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.
Chapter Forty-eight
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."
"How do you figure?" Sergeant Menezes said.
"Neither one had his throat cut."
The sergeant frowned, maybe because he was puzzled, maybe because he was annoyed.
"Looks like a. 22," Hector said.
Menezes nodded.
"Yeah, a. 22. Just a little popgun. Hi, Doc. Glad you could finally make it."
This last, a weak attempt at humor, was directed to Ishikawa, who entered the room to a chorus of mumbled greetings. The medical examiner clucked his tongue a few times and squatted next to the body of Euclides.
"Colonel left already?" Silva asked.
"He didn't come," the sergeant said.
"Didn't come? But you said-"
"It's like this. I'm the senior man on duty tonight. A little after midnight, I got a call from the colonel. He said he got an anonymous tip that something had happened here. He said to check it out, and if there was really anything wrong to get in touch with you. As for him, he said, he's going back to bed and doesn't want to be disturbed before eight o'clock tomorrow morning."
"Doesn't sound like him at all."
"Oh, yes it does. You don't know the colonel. He keeps banker's hours. Likes a good night's sleep, the colonel does."
"I meant the part about calling me. He's normally not so cordial."
"Oh. Well, I wouldn't know about that. I just do what I'm told."
"How about Palmas? Where's he?"
"No idea, but you don't often see him without the colonel. They're like Siamese twins, those two. Anyway, I sent a patrol car over here. They found the house all lit up and the front door unlocked, but nobody was answering the bell. They tried calling on the phone. No answer. So I took a chance and authorized them to walk in. This"-he waved his arm, taking in both bodies-"is what they found. Murder and suicide. Pretty obvious."
"Not to me. Not yet," Silva said.
"Ah, but that's because you don't know," the sergeant said smugly.
"Don't know what?"
"About the note."
"What note?"
The sergeant wouldn't be hurried. He was enjoying the opportunity to show the big city boys a thing or two. "It was right here on the desk. I had my doubts at first. So what did I do? I went to that file cabinet over there and looked for samples of Father Gaspar's handwriting. Then, I put them side-by-side with the note, and compared them. No doubt about it. A perfect match."
"So Gaspar wrote something. A suicide note?"
"Not exactly," the sergeant said. "Something better. Much better. He confessed."
"Confessed to what?"
The sergeant dropped what he thought was his bombshell. "Killing the bishop," he said.
He was visibly disappointed when Silva showed no sign of surprise.
"So he confessed to that, did he?"
"Sure did. Turns out he was a pedophile. The bishop found out about it, and they killed him to make sure it didn't come out."
"They being?"
"Him and that guy on the floor over there. He was the one who actually pulled the trigger. It's all in the confession. Want to read it?"
"I sure as hell do. Where is it?"
"I'll get it."
Sergeant Menezes walked over to one of the crime-scene technicians, exchanged a few words, and came back with two plastic envelopes, a rose-colored page of stationery in each.
"So I guess the colonel was right," he said. "We didn't need you guys after all." He extended the envelopes to Silva. "Here. See for yourself."
Silva read both sides of the first sheet, passed it to Hector, and went on to read the other.