. I was irritated at the widow and knew exactly what was going on in that hole.

I asked Sulamita to wait for me in the car.

When I entered Eliana's kitchen I found Serafina sitting by the Formica table, with one of the grandchildren protecting her from their mother's fury.

I took Eliana outside to talk.

I didn't let her say a word. You see Sulamita over there? I asked, pointing to the van. She's got her eye on you. She wants me to warn you: if you lay a hand on Serafina again, she's coming here to arrest you, understand? You know what the penalty is for mistreating Indians? I'm giving you notice, it's a crime without bail. Worse than trafficking drugs or rare birds, you hear me?

She stared at me, not knowing what to say.

Sulamita waved at us from the car.

When I drove away, Sulamita asked if there was some problem.

Not at all, I said.

We're going to the bank, Beraba said as soon as he got in the car.

The day's beginning well, I thought while I waited in the car. Some moments later he returned, accompanied by the manager, who was carrying a black valise like the ones you see in the movies, to transport the money.

At four o'clock Dona Lu asked me to go with her to the church. She seemed more willing than her husband, and said she was receiving grace and wished to give thanks. I saw she wanted to talk, but I only managed to say yes and no, unable to come up with anything resembling conversation. On the way back, she kept her eyes closed, holding a rosary. I saw that she never stopped praying.

My stomach still wasn't in good shape, and as the day progressed I became more and more nauseated. I was careful, however, to maintain my composure.

That night, I did what Sulamita and I had agreed on.

At seven o'clock I phoned and spoke with José Beraba. I agreed to reduce the ransom to the figure he proposed: $160,000.

In the men's room at the airport, I said, under the sink, you'll find the instructions. Go alone. And I hung up.

Afterward, I went to meet Sulamita at the precinct.

She had bought a strawberry pie and gone to visit old friends.

We're engaged, she said when I arrived.

We received congratulations. The entire squad was there, and we didn't notice anything unusual.

Later, Sulamita invited Joel to have dinner with us. Dudu, the chief's sycophant, with his aged Weimaraner's face, also came along.

It was a gathering full of stories I had already heard, which they loved telling again, like the day Sulamita had slapped a young guy who was giving a statement, a rapist who was mocking us, she said. The bastard was talking and laughing, Sulamita continued, as if it was funny raping poor little girls.

Just as he was about to confess, Joel added, this crazy woman here gets up from the computer and slaps him. The chief felt like killing her, said Joel, guffawing.

On the way home, Sulamita told me that the Berabas were living up to their part of the bargain. The police don't know anything, she said. You saw it with your own eyes.

All clear, over.

32

Seven in the morning.

At the bakery, we ordered coffee and bread with butter.

The chances of getting away with theft are almost a hundred percent, said Sulamita. And if you kill someone, there's only a fifteen percent probability of getting caught. These are statistics from a study in Rio de Janeiro, she said, showing me the newspaper.

I was nervous, and Sulamita was trying to calm me down. But she was worse than me, and I had to calm her as well.

If Rio is like that, I stated, in the rest of Brazil it's far worse. Corumbá isn't even Brazil; we're practically in Bolivia.

Keep your voice down, she said. The problem is that we're not just stealing.

But we're not killing, I argued. We haven't killed anybody.

Keep your voice down, she repeated. The issue, she said, ignoring my arguments, is that we're selling a false cadaver to one of the richest families in Corumbá.

The ransom was the most sensitive part of our plan. Sulamita had set the details, always considering that the police could be alerted. I'm a cop, she had said on several occasions. In fact, after beginning to work with cadavers she insisted on repeating that fact as if she had no connection to the morgue and those bodies.

I was sure the Berabas wouldn't ask for help, perhaps from all the time I'd spent close to Dona Lu. They wanted
the body, wanted the burial, wanted to hold a mass and later regularly visit the tomb.