Chapter Three
Not once did Isabella look back during her ascent. She kept applying swift powerful strides, occasionally making abrupt turns through the narrow streets and alleys of the Favela. Rodriquez kept close throughout but was careful not to be spotted. A few minutes later, weary, nervous, and almost out of breath, he hunched under a wooden staircase behind a rusty metallic drum placed in a dark corridor. The stench of urine and alcohol molested his nostrils and eyes. Wiping sweat off his brow with his now sticky polka dot shirt, he waited. His back muscles and limbs screamed with pain from the steep climb. He had tailed the woman back to her tiny single room in the Rocinha. He kept wondering how she could still be alive. It didn’t make any sense.
Feeling through his grey trench coat pockets for the phone, he drew it out and glanced at its green screen, it was past Midnight. Then he heard voices echo above him. She was talking to someone, a man. Could he be Marcelo?
Anger rose within his veins and his face stiffened. A moment later, he heard the sound of a door crank open and slam shut, followed by footsteps heavily thumping the wooden ceiling above him. Someone was coming down the stairs towards him, fast. Rodriguez tensed cowering further into the dark. He readied himself to spring a surprise on the approaching form. He had waited a long time for this opportunity. Steadying his nerves, he clenched his fists. The shape turned the corner and a face came into view. Rodriquez froze.
The runner was tall, his frame firm and perfectly aligned, his eyes deep and daring. And as the man sped past into the darkness, Rodriquez in disbelief silently muttered to himself, 'Father Gustav Aurelio!' Rodriquez also noticed that the priest held in his right hand a brown envelope. He hadn’t spotted Rodriquez. What in the world was the priest from the Candelária Cathedral doing in the Rochina at this hour of the night? And why was he in such a hurry? Rodriquez wondered.
‘So, he was the caller.’ A startled Rodriquez again silently muttered to himself.
Rodriquez resolved to tail him but was stalled by bright car lights flashing into his eyes. He dived back behind the drum. He reasoned that if he moved, the occupants in the vehicle might have a clear view of him and if they were cops, he would have to identify or explain himself. He probably would spend the rest of the night in a filthy make shift cell. Only on the morrow would calls be made to ascertain his true identity before being released with little or no apology at all. He knew the drill. He’d been through such one too many times in his line of duty. No, not this night. He wasn’t ready to be apprehended. The car’s engine ceased and the lights went out. Rodriquez waited, watching. He couldn’t quite make out the model of the automobile.
A figure stepped out of the vehicle holding what appeared like a club in his left arm. As he approached the wooden stair case under which Rodriquez crouched, he stopped and looked about him as though he’d sensed he was being watched. Rodriquez could now clearly make out what the stranger was holding, a bottle of wine -a Cabernet Sauvignon. The same bottle he’d seen next to the dead woman the previous night. Possibly this stranger was the Murderer. But the girl wasn’t dead after all. It was all so confusing.
The man, it seemed was also here to see Isabella. It now made sense why the priest had bolted a minute ago. The man was standing so close that Rodriquez could almost reach out and touch his trousers. He held his breath. A few more seconds passed in silence. Rodriquez remained still. The man, at last satisfied, turned and climbed the wooden stairs. Rodriquez hadn’t had a clear view of the man’s face. Could the new comer be the Marcelo? There was only one way of finding out. Again, he reached out into his pockets for the phone, Time check, a quarter to one. It was time to make his move.
Just then, another vehicle screeched to a halt right behind the stranger’s vehicle. Rodriquez cursed through his breath. Three figures emerged from the second vehicle and all three looked familiar. Rodriquez could see dimly that the first wore what appeared like a black sports jacket and tight jeans, his companion, Rodriquez was certain, was the thick moustache and the third, the priest. He'd come was back and had company. 'Unbelievable!' he muttered. All three raced up the stairs. What was going on? Rodriquez wondered.
He waited a few more minutes just to make sure no one else lurked in the shadows before he decided to emerge from the staircase. Careful not to make a sound on the wooden stairs, he stealthily moved up through the dark corridor edging closer towards the room. He could see a dim light steal through a crack in the shut door of the tiny room at the very end of the upper corridor which room he was now certain housed five occupants. His heart thudded so loud he thought it was about to blast through his ribcage. Upon reaching the door, he pressed his ear against the thin cold metal but was met by silence.
Surprised, he bent his tall frame and peered through the rusty keyhole, the room was empty. Reaching for the door knob, he slowly turned it but was shocked by the sight that welcomed him. On the room floor lay Isabella in red, prostate, dead.
Rodriquez nervously pulled out the phone from his coat and dialed his friend Miguel but there was no answer. He dialed again. This time the line got cut off. He glanced at the phone’s clock, 01:53am, the same time he’d arrived at the same crime scene the night before. Something wasn’t right.
Next to the corpse was the Cabernet Sauvignon. He could see that her long black curly hair was mingled with blood and was parted to one side just like before. Again, he sensed the overpowering lemon scent emanating from the corpse. This time, Rodriquez was afraid to feel for a pulse. A rattling sound startled him. There again, tucked in the right hand corner of the room stood opened the small glass window, through which a cold breeze rushed in beating against his puzzled face. A sense of déjàvu engulfed him as he turned his worried gaze towards the direction of the wind. Could this be a dream? All four men had vanished mysteriously. He removed his trench coat placing it on the bed. He knew he was going to be here for a while.
He was startled this time by a sharp buzz coming from inside his trench coat pocket. It was the phone.
Taking it from the trench coat's pocket, he pressed the answer button.
‘Ola?’
It was Miguel.
‘Miguel, its Rodriquez.’
‘Rodrigo, is everything okay?’ Miguel asked sounding worried.
‘No Miguel. I tried to reach you twice but the phone kept….’
‘Is it Natalia?’ Miguel interrupted.
‘No, no, she’s fine. I think.’
‘Are you at the hospital?’
‘No, no actually am in the Rocinha.
‘What!’
‘Yes Miguel and am staring at a corpse.’
‘You’re what?’ asked Miguel. Rodriquez could hear his friend’s heavy breathing.
‘You bet I am, you see, this might sound really strange, but after you left the hospital…’ he began to narrate the bizarre occurrences. He went on to describe seeing the dead woman inside the Academia da Cachaça bar, and how he’d followed her all the way back to the favela hoping she leads him to Marcelo.
‘But to my surprise,’ he continued, ‘when I peered into the room, I couldn’t believe, all four men were gone, vanished, and the girl was on the floor, dead yet again.’
Miguel’s voice cut into his ear.
‘Whose phone are you using?’ Miguel interjected.
‘Why? You think it might be…’
‘Run!’ Miguel interrupted again. This time, his voice had dropped to a whisper.
‘What?’ Rodriquez asked shocked.
‘I said run!’
The line broke off.
His heart beating fast, Rodriquez skipped over the body, hurriedly opened the creaky door and slipped out into the dark corridor. He exhaled in relief on turning the corner to face the staircase when he didn’t run into someone lurking. His strides gathered pace, ten feet more he would be out on the Estrada da Gavea. He knew his way around the favela. He had been raised here. He halted his descent when he spotted a moving shadow. He stood still. Four more shadows appe
ared, moving slowly, approaching. They were making silent gestures to others above. He was surrounded.
Rodriquez didn’t linger any longer. He sprinted back through the dark corridor crashing into the room. A grim expression flashed across his face as he jumped over the body, this time heading straight for the narrow open window. Heavy boot thuds could be heard thundering below. They were headed up the stair case.
Panting profusely, Rodriquez stuck his head out through the narrow window. Beneath, he could see hordes of unevenly cramped up roof tops, garden shades and a sea of television antennae that looked like vertical sticks dangling in the dark. He was running out of time to make up his mind.
Grabbing tightly on to the upper window frame, he squeezed through the opening, feet first and stepped onto a dangly iron sheet roof just below the window. It made a crackling sound as though about to curve in from the sudden extra weight. He was out here in the dark fully exposed should his pursuers show up at the window and it was at any moment. To his right, a few feet away, he spotted another roof. Don’t think, just jump!
Stretching, he leaped onto it. It felt firmer. Dancing awkwardly, he surged over its short wall and dropped onto what looked like a makeshift roof-top garden. A sudden flurry of gun shots buzzed all round him, some ricocheted against the walls as he dropped flat on the garden floor. They had reached the window through which he had climbed. The sounds of shots fired came from an M4 Carbine firearm. Only the Batalhao de Operacoes Policiais Especiais –Special Forces (BOPE) were in possession of such fire power and they were after him. He knew he wouldn't survive if he stayed hidden here, soon they would climb through the window. He had to move.
Holding his breath, he leaped forward running as fast as he could, dodging through hanging cloth rails and television antennae. He lunged from one attached roof to the next as more shots rung this time from below. He was being pursued from below as well. As the BOPE elite forces fervently chased after him on the roof, they kept shouting orders and giving directions to the teams below. He reckoned they intended to cut him off before he got to the Roupa Suja side of the favela famous for its narrow becos through which corridors it would be nearly impossible to catch him. More gunshots aimed towards him missed and slammed into the walls and shattering glass. These were followed by shrieks and screams from terrified residents. In a desperate attempt to dodge the onslaught, Rodriquez leaped into a ten feet narrow dark alley using his arms and legs as shields against the hard brick walls before thundering painfully onto the cement floor. Bruised but okay, he melted into the dark corridors.
Twenty minutes later, he emerged from the dark, run across the street from the Via Apia into the Largo do boiadeiro neighborhood and jelled into a cab headed east. Outside the Galeria Condor in Largo do Machado, he switched cabs and direction taking the Rua das Laranjeiras route North West heading towards the Hospital Adventista Silvestre. He hoped taking a different route to the Hospital might create a diversion if he was being shadowed.
Hunched in the cab rear, nervous, he kept looking back and forth through the foggy taxi rear window for any signs of a tail. Soon, he noticed bright car head lights approach the cab rapidly. He cowered further into his seat as a black SUV sped past, its occupant’s gaze fixed ahead. As his nerves relaxed a little, he put down the rear window and a chilled wind blast rushed against his face and filled his lungs. A familiar soft slow song meanwhile played on the radio -olha o que o amor me faz- Look what love does to me. Rodriquez closed his eyes letting the smooth rhythm and mellifluous voices fly into his ears. The menacing BOPE teams were at least for now left far behind probably still combing the favela for his whereabouts. He tried to think of something else, something pleasant. Images of a younger Natalia began to fill his mind.
Rodriquez had first met Natalia Ribeiro on her way to a local soccer game. Still in her teens, she had just dropped out of high school, living with her mother and abusive step dad. She was the local soccer team’s cheerleader, him, a student-council leader. For Rodriquez, it had been love at first sight. He'd soon discovered Natalia craved Brigadeiro, a soft chocolate sweet made with condensed milk and cocoa. Him, it was love for fast cars. Their love although flawed, always came first. The tenderness and importance she regarded him was almost visible. She quickly moved in with him and a year on she bore him Mariana. Both had been horrified by Mariana’s brutal murder and three years on, his Natalia lay helpless, in a coma. He silently wondered what had become of his life.
And as he mused, the Hospital Adventista Silvestre lights came into view. The cab made a sharp turn to the right coming to a sudden halt at the Hospital gates. He paid his fare and alighted.
‘Obrigado’ muffled the cab driver before reversing and disappearing around the bend. Rodriquez stood motionless staring towards the dark valley below for the next few seconds. It looked frighteningly dark. Turning, he briskly strode in through the hospital’s main entrance.