Rubem Fonseca: Crimes of August

The reporter, obviously ill at ease, moved away from the door and disappeared.

The forensics team finished its work and stored instruments and papers in small black cases. The first to come out was Vilanova.

Normally good-humored, Vilanova was frowning and worried. He knew the inspector and considered his presence at the scene natural.

“I confirmed a large blackened area around the orifice made by the projectile in the pajama, and also nitrite on the hand. There can be no doubt that the president killed himself. Jessé and Nilton agree with me,” said Vilanova.

The medical examiners Jessé and Nilton had undertaken only a superficial examination of the corpse. The superintendent of police had given orders to the experts of the GEP and the morgue to hand over the body; there was no way, in that location, to perform an autopsy as the law required. The two medical examiners had merely removed the bullet lodged in the thorax and injected formaldehyde into the veins of the cadaver. This was related to Mattos by Nilton Salles.

The inspector descended to the ground floor, where countless persons had gathered, lamenting and clamoring. In a corner, under the large statue of Perseus, a colonel in uniform was saying that General Zenóbio had expressed the desire to go to the palace, but Vargas’s family had forbidden him to enter. “They didn’t take into account the fact that in 1950 Zenóbio had opposed another coup attempt by the UDN when Eduardo Gomes was defeated by Vargas in the presidential elections,” the colonel kept repeating.

Genolino Amado and Lourival Fontes distributed to the journalists arriving at the Catete an official note about the death of Vargas. Along with the note, they handed over two documents “found in the president’s bedroom”: the text of the letter, badly typed, which they called Vargas’s testament, and the text of a note that Major Fitipaldi said was found in the president’s bedroom, despite Lourival Fontes having verified that it was not in Vargas’s handwriting.

Major Fitipaldi, upon learning of Vargas’s suicide, had locked himself in the military advisers’ room, on the ground floor, and hastily written a note at the end of which he signed the name of Getúlio Vargas.

Now, Fitipaldi, Genolino, and Fontes read the note to the journalists arriving at the palace as having come from the president.

“I leave to the ire of my enemies the legacy of my death,” began the note, which ended by saying: “The answer from the people will come later. .”

Mattos left the palace. He made his way through the crowd gathered in front of the palace. He needed to get back to the precinct.

AT THE FINAL STOP of the streetcar line at Carioca Square, the inspector caught a streetcar and went to the precinct.

Automatically, he began signing the certificates of poverty on his desk. Rosalvo came into the office.

“Those military guys are really stupid. That’s the crux of it. If they’d left Getúlio alone, the senile old man would’ve died in disgrace, having his hair combed in public by the Black Angel, drowned in the sea of mud. But the military backed him up against the wall, without giving him a chance to save face. They played Lacerda’s game; he’s a maniac who doesn’t know when to stop. The people had already taken the old man’s picture down from the wall, now everything’s going to start all over. The old man’s become a saint, like every politician who dies in office in this shithole of a country.”

“Weren’t you a Lacerdist? Against Getúlio?”

“I’ve changed sides.”

Rosalvo began singing a song from the 1951 Carnival: “ Put the old man’s picture back up, put it in the same spot, the old man’s smile makes us work .”

“Shut up,” said the inspector.

“The UDN is through,” said Rosalvo. “It’ll never be the government in this country. That boat has sailed.”

“Call the jailer and the guard on duty.”

Rosalvo and the policemen on duty, the investigator who was serving as jailer and the guard, came into the inspector’s office. Mattos ordered them go with him to the Robbery and Theft section.

“Put your weapons on top of this table,” the inspector said.

“I don’t understand, sir,” said Rosalvo.

Mattos took his revolver from his belt and pointed it at Rosalvo’s head.

“You don’t need to understand. Do it.”

“We’re going to do what the man’s ordering,” said Rosalvo.

The policemen placed their guns on the table. Rosalvo shook his head as if to say: “This time the guy has really gone crazy.”

“The keys to the lockup.”

The jailer put the ring of keys on the table.

Mattos left, locking the door. The Robbery and Theft section had only a narrow transom that opened onto a ventilation area.

The prisoners pressed against the wall when Mattos entered the cell. The repugnant smell of poverty, dirt, and disease strengthened even further the inspector’s resolve.

“Everyone out.”

The prisoners didn’t understand the inspector’s order and remained motionless inside the lockup.

“Out!” shouted the inspector. His stomach burned.

The prisoners went out and formed into a group at the far end of the corridor.

Mattos called over Odorico, the cell boss. “Look, they’re going out one at a time, spaced a minute apart. You’re responsible.”

One by one, in silence, the prisoners began leaving. They seemed like fleeing rats.

Mattos located Pádua after several phone calls.

“Pádua, listen carefully. I let all the prisoners out of lockup. All of them, even the convicted ones.”

“You’ve gone crazy, Mattos! They’re going to hold an administrative and a departmental inquiry. This time they’re going to kick you off the force. Know what the outcome of this is going to be?”

“Fuck the outcome.”

“I’m going to have to arrest you.”

“Don’t try it, Pádua. I’m calling you just so you can come here and take control of this shit. I locked up the people on my shift.”

“You’re finished!”

“I’m waiting for you.”

“I can call headquarters and tell them to go there and collar you.”

“You’re not going to do that.”

“The fuck I’m not!” shouted Pádua. “You son of a bitch!”

Mattos hung up.

He thought then that he hadn’t had a chance to talk with Detective Celso about Francisco Albergaria. When Pádua gets here, I’m going to give him all the information about my investigations. Pádua will like arresting the killer of Paulo Gomes Aguiar and solving the mystery of the Deauville.

However, Mattos would forget to give his colleague that information. Pádua arrived by himself. Mattos was sitting behind his desk, on it the ring of keys and the revolvers.

The two looked at each other silently.

“Tell them I threatened you.”

Pádua sighed. “Everybody knows I’m not afraid of threats. And you’re not capable of using those shitty guns.”

“Say whatever you like. Say you felt sorry for me.”

“That’s just what I’m feeling. One of the few honest cops in this precinct, and you go and do something like that. Look, I can order Rosalvo and the other two to say the prisoners sawed through the bars and ran off. We’ll make up something like that. The country’s in the middle of a convulsion, headquarters isn’t even going to start an inquiry, everybody’s going to be replaced, they’re going to give the superintendent of police the boot. Runaway prisoners won’t matter to anyone.”

“It matters to me. I want it to be that way.”

Mattos placed his police ID next to the revolvers.

“Hand this over to the proper person.”

“What proper person? There is no proper person. Hang on to that shit until they open an inquiry and kick your ass out into the street.”