Chapter Five

15h10
The police driver told Detective Bonita he would be taking her south, and then west, down the Avenida Brigadeiro Luís Antônio towards the Marginal Pinheiros. He wanted her to know because it was the long way round. She didn’t care, she said. Whatever was quickest; he could use the siren if he wanted to. He would, he added, normally have used the Avenida 9 de Julho, but the underpass was flooded with the rain. Whatever, she replied. But what, he asked, was Doutora Bonita going to do once they reached the river? The Emergency Management Centre had closed five bridges including the Ponte João Dias. The old Fondía abattoir was on the other side; the Marginal and all the approach roads were gridlocked. 'Don’t worry,' she said. 'Get me as near as you can; there’s a boat waiting for me.'

São Paulo has no river police force as such: the Pinheiros is not a Thames or a Seine and, in its normal state, is a shallow, stagnant, foul-smelling canal; home only to rats and the odd capivara. But the continuing precipitation had caused so many problems for the city’s inhabitants that the Bombeiros had scrambled a River Division of officers to transfer emergency service personnel across the water. Detective Bonita got out of the patrol car a block east of the Marginal and quickly located the two fire officers waiting for her on the river. With the outboard motor of their dinghy accelerating against the current, they apologised to Detective Bonita for the fact that there was nowhere dry in their vessel to sit down, gave her a life-jacket and sailed quickly across to leave her with Agent Demario on a mooring fifty metres or so in front of the Fondía slaughterhouse. She had a strong sense that the investigation was about to move into a new, significant stage.

Eduardo Carlos offered his hand to help her out of the boat but she ignored the gesture and used a greasy wrought iron ladder to clamber up the low brick embankment.
‘I called the Fondía company, boss,’ he said, as the two of them hurried through the rain towards the sliding wooden door which formed the entrance to the derelict building. Fondía S.A. was a huge food processing conglomerate whose corporate logo still stood proud in faded red lettering from the roof of the property. ‘They still own these premises, but they transferred all abattoir operations out to Guarulhos in 1991. They were expanding distribution overseas and needed more cold storage space and a more accessible location.’
‘What are their plans for this building?’ enquired Detective Bonita once they were inside.
‘I didn’t ask.’
‘Phone them back then, Eduardo. It may have a bearing on this case.’
‘How?’ Eduardo Carlos was nettled.
‘I don’t know. It just might.’

The Fondía abattoir was three stories high and from where Detective Bonita was standing she could see some twenty metres up to a broken glass casement through which a little grey light and a lot of rain now fell. Under a suspended ceiling nearby she found a tarnished brass light switch and put out her finger to see if it worked. Her arm shot up with a jolt and she stumbled back onto the wet floor.
‘Deus me livre!’ she exclaimed, rubbing her arm. ‘Eduardo! Don’t touch anything. The place is wired and live.’ With so little light, visibility would be very poor, but Eduardo Carlos had borrowed a torch from the bombeiros, who were waiting and gossiping in the yard outside.
‘Can’t they help us?’ said Detective Bonita climbing back to her feet.
‘I haven’t asked them to. Look, come with me. There are things you must see.’

The two walked through the shadows towards the rear of the building. As Detective Bonita’s eyes became accustomed to the dark, she could make out stalls, racks, lines of sharp but rusting hooks hanging from tracks along the side of the central section and rows of steel tables at the far end. Eduardo Carlos left a message on the voicemail of his contact at Fondía S.A. to phone him back.
‘This is where they would put the live animals,’ he explained, slotting the phone into his pocket and indicating the holding pens next to the door. ‘Then they would move them to this part here, where they would stun them and then hoist them up by the back legs onto one of these hooks where main artery would be severed to drain the blood.’ Detective Bonita did not reply so he continued: ‘And that’s where my theory falls down….’ he crossed his arms, ‘..a bit. One of our men was shot in the head. That’s what killed him, not blood loss, which is how the pigs used to die. The French man was shot in the heart then butchered. But it could still be symbolic. Look, come and see something else.’

Agent Demario led Detective Bonita to the end of the line of hooks. There were clear signs that four hooks had been used; rust had been worn away and the aspect of the metal differed from those left idle over the fifteen or so years since Fondía S.A. had departed. But it was difficult to see in the gloom and Detective Bonita’s attention had transferred to an unsettling scraping noise she could hear towards the back of the building.
‘The forensic pathologist is on her way,’ said Eduardo Carlos, anticipating correctly Detective Bonita’s next question.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘I don’t like it here. We could do with some light. But the pathologist will need more than a few hooks and a theory to establish a crime scene, Eduardo. I hope we’re not wasting her time.’
‘Wait,’ he implored, ‘there’s more.’ They continued, stumbling frequently, holding onto each other for support, along a white painted brick corridor. Agent Demario pointed out several brown blotch marks on one of the walls and the floor, which, he argued, could possibly be human blood, surely?
‘The problem is, boss, that the water from the river rose so high it flooded the entire ground floor. Look,’ he added, indicating a grainy line on the wall about fifty centimetres up from the floor. ‘This is the high water mark. And this,’ he continued, striding carefully round fallen lumps of mortar and leaning against an immense steel door, ‘is the freezer room. It’s not working anymore. Not today, anyway. But we know that there is a supply of electricity. And look at these marks here, boss, on this table. This has to be the place the bodies were stored.’ Agent Demario’s arms swept through the air. Detective Bonita was studying the door.
‘I agree that it’s possible,’ she said. Eduardo Carlos beamed, his eyebrows opening to allow the smile to spread up across his face.
‘And it is really all that we’ve got. But,’ added Detective Bonita, pushing her index finger against her lips. ‘How did the bodies subsequently get into the water? Was the door open or closed when you arrived?’ Eduardo took out a small digital camera and checked through each image. ‘Open,’ he said.
‘Let’s suppose this freezer room was functioning at a temperature low enough to freeze and store two dead bodies. One had both legs severed post-mortem – which suggests to me that he was put in some sort of smaller unit – the other had his face removed. Then the water rises, the bodies float away and we find them a few hundred metres down-stream. But the water can’t open this door, Eduardo. And if this door is open, the temperature goes up, the rats get in….We would have a completely different set of circumstances. If this is where the bodies were stored, forensics will find evidence. But someone must have set the bodies free because we think – no, we know that they were still frozen when they entered the water. We’re trying to get the facts to fit your theory, Eduardo. It should be the other way round. What else have you found?’
‘Just this,’ he said, pointing to some letters painted on the wall which read, in English, ‘So it goes’.
‘What does it mean?’ asked Detective Bonita.
‘No idea,’ he replied.

15h45
The sound of the boat engine echoed once more through the empty building. Either the fire officers had got bored or there was another emergency. Detective Bonita felt a strong urge to return to the daylight and walked as quickly as she could to the entrance. In fact, the forensic team had arrived and needed to get across the river. Dra. Angé Fonte do Amaral greeted Detective Bonita and Agent Demario and introduced them to Pedro Maciel, her assistant, who would be setting up the scene.
‘There is not much to go on, Angé,’ said Detective Bonita, casting her eyes over the lamps, generator, photographic paraphernalia and folded aluminium frames. ‘But Eduardo had a hunch. And I will have to say something to Cidade Alerta! at six. How quick do you think you can be?’
‘As quick as I can be, as quick as I always am, querida,’ said the pathologist without feeling.
‘I hate the way journalists are allowed to set our agenda,’ added Detective Bonita. ‘But Captain Lourenco promised Cidade Alerta! an exclusive statement at six. He says it keeps us on our toes.’
‘Well, Rita, Eduardo’s hunch is good enough for me. In any case, I estimated how long it would take the bodies to defrost which, allowing for river temperature, current movement, time taken to pull them out and other environmental factors, could place our two men within one to two kilometres from where they were found. So here is as good a start as any. Move inside quickly, Pedro!’ she said, gently pushing her assistant. ‘We don’t want to attract attention until we are ready.’

The search proved Eduardo’s hunch to be a good one. The forensic team could not, of course, determine at that stage what sort of blood had splattered around the inside of the building but they were able to ascertain that it had not been there for very long and, judging by the pattern on the wall, that it could also have come from a gunshot wound. They also agreed that the graffiti had been drawn recently enough to be interesting. With the help of the light and the additional assistance of the bombeiros, they found and retrieved a single bullet from a .38 calibre pistol wedged in the wall. Just outside the room was a heavy wooden table with a locked drawer. One of the firemen forced it open. Inside was a plastic bag tied with a cord the same width as the ligature marks on the ankles of the unidentified man. But it was the contents of the bag that gave Detective Bonita and Eduardo their most significant lead yet. With the crashing roar of television helicopters coming in to land outside the abattoir, the two police officers carefully opened and examined the two wallets inside the bag. One contained credit cards and documents belonging to Monsieur Camille Bleu, the other to a Mr John F Henderson. Detective Bonita hugged Eduardo Carlos.
‘Can I make the statement to Cidade Alerta! boss?’ he asked.
‘No Eduardo.’ Detective Bonita could see anger rising out of the expression in his face.
‘Why?’ he demanded.
‘It wouldn’t be appropriate.’
‘But it was me who brought you here! It was my questioning and my hunch!’
‘I know. You’ve done really well. But you’re not ready to talk to the media.’
‘Then at least let me lead the Mr Henderson part of the investigation.’ Agent Demario thrust his hands down to emphasise the ‘at least’.
‘No Eduardo! Go back to the station and see what you can find on this Mr Henderson.’ The younger man stalked out.
Detective Bonita watched him briefly then turned to Dra Angélica to raise the question of how the frozen bodies had floated into the river.
‘You’re right, amiga. The water alone could not have opened this door. Someone must have set them free.’
‘A witness?’ thought Detective Bonita out loud. ‘Or someone who wanted them to be found?’
‘Or the killer,’ added Pedro Maciel from behind his forensic mask.

Detective Bonita walked out into the rain where Eduardo Carlos and the bombeiros were chatting with Tatiana Nunes. Wearing impossibly high heels, the journalist was, as Agent Demario had implied, effortlessly good-looking, a pierced navel just showing over low-cut trousers and a tight white shirt. She was also at least ten years younger than Detective Bonita.
‘What have you got for us, Detective?’ the journalist shouted across.
‘Are we on air?’ Detective Bonita replied, sheltering from the rain under a huge umbrella held over both women by a media ‘boy’.
‘Counting down. Try to talk over the helicopter engine – this is our camera here – stand with your back to the building please…’ Tatiana Nunes pushed Detective Bonita roughly against the door through which thousands of pigs had walked and breathed their last. The irony was not lost on the policewoman. Tatiana Nunes turned to camera.
‘We are at the former Fondía abattoir for an exclusive statement by Detective Inspector Rita Bonita of the Department for Homicide who is investigating the deaths of two foreign businessmen pulled out of the River Pinheiros yesterday. What can you tell us Detective?’

Detective Bonita blinked. How did Tatiana Nunes know that the two men were foreign? She had only just found out for certain herself. She knew Dra. Angelica had not said anything because she had been present when the pathologist had taken the call. The bombeiros couldn’t have known, either. In the distance she could see Eduardo Carlos climbing down into the dinghy to take him back across the river.
‘At this stage I can tell you that the identity of one of the men is…’ Detective Bonita read out the details from her notebook, including the cause of death and the fact that inside the abattoir was being treated as a crime scene.
‘But you know who the other man is, don’t you Detective?’ Detective Bonita froze.
‘I do know who the other victim is but I cannot disclose any information about him until we have spoken with his family.’
‘And can you confirm for our viewers, Detective, that this victim has had his face removed by the killer?’ Detective Bonita’s eyes opened wide with disbelief.
‘I cannot confirm anything until I have spoken with the family.’ She could hear her voice shaking with rage.
‘We’ll have to finish here,’ she snapped, ‘because I have nothing more to say.’ Detective Bonita began to turn away from the camera but Tatiana Nunes’ hand was on her shoulder.
‘Wait! You’re hunting a serial killer, aren’t you Detective? Our viewers have the right to know.’ Detective Bonita shook the hand off her shoulder.
‘This is an irresponsible line of questioning,’ she said, adding: ‘and I have nothing more to say.’ The camera moved back to the journalist.
‘But you’re not denying it, are you, Detective Bonita?’

© Emília Shap: Lisbon May 2007