The confession contained details that only the murderer would know. There was information about how and where the rifle had been purchased, and even the price that had been paid for it. It revealed that Euclides, during his military service, had been trained as a sniper. What it did not say was that the writer had decided to end it all, or that he'd intended to take his manservant with him. It was, most definitely, a confession but it wasn't a suicide note.
Silva walked over to Ishikawa, who was examining the wound in Father Gaspar's temple. "Any preliminary conclusions, Doctor?"
"Two cases of death by gunshot to the head, inflicted with a small bore weapon, consistent with that one there." Ishikawa pointed to the semi-automatic pistol still clutched in Father Gaspar's right hand. Then he pointed to the area around the wound. "Powder burns. The muzzle was right next to his head when the shot was fired. Probably a . 22 caliber short. No exit wound on either body. The bullets are still inside their skulls."
Silva reached into his pocket, pulled out a pair of latex gloves and put them on. "You already photographed this?" he asked the crime scene technician, pointing at the hand clutching the gun.
The man nodded.
"You painted the skin for powder residue?"
"Sim, senhor."
"And found it?"
"Also."
"Good. May I touch this?" He pointed to the weapon. The crime scene technician looked to Sergeant Menezes.
"Go ahead," the sergeant said with a verbal shrug.
Silva gently pried the weapon from Gaspar's grip, removed the clip, ejected the round in the chamber and counted all of the cartridges. He came up two short of a full magazine.
"You see," Menezes said. "Two wounds, two dead men, two shots. Case closed."
"Excuse us for a moment, Sergeant."
Silva put pistol and clip on the desk and drew his nephew aside, out of earshot. "What do you think?" he said.
"I don't buy it," Hector said. "A few hours ago Gaspar was denying everything. He knew damned well that we had no proof. Then he's suddenly overcome by his conscience, kills his accomplice, and shoots himself? Not likely."
"No," Silva said, "not likely at all. Conclusion?"
"Someone else did it."
"And the powder residue on Gaspar's hand, and the fact that there were only two shots fired?"
"Everybody who watches television knows that a pistol shot leaves residue on the skin of the person who fired it. Without it, it's not suicide. The killer would have wanted to make sure that Gaspar's hand had the necessary traces of gunpowder."
"Good boy. So?"
"The killer added another cartridge to the magazine after he shot them. Then he put the gun into Gaspar's hand, and pushed his trigger finger to fire off a third shot. That way, Gaspar would test positive for the telltale powder residue, but there'd still only be two cartridges missing from the magazine."
"Take it a step further."
"Somewhere in this room there's another bullet hole, and the bullet we dig out of it will have been fired from the same weapon."
"My thinking exactly," Silva said. "Let's find it."
Fifteen minutes later they did. It was in the wall, behind one of the curtains. Silva told the crime scene technician to remove the section of plaster and concrete, bullet and all.
"We'll want a ballistics comparison between the bullet in there and the ones that the M.E. is going to take out of the bodies."
"Of course. I understand."
The technicians had already discovered two empty shell casings. They now went on to search for a third, but they didn't find it.
"So three bullets and only two casings," Hector said. "The murderer must have taken it."
A careful search of the remainder of the room turned up nothing more of interest except for a box of ammunition and some stains in Gaspar's top right hand drawer.
". 455 caliber," Hector said, rolling one of the cartridges from the box between his thumb and forefinger. "Very unusual."
Hector was the expert on firearms. Guns were nothing more than a tool to Silva, but for his nephew they were a hobby as well.
"What would they fit?"
"Nothing I can think of other than a Webley."
"A what?"
"A Webley. It's a British service revolver. They were made by the thousands and used in the trenches during the First World War. These cartridges, though, aren't antiques. Look, no corrosion. They're recent reloads."
Hector put his nose close to the drawer and sniffed.
"Nitro solvent," he said, "and gun oil. Offhand, I'd say the revolver was kept here too. But, if it was, what happened to it?"
"Maybe the killer took it," Silva said.
"Why would he?"
"Maybe because he had to leave his. 22 to make it look like a murder/suicide, and he needed another gun?"
"For what?"
"I wonder…"
Sergeant Menezes appeared at Silva's elbow and interrupted his ruminations. "You guys are something else," he lisped with admiration in his voice. "Without you, the son of a bitch would have gotten away with it. I wish I could be a fly on his wall when the colonel finds out we really needed you guys after all. He's gonna be pissed."
The last word came out "pithd." Menezes had come over to their side. His enthusiasm was beginning to carry him away.
"Now, let's go through it together, okay? The way I figure it, the same guy who killed Father Gaspar, and forced him to sign that bullshit confession, must have killed the bishop, too."
"That's what you think, is it?" Silva said.
The sergeant looked hurt. "Well… yeah, sure. Why else would he force Father Gaspar to slander himself?"
"Libel himself," Hector said.
"Huh?"
"Slander is spoken. Libel is written. It was a written confession, so if it wasn't true it would be libel, not slander."
"If it wasn't true? What do you mean by that?" Sergeant Menezes said indignantly. "It's as plain as the nose on your face. You just got through proving it. He didn't kill himself. Whoever forced him to write that confession did. Don't tell me you believe any of that crap?"
"As a matter of fact," Silva said, "I do."
"That he had his manservant kill the bishop? Come on, Chief Inspector. He wouldn't do anything like that. He was a priest, for Christ's sake."
Chapter Forty-nine
For the second time in seven hours, a ringing telephone jarred Silva awake. He rubbed his sticky eyes, put the receiver to his ear, and grunted.
"Chief Inspector Silva?" Father Angelo's distinctive rasp.
Silva cleared the phlegm from his throat. "What can I do for you, Padre?"
"We need to talk."
"About?"
"I don't want to discuss it over the phone. I'm leaving now to meet Orlando Muniz in the breakfast room of your hotel. How about nine o'clock, in the same place?"
Silva glanced at the bedside clock, blinking to bring the numbers into focus. He'd have half an hour to get ready. He threw the sheet aside and put his feet on the floor.
"All right. What do you want with Muniz?"
"It's a personal matter. Take a table. I'll come to you when I'm done."
In Cascatas, things follow the rhythm of the countryside. Nine o'clock is late for a country breakfast, so most of the hotel's guests had already gone about their business by the time Silva and his nephew arrived.
Near one of the windows, a middle-aged couple was lingering over their coffee. Arnaldo, back from his trip to Riberao, had taken a place in the middle of the room. Orlando Muniz, seated alone and devouring an omelet, was in the far corner opposite the door. The couple ignored them. Arnaldo waved. Muniz stopped chewing just long enough to give them a hostile nod. The fazendeiro had brought two of his capangas. They were leaning against the wall near his table.
"Good trip?" Hector said, slipping into a seat next to Arnaldo.