The Paradise Prophecy (10 page)

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Authors: Robert Browne

BOOK: The Paradise Prophecy
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He hesitated.
“Unless what?” Callahan asked.
“As a man of science, my training tells me that there should be a rational explanation for the condition of this body, but in truth . . .”
He let the words trail again.
“What?”
“It almost appears that the combustion was . . . well . . .” He shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Martinez, as if he were too embarrassed—or too afraid—to continue.
“Go on,” Callahan told him, her patience growing thin.
Pereira took a moment. Crossed himself. “That the combustion was spontaneous.”
9
 
S
He Spontaneous Human Combustion.
It seemed to Callahan that the so-called science surrounding this idea was sketchy at best and downright ridiculous for the most part. But she knew this wasn’t the first unexplained death by fire to wind up on a coroner’s slab.
Pereira went on to explain a documented phenomenon called “the wick effect,” which more or less amounted to body fat turning the victim into a human candle, burning from the inside out.
A grisly thought if there ever was one.
Experiments on a pig were supposed to be proof that such a thing was possible—pigs and humans shared similar fat patterns—but Callahan had her doubts.
Judging by the videos she’d seen in the airport lobby, Gabriela Zuada didn’t have more than a thimbleful of fat on her body, and as Martinez had said, there was no real evidence of drug paraphernalia in the room.
So unless the poor girl had somehow willed herself to catch fire, they were back to square one. And the way Callahan looked at it, there were four possibilities at work here:
1. Suicide
2. Accident
3. Murder
4. Act of God
 
Since Callahan didn’t have a religious bone in her body, number four was immediately scratched off the list. Numbers one and two were still possibilities, but the preliminary forensic evidence didn’t support either of them.
So what about number three?
Murder.
Callahan had briefly considered this on the plane, and maybe she should give the idea more attention. Was it possible that some crazed fan had managed to sneak backstage, snatch Gabriela away from her entourage and kill her by using some undetectable accelerant to light her on fire?
Based on the timeline mapped out in the dossier, this seemed even less likely than the other scenarios, but witness accounts are notoriously faulty and, at this point, all bets were off. Maybe the timeline was wrong. Maybe in the panic and confusion of finding their beloved Gabriela burned to a crisp, her friends had misjudged the sequence and duration of events.
It wouldn’t be a first.
But the absence of any chemicals in Gabriela’s lungs continued to niggle at Callahan. People just didn’t burst into flames for no reason.
“Check the body again,” she said to Pereira. “There’s no way she wound up like this without some kind of help.”
Pereira sighed. “I doubt I’ll find anything.”
“Keep trying,” she told him, then turned to Martinez. “Shall we take a look at the crime scene now?”
Again that trace of fear flickered in the detective’s eyes and Callahan wondered what he was holding back. She could see that he wasn’t about to volunteer anything—not yet, at least—so she decided to give him some room. Let this thing play out before she got aggressive about it.
She really did need to see the crime scene, however, and Martinez wasn’t all that anxious to move—like a child who’s reluctant to go to bed because he’s afraid the boogeyman is hiding in the closet.
“Well? Shall we?”
“You’re the boss,” he said quietly, then turned and walked out the door.
 
 
A
crowd had gathered outside the concert auditorium.
Hundreds of Gabriela’s fans stood shoulder to shoulder, some staring blankly, others openly weeping, still others carrying placards with her photograph, singing along with one of her songs that was piped through a portable loudspeaker.
It struck Callahan as both circus and wake, an outpouring of true affection for a lost star, tainted only by the attention seekers and rubberneckers who came here simply because it was the thing to do.
Wooden barriers had been placed along the entrance to the auditorium; armed state police officers watched the crowd carefully, waiting for any signs of unruliness. At their feet were dozens of bouquets and wreaths and crosses and candles and more photographs, a multicolored shrine to Santa Gabriela.
Callahan marveled at it all. Could not quite fathom how a simple girl who sang simple pop songs could garner such attention and adulation.
Martinez turned their squad car onto the main drive and waited for a guard to disperse a section of the crowd and wave them through. Callahan sat next to him, soaking it all in with a mix of dread and curiosity, knowing it wouldn’t take a whole lot to get this crowd worked up.
Gabriela was dead and the details of her death were sparse and slow to surface. And the people here no doubt wanted answers. Sooner or later they’d start insisting they get some and Callahan didn’t think they’d be too friendly about it. Despite the tears, that undercurrent of anger that plagued so much of the world these days was very much in evidence here.
Simmering. Waiting to explode.
The guard raised a megaphone, calling for several onlookers to step aside as Martinez gunned the engine and slowly drove toward a gate to the left of the entrance. Another guard unlatched it and waved the car through, giving Martinez a quick salute as they passed.
Martinez ignored him.
A moment later, they pulled up next to a loading dock as the gate closed behind them. A third guard came over and opened Callahan’s door for her.
“Quite a crowd,” she said to him as they climbed out. “They must have really loved her.”
The guard nodded. “We all did. She was one of us.”
Martinez turned sharply. “Speak for yourself,” he said tersely. “She was in league with the Devil and paid the price for it.”
Then, without another word, he moved toward the loading dock and gestured for Callahan to follow.
 
 
T
he room Gabriela had been found in wasn’t much bigger than a walk-in closet. Twenty square feet at most and, as advertised, untouched by the fire—if
,
that is, you didn’t count the burn mark in the middle of the linoleum floor.
It was hard to miss. Impossible, in fact. And the moment Callahan saw it, she thought she understood the reason for Martinez’s mood.
The mark hadn’t, however, been among the dossier photos. What was left of Gabriela’s body had apparently been covering it. Yet it was the only real sign that anything unusual had taken place in the room, which was empty except for a few stacked boxes full of toilet paper, paper towels, seat covers and a mop and bucket tucked into a corner.
Callahan gestured. “Why wasn’t this photographed?”
Martinez didn’t seem to want to look directly at it. “I think that’s obvious.”
“It’s potential evidence. All evidence needs to be photographed and catalogued. It wasn’t even mentioned in the crime-scene summary.”
“Our photographer was gone by the time the body was removed, and I saw no reason to call her back. There are certain . . . sensitivities involved.”
“Sensitivities?”
“You saw the crowd outside. If something like this were to be released, there’s no telling how they’d react. And if there are no photographs, there’s no chance for a leak.”
Callahan couldn’t quite believe what she was hearing. “Did you actually work your way up through the ranks, or are you some kind of political appointee?”
Martinez’s eyes went cold. “You’re here to help us investigate, Agent Callahan, not impugn my integrity.”
“Then
investigate
, for Christ’s sake. Evidence is evidence, and you seem more concerned about public relations than solving a crime.”
Martinez opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Then he said, “If you’re trying to make me look foolish . . .”
“I just want to figure out what happened here. And this is a sign of possible foul play.”
“Foul play?” he said. “I think it’s much more than that.”
Ignoring him, Callahan pulled out her smartphone, took several quick shots of the floor and added them to Gabriela’s dossier. She stared soberly at the mark, which was quite small but looked as if it had been seared into the linoleum with a blow torch:
 
Callahan was no expert, but she knew this was an occult symbol. The kind you often found spray-painted on high school lockers by rebellious teenagers. If she remembered correctly, the
A
stood for “Anarchy.”
But this was no high school prank. Far from it.
And the question was, who had put it here?
Gabriela?
Was she some kind of secret Devil worshipper who had burned the mark into the floor before setting herself on fire? And, if so, how exactly did she do it?
Considering the lack of tools, she’d have to be a magician to pull it off. And while Gabriela may have been a talented entertainer, it was doubtful she knew sleight of hand.
Which brought Callahan back to scenario number three.
Murder.
Despite the pop star sheen, Gabriela had managed to become a vaunted religious icon here in São Paulo and around the world. A phoenix who rose from the ashes, an inspiration to those who felt their lives were hopeless, especially amidst the turmoil they’d been witness to these last several months. So it was only natural that people flock to the one thing that gave them any sense of calm.
Faith.
Was it possible that someone had done this to Gabriela in retaliation for her rising popularity and influence? Some wack job who somehow saw her as a threat to his existence? Who wanted to show the world that no one is immune to the final call, no matter how devout she may be?
Was this his signature? His mark? His
fuck you
?
A sudden uneasiness stirred inside Callahan, and she once again wondered why Section had sent her here.
What had they expected her to find?
This?
She could contact Section and ask, of course, but she doubted she’d be given an answer. She wasn’t sure
they
even had one.
She turned to Martinez, who had wandered back out into the hallway, as if he were afraid to be in close proximity to the mark. He had lit a cigarette and was shakily lifting it to his lips to take a drag.
Callahan approached him. “So what do you make of all this?”
He exhaled noisily. “
Now
you want my opinion?”
“I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t.”
“I think I made my point of view clear when we first arrived.”
Callahan frowned. “That thing you said about Gabriela being in league with the Devil?”
He nodded. Took another drag.
“You can’t be serious.”
“What other explanation is there? We’ve witnessed the impossible, Agent Callahan. And the impossible can only be explained by supernatural means.”
“Neither of us has really witnessed anything, Detective, and I lean toward the school of thought that says there’s always an explanation just waiting to be found. All we have to do is look for it.”
“You don’t believe in demons?”
“As much as I’d like to throw my hands in the air and blame this on some dark supernatural entity, I can assure you that if any demons are involved, they’re all too human. I’m afraid I’ll have to go with psychopath instead. So why don’t we set the woo-woo stuff aside for a while and do some real police work?”

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