Rubem Fonseca - Crimes of August

Mattos thought about calling Pastor and saying, “Tell those soldiers, the prosecutor, the head of DPS, Tancredo, the whole bunch, to go to hell.” Pastor was surrounded by people who were shit-scared or confused or both. He had all but been removed from the case. What did he have to lose? A shitty job as commissioner? In reality, that day, the superintendent of police, Colonel Paulo Torres, had held a secret meeting with his principal advisers to examine a move that would totally remove Pastor from the case: shifting the Tonelero inquiry to his department and naming Commissioner Silvio Terra, director of the Technical Police, to head the investigations. Considering, however, that the action could be seen, within the government itself, as surrendering to pressure from Lacerda and his group, Silvio Terra’s appointment had not yet been effected.

While Mattos was reading the note from headquarters, Rosalvo had come into the room. From the expression of the inspector’s face, the investigator concluded it was going to be a rough day.

WHENEVER HE VISITED HIS MOTHER in Caxambu, a city famous for its medicinal waters, Old Turk would take advantage of the opportunity to do a twenty-one-day treatment. Three times a day, with rigorous punctuality, he would drink water from different springs “to clear the liver,” as recommended by the old doctor in the city. With the call from Ilídio, Old Turk had to suspend the treatment, much to his displeasure.

After ending his brief telephone conversation with Ilídio, Old Turk had headed to the Rede Mineira de Viação train station, in Caxambu, and purchased a ticket for Rio. In Cruzeiro he would switch to a train on the Central Railroad. On the train he made his plans. Normally he enjoyed contemplating the landscape, especially during the descent from the mountains. But, thinking about Ilídio’s proposal, that day he didn’t look out the window at the trees and mountains and valleys and rivers whose sight gave him such pleasure. “I want to get a cop out of my hair,” the numbers boss had said. “No problem,” Old Turk had answered, “he won’t be the first.” “But he’s an honest inspector.” “No problem,” Old Turk had repeated. Now, on the train, he tried to remember if any inspector had ever been eliminated under similar circumstances. He recalled an inspector who had been murdered and the confusion that resulted, but the cop had been killed by his wife’s lover, merely a crime of passion. This thing had to be done using great caution.

Old Turk preferred working alone. Before acting, he liked to concentrate, in solitude. When he got to Rio, instead of going to his house, he began looking for a room to rent somewhere far away from the districts he normally frequented. He therefore avoided Santo Cristo, Saúde, and Estácio. He found a room on Rua das Marrecas, downtown, in the home of an old retired procuress. His immediate problem was to find out the address of the inspector’s residence. The weapon he would use had already been selected. A Belgian FN 7.65 that Old Turk zealously guarded and had never before used. He was going to break in the pistol by killing an important guy. The FN deserved no less.

“IS THERE A PROBLEM?” asked Rosalvo.

“Did you release that prisoner being held for questioning?”

“As soon as you gave the order. Mr. Pádua had requested his record from HQ—”

“Not interested. Any news on José Silva? The boy brutalized by Lomagno and the others in high school?”

“I think I’m close. The manager of a bakery on Santa Clara said he remembered the tenants of a house on Avenida Atlântica. He used to deliver bread there.”

“Go on.”

“I used up a lot of shoe leather finding that baker.”

“Go on. Later I’ll put you in for a commendation for meritorious service.”

“Bakers in Copacabana don’t make deliveries anymore. They don’t know where the residents of the house on Avenida Atlântica are now. But a woman who used to live in the house sometimes shows up at the bakery to shop. Finding José Silva is just a matter of time.”

“For us, time isn’t ‘just.’ Stay at the bakery all day, all week if necessary, till you find the woman.”

“Yes, sir.”

After Rosalvo left, Mattos looked up Senator Vitor Freitas’s telephone number on his pad, which his aide Clemente had given him when Mattos had visited the Senate.

“Who wishes to speak with him?”

“Police Inspector Mattos.”

He waited.

“The senator can’t speak with you.”

“I’d like for him to make an appointment, at a time of his convenience, to see me.”

“We’re going through a very unsettled moment politically, as you must be aware, and the senator is extremely busy with matters of the greatest import. I don’t think he can spare the time to see you.”

“He’ll have to talk to me sooner or later. It’s better that it be sooner.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Take it however you like.”

“I’m taking it as a threat. Don’t forget, inspector, that we’re not in a dictatorship, a minor-level policeman can no longer threaten a federal senator protected by constitutional immunities without suffering the grave consequences of that criminal and arbitrary act. Your superiors will be informed of what’s going on and take—”

Mattos hung up. He looked through his pockets for an antacid tablet. Black bile, excess stomach acid, tattered nerves.

The telephone on his desk rang.

“Inspector Mattos, please.”

“Speaking.”

“I’d like to register a complaint. When can I do that?”

“The police never close, sir. Whatever time you like. My shift goes till noon tomorrow.”

AT SEVEN THAT NIGHT, Rosalvo returned to the precinct with the information that he had located José Silva.

“The address is 60 Avenida Rainha Elizabeth. Want me to go there and talk to him?”

“I’ll do it.”

“Phone call for you, Rosalvo,” said the guard, coming into the inspector’s office. “In Surveillance.”

In the Surveillance office, Rosalvo picked up the phone.

“Hello?”

“It’s Teodoro. We worked together in Robbery and Theft. Remember me?”

“I never forget anything, Teodoro, and besides—”

“Don’t say my name, goddammit.”

THE MORGUE’S AUTOPSY REPORTS on Paulo Gomes Aguiar and the findings by Forensics of evidence of the Deauville crime were handed over to Inspector Mattos that morning as he was leaving for the Catete Palace. He quickly skimmed the two procedural documents. Nothing beyond what the examiners had told him informally over the phone. He put them in his desk drawer. Later he would read both documents more carefully.

Arriving at the palace, Mattos identified himself at the entrance and filled out a form in which he stated that the objective of his visit was an official interview with Lieutenant Gregório. An old man wearing an attendant’s uniform — navy blue pants and coat, white shirt, and a black tie — took the form and disappeared with it through a door at the rear of the entrance hall, to the right.

While he waited, the inspector contemplated, behind the reception desk, a bronze life-size statue of an Indian holding a spear and grimacing in rage.

“Who’s this a statue of?”

“Don’t know. I’ve been working at the palace for over twenty years, and when I came Ubirajara was already right there,” replied the doorman.

“May I see?” Mattos drew closer to read what was written on the base of the statue: Chaves Pinheiro, 1920.

On the other side of the reception area was another bronze statue, also life-size, by the same sculptor. Perseus freeing Andromeda, one hand on a sword, the other bearing the serpent-covered head of Medusa.