have to evaluate Senhor Muniz's previous actions in the context of the situation at the time. He'd just been exposed to the body of his murdered son and he was, understandably, very upset. Now he's had time to consider and I can assure you-
Outrage. Logical conclusion. Evaluate. Context. The voice was Ferraz's, but the words weren't. The colonel made that doubly obvious by stumbling over some of them.
Silva shot out of his bedroom, crossed the suite's living area, and opened Hector's door.
'Hector?'
Hector opened his sleepy eyes and blinked.
'Get up. Ferraz was just on the radio. There's been some kind of a massacre on Muniz's fazenda.'
Hector threw off the covers and got out of bed.
'And the son of a bitch didn't call us?'
Silva didn't bother to respond to that.
'Call Arnaldo,' he said. 'We're all going up to see Muniz.'
Less than ten minutes later, Arnaldo was pounding his meaty fist against the door of suite 900.
There was no reply.
He pounded again.
A chambermaid came out of a linen closet at the end of the hall.
'Born dia, senhores. Are you looking for Senhor Muniz?'
'We are,' Silva said.
'He checked out.'
'Checked out? Where's he gone?'
'I don't know, senhor. All I know is he didn't leave a tip.'
The clerk at the front desk, the one who had Indian blood, was more helpful:
'He moved out to his fazenda, senhores. Said something about repairs being completed.'
Hector and Silva went for coffee while Arnaldo fetched the car.
They arrived to a beehive of activity. Dr. Ishikawa was squatting next to the body of a young girl. Two state cops were wandering around gathering up cartridge casings and putting them into plastic evidence bags. Father Brouwer, surrounded by a small group of adults of both sexes, was talking to an adolescent male. Ferraz was nowhere in sight.
Arnaldo and Hector each chose one of the cops. Silva walked over to Ishikawa.
'Doctor.'
Ishikawa looked up and rose to his feet.
'How many?' Silva said.
'Ten. Six men. Two women. Two girls, one twelve, one nine. Three of them were from the same family, a father, a mother, and their daughter. She was the nine-year-old.'
'Nine years old? Nine? That one had to be an accident.'
'No. They cut her throat.'
'Cut her-'
'Her father was the leader.'
'Pereira? Roberto Pereira?'
'Yes. Him.'
'Killed the whole family?'
'Not quite. The Pereiras also had a son. Fourteen. That boy over there, the one talking to the priest.'
The state policemen were no help. Ferraz had come and gone, and they didn't expect him back. The senior man was Menezes, the fat sergeant they'd met on the day junior's body had been discovered, the one with the lisp.
'You woulda thought they'd have posted guards.'
Posted came out like pothded, guards with a long sibilant 's.'
'Could anybody identify the shooters?' Silva asked.
'Nah. They were all wearing hoods. Nobody has a clue.'
Father Brouwer joined them just in time to hear the sergeant's response. 'No clue? What do you mean `no clue,' you fat fool? It was Muniz and those capangas of his. It had to be. Who else would have a motive?'
The sergeant didn't like the 'fat fool' remark one bit. 'Who the hell's talking to you?' he said. And then, to Silva, 'Colonel thinks Muniz would never be that stupid. He's the first person everybody would suspect, right?'
'And so your colonel's conclusion is that Muniz wouldn't do it, just because everybody would suspect that he did?' Father Brouwer interjected.
'Colonel talked to him,' the sergeant said, still addressing Silva. 'He's got an alibi. Witnesses.'
'What? Who?'
'I don't have to talk to you, Padre. Get lost.'
'But you do have to talk to me,' Silva said. 'Answer the priest's questions.'
The sergeant tried to stare him down, and lost. 'Muniz was sleeping when it happened,' he said, truculently. 'He was in his bedroom. His bodyguards were at the door and all around the house. They're his witnesses.'
'And the witnesses didn't hear any shooting down here? For the love of God-'
'Leave it to me, Father,' Silva said. Then, to the sergeant, 'It's less than a kilometer from here to the house.'
'So?'
'And you're saying nobody heard a thing?'
'Uh-huh.'
The sergeant looked from one to the other, not offering anything more. Silva turned on his heel and started walking toward their car. Arnaldo, Hector, and Father Brouwer tagged along behind. Silva didn't object when the priest climbed into the back seat.
'The house, right?' Arnaldo asked, starting the engine.
'Right,' Silva said and turned around to address Brouwer.
'I saw you talking to the boy.'
Brouwer nodded. 'He saw it all. He was in a nearby field, talking with his girlfriend. She's dead. Twelve years old. He blames himself for not holding her down. A stray bullet took her.'
'What did he see?'
'As that fat idiot back there just told you, the men were hooded. They arrived in a van. No markings. No license plate. They had flashlights; cut into the tents with machetes; were obviously looking for Pereira and his family. When they found them, they cut the little girl's throat.'
'Did you see her body?'
'Yes.'
'Did the wound look like the one that killed Diana Poli?'
The priest reflected for a moment. 'As a matter of fact, it did. It looked exactly like that.'
'All right. Go on.'
'Then they killed his mother with a shotgun. The father was last. They did it with a pistol. His kneecaps, his stomach, his head.' As Brouwer described Pereira's wounds, he illustrated by pointing to the appropriate parts of his own anatomy. 'They wanted him to suffer.'
'And the boy saw it all?'
'Everything. After they killed his family, the man who'd cut his sister's throat leaned over and did something with his father's hand.'
'Did what with his father's hand?'
'The boy has no idea. He just saw one of them bend over with something shiny. Later he looked, but there was nothing there and no wound.'
'I'll want to talk to him.'
'I was sure you would. I doubt he has anything useful to add.'
'The voices? Anyone have an accent? A speech defect?'
'No. I asked.'
'Clothing?'
