Silva remained convinced that Father Brouwer knew more than he was telling. After breakfast the next morning, he decided to pay him a surprise visit. They drove to the cottage, arriving a little after nine o'clock.
Methuselah was on the front porch with his head between his paws. When he saw them coming, he rose painfully to his feet and started to whine.
Arnaldo bent over to scratch his neck. The dog nuzzled his leg but the whining didn't stop.
Hector rapped on the doorjamb, got no response, and opened the screen door.
The dog brushed by him, went to the naked body on the living room floor and began to lick at the blood that had pooled from a massive wound in the corpse's neck.
Silva knelt down for a closer look. Arnaldo picked up the phone and started dialing. Hector took Methuselah by his collar and dragged him outside.
Father Brouwer's eyelids and genitals, and the soles of his feet, showed circular burns, some mere blisters, others much worse. In some cases, the flesh was actually charred.
"Too big for cigarettes," Hector said, coming back and squatting down next to his uncle.
"Yes," Silva agreed. "Cigars."
Arnaldo had the telephone against his ear. He put his hand over the mouthpiece and opened his mouth to say something, then dropped it again and spoke into the phone. "This is Agente Arnaldo Nunes, Federal Police. I'm calling to report a murder."
There was a squeak of hinges. All three cops turned to look. Father Angelo was standing in the doorway, his eyes fixed on his old friend's body.
Methuselah pushed past him and made a beeline for the blood, his tongue hanging out.
Hector headed the dog off and put him back on the porch.
Father Angelo walked forward until he reached the corpse and then dropped to his knees, as if he'd reached an altar.
For a while, no one spoke. Silva became aware of the distant chatter of a cicada, punctuated by the faint whining of the dog. He let a decent interval pass, and then cleared his throat.
"Father?"
The priest didn't answer.
"Father Angelo?"
The old man raised his head and spat out a single word. "Ferraz."
"Move away from him, Father," Silva said. "There might be some trace evidence. We don't want to contaminate it."
Father Angelo got slowly to his feet, turned, and took two steps toward them. There were tears in his eyes. "A lifetime of service," he said, "and this is the way he ends up. I should have…"
"Should have what?"
"Nothing, Chief Inspector, nothing. You must have questions for me. Go ahead and ask them."
"Thank you, Father. Did you spend the night at home?"
"No. I spent the night at the league encampment. Ever since the massacre, Anton-" His voice caught in his throat. He cleared it and repeated the name, "Anton and I have been alternating, each of us staying there for twelve hours at a time."
"When was the last time you saw him?"
"At around nine, last night. We always made it a point to have breakfast and dinner together. He came home, we dined, and I left." He shook his head as if to clear it, looked again at the body, ran a hand over his bald spot.
"I always try to search for a meaning in things," he said,,, but this…"
His shook his head.
"You mentioned Ferraz," Silva said.
The priest nodded. "Anton Brouwer, was my closest friend, Chief Inspector. We had no secrets from each other. I know about Ferraz's activities, and I know about the conversation Anton had with you. Look at those burns. Look how he was killed. Tell me frankly, do you really believe that someone else could have done this?"
"No, Father, I don't, but we have no proof, and without that…"
"Yes. I know. I know."
"Do you have any idea what Ferraz might have been trying to learn?"
The old priest reached for his cigarettes, put one into his mouth, and lit it. "Do you?" he said.
"My guess is that Ferraz was trying to find Edson Souza. He probably thought your friend knew where he was hiding."
"Perhaps. But if that was it, Anton didn't tell them."
"No?"
The old priest took another drag on his cigarette and reflexively looked around for a place to tip the ash. His gaze swept past, then returned to, the body of his dead companion. He sighed and flicked the ash directly onto the floor.
"No," he said. "Because, if Anton had cracked under Ferraz's torture, you would have found two bodies here instead of one."