I had only paid attention to the stories when they first found the body because, though I live in Putnam, a Boston suburb, Fall River's my hometown. I knew the area they were describing. Also, there was a professional side to my curiosity since I'm a police detective on the Putnam force.
I knew Deme Cabral had disappeared about a dozen years ago, but when I first heard about the unidentified body, I never connected it to him. I'd always figured Deme as the kind of guy who might bury a few bodies out there in the woods but not become one of them.
“Someone you know, Sergeant?” Kate was hesitant as she rested the coffeepot on the counter and leaned over to look at the picture upside-down.
“Yeah, I knew him . . . not a friend,” I added as I noticed her hesitance shift to concern.
“Oh, okay. Here, let me refresh that.”
As she poured the coffee, she turned her head to get a better look. “Eeew, not a face I'd like to see coming in the door.”
“No, and you wouldn't want to meet the guy behind it either.”
It was a mug shot from when Deme got sent to Cedar Junction, the state's pleasantly named maximum-security prison.
“That's a nasty scar he's got there,” Kate said. “You know how he got it?”
I shrugged, and she nodded as if agreeing that there were so many possible ways a guy who looked like that could get a scar that looked like that. As she moved on down the counter, my conscience reminded me that the nuns who had taught me in grammar school would have been disappointed with me. They'd have told me to declare that shrug at my next confession. It was a kind of lie. But it's been years since I've been to confession. And listening to lies is what I do on the job every day.
But sure, I knew exactly how Deme had gotten that scar. How couldn't I? I was the one who had given it to him.
* * * *
I waited all day for the telephone call but it never came. If Boston had given the story this much press, I knew the local Fall River media must have been all over it. That night I called my parents, and they confirmed my suspicions about the coverage. We talked about Deme for a while, and I sort of lied again by implying I'd hardly known him. They never mentioned the scar, but then they never knew how he got it.
But I still didn't get the call I'd been expecting, not even the next morning. So I made the call myself that afternoon.
“Hey, Flora, how you doin'?”
“Good, Gilbert, good.” My cousin sounded cautious, yet not really surprised that I'd called her, though she's always the one to call me.
“You hear about Deme?”
There was a pause, a sigh.
“Sure, Gilbert. It's been on all the TV stations and newspapers.”
She may have thought about pretending she hadn't heard about it, but Flora's the most honest person I've ever known. When we were teens I used to kiddingly call her “Shame the Devil.” A nun we'd each had a couple of years apart at Our Lady of Fatima's elementary school endlessly reminded her students to: “Tell the truth and shame the devil.”
“Henry around?” I asked. Her husband, Henry Oliveira.
“No . . . uh, he's on a job. You want to talk to him?”
Henry and I don't talk much and when we do, it tends to get monosyllabic. Henry's kind of old-school. Especially, I've long suspected, in the way he treats his wife.
“No, I wanted to talk to you. I've got a couple of hours free this afternoon. Okay if I come down?”
“'Course, Gilbert. You know you're always welcome here. You comin’ down to see your folks too?”
She was really asking if I was just casually stopping to see her on the way to my parents’ house.
“No, not today.” I was tempted to lie, but not to her.
I can pretty much drive the fifty-some miles down to Fall River on mental cruise control. My parents, grandparents, and a host of other family members live down there, most of them almost feudally in the triple-deckers surrounding Our Lady of Fatima, the oldest Portuguese church in the city. Flora lives in the parish, with Henry and the seven kids they've had in the less than thirteen years they've been married. Every time Flora's been ready to go back to work, she's had another kid instead. And she's only moved about twelve feet—straight up—from the apartment she was raised in. She and Henry have the second floor. Her parents, my aunt and uncle, still live on the first.
I've been on the police force in Putnam for a few years now, been a detective for the last four. Have yet to clear my Glock from my holster for anything more than cleaning or qualifying at the range. But I was almost killed in a fight when I was seventeen. And it all began because of a conversation I'd had with Flora when she was still living with her parents in that first-floor apartment. That was sixteen years ago. She was fifteen and had been dating Deme Cabral for about two months. While he'd been patient, he wanted her to . . . “y'know,” as my cousin would—and did—put it. With Flora, “y'know” could have meant third or even second base. But from her flushed cheeks and panicky look, Deme was obviously swinging for the fences. And he interpreted her “No” to mean “Try harder.”
He also thought she meant “Try harder” a week later when, because of his insistence that they begin having sex, she broke up with him. So he hung around outside her family's tenement, following her every time she left. Not subtly following her either, but two or three feet behind, talking all the way. “I can't even tell you some of the stuff he's been saying, Gilbert.” Her face had flushed just mentioning it.
Deme's talk escalated to his physically stopping her on the street, gripping her by the arms so tightly she had bruises. She showed me the dark marks when she asked me, her older cousin, to speak to him.
Sure, no problem, I'd told her. And I didn't think it would be. I found her stalker as he was crossing the empty summer pavement of Our Lady of Fatima's schoolyard. I was his age but taller and a good twenty pounds heavier. And I'd been in a couple of fights. But I didn't want one. Not with him. Too wiry. Too crazy. Also, I figured I could easily intimidate him into backing away from Flora. Sure, I could intimidate him. About as much as I could intimidate a wolverine. He knew I was Flora's cousin, so he knew why I was looking for him. All I did was lean toward him, about to make my first—and only—point by saying “Flora . . . when he leaped at my throat and grabbed me with both hands. I fell back onto the asphalt, and he was all over me. He was, literally, trying to strangle me. I punched him as hard as I could from that position, knocking him off. Just long enough to catch my breath when I heard a nasty, metallic snick. I froze, realizing what that sound was. And Deme came leaping again with a switchblade in his hand, four or five inches of sharp, steel blade aimed at my throat. He was a lefty, something I probably should have checked first if I thought I might have to fight him. But in a way I was lucky, because I'm right-handed and, when I grabbed his wrist with my right hand, I was able to stop him.
Still, I was panicking. His eyes were feverish, feral. If my right hand weakened, there was no doubt how badly this was all going to end. When I tried rolling him off, that only brought the blade closer to my face. In desperation, I kneed him in the groin. He “oofed” in quick pain, but his doubling over brought that damned blade still closer to my face again. I managed to shift my foot up between us, and I pushed up and away. Hard. Next thing I knew, there was blood all over my chest, and when I looked for the source, I saw half of Deme's face sliced open like a cantaloupe. He must have seen the shock in my eyes because he dropped the knife, slapped a hand against the side of his face, and when he drew it away, looked down at it now covered with his blood. He howled, howled like an angry dog, leaped up, and raced away, his hand held to the side of his face. I could see the blood bubbling between his fingers just before he turned at the schoolyard gate and raced down the street.
I lay there in shock for a while, trying to get my breath back and my mind straight. When I sat up, I took the knife, just in case he came back, and pressed the tip against the asphalt until the bloody blade clicked into the handle. A
hell of a future policeman, leaving my fingerprints all over the weapon. But though I knew about prints, I wasn't really thinking about that. I was thinking he had tried to kill me, no two ways about it. That crazy bastard had tried to kill me! When I got out to the street I couldn't see him, and I didn't bother following the trail of blood spots.
I took off my bloody T-shirt, wrapped it in a ball, and tossed it into a dumpster in the alley alongside Cardoza's Market. Threw the switchblade in after it. Not fifty yards from the schoolyard. Again, I would not have made a very successful perp.
Both my parents were at work, so when I got to our second-floor apartment, I washed the rest of the blood off my hands, face, and neck. Then I put on a new shirt and sat near a window, peeking out, waiting for a police car to come screeching, lights and siren on, down the street. Or Deme, with his face sliced open and a shotgun in his hands.
My mom's parents lived a block away. My grandfather, my Portuguese vova, had his own shotgun, an old Remington 32 over and under, and I was tempted to see if I could get my hands on it for self-defense. But at this time of day my grandmother, my vova, was bound to be home. I could slip a fish past a starving cat easier than I could slide any story by her, especially one that would end up with my getting that gun. On the other hand, if I told her what Deme had been trying to force Flora, another of her grandchildren, to do, she'd probably grab that shotgun herself and come running over. Most likely ready to aim it low, at the part of Deme's anatomy that was the source of all the trouble in the first place.
But he didn't show up. I faked sick the next day so I wouldn't have to leave the house to go to my summer job. Faked it the day after that too. But neither Deme nor the police ever came for me. I had called Flora when I first got home after the fight and told her what had happened, downplaying how badly Deme had been cut. I guess I'd been downplaying it in my own mind too. But the papers didn't carry anything about his injury. And television had no reports of a Fall River homicide victim. So far, so good. On the third night, a Saturday just before dark, I left the house and walked by Cardoza's Market. I'd been worrying about that evidence for three days and was planning to bury it in the park. No one around so I slipped into the alley, hoisted myself up, and checked out the dumpster. Empty. It took me a few seconds to realize that this was good. It meant the evidence was already deeply buried in the city dump. His word against mine now. And he was demente. No contest.
Still, by Sunday I felt I had to talk to him about it, find out where we stood. When his mother answered the phone, she told me Demetrio was staying with an uncle in New Bedford. She didn't seem upset—I couldn't imagine what kind of story he'd told her about the cut—and she didn't react when I told her my name. She just said she wasn't sure when he'd be back and did I want the uncle's number. I wrote it down but never used it. A little later Flora called to tell me the neighborhood grapevine had heard about the fight. So someone would let me know when he got back. And I was sure there'd be a lot of teenagers there to watch the rematch.
But Deme was gone that whole summer, and I was off to start college before he came back. Flora wrote to tell me about his return with the scar. Apparently, he'd spent his time in New Bedford working on his uncle's fishing boat. She said he'd called her, but just to apologize for bothering her. He told her to let me know there were no hard feelings.
No hard feelings? I always thought those were the only kind of feelings he ever had . . . well, other than the horny ones he had for my cousin.
Five months later, he almost killed a guy in New Bedford. Wound up with that mug shot and four years at Cedar Junction.
* * * *
Now, sixteen years after the schoolyard fight, twelve years after Deme's body was buried in the woods, my cousin smiled as she opened the door. She still looked in good shape for a woman with seven kids. One of them, four-year-old Theresa, was staring at a cartoon on the big flat-screen in the living room.
“Joseph's taking his afternoon nap,” Flora said, as if to explain why the apartment was so unusually quiet. Oh, right, the older five were all in kindergarten or the early grades over at Our Lady of Fatima.
We sat at the kitchen table over cups of coffee, the baby monitor's white noise at Flora's elbow. She had taken a long time preparing the coffee to go with the queijadas de nata, the small Portuguese cream tarts she had arranged on a plate. She was trying to wait me out, hoping I'd tire of the sound of the monitor or the cartoon cat chasing the cartoon mouse out on the screen in the living room. But I'm used to waiting for someone to tell me what I want to hear, and the silence got to her first.
“So, was there something special you wanted to talk to me about, Gilbert?”
“Deme,” I said.
“What about him?” No anger but no surprise either.
“Did he ever bother you? I mean after that time when I had a fight with him?”
“Bother me? No, he never did. Not again.”
“But did you ever see him again?”
“See him? How could I not see him, Gilbert? When he first came back, he was still living in the neighborhood. ‘Course I saw him sometimes. Then he was away in jail for a while.”
“I'm not playing word games, Flo. You know what I mean.”
“Yes, and I told you. He never bothered me again. Not after you had that fight. Why do you want to know?”
“Because of where they found the body.”
She looked confused. “What about that? Wasn't it somewhere in those woods over near the reservation?”
“Yes. But back in high school a buddy of mine used to go out there hunting rabbits and squirrels with some of his friends. I went with them once. First time I ever fired a gun.”
She nodded, waiting.
“Flo, one of the guys that came with us, one of the guys who used to go out there hunting all the time, often alone, was Henry.”
I was watching carefully for her reaction. She was surprised, yes. But not shocked. No, not even close.
“Deme never bothered me again, Gilbert. Like I told you.”
Meaning Henry had no motive.
“When did you start dating Henry? Your senior year, right?”
“Yes, I was seventeen.”
And married him right after she graduated from high school. First kid ten months later. About twelve years ago.
“Did he know about Deme?”
“'Course he did, Gilbert. He knew why I broke up with Deme too. Knew right from the beginning that I wasn't that kind of girl.”
“Deme never threatened you again? Not when he got out of jail?”
“No. He never did. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
Until I believe you.
I sensed she was telling me the truth, but somehow I knew she also wasn't. Unlike my shrug to Kate the waitress, Flora seemed to be working on what the nuns called a sin of omission rather than commission. Something she wasn't telling me. Four-year-old Theresa, out in the living room, could have spotted it on her face. She kept looking away from me, checking the living room, picking at the edges of her queijada without eating any, and staring at the baby monitor as if willing Joseph to wake up and get her away from me.
“What is it, Flo? What're you not telling me? I can see how upset you are. Just tell me.”
“Tell you what, Gilbert? I'm upset? Whatta you think? Comin’ over here and practically accusing my husband of murder? What the hell do you expect from me?”
“The truth, for beginners.”
“You want the truth? Deme was bad, rotten to the core. You told me yourself he tried to kill you. He served time for trying to kill somebody else. But I never wanted him dead. I never, never wanted him dead! And he never threatened me. That's the truth.”
Yes, it was. But not all of it.
“Y'know, Shame the Devil, I've never known you to tell a lie.”
She didn't smile at the name. “Well, that just shows you're not as smart as you think you are.”
Okay, I couldn't blame her for being angry. A
nd I'd seen her temper before. But now it seemed to be mixed with something else. Regret, maybe? Something like that. But when she spoke again, her voice was almost pleading.
“Isn't there some kind of law that a woman's not allowed to testify against her husband?”
“Not quite. The law says a married person can't be forced to testify against a spouse. But you can speak out of your own free will. What did Deme say the last time he spoke to you?”
She sighed, looked at the monitor again, where Joseph—too late—was making waking-up sounds. When she looked back at me, there was a kind of surrender in her eyes. “I may have told Henry that Deme threatened me. Because I was in my last trimester, it was also a threat to our unborn child. You know, I'm not saying that's what happened. I'm just telling you that's what I may have told my husband. Thinking he may have been able to scare Deme off once and for all. Maybe, Gilbert, just maybe. I'm not saying that's what I said.”
“So, when Deme disappeared, you figured that's what happened. Hypothetically, of course.”
“Hypothetically, that would be what I thought. Knowing how dangerous Deme could be, considering what he tried to do to you and then did to that other guy in New Bedford. Hypothetically, I would have warned Henry about that.”
Okay, I'd found what I'd been looking for. Now what? I had no jurisdiction down here. I had no facts. Still, I should contact someone involved in the investigation. Tell them what I knew.
“You gonna talk to somebody about this, Gilbert?”
I guess Flora's face wasn't the only one easy to read.
“I don't know.”
That was true. I couldn't blame Henry for seeing the threat to his wife and unborn child as a very real and imminent one. He also might have wound up shooting Deme in self-defense. There wasn't even any proof that he'd done it. It had happened so long ago there was no way to pinpoint the time of the killing, so alibis were out of the question. No way Henry would have kept the weapon. No word that a bullet had been recovered anyway. So I really had nothing. Nothing but a certainty that Henry had killed him . . . and my duty.
EQMM, July 2012 Page 17
