Rubem Fonseca: Crimes of August

“But make it fast,” said Gregório.

“I’m going to see the man immediately.” Maybe Alcino, if instructed well, could do the job right.

IN THE LOCKUP, Inspector Mattos watched the prisoners having breakfast and listened to their complaints. That day was the Day of the Incarcerated. At the initiative of the Brazilian Prison Association a patron saint had been instituted for the prisoners. The choice of saint, at the suggestion of Cardinal Jaime de Barros Câmara, had been the apostle Peter, who, in the words of the prelate, had suffered in life the horrors of prison. The inspector thought about joking with the prisoners, “You’re all the time complaining on a full belly, you’ve even got a patron saint and you still want more,” but the disgust he felt upon entering the cells had changed his disposition. If he weren’t self-centered, a cowardly conformist, he would take advantage of the Day of the Incarcerated to set all those poor bastards free. But he merely jotted down the complaints and returned to his office.

At eleven o’clock he looked at his watch, anxious for the sixty minutes remaining in his shift to end. But at that instant a patrol car arrived. Central dispatch had received word of a homicide. Alberto Mattos called Rosalvo to accompany him to the scene.

“It’s after eleven already, why don’t you leave it for Inspector Maia?”

“It’s not noon yet.”

They got into the precinct’s old van, dirty from the prisoners’ breakfast that it had transported earlier that morning. When they passed by a bar, Mattos told the driver to stop, got out, and drank a glass of milk. The acidity went on gnawing at his stomach.

The patrol car was waiting for them at the door of the Deauville.

The two policemen went up to the eighth floor. A guard was in the hallway, along with the investigator in charge. The apartment door was open. Mattos and Rosalvo went into a small living room where two elegantly and expensively dressed men were. In a wall mirror, the inspector saw his face with a day-old beard, his wrinkled shirt, his crooked tie, the cheap suit he was wearing. Still in the mirror, he recognized one of the men, the shorter and stocky Galvão, the famous criminal lawyer. When he finished his law degree, before he joined the police force, Mattos had gone to work as an assistant public defender and had once represented a poor devil involved in a counterfeit ring. Galvão was the lawyer for the leader of the ring. Mattos’s client had been the only one acquitted.

Galvão and the other man addressed Rosalvo, who was better dressed than the inspector.

“I’m Investigator Rosalvo,” he said, realizing the mistake. “This is the inspector, Mr. Alberto Mattos.”

“Galvão,” said the lawyer, extending his hand. He showed no sign of having recognized Mattos. A heavy voice, polite but full of authority. “I’m here as a friend of the family. This is Mr. Claudio Aguiar, the victim’s cousin.”

“Who informed you?”

Mattos’s abruptness didn’t seem to bother Galvão. Without losing his composure as the great jurist, he replied that it had been the maid. She had called the police and then Claudio Aguiar.

“I thought the police would get here before us.”

“What’s the dead man’s name?”

“Paulo Machado Gomes Aguiar.”

“Profession?”

“Industrialist.”

“Single? Married?”

“Married.”

“Where’s his wife?”

“At the country home in Petropolis. She hasn’t been informed yet. .”

“She hasn’t been informed?”

“We wanted to spare her the horror of seeing her murdered husband, from the brutality of the criminal investigation. . She’s a very delicate person. . They were very close. .” answered Galvão.

“Where’s the body? I hope nothing’s been moved.”

“We haven’t even gone into the bedroom.”

“I believe you have nothing further to do here, Mr. Galvão. Or you, Mr. — ?”

“Aguiar,” said the dead man’s cousin, who had remained silent till then.

The lawyer and the cousin, however, remained in the middle of the vestibule. Mattos loosened his collar even more. He swallowed saliva. He sighed.

Galvão stuck his hand in his coat pocket. From a leather wallet he took out a business card.

“If you need anything. .”

The inspector put the card in his pocket. “Tell the victim’s wife I want to see her on Monday. At the precinct.”

“Wouldn’t it be better—” Galvão began.

“Monday,” repeated Mattos.

“Monday is tomorrow.”

“So it is.”

Galvão touched lightly the elbow of Aguiar, who retracted his arm. “Let’s go,” said the lawyer in his resonant voice.

“Another thing,” said Mattos, “before leaving, tell the maid who found the body to come talk with me.”

A forty-year-old woman, in a black uniform with white apron and a kind of coif on her head, appeared in the vestibule.

“What’s your name?”

“Nilda.”

“Where is the body?”

Mattos and Rosalvo followed the maid.

“Wait out here, Nilda.”

The dead man, about thirty years of age, large and muscular, lay on the bed, entirely nude. On his face, several hematomas. Marks on the neck. The sheets were stained with blood, fecal matter, and urine. The two policemen moved carefully about the room in order to avoid destroying possible clues. With his elbow, Mattos pushed the half-open bathroom door, not wanting to mix his fingerprints with any others that might exist. A large mirror occupied one entire wall, over a marble counter holding vials of perfume, brushes, soap, and other objects. Using his elbow, the inspector opened the curtain to the shower stall. While he examined, without touching it, a bar of soap with some short hairs, a gleam caught his attention. He kneeled. It was a large gold ring. He placed it in his pocket, without letting Rosalvo see it. The ring made a slight sound when it touched the gold tooth that Mattos always carried with him. Realizing that the ring had hit the tooth, a sensation of disgust overpowered him; impulsively, the inspector removed the gold tooth to his other pocket, nearly dropping it.

“Call Forensics and ask for a crime-scene team,” said Mattos, trying to hide his momentary confusion.

“The morgue too?” asked Rosalvo.

“Yes, that too.”

Rosalvo approached the night table, which held a telephone.

“Not that one. There may be fingerprints.”

Nilda was waiting at the bedroom door.

“Are there other employees in the house?”

“The cook and the pantryman. They’re in the pantry.”

The inspector, accompanied by Nilda, went to the pantry. A fat woman in an apron and a man wearing striped pants and a black vest, sitting at a table, stood up, startled.

“Wait out there. I’m going to talk to Nilda. Then I’ll call the two of you,” said the inspector, closing the door between the pantry and the kitchen.

“Was it you who called the police?”

“Yes.” Her voice tremulous. That was another unpleasant thing about being a cop: when people didn’t hate him, they feared him.

“How was it you discovered your master’s body? Take your time.”

“I went to take them breakfast and knocked on the door and nobody answered. .”

“Them who?”

“Mr. Paulo and Dona Luciana.”

“Wasn’t his wife traveling?”

“I didn’t know. She had left in the afternoon and I didn’t know.”

“Who told you that?”

“The master’s cousin, Mr. Claudio.”

“And then?”

“Mr. Paulo wakes up early and I thought he’d already left and that Dona Luciana was in the bathroom. That’s when I opened the door and. . saw that . . I ran out. .”

“And then?”