The Ways of Evil Men (13 page)

“Doctor Pinto’s office. Out the door and to the right. It’s a short walk.”

“This side of the street?”

“This side of the street. And be prepared for what you’re going to see. The Indian was suspended.”

“Yes,” she said. “I gathered that from what our taxi driver told us.”

“Same one we had, no doubt. I’m told there’s only one in town. Hector?”

“Senhor?”

“Early this morning, I sent prints, nail scrapings, clothing, and what’s reputed to be the murder weapon to São Paulo. Call Lefkowitz, and stress that I want a quick turnaround.”

Lefkowitz, Hector’s top forensic person, was the best in the business. Silva employed his services whenever he could.

“Will do.”

“I suppose your pilot has already left?”

“He’s been here before—and couldn’t wait to get away.

Why?”

“There’s no air courier service. Any future lab work will have to go by charter.”

“It’ll cost a bundle. Sampaio will have a fit.”

The Director of the Federal Police would not have been pleased to see the expressions the mention of his name elicited.

“Fuck him,” Arnaldo said.

“My sentiments exactly,” Silva said. He turned to Gonçalves, the third and last of the São Paulo team. “Haraldo?”

“Senhor?”

“You get the plum job, an assignment you’re going to like.
A journalist from São Paulo, name of Maura Mandel, is staying with Jade Calmon, the FUNAI agent.”

“Attractive?”

“They both are. That’s why you’re going to like it. The woman at the reception desk will know where Jade lives. I want to get our signals straight for tomorrow morning. Go over there and invite them both to dinner.”

“My pleasure.”

“Let’s go, people. The sooner we get this cleared up, the sooner we’ll be out of this hellhole.”

“Amen to that,” Arnaldo said.

B
Y THE
time they sat down to eat, Gonçalves, the Federal Police’s lothario, had already made inroads with Maura and had spirited her away to a table in a far corner of the restaurant. They had their heads together and were conversing in low tones. Jade was left with Gilda and the cops.

“Babyface works fast,” Arnaldo said.

“Babyface?” Jade said.

“That’s what we call him, but never to his baby face. It gets his nose out of joint.”

“Well, I can see why you would. He doesn’t look to be more than—”

“Exactly,” Arnaldo said.

“How old is he, anyway? Twenty-two? Twenty-three?”

“Well into his thirties.”

She looked at Gonçalves with renewed interest.

“Really?”

“Really.”

Jade looked perplexed. “What’s with the ‘working fast’ bit? Somewhat of a charmer, is he?”

“You have no idea,” Arnaldo said. “Many are the households in which the caring parents of pining young women are
careful never to mention any last name beginning with the letter G for fear of eliciting a hysterical outburst.”

“They’re well matched then.”

“A charmer herself, is she?” Silva asked.

“You have no idea. Many are the bars where sad young men spend their nights drinking to forget her. The development of this relationship should be interesting.”

“A battle of champions? The seductress seduced?”

“Or vice versa.” She looked around to make sure they weren’t being heard, lowered her voice, and leaned across the table to Gilda. “On a more serious note, did you …”

“Examine the bodies? Yes, I did. Why don’t we talk about it tomorrow on the way to the village?”

“Couldn’t you at least tell me one thing tonight?”

“All right. If I can. What is it?”

“Do you agree with the Chief Inspector?”

“About the Indian being innocent?”

“Yes.”

“I do.” She looked at Silva. “You were right to draw my attention to the wounds. They were delivered by someone at least as tall as Torres was, probably taller.”

“And the Indian was a shorter man. Good. Anything else?”

“They were laid on, one on top of the other. If the Indian was drunk, as they say he was, they would have been all over the place.”

“Yes, I spotted that one.”

“The killer was right-handed.”

“I spotted that, too. Anything else?”

“The wounds were deep, deep enough in one instance to sever one of the vertebrae. Only a man, or a stronger-than-average woman, could have inflicted them. And the fingernail scrapings, the ones you’ve sent off for analysis, are unlikely to be of any help.”

“Why?”

“The wounds were all on one side of Torres’s body, which wouldn’t have been the case if he’d been able to turn around. There were none on his hands, or on his forearms, as there would have been if he was facing his assailant and trying to defend himself. I doubt that he saw the person who killed him. If there’s anything under those nails, it’s unlikely to be from the killer, unless they had an altercation earlier in the evening.”

“Good work, Gilda. How about the Indian?”

“That conversation,” she said, “I really would prefer to leave for tomorrow.”

A
RNALDO PICKED UP THE
butter dish and sniffed. “Rancid again.”

“It’s actually a flavoring agent. Because of the heat around here, people got used to the taste of rancid butter, and that’s the way they prefer it,” Silva said. “And by the way, they get it out of a can.”

“I hate Pará.”

“Stop bitching and try the fruit.”

It was fuzzy and brown and about the size of a mango. Silva cut into his and used his fork to pop white pulp into his mouth. Arnaldo studied him for a reaction.

“Well?”

“Kind of a cross between a banana and a pear. It’s not bad.”

“Not good either, I’ll bet. I’ll pass. Heads up. The ladies just came in.”

Silva turned to see Amanda and Maura approaching their table. The journalist, in a long sleeve shirt and cargo pants tucked into hiking boots, was dressed for the bush.

“Uh-oh,” Arnaldo said. “You didn’t tell her last night?”

Silva shook his head. “It would have ruined dinner.”

He stood up. “Good morning. Senhorita Mandel, won’t you join us for breakfast at least?”

“What do you mean by,
at least
?” Maura asked, suspiciously.

“You won’t be accompanying us to the village.”

“Oh, yes, I will.”

“Oh, no, you won’t.”

“Why not? Don’t you think the public has a right to be informed about what’s going on?”

“Not when it might hinder an investigation.”

“I’ll keep it all off the record, won’t write a word until you tell me I can publish it.”

“Sorry, the answer is still no.”

“I don’t think you’re sorry at all. And I’m certain your boss wouldn’t agree.”

Silva bristled. “My
boss
, Senhorita Mandel, is obsessed with seeing his name in the newspapers, which is something that interests me not at all. My obsession is apprehending criminals.”

“Is that for publication?”

“No, it is not.”

“Then it’s my turn to be sorry, Chief Inspector. I don’t like playing the game this way, but you leave me no choice. If you don’t agree to bring me along, I’m going to call Sampaio and quote you.”

“It is I, Senhorita Mandel, who might be said to be quoting you.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“What was the term you used back in Belem? Publicity whore? Yes, that was it. Publicity whore.”

“Are you threatening to squeal to him about something I said to you in confidence?”

“Are you?”

T
EN MINUTES
later, a fuming Maura Mandel, her arms akimbo, stood in the doorway of the Grand Hotel and watched the caravan prepare for departure.

Gilda got into the rear of the lead jeep, next to Hector. Silva sat in front. Jade, after casting an apologetic backward glance at her angry friend, took the wheel. And then they were off.

About five kilometers beyond the outskirts of the town, they branched off onto an unmarked and narrow road and crossed a bridge.

“That’s the Jagunami,” Jade said, pointing down at the sluggish brown water. “In most places, it’s the border of the reservation.”

“But not here?” Silva said.

“Not here. Enrique Azevedo, the founder of the town, staked out this land. In deference to him, and what he’d done for the region, the people drawing the reservation’s boundaries allowed him to keep it. He built the bridge. His house is over there, among those trees to the east.”

Silva squinted against the light. “It looks abandoned,” he said.

“It is. Azevedo’s heirs sold out to Hugo Toledo, the mayor’s father. Toledo had his own house, and it was bigger than that one, so he left Azevedo’s to rot.”

“So why is this road in such good condition?”

“It was graded, leveled, and extended by a gang of loggers. Until Davi Fromes put a stop to it, they were running heavy trucks into and out of the reservation.”

“Who is Davi Fromes?”

“The former IBAMA agent, now retired. He would have as soon shot himself in the foot as kill a tree. Gilda?”

“Yes?”

“I’m going to have to arrange for Amati’s burial. There isn’t anyone else to do it. Are you finished with …”

“Studying his corpse? Yes, I am. You can take him whenever you like.”

“I’ll make the arrangements for tomorrow then. I think the most appropriate place to lay him to rest would be next to his family and the other members of his tribe. I’m sure it’s what he would have liked.”

“You wouldn’t consider cremation?”

“Cremation? No. The Awana don’t cremate. Why?”

“Well … you saw the hanging, didn’t you?”

“No,” Jade said. “When they started hoisting him up, I turned my back. I didn’t want to see him die.”

Gilda wanted to make sure: “And you never once laid eyes on him after he was dead?”

She shook her head. “I preferred to remember him alive.”

“Quite right. And that’s the way his son should remember him as well. Not like he is now.”

“What if Raoni insists? It’s his father, after all.”

“Refuse.”

“Couldn’t you—”

“Do something cosmetic? Make his father look presentable? That’s what you’re asking?”

Jade nodded.

“No, I can’t. Nobody can.”

“Why not?”

“He was suspended.”

“Can you explain the significance of that without getting into grisly details?”

“No.”

“All right then. Explain it anyway.”

Gilda looked out at the monotonous wall of vegetation hemming them in, no flowers, no animals, nothing but green. After a while, she said, “You’re sure you want to hear it?”

“I don’t
want
to hear it. I think it’s my duty to hear it. I need to know what I’m dealing with.”

“Very well.” Gilda leaned back in her seat and switched to didactic mode. “What it comes down to is this: there are three ways to hang someone.” She counted them off on her fingers. “The long drop, the short drop, and suspension. The short drop is the traditional method. You stand the victim
on a chair, or a cart, put a rope around his neck and remove whatever is under him. For hundreds of years, that was the most common method. Back in the day, hangings were public, and killing someone was a spectacle. It was entertainment. Have you ever been in London?”

“London? As in London, England?”

Gilda nodded.

“Once. Why?”

“Did you see that big Marble Arch near Hyde Park?”

“Yes.”

“Not far away was the Tyburn Tree, the public gallows. They hung people there for over two hundred years. A crowd of thirty thousand wasn’t uncommon. They put up stands, charged admission. People came from all over the continent to watch. The English were regarded as Europe’s greatest hangmen, and to watch them at work was considered an educational experience.”

“
Educational
?”

“It was a different time. The values were different. The hangmen were celebrities. But then, as refinement grew, they decided to transfer the executions beyond prison walls.”

“A step forward at least.”

“Yes, but one that created problems. Hanging people in front of just a few witnesses, it turned out, was harder on the warders and jailers. Without the crowds to cheer them on, they started having psychological problems. They quit by the score. The turnover became too great. Something had to be done. By then, it was the scientific age, so they studied the problem scientifically. The solution they came up with was the long drop. At the time, they viewed it as a great leap forward.”

“Why?”

“Because it was considered more humane.”

“
Humane
?”

“Not for the victims. For the wardens and jailers.”

“So what is it? What’s a long drop?”

“You stand the condemned person on a trap door, open it, and let them fall between one and three meters before they’re brought up short by a pre-stretched rope. The distance, in each case, is calculated on the basis of tables that take into account body weight, bone structure, and the thickness of the victim’s neck. Most of the time, it works. Sometimes, it doesn’t. If the drop is too long, it decapitates the victim. If it’s too short, it’s no different from the short drop. But if it’s done right, it snaps at least two cervical vertebrae, which causes instant paralysis, immobilization, and in most cases, unconsciousness. The victim still dies of asphyxia, but with less suffering, and without the … physical manifestations that display in the other two systems.”

“And suspension?”

“You put a rope around the victim’s neck and hoist him up. The English excelled at that, too. In their Royal Navy, they’d execute mutineers by running a rope through a pulley attached to a yardarm. One end went around the victim’s neck, and the other was given to sailors who’d haul away. The suspended man kicks, and jerks, and thrashes, and chokes to death. It can take twenty minutes, sometimes even more, to kill him. Meanwhile, he turns blue, the capillaries in his eyes and face burst, his tongue protrudes—”

“And that’s the sort of thing you saw when you examined Amati’s body?”

“Yes. It’s just about the most horrible way to go that there is. You do
not
want that kid to see what they did to his father.”