Every homicide is different, but the circus surrounding every homicide is pretty much the same. The circus begins with the arrival of the first police car and ends with the removal of the corpse. It's lit by flashing red and blue light, punctuated by the squawk of police radios, and isolated by yellow strips of crime-scene tape. The gatekeeper is almost always a grizzled veteran or an eager rookie.
This time it was an eager rookie.
"Hey, hey, hey, where do you think you're going?" he said, appearing from nowhere and blocking the doorway to Father Gaspar's home.
Silva waved his gold badge under the youngster's nose. "Where's the colonel?" he said.
The rookie leaned forward, read the lettering around the seal of the republic, and addressed Silva with newfound respect. "Sorry, Chief Inspector, he's not here. The senior man is Sergeant Menezes."
"And where is he?"
"In Father Gaspar's study, where the bodies are. If you gentlemen will follow me-"
"We know where it is. Thanks."
Silva led the way down the hallway.
"Where's the fucking medical examiner?"
The lisp was distinctive. It was the fat sergeant's voice, coming from inside the room.
"Just arrived," Hector said as they entered. "We saw him outside, talking to the paramedics."
Sergeant Menezes turned to face the two federal cops. "You guys sure got here quick," he said. He didn't bother to introduce any of the other six men in the room, four of whom were in uniform and two of whom were not. One of the civilians was holding a digital camera. He gave Silva and Hector the once over, then went back to photographing the body of Euclides Garcia.
Garcia was face-up on the carpet with a small hole in his forehead. Father Gaspar was slumped at his desk. There was an equally small wound in his temple and a pistol in his right hand. There was little bleeding in either case. The room still smelled of lilacs, strong enough, even, to conceal the smell of death.
"Well, what a surprise," Hector quipped. "They must have been killed by someone from out-of-town."
"How do you figure?" Sergeant Menezes said.
"Neither one had his throat cut."
The sergeant frowned, maybe because he was puzzled, maybe because he was annoyed.
"Looks like a. 22," Hector said.
Menezes nodded.
"Yeah, a. 22. Just a little popgun. Hi, Doc. Glad you could finally make it."
This last, a weak attempt at humor, was directed to Ishikawa, who entered the room to a chorus of mumbled greetings. The medical examiner clucked his tongue a few times and squatted next to the body of Euclides.
"Colonel left already?" Silva asked.
"He didn't come," the sergeant said.
"Didn't come? But you said-"
"It's like this. I'm the senior man on duty tonight. A little after midnight, I got a call from the colonel. He said he got an anonymous tip that something had happened here. He said to check it out, and if there was really anything wrong to get in touch with you. As for him, he said, he's going back to bed and doesn't want to be disturbed before eight o'clock tomorrow morning."
"Doesn't sound like him at all."
"Oh, yes it does. You don't know the colonel. He keeps banker's hours. Likes a good night's sleep, the colonel does."
"I meant the part about calling me. He's normally not so cordial."
"Oh. Well, I wouldn't know about that. I just do what I'm told."
"How about Palmas? Where's he?"
"No idea, but you don't often see him without the colonel. They're like Siamese twins, those two. Anyway, I sent a patrol car over here. They found the house all lit up and the front door unlocked, but nobody was answering the bell. They tried calling on the phone. No answer. So I took a chance and authorized them to walk in. This"-he waved his arm, taking in both bodies-"is what they found. Murder and suicide. Pretty obvious."
"Not to me. Not yet," Silva said.
"Ah, but that's because you don't know," the sergeant said smugly.
"Don't know what?"
"About the note."
"What note?"
The sergeant wouldn't be hurried. He was enjoying the opportunity to show the big city boys a thing or two. "It was right here on the desk. I had my doubts at first. So what did I do? I went to that file cabinet over there and looked for samples of Father Gaspar's handwriting. Then, I put them side-by-side with the note, and compared them. No doubt about it. A perfect match."
"So Gaspar wrote something. A suicide note?"
"Not exactly," the sergeant said. "Something better. Much better. He confessed."
"Confessed to what?"
The sergeant dropped what he thought was his bombshell. "Killing the bishop," he said.
He was visibly disappointed when Silva showed no sign of surprise.
"So he confessed to that, did he?"
"Sure did. Turns out he was a pedophile. The bishop found out about it, and they killed him to make sure it didn't come out."
"They being?"
"Him and that guy on the floor over there. He was the one who actually pulled the trigger. It's all in the confession. Want to read it?"
"I sure as hell do. Where is it?"
"I'll get it."
Sergeant Menezes walked over to one of the crime-scene technicians, exchanged a few words, and came back with two plastic envelopes, a rose-colored page of stationery in each.
"So I guess the colonel was right," he said. "We didn't need you guys after all." He extended the envelopes to Silva. "Here. See for yourself."
Silva read both sides of the first sheet, passed it to Hector, and went on to read the other.
The confession contained details that only the murderer would know. There was information about how and where the rifle had been purchased, and even the price that had been paid for it. It revealed that Euclides, during his military service, had been trained as a sniper. What it did not say was that the writer had decided to end it all, or that he'd intended to take his manservant with him. It was, most definitely, a confession but it wasn't a suicide note.
Silva walked over to Ishikawa, who was examining the wound in Father Gaspar's temple. "Any preliminary conclusions, Doctor?"
"Two cases of death by gunshot to the head, inflicted with a small bore weapon, consistent with that one there." Ishikawa pointed to the semi-automatic pistol still clutched in Father Gaspar's right hand. Then he pointed to the area around the wound. "Powder burns. The muzzle was right next to his head when the shot was fired. Probably a . 22 caliber short. No exit wound on either body. The bullets are still inside their skulls."
Silva reached into his pocket, pulled out a pair of latex gloves and put them on. "You already photographed this?" he asked the crime scene technician, pointing at the hand clutching the gun.
The man nodded.
"You painted the skin for powder residue?"
"Sim, senhor."
"And found it?"
"Also."
"Good. May I touch this?" He pointed to the weapon. The crime scene technician looked to Sergeant Menezes.
"Go ahead," the sergeant said with a verbal shrug.
Silva gently pried the weapon from Gaspar's grip, removed the clip, ejected the round in the chamber and counted all of the cartridges. He came up two short of a full magazine.
"You see," Menezes said. "Two wounds, two dead men, two shots. Case closed."
"Excuse us for a moment, Sergeant."
Silva put pistol and clip on the desk and drew his nephew aside, out of earshot. "What do you think?" he said.
"I don't buy it," Hector said. "A few hours ago Gaspar was denying everything. He knew damned well that we had no proof. Then he's suddenly overcome by his conscience, kills his accomplice, and shoots himself? Not likely."
"No," Silva said, "not likely at all. Conclusion?"
"Someone else did it."
"And the powder residue on Gaspar's hand, and the fact that there were only two shots fired?"
"Everybody who watches television knows that a pistol shot leaves residue on the skin of the person who fired it. Without it, it's not suicide. The killer would have wanted to make sure that Gaspar's hand had the necessary traces of gunpowder."
"Good boy. So?"
"The killer added another cartridge to the magazine after he shot them. Then he put the gun into Gaspar's hand, and pushed his trigger finger to fire off a third shot. That way, Gaspar would test positive for the telltale powder residue, but there'd still only be two cartridges missing from the magazine."
"Take it a step further."
"Somewhere in this room there's another bullet hole, and the bullet we dig out of it will have been fired from the same weapon."
"My thinking exactly," Silva said. "Let's find it."
Fifteen minutes later they did. It was in the wall, behind one of the curtains. Silva told the crime scene technician to remove the section of plaster and concrete, bullet and all.
"We'll want a ballistics comparison between the bullet in there and the ones that the M.E. is going to take out of the bodies."
"Of course. I understand."
The technicians had already discovered two empty shell casings. They now went on to search for a third, but they didn't find it.
"So three bullets and only two casings," Hector said. "The murderer must have taken it."
A careful search of the remainder of the room turned up nothing more of interest except for a box of ammunition and some stains in Gaspar's top right hand drawer.
". 455 caliber," Hector said, rolling one of the cartridges from the box between his thumb and forefinger. "Very unusual."
Hector was the expert on firearms. Guns were nothing more than a tool to Silva, but for his nephew they were a hobby as well.
"What would they fit?"
"Nothing I can think of other than a Webley."
"A what?"
"A Webley. It's a British service revolver. They were made by the thousands and used in the trenches during the First World War. These cartridges, though, aren't antiques. Look, no corrosion. They're recent reloads."
Hector put his nose close to the drawer and sniffed.
"Nitro solvent," he said, "and gun oil. Offhand, I'd say the revolver was kept here too. But, if it was, what happened to it?"
"Maybe the killer took it," Silva said.
"Why would he?"
"Maybe because he had to leave his. 22 to make it look like a murder/suicide, and he needed another gun?"
"For what?"
"I wonder…"
Sergeant Menezes appeared at Silva's elbow and interrupted his ruminations. "You guys are something else," he lisped with admiration in his voice. "Without you, the son of a bitch would have gotten away with it. I wish I could be a fly on his wall when the colonel finds out we really needed you guys after all. He's gonna be pissed."
The last word came out "pithd." Menezes had come over to their side. His enthusiasm was beginning to carry him away.
"Now, let's go through it together, okay? The way I figure it, the same guy who killed Father Gaspar, and forced him to sign that bullshit confession, must have killed the bishop, too."
"That's what you think, is it?" Silva said.
The sergeant looked hurt. "Well… yeah, sure. Why else would he force Father Gaspar to slander himself?"
"Libel himself," Hector said.
"Huh?"
"Slander is spoken. Libel is written. It was a written confession, so if it wasn't true it would be libel, not slander."
"If it wasn't true? What do you mean by that?" Sergeant Menezes said indignantly. "It's as plain as the nose on your face. You just got through proving it. He didn't kill himself. Whoever forced him to write that confession did. Don't tell me you believe any of that crap?"
"As a matter of fact," Silva said, "I do."
"That he had his manservant kill the bishop? Come on, Chief Inspector. He wouldn't do anything like that. He was a priest, for Christ's sake."