Leighton Gage - Blood of the Wicked

"Okay, you old bastard," Colonel Ferraz said. "You talked about half an hour. Well, it's been half an hour. What are you waiting for? When the hell are you going to let us loose and get out of 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.

Every homicide is different, but the circus surrounding every homicide is pretty much the same. The circus begins with the arrival of the first police car and ends with the removal of the corpse. It's lit by flashing red and blue light, punctuated by the squawk of police radios, and isolated by yellow strips of crime-scene tape. The gatekeeper is almost always a grizzled veteran or an eager rookie.

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."