He left his car parked in front of Olga’s building and followed the path she must have taken every day to the subway station to get to work. He descended the stairs, trying to find the spot where she must have stood that morning, with the crowds pressing around her, imagining the cold, the bodies pressed against one another, the sound of the train approaching, the warning from the loudspeakers to stay behind the yellow line, the dry bump, the twisting of the body in a desperate attempt to grab something or someone, and perhaps the terrifying sight of the murderer.
He saw trains come and go, he saw the station fill and empty. He tried to erase individual features, hoping that the face of the murderer would appear to fill the void. It was almost eight when he went back to get his car.
At home, he found six messages from Irene on his machine. Practically one for every half hour he’d been away. All were tender reminders of how much she missed him, but not one mentioned that she’d been on a trip.
It was a little after nine when Irene answered, on the first ring.
“Sweetheart, I thought I wouldn’t get to talk to you today. Is there a problem?”
“I went to the subway station where Olga died.”
“Any news? Are you officially on the case?”
“Nothing new. It’s still with the Nineteenth. My investigations are extra-official; nobody knows about them.”
“But why did you go to the station? Any clues?”
“None. I just wanted to see where it happened.”
At the other end of the line, Irene said nothing. Espinosa could hear her breathing change, but she didn’t speak.
“Sorry, I know how painful it is for you. I shouldn’t be talking like this; I only met her once. I can’t even say it hurts me. Maybe I’m just perplexed by the whole thing. Nothing like what her parents are going through.”
“Did you see them?”
“Briefly, this afternoon.”
“And what did they say? Did they make any reference to me?”
“They said that they’d never seen you. They’re still shocked by their daughter’s death. They don’t understand anything about it. But they did agree with you on one point: that Olga wouldn’t have fallen without the participation—deliberate or not—of someone else.”
“Maybe, now, you—”
“Participation of someone doesn’t mean the participation of Gabriel.”
“I don’t know why you want to defend that lunatic.”
“Maybe because he’s a lunatic.”
“You’re not a psychiatrist. Besides, even they can get it wrong.”
“Why did you fight?”
“What?”
“What did you fight about?”
“You who?”
“You and Olga.”
“Who said we had a fight?”
“Her parents.”
“What else did they say?”
“That’s all. Just that you lived together in São Paulo, and that after a year you had a fight and she came back to Rio.”
“It’s not a story I can tell you over the phone. Anyway, it has nothing to do with her death.”
“Even a publicist can be wrong about that.”
“Now you’re being ironic.”
“Which is a bad sign. Let’s talk tomorrow.”
“If you’d rather …”
He enjoyed a leisurely bath, then fixed himself a plate of lasagna and poured a glass of red wine. As he ate, he thought about the tone he had taken with Irene. There was no need to be unfriendly. After all, she’d left six affectionate messages on his answering machine, and he’d acted like a cop. He was a cop. Maybe that was the difference. How would an advertising man, or a dentist, or a salesman react in a similar situation? Not like an inquisitor, surely. But Irene’s unwillingness to discuss her relationship with Olga was indisputably disconcerting.
He was sure that Olga hadn’t died accidentally. What objective change had provoked this subjective change? He couldn’t quite say. He was intrigued by the question of who could have done it. No one linked to the case—he considered the two deaths as part of a single case—seemed to be the kind of person who could push a girl under an oncoming train and fire point-blank into the face of a man who was opening the windows in his own home. The successful execution of the first murder required a whole series of unpredictable coincidences: the wild cards were as important as anything a murderer could count on. The second was a premeditated action that required foresight, patience, calculation, use of a firearm, as well as a getaway plan. Then again, maybe the two deaths had nothing to do with each other, which would make the case even more complicated.
When he lay down to sleep, he was still reviewing the possibilities in his head. He continued to do so for several hours. It was true: he was a cop, not an advertising executive, dentist, or salesman.
He felt especially uncomfortable being the only person who knew that the deaths were connected. He was the only one who knew of Gabriel’s existence. He and Welber—but his assistant had behaved quietly and extra-officially when trying to locate the fortune-teller. Without knowing about Gabriel, the investigating detectives at two different precincts wouldn’t have any idea that the two deaths could possibly be linked. And the irony of the story was that he, a policeman, was standing in the way of the police.
These reflections accompanied his breakfast. He’d gotten up early and intentionally prolonged his meal, adding another cup of coffee and a few more pieces of toast with orange marmalade, his favorite. He enjoyed moments like this; they set the tone for the day. But such moments could only be experienced alone. (That was one of the main reasons he didn’t have a full-time maid; he preferred his cleaning lady, whom he paid by the hour and who arrived after he was already gone and left before he returned.) He enjoyed watching the light that came in through the French windows and filled up the whole living room. Breakfast and reading the paper took almost an hour, enough time to prepare his soul to face the police station. He heard a door slam and the sound of Alice running down the stairs. He could have picked up his pace in order to catch up with her, but this morning he needed to be alone, even more than usual.
He didn’t think of himself as a prejudiced person, but he was fully aware that some of his values were out-of-date. He wasn’t sure, for example, how he would react if he learned that the girl he was dating had had sexual relations with another woman. He wasn’t sure if Irene actually had, but he was trying to brace himself for any such revelation. He didn’t have any doubts about how intense her relationship with Olga had been. He knew little or nothing about Irene’s life. Her weekend business trips could also be the cover for another relationship like the one she’d had with Olga, also in São Paulo. Maybe he really was prejudiced—maybe certain values had changed faster than his ability to reformulate his own. For now, though, he was getting ahead of himself. There were still many parts of Irene waiting to be discovered. He got dressed to go out.
“Officer Espinosa?” He didn’t immediately recognize the diminutive figure, carrying a supermarket bag and a purse, who appeared to be waiting for him on the sidewalk in front of his building.
“Yes?”
“Sir, don’t you remember me? I’m Gabriel’s mother. You were at my house.”
Espinosa was mortified not to recognize the woman whose house he had turned upside down. He had always been considered an excellent observer and was famous in the department for being able to describe a scene, an event, or a face with perfect accuracy. It was incomprehensible that he wouldn’t recognize a person he’d met so recently and in circumstances so favorable to recollection.
“Sorry, Dona Alzira, I was just walking out the door, a little distracted, and I didn’t expect to see you here in front of my building, so far from your home.”
“I’m the one who should apologize for showing up out of the blue like this, but I needed to speak with you, sir.”
“Should we go find a bench over in the square?”
They crossed the street a
nd headed toward the square, which at that hour was occupied by preschool-age children and baby carriages pushed by mothers or uniformed nannies. They found a bench under an almond tree.
“What would you like to ask me about, Dona Alzira?”
“Well, it wasn’t so much to ask you something, sir, but to give you this bag. I think it’s what you were looking for.”
When he took the bag, Espinosa immediately guessed what it was. The feel was very familiar to him.
“There’s also this,” she said, and she took a box of ammunition from her purse. “I was terrified when I realized that Gabriel was carrying a revolver around. It was my husband’s. Since he died, it’s been in the bottom of my wardrobe, wrapped up in this same towel, though I took care to throw out the bullets, because when Gabriel was a child I was afraid that he would find it. Then after he told me about the fortune-teller, and as his birthday approached, he started getting so nervous. I no longer recognized the quiet boy I’d always known. He was always so averse to violence. When I realized that he was armed, I was terrified. I asked him what was going on, and he said the gun was for self-defense, that he wasn’t going to attack anybody. When I told him that the revolver didn’t have any ammunition, he said he’d bought some. I was scared about what might happen, so I took the gun and the bullets and hid them at a friend’s house. When you and that detective came to look through the apartment, I’d already taken the gun away. It’s in the bag, wrapped up in a towel. The only thing I did was take out the bullets and put them back in the box. Before you ask me: my husband taught me how to use the gun. He said that ignorance is more dangerous than fear.”
Espinosa unwrapped the gun to check the caliber. It was a Smith & Wesson .38, apparently in good condition. The box of bullets was new, of domestic manufacture, and appeared to be full.
“When did you take the revolver, ma’am?”
“A few days before you came to the apartment.”
“What did Gabriel say when he found that you’d taken his gun away?”
“He said that it was the best thing. That whatever would happen, would happen.”
“Thank you for bringing me this, Dona Alzira. I too was worried that your son would do something crazy.”
“And I thank you for being so patient with him, Officer.”
“One question. If you already had the gun when we came to your apartment, why didn’t you tell me all this at the time?”
“Because I still didn’t know what it was all about. I wouldn’t do anything to incriminate him.”
“One more thing, Dona Alzira. How did your husband die?”
“He had a heart attack. Why do you ask, sir?”
“Did Gabriel see his father die?”
“Not directly. He was home, but he didn’t see his father die. Nobody did. He was in the shower when he had his attack. The help got there too late.”
“How did you know he was dead?”
“It took him so long in the bathroom. I had gone out to buy some things and left my husband to bathe. I know he was fine, because he usually left the door open—he was scared of gas—and I said good-bye, telling him I’d be back in a few minutes. When I came back, the bathroom door was closed. I called him, but he didn’t answer. When I opened the door and pulled back the curtain I saw him lying there in the tub, with the water overflowing.”
“Why would he have closed the door?”
“I don’t know. He never would have done that to take a bath.”
“Did Gabriel see his father dead in the tub?”
“I can’t say. But I don’t think so.”
“How old was your husband?”
“Thirty-five. It was just before Gabriel’s tenth birthday. Why are you asking me, sir?”
“Because Gabriel brought it up. Sorry to make you talk about such a painful event.”
“It’s been a long time.”
“In any case, thank you.”
“Goodbye, Officer, and thanks once again for helping my son.”
As she walked off, Espinosa noted that she was much younger than he’d previously thought. She wasn’t even sixty.
From the Peixoto District, Espinosa headed straight downtown to the Forensic Institute, carrying a bag with the weapon and ammunition. He knew that the projectile extracted from the Chilean’s body wouldn’t yet have been sent to the officer conducting the investigation, and he knew that they needed a crime weapon to conduct any ballistics tests. Evandro, who had joined the force at the same time Espinosa had and acted as a kind of director of the Forensic Institute, was on top of everything that went on there. He was taking night classes in psychology. After examining bodies for so long, he now wanted to examine souls.
“Espinosa, great to see you. We ought to see each other more often, even when it’s not over a cadaver. But you didn’t come all the way from Copacabana just to see me.”
“You’re right on both counts.”
“What can I do for you?”
“I wanted to borrow the bullet taken from the head of the foreigner who died in Botafogo, for a ballistics exam. Off the record. I’ll give it back to you today. If you want, you can come with me.”
“No problem; I trust you.”
The projectile was in a clear plastic envelope stapled to the autopsy report.
“Ask for Freire in ballistics. Tell him I sent you.”
Espinosa thanked him and said good-bye without further ado. After twenty years on the police force, he knew everybody he could count on in every department. He’d known Freire for years, but he didn’t want to cheapen Evandro’s kindness by saying so. He walked over to the Carlos Éboli Institute of Criminology, which was located in the same group of buildings as the Forensic Institute. The two buildings were linked by an internal courtyard.
He’d often asked Freire for his help in difficult cases, and Freire had always done his best. A man of few words, Freire was completely professional, mistrustful of anything but solid evidence, and difficult to distract.
“I could do a comparative test right now,” he said as soon as Espinosa explained what he wanted. “But I’d rather examine the weapon before testing it in the firing box. Call back this afternoon, and I’ll have something to tell you.”
As he did every time he visited the Forensic Institute, Espinosa left on foot, walking down the Rua Mem de Sá toward the arches of the aqueduct at Lapa, the part of Rio that felt the most traditional. He knew these streets well; he’d lived here as a child. Before the family moved to Peixoto, they’d lived in Fátima—which, like the Peixoto District, wasn’t so much a neighborhood as a group of streets. This route was part of his former walk to the Colégio Pedro II, his school. He enjoyed looking at the beautiful colonial houses and the grand arches of the Lapa aqueduct: it was a reward he allowed himself every time he had to face the brutality of death at the Forensic Institute. Before he left, he stopped to watch the little tram to Santa Teresa crossing the arches from one end to another.
He didn’t have to wait till the end of the afternoon. When he got back from lunch, there was a message from Freire. He called back, and as soon as Freire picked up, the ballistics expert said, “Espinosa, there’s no need to do a test. That gun hasn’t been fired in at least ten years. In any case, I tested it in the firing range. Nothing. I’m absolutely sure that the bullet you brought me didn’t come out of that gun. You can pick up the material today, if you want. I’ll be here till five.”
Espinosa returned to the Criminology Institute long before five and entered the office where Freire was working, a cross between museum, lab, and warehouse.
“I examined the barrel before I did the ballistics exam, and I checked the surface of the metal inside. Based on my experience, I’d say that nothing has been fired from that gun in years. The metal’s been rusting for a long time—I can’t say how long without laboratory examinations, but even including a large margin of error, I guarantee at least five years. I’d be comfortable doubling it, but I don’t know if that’s relevant to you
. I tested it just in case, since you might need something official. The bullet you brought me didn’t come from that barrel, I’m absolutely sure.”
“Thanks, Freire. If I need anything in writing, I’ll call you. But I don’t think it’ll be necessary. As always, if I can be of assistance, you know where to find me.”
Espinosa left the Criminology Institute and went to the Forensic Institute to return the plastic envelope with the bullet he’d had analyzed. He went back to the station carrying the supermarket bag with Dona Alzira’s wrapped-up revolver.
He felt less guilty now about withholding Gabriel’s name from the officer investigating the Chilean’s death; he would have been the ideal candidate for a crucifixion, due to the complete lack of other suspects. His natural fragility certainly would not have inspired any protective instincts in his inquisitors; to the contrary, it would have been the first thing they’d use against him.
Back at the station, he locked up the gun and the bullets and checked his messages. One was from Irene. The relief he’d felt from the results of Freire’s exam had made the prospect of seeing her seem more promising. She herself had proposed talking about her relationship with Olga in person, which meant that they’d discuss it when they met. He called her house—he didn’t have her work number—and left a message, inviting her to dinner. If she was around, they could meet at their usual place, whenever was best for her. He’d be home around seven, waiting for her to confirm.
Though Espinosa had asked the doorman to tell her that he was waiting for her, Irene wouldn’t come downstairs until she heard his voice on the intercom. On the way to the car, parked only a few feet away, she kept glancing over her shoulder.
“Calm down. That’s what they want, for you to get scared.”
“Fuck, Espinosa, what do you expect? For me to act like nothing’s happening? I’m not a cop. I’m not used to stuff like this.”
They walked to the car arm in arm.
“Sorry, I’m just nervous.”
“Fine. Don’t worry. No one will dare try anything on you while we’re together. Should we go back to our restaurant?”
Southwesterly Wind Page 16
