Blood of the Wicked

"What did he think of liberation theology?"

The sudden change of theme caused Francisco's forehead to crease in puzzlement. "I thought you were exploring motives."

"I am. Please answer my question."

"Liberation theology? What did the bishop think of it?"

Hector nodded.

"He opposed it. He had to. It's been condemned by Rome."

"So it's likely his successor will condemn it as well."

"It's not `likely,' Delegado, it's certain. Dom Felipe's successor will certainly condemn it."

"What would you say to a suggestion that another priest, a liberation theologian, might have killed the bishop?"

Francisco shook his head. "That's absurd."

"Is it? Why?"

"First of all, because there are no longer any priests who are liberation theologians. All of them either renounced the doctrine or left the Church. Second, because any priest, no matter how radical, would know that killing the bishop wouldn't change anything. Liberation theology is a discredited doctrine, and the death of a hundred bishops won't alter that."

"I see."

Francisco leaned forward. The gold frame of his eyeglasses reflected a pinpoint of light from the window. "But there's one possibility you might not have considered. Have you heard of a man called Aurelio Azevedo?"

"The activist? The man they nailed to a tree?"

"Yes, the man they nailed to a tree. Did you know that they killed his wife and his two children as well?"

"Yes."

The priest paused for a moment, as if he expected Hector to comment on the barbarity of it all. When Hector didn't, he went on. "All of us were outraged, the bishop in particular. Several weeks before he died he went to Cascatas and preached a sermon in the old church. He drew his inspiration from Psalm Fifty-eight, verse ten: The passage reads `The righteous shall rejoice when he seeth the vengeance: He shall wash his feet in the blood of the wicked.' His thesis, in a nutshell, was that whoever spills innocent blood is evil and deserving of having their own blood spilled."

"I gather he didn't believe in turning the other cheek?"

"No, Delegado, he most certainly did not. The bishop leaned toward Old Testament solutions, an eye for an eye. He enjoined anyone with information about the death of Azevedo to come forward, told them their souls would be in peril if they didn't."

"Did he specifically accuse any individual or any group?"

"No. He stopped short of that, but people got the message."

"And those people included the big landowners, I suppose."

"Most certainly. Several of them stood up and walked out while he was still speaking. I was there. I saw it."

"Did it work? Did anyone come forward?"

"Possibly."

"Possibly?"

Francisco looked out the window, gathering his thoughts. Hector followed his gaze. The children who'd been playing with the top were gone.

"About a week after the sermon," the priest resumed, "Dom Felipe received a letter, postmarked Cascatas, and signed by someone named Edson Souza."

Hector made a note of the name. "Go on," he said.

"Souza claimed to have knowledge of a crime and wanted to speak to the bishop personally. He gave a date and a time when he was going to call."

"May I see the letter?"

"It's gone. Missing. After the bishop's death I searched for it, but I haven't been able to find it. I don't think anyone took it, though. Perhaps the bishop discarded it."

"And did this Souza actually call?"

"He did, but the bishop was unable to speak to him. At the date and time specified he had a longstanding engagement elsewhere. He instructed me to give Souza an alternate date and time to call him back."

"Which you did?"

"Which I did."

"What did Souza sound like? Can you describe his voice?"

"Young. Poorly educated. Local accent. I'm afraid I can't be more specific than that."

"What do you mean by a local accent?"

"He's from around here somewhere. Sao Paulo State for sure."

"Any speech defects? A lisp, perhaps?"

"No, nothing like that."

"When did this conversation take place?"

The priest stood up, walked to the glass-topped desk and consulted a calendar. "The… eighth of last month."

"At what time?"

"Eleven o'clock in the morning."

"What number did he call?"

"Number?"

"The telephone number that Souza used to contact you."

The priest rattled off some numbers, and Hector made a note of them. "Then what happened?"

"Souza agreed to call back."

"And did he?"

"He did. He called the next day at the same time. The bishop spoke to him. I was curious, so I went into his office just after he'd hung up. Dom Felipe was staring down at the surface of his desk. When he heard me come in, he looked up. He was as angry as I've ever seen him. At first, I thought it was because of my interruption. But no. He told me to place a call to Father Gaspar Farias in Cascatas."

"And did you?"

"I did."

"What did they discuss?"

"I have no idea. He offered me no information about either call. Not the one from Souza, not the one to Father Gaspar. Not then. Not later."

"And you never asked him?"

The priest shook his head and smiled, as if the question struck him as naive. "Oh, my goodness, no. I'd never take that kind of liberty with the bishop."

"Do you think the two calls were related?"

Father Francisco toyed with his empty cup and thought about the question. Then he pushed cup and saucer aside and leaned back in his chair. "They might well have been."

"Might they both have had something to do with Azevedo's murder?"

"I'd be speculating, but… yes, I think so."

"Why would he talk to Gaspar about it and not to you?"

"I'm here. Father Gaspar is in Cascatas. The bishop preached his sermon in Gaspar's old church, and he was going to Cascatas to consecrate the new one. Perhaps he wanted some information about a parishioner, or wanted Gaspar to take some kind of action prior to his arrival. That's my best guess, but I really don't know."

"Did you speak to Dom Felipe on the morning of his death?"

"No. As you now know, having made it yourself, it's a long drive to Cascatas. I wanted to be there when he arrived. I left very early in the morning, long before he came down to breakfast."

"Why didn't you accompany him in the helicopter?"

Father Francisco shook his head. "He wouldn't have welcomed it."

"Why not?"

"Well…" For the first time during the interview Father Francisco seemed to be at a loss for words. "… the bishop was-how shall I put this?-publicity conscious." He seemed pleased with his phrasing and repeated it. "Yes, publicity conscious. He was making a grand entrance into Cascatas. My presence on the helicopter would have been… a distraction."

"A prima donna was he? A publicity hound?"

"I didn't say that, Delegado."

"No, Padre, of course you didn't. Let me ask you this: Did his arrival achieve the intended effect?"

"Oh my, yes. It was a great success. He must have been very pleased."

"His idea? The helicopter?"

"Mine. More coffee?"

Hector accepted the coffee. His interview with Father Francisco went on for almost another hour, but nothing of any further significance came to light.

Silva was in a taxi when his nephew's call came through.

"Where are you?" Hector asked.

"On my way to see Anton Brouwer, that priest Diana Poli mentioned. You?"

"Just leaving Presidente Vargas."

Hector gave his uncle a quick summary of his conversation with the bishop's secretary. Toward the end of his account, the signal started breaking up. "… bring… Sao… leg…"

"What?"

"I said… bring Arnaldo… Sao Paulo… legwork."

"You want to bring Arnaldo from Sao Paulo to do some legwork?"

"Yes. I… you fine."

"Well, I can't hear you. Okay, call Arnaldo. Tell him to drive. We could use another car."

Silva could see the cabdriver's face in the rearview mirror. The man's mouth tightened when he heard the part about another car. More cars meant fewer customers for taxis.

"Did you start a trace on the bishop's incoming calls?" Silva said.

"… already underway. If… home phone, we'll get him."

"Don't count on it. Anything else?"

But Hector was gone.

The cabdriver pulled onto the unpaved shoulder of the road, put one arm over the back of the seat, and pointed with the other.

"Father Brouwer's place is over there. You go down that alley between the banana trees," he said. "You want me to wait?"