Blood of the Wicked cims-1

by Leighton Gage

  "We know you did it. So tell us the truth," the spokesman said, "or die now."

  "It wasn't me. I swear. It was Anselmo. Anselmo did it."

  Some of the men in hoods looked at each other, but the spokesman didn't take his eyes off Orlando.

  "And cutting him? Whose idea was that?"

  "Anselmo. It was Anselmo's idea. He said it would frighten the others, said that real men are more afraid of losing their cocks than losing their lives."

  "Did Aurelio beg you not to kill him?"

  "No. No, he didn't. He spit in Anselmo's face."

  "And then?"

  "And then Anselmo… well, he got angry… and he did what he did."

  "And you made Aurelio's wife watch you murder him?"

  "Not me. Anselmo."

  "What happened next?

  "She started to cry. Asked Anselmo not to kill the kids."

  "But you did anyway, didn't you?"

  "We had to. Can't you see? They weren't babies anymore. They saw our faces."

  Orlando swallowed.

  The spokesman inclined his head, giving a sign. Orlando wet himself in fear, certain that the garrote was going to tighten, but he was wrong. To his immense relief, he felt it being slipped from his neck.

  They dragged him down the long hallway, through the living room where embers were still glowing in the fireplace and the smell of brandy still hung heavy in the air and out onto his front porch. One of his trucks was standing at the foot of the steps, the engine already running.

  The early morning air and the adrenaline that was pumping through his veins helped to clear Orlando's head. He still had a headache, but now he was able to think. How did they get into the house? Where the hell are the rest of my bodyguards? Where are they taking me? How am I going to explain this to the old man?

  The old man was his father, Orlando Senior, who had never thought much of his son's abilities even at the best of times and the best of times were several years in the past. These days, fed up with Orlando's drinking and mismanagement, he'd gotten to the point of threatening to cut Orlando off without a cent.

  Money! That's it! This is all about money. About ransom. Suppose they ask for too much? What if the old man says no? What then? And how much is too much, anyway? A million? Would he pay a million?

  They hustled him down to the truck, pausing at the tailgate. The spokesman went up front and climbed into the cab. They bound Orlando's hands behind his back with a piece of wire and tossed him into the bed like a sack of garbage. He landed hard on one shoulder, his head bouncing against the metal floor.

  For a moment, he thought he was going to pass out, but he didn't. When the dancing black spots faded, he found he was looking at the answer to one of his questions. The other capangas were with him in the truck, and like their boss, Anselmo, they were dead. All six corpses were crammed, one on top of the other, into an area between the side of the truck and an oblong object covered by a piece of tarpaulin.

  His abductors found places on the floor, on the oblong object, and even on the bodies of the dead. The last man to climb aboard was the man in the red T-shirt, his garrote now dangling from his belt like a watch chain, the toggles stuffed into a pocket of his jeans. He signaled to the driver by pounding on the roof of the cab with his fist. The truck set off with a jerk.

  Orlando twisted his body and craned his neck to look back at the house. His front door had been smashed. Splinters of blue wood were lying on the porch. The shutters, blue like the door, were still closed and locked.

  Why didn't Anselmo stop them? He must have been drunk. All of them must have been drunk. Stupid bastards! The old man, damn him, had been right again: If you're only willing to pay peanuts, what you're going to get is monkeys. He'd hired Anselmo for peanuts. And Anselmo had hired the others for peanuts. And now the old man was going to tell him that it would never have happened if he'd been smart enough to hire good people.

  Dust welled up behind the truck, blocking the view of his home. Tears began to run from Orlando's eyes. It's the dust. Just the dust. But he knew it wasn't. And it wasn't fear, either. It was rage, rage and frustration. Every damn time his father came to the fazenda, it was nothing but criticism, criticism, criticism. And now this. The old tyrant was richer than Croesus, but he parted with every centavo like it was the last one he had in the world. No matter what the amount of the ransom was, he'd bitch about it forever.

  They passed the tobacco sheds, where the leaves were cured, and the old deposito, where they kept the coffee. The driver didn't hesitate when he came to the fork. He seemed to know exactly where he was going, but it still surprised Orlando when they suddenly screeched to a stop. Surprised him, because the driver had stopped in the middle of nowhere. There were no nearby buildings, no other vehicles. There was nothing but a steep hillside on the right and level cane fields sweeping off to the left. The cane had been harvested less than a week before, and except for some stubble, the land was bare. Orlando could see all the way to the trees hemming the river, almost a kilometer away.

  Two of his abductors grabbed his arms and bundled him, none too gently, out of the truck. The spokesman and the driver climbed out of the front seat. Four of the men removed the tarpaulin from the oblong object and lowered it to the ground. It turned out to be a wooden box about two meters long. The other two dimensions were about a quarter of that, no more than fifty or sixty centimeters wide and high.

  "What have you got in there?" Orlando asked.

  "Start climbing," the spokesman said.

  "This hill?"

  "You see anything else to climb? Get moving."

  Orlando was overweight. The only thing he ever exercised was his drinking arm. Before he was even halfway up the slope his heart was pounding, and he was struggling to breathe. He tried to slow his pace, but when he did the strangler kicked him in the buttocks to speed him up. By the time they reached the top Orlando was sweating like one of his horses after a sharp gallop in midsummer.

  The sun's disk was just peeking over the horizon. The golden light cast long shadows from two shovels standing upright in a pile of earth. The shadows fell over a trench, freshly dug at the very summit of the hill.

  The four men who'd been carrying the box set it down. Then the whole gang gathered around the hole and took off their hoods.

  Orlando gaped at the face of the spokesman.

  "You!" he said.

  "Yes, you swine, me. Surprised?"

  Remembering Azevedo's gesture, Orlando tried to spit. But he couldn't. His throat was too dry. He tried to tell himself it was the wine, knew it wasn't. He studied every face and recognized three more: Flavio, who'd worked for him for years and was still working for him, damn him; Lucas, who he'd fired last August-no, September-for impertinence; and, finally, the killer in the red T-shirt. Carlos Something. He couldn't remember the rest of the name, but he did remember that the association had circulated a photo of him, a photo meant to ensure that he never got a job on any ranch owned by a member.

  Orlando let his eyes sweep around the group, scanning the other faces, trying to commit each and every one of them to memory.

  The entire circle was looking back at him with contempt and with no pity at all. In an attempt to avoid their eyes he looked down at the hole and had a sudden and very ugly thought. No. They wouldn't do that. It wouldn't make any sense. They're just trying to frighten me.

  He strove for reassurance. "How much is it?" he said, nervously.

  The spokesman gave him a quizzical look. Orlando felt a shiver of fear go down his back, but he tried again. "The ransom. How much is it?"

  The spokesman's brow wrinkled. "Is that what you think this is all about? Money?"

  Orlando swallowed.

  The man in the red shirt grinned, but no one else did.

  "We're not interested in your money," the spokesman said.

  Up to that very moment Orlando had always thought that everyone was interested in money. It was very late in his life for him to discover
that some people weren't. He struggled with the thought.

  Far away, in the trees by the river, a parrot shrieked. The sun was warm on his cheek. A gentle breeze ruffled his hair. He could smell the freshly turned earth. Despite his persistent hangover, Orlando felt very much alive and he wanted to stay that way. There was a space between the spokesman and the man in the red T-shirt. Orlando tensed his tired muscles, prepared to run.

  Something struck him on the back of his head. There was no pain, just a flash of light, and then blackness.

  But it wasn't the end.

  He awoke lying on his back. Thin slivers of light shone through planks that were only centimeters from his face. He tried to lift his hands, but they were still bound behind him, the wire cutting into his wrists. He tried to raise a knee. It wouldn't move. His feet were wired together at the ankles.

  He called out for help, and as if his call had been something they'd been waiting for, he felt them lifting him up and then lowering him down. When the movement stopped, he found himself resting at a slight angle, his feet somewhat higher than his head.

  Then began a series of thuds. He didn't recognize them for what they were until something fell onto one of the small cracks above his face, and some of it trickled through and landed on his lips. He opened his mouth to taste it. Dirt!

  And then he knew: Those thuds were the thin red earth of his fazenda falling on his coffin. The bastards were burying him alive.

  He cried out for them to stop, drummed against the top of the box with his knees, beat against it with his head.

  The shoveling continued at the same rhythmic pace. He screamed, screamed as loud as he could, and while he was still screaming they began to sing.

  It was that song of theirs, the one he hated, the one they always accompanied by waving their left fists in the air, the one about brotherhood and justice and all that other crap.

  It was the anthem of the league.

  Chapter Eight

  The FBI National Academy is located on the grounds of the United States Marine Corps Base at Quantico in Virginia. It shares the same campus with the FBI Academy, and bears a similar name, leading some people confuse one with the other. They are, in fact, separate institutions.

  The FBI Academy exists to train special agents for the bureau. The FBI National Academy is an advanced course of study for experienced law enforcement officials. Among them, there is always a handful of senior officers from countries outside of the United States. The benefit to those countries is that their most talented cops have an opportunity to share ideas, techniques, and experience with their American counterparts. The benefit for the United States is that lifelong relationships are established, relationships that transcend national boundaries.

  In June of 1983, four and a half years after his father's murder, Mario Silva received an invitation to go to Quantico. He was the first Brazilian to be so honored. His law degree, fluent English, and the spectacular results he'd achieved in Brazil's combat against the drug trade had all contributed to his receiving the coveted opportunity. There could have been no clearer indication that his superiors destined him for greater things. For ten classroom weeks, in the company of 250 other police officers, he took courses in behavioral science, leadership development, communication, health/fitness, law, and forensics. Forensics interested him most of all.

  Upon his return, he was transferred to Brasilia, the federal capital. The expectation of his superiors was that he'd be able to put some of the things he'd learned into practice. Those were the days when experienced law enforcement officers, not political appointees, ran the Federal Police. The man who held the job, Helio Fagundes, was a consummate professional who recognized talent when he saw it. And he saw it in Mario Silva.

  "How BIG is this thing?" Fagundes asked. They were in his office. Silva had been back from the United States for about a week.

  "About like that," Silva said, as if demonstrating the size of a fish he'd caught, "and like that, and that," tracing the other dimensions in the air.

  "That small? Jesus!" Fagundes leaned forward, leafed through the proposal on his desk, and looked at the bottom line. "Cheap, too," he said, "Compared to those monsters we've got downstairs. Okay, you've got a green light. I'll send you the paperwork. Go buy the thing."

  The "thing" was an IBM Personal Computer. The device, less than two years on the market, was just beginning to come into use in law enforcement agencies in the United States. Silva had seen his first one when he was in Quantico.

  The computer was duly installed in a small room down the hall from Silva's new office. Silva started learning how to use it, and with the blessing of the director, he hired a young man to help him. The young man was Cicero Morales. Cicero had a sparse goatee, a developing potbelly, thick horned-rim glasses, an acne problem and unkempt hair. Years later, and thirty kilograms fatter, he would become the head of the Federal Police's forensic laboratory. Even then, at twenty-three, Cicero was an unusually perceptive man.

  "This whole project of ours," he said to Silva one night when they were working late, "it's not just for the greater glory and efficiency of the Federal Police, is it?"

  "What do you mean?"

  Silva stared at Cicero out of hooded, black eyes. "Oh, come on, Mario, this is me you're talking to," Cicero said, ripping open a bag of potato chips. "There's something personal about this business. Why don't you just admit it?"

  "What makes you think it's personal?"

  Before he replied, Cicero stuffed a handful of the chips into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed. "Are you telling me it's not?"

  "That's what I'm telling you."

  "Chips?" Cicero offered the bag.

  Mario shook his head. Cicero took out another chip, nibbled it up in two bites. "Why did you choose Sao Paulo for the pilot project?"

  "Why not? I wanted to give this thing an acid test."

  "I'm not buying it, Mario. Brasilia would have been much better, and you know it."

  "I don't know any such thing."

  Cicero took in an exasperated breath and let it out in a snort. Some fragments of potato chip came with it. He grabbed one of the napkins he kept next to his workstation and wiped his mouth.

  "You want me to spell it out for you? Okay, I will."

  Cicero crumpled the empty bag and tossed it. Then he gripped his right thumb with the other hand and started to count off his reasons. "First, because Sao Paulo is just too damned big. It doesn't make the job twice as hard, it makes the job twenty times as hard. Second reason: We're here, so instead of being able to put on pressure locally, we have to do it by telephone and letter. Third reason: We-and by that I mean the federal police-are a force in this town. Here in Brasilia it's relatively easy to get the data we need to input. It's much harder in Sao Paulo. We're not much of a player in that shithole. Cops! You're from there, aren't you? Sorry about that."

  "No, Cicero. You're not sorry, and you know damned well I think it's a shithole too."

  "Maybe I do, but getting back to the subject: Being from there doesn't have anything to do with choosing Sao Paulo for our pilot project, right?"

  "No. Not a damn thing. And will you please back off?"

  "Temper, temper, Mario. No need to get huffy about it. No need to deal in falsehoods, either. Your secret is safe with me."

  "Secret? What secret?"

  "That you're more concerned about tattoos and a lack of front teeth than you are about scars, or moles, or birthmarks. Have I got that right?"

  "No, you don't."

  "Well, I hope not, because what we're supposed to be doing is to set up a database that'll make it possible to zoom in on a felon based on any identifying characteristic. That's the brief, isn't it? Collect any and all identifying characteristics and get them into the computer so they can be sorted and cross-referenced? Any and all, not just tattoos? Not just teeth?"

  "Right."

  "And there's nothing personal about anything we're doing?"

  "How many times do I have to
tell you, Cicero. There's nothing personal about this. Not a damned thing."

  Silva knew, all too well, that he was working against the clock. The director hadn't specifically said it, but unless his new system for identifying repeat offenders proved its worth within the first six months, it was likely to be written off as a failure.

  Department heads were constantly filing into the Director's office with their hands out. The budget of the Federal Police was never sufficient to do everything that everyone wanted to do, and the fact that Silva had gotten any financing at all was proof positive that Fagundes considered him to be on a fast track.

  Every day Silva prayed for results. Four months into the experiment, and long before their database was anywhere near complete, his prayers were answered.

  Estrella Alba was a white woman in her mid-thirties with a red birthmark, about the size of a strawberry, on her left cheek. Her previous arrests, two for shoplifting, one for assault, and one for prostitution, coupled with her prominent facial feature, had brought her into Silva's database.

  Digital photography was still some years in the future. All of the references were verbal. In Estrella Alba's case, the keywords were, in order of importance, BIRTHMARK, CHEEK, LEFT, and RED.

  At ten o'clock one morning, and only a few days after Cicero had made the entry, an inquiry came in: A woman with a red birthmark on her left cheek was being sought for the holdup of a bank on Sao Paulo's Avenida Paulista. Could they help with an identification? By noon, Estrella's name had been telexed to the inquiring officers in Sao Paulo. They located her a little before 3:00 in the afternoon. And, by 6:00, after a little coercion, she confessed.

  The news spread quickly throughout the law enforcement community. From that time on, Cicero and Silva no longer had to beg people to make the necessary contributions to their database. Other successes followed, first only a few, then many more as the database grew. They bought another computer, then another.

  Silva got a promotion. He was no longer entrusted with the day-to-day operation of the database, but he still made it a part of his daily ritual to check the computer for the references he'd been seeking all along: TATTOO, NECK, SNAKE, all of them together in one file. In October of 1985, almost seven years to the day after his father's murder, he found them.