Buried Strangers

“Ernesto,” she said, “Augusta’s cupboard had a hole on the inside.”

“Clarice, why are you always-?”

She tightened her grip on his arm. “Pay attention. She used to keep her rice in plastic sacks.”

“Plastic sacks?” He scoffed. “How dumb can you get? Everybody knows rats-”

“-can chew through plastic. And chew through wood. And one did, right through the back of her cabinet.”

“And you think. .?”

She took her hand off his arm, opened the door, and pointed.

“Right there,” she said.

The hole was almost seven centimeters in diameter.

It must have been a huge rat.

“We looked through the rest of the shop,” Clarice told Tanaka, suddenly more garrulous than she’d been at any time during the interview. “Her bedside tables were there, too.”

“Sure of that, are you?”

Clarice bobbed her head. “I remember the day she bought them. I helped her carry them home. Believe me, Delegado; something terrible must have happened. Augusta wouldn’t have sold those things. I’m her friend, and I know. I asked her about the cupboard. I wanted to buy it myself, but she said she’d never sell it. It was her mother’s.”

Tanaka let her run out of steam, and then he stood up. “I’m going to that shop,” he said, “and I want both of you to come with me.”

“Merda,” Ernesto said.

Chapter Eight

On that same Monday morning, while Tanaka was interviewing the Portellas, Arnaldo and Silva were meeting with the federal police’s criminal profiler, Dr. Godofredo Boceta.

Boceta was a man in his midforties with a receding hair-line and horn-rimmed bifocals that looked as if they’d come out of a 1950’s catalog. He never used one word if he could use two, never employed a shorter word if he could think of a longer one, and always took detours before he got to the point. He was one of those people who could break up a friendly office conversation around the watercooler just by putting in an appearance. To say he was boring was an under-statement. Dr. Boceta’s verbosity drove Arnaldo nuts.

The profiler sat upright in a chair across from the two fed-eral cops. He was looking at one of the photos, the one that showed the overall view of the burial ground in the Serra da Cantareira. His mouth was puckered, as if he were sucking on a lemon.

“Do you know anything about Alzheimer’s?” he asked.

“I had an uncle who died of it,” Silva said.

“In an institution or at home?” Boceta asked.

“An institution.”

“Did they use art as an activity for the patients?”

Arnaldo released a long breath, almost a sigh.

“I don’t recall,” Silva said. “Why?”

“Sometimes institutions hold exhibitions of patients’ art-work,” Boceta said, ignoring the question.

Arnaldo shifted in his chair. He was a bulky man, and his movement caused a considerable rustle. Silva kicked him under the table.

“Ouch,” Arnaldo said.

“And?” Silva said.

Boceta looked back and forth, finally decided to ignore the interjection, and continued to address Silva.

“And if you look at the art of Alzheimer’s patients, you’ll notice something curious. Not all the time, but often.”

Arnaldo couldn’t contain himself. “What the hell has this got to do with what we should be talking about?”

Dr. Boceta pulled his glasses down to the end of his nose and stared unblinkingly at Arnaldo. His stare reminded Silva of that of a fish.

“If you’ll contain your impatience,” Boceta said, “I might tell you.” He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes, stretching out the moment.

Sometimes Silva thought Boceta knew exactly what he was doing to people. He was determined not to let the man get to him.

“Alzheimer’s patients often draw trees and domiciles,” Boceta said. “And as the disease progresses, the windows and doors of the domiciles tend to diminish in magnitude. One day they disappear.”

Silva threw Boceta a conversational bone: “And the trees?”

“Ah, yes, the trees. The trees lose their leaves, extend longer and longer roots. Mostly, the patients choose to draw those roots in black.”

Arnaldo let out another long, slow breath. Silva kicked him again, more gently this time. Arnaldo didn’t react. Boceta put his glasses back on and resumed his study of the photograph.

“I’m telling you this to illustrate the correlation between artistic expression and diseases of the mind. Now, take your serial killer. A disturbed individual often shares common characteristics with other disturbed individuals with the same malady. That, gentlemen, is a good deal of what crimi-nal profiling is all about.”

“I see,” Silva said, hoping that Boceta was finally getting to the point.

“I’m sure you’re aware that serial murderers, people who have a compulsion to kill, tend to demonstrate a lack of affect, often take trophies, and tend to specialize in certain kinds of victims. By certain kinds of victims I mean little boys, little girls, women, young men if the killer is a male and has homosexual tendencies.”

“Yes.”

“There are always exceptions, of course. Most serial killers are men, but there have been women, notably a prostitute in the United States named Aileen Wuornos, a lesbian who demonstrated a distinctly masculine approach to homicide.”

Arnaldo stood, looked as if he were going to say some-thing, but didn’t. He walked to the credenza and poured himself a glass of water. Boceta waited until Arnaldo had resumed his seat before continuing.

“The expression, I might almost say artistic expression, of serial killers often extends to the way they bury their victims. Sometimes they pose them, as if for a photograph. Most commonly, they don’t bury all of them in one central loca-tion. If they do, it’s generally in their home, under the porch, for example, or under the floor.”

“But there are cases where they set up their own little cemeteries?” Silva asked, his interest awakening.

“Indeed there are. And in most of those cases, the first victim is buried at the apex of a triangle with the other vic-tims radiating out from there.”

“Most cases?” Arnaldo might as well have said what help is that, because that’s the way it came out.

Boceta bristled. “This isn’t an exact science,” he snapped. “We’re dealing with statistical probabilities. Every serial killer is insane in his own insane way. There are always exceptions. Always. But they’re always insane. That’s why the Americans’ criminal trials of serial killers are so ludi-crous. Serial killers don’t belong on their death rows. They belong in institutions. Their legal definition of insanity, and the aberrations that stem from it, are an abomination. Any fool can plainly see-”

“Conclusions, Godo?” Silva interrupted, trying to get the profiler back on track.

“Yeah, and sometime within the next twenty minutes, if you please,” Arnaldo said.

Boceta sniffed, as if Arnaldo emitted an odor that offend-ed him. “Alright, here’s what we know,” he said, addressing himself exclusively to Silva. “The killer shows no apparent preference for sex or age; he buries his