Requiem for a Killer by Paulo Levy Page A

its
face.
    Totally spooked, he freed himself from the
sheets and got out of bed, gasping and bathed in sweat. He ran to
the shower and took a long and very hot shower, hot enough to burn
the feathers off a chicken. He got dressed, left the bedroom, went
downstairs and found Neide sweeping the living room floor.
    “Are you off today, Inspector?”
    “I took the graveyard shift.”
    “Want me to fix you something, scrambled
eggs, toast?”
    “No need. I’m going to get some goró .
    Goró was the recipe for a porridge
that dated back to Dornelas’ childhood. A true gastronomical wild
card, it was the answer for whenever hunger struck and there was no
time for a more elaborate meal.
    He put six tablespoons of farinha
láctea , a common baby cereal, in a bowl together with two of
powdered milk and one glass of water. He substituted water for pure
milk as soon as he discovered that powdered milk and milk, in the
same recipe, produced a bombastic mixture capable of producing gas
for the entire day.
    He finished it off it in a few spoonfuls,
scrapping the bottom of the bowl, to Neide’s astonishment as she
watched him open-mouthed.
    “A man of your upbringing eating that awful
mess, sir!”
    “You should try it someday.”
    “Holy Mother of God!”
    Visibly disgusted, Neide threw her dusting
cloth over her shoulder, picked up the broom and turned back to her
cleaning. Dornelas slipped out of the house, worrying about his
reputation if Neide were to tell everybody about his porridge.

 
    Chapter 6
     
     
    W ell rested and
properly bathed and fed, Dornelas crossed the doorway into police
headquarters exuding satisfaction.
    “Good afternoon, Inspector.” said
Marilda.
    “Good afternoon, Marilda. Any messages?”
    “The Sectional Director called and asked
that you get back to him urgently.”
    “Thanks.”
    Marilda interrupted him as he turned to go
on to his office.
    “Inspector, a man arrived at 9 a.m., a
Raimundo Tavares. Solano and Lotufo are talking to him in the
conference room.
    ‘ Oh shit!’ thought Dornelas, putting
his hands on his head. He’d completely forgotten he’d asked Solano
to have Maria das Graças’ client at the precinct first thing in the
morning. He crossed the reception area and went down the corridor
to the conference room. He found no one there. He went to Solano’s
office and still nobody. Lotufo’s, same thing. He went back to the
reception area.
    “Marilda, where are they?”
    “I don’t know, sir.”
    That was when he heard loud laughter coming
from the lunchroom on the other side of the station. He went in to
find Solano, Lotufo and another man sitting around the little table
with plastic cups in their hands, drinking coffee and grinning
widely. The laughter disappeared as soon as they saw him. But as he
was already three hours late – it was past noon – and he was
visibly embarrassed, Dornelas simply walked in with his hand
outstretched to greet the guy, who he presumed was Raimundo
Tavares.
    “Please excuse my being late, Mr. Tavares. I
worked the night shift and overslept and I’m afraid that’s the only
excuse I can give you.”
    “No problem, Inspector,” said Raimundo as he
shook hands with Dornelas. “We were just shooting the breeze.”
    “Have you gotten his testimony yet?” he
asked Solano and Lotufo.
    “Done,” said Solano laconically – in fact
too laconically.
    Dornelas was puzzled, it sounded as if there
was something else behind that syllable.
    “Let’s talk in my office,” he said to
Solano. And turning to Tavares, “Would it be too much to ask you to
wait just a little bit longer?”
    Raimundo Tavares was a refined individual;
hair fashionably cut, designer clothes, apparently discreet and
well-mannered from the way he spoke and behaved. Dornelas did take
exception to the pen and pencil in his shirt pocket though. It
reminded him of an old schoolmate, a total snob who he had
fistfights with everyday. The boy’s trademark was the designer