The Body Snatcher Read Free Page A

backpack.
    Calmly, I spread the contents on the table and once again carefully noted each of the objects: watch, glasses, wallet, keys, cell phone, two pens. And the package of drugs.
    In the wallet I found several credit cards, two hundreds and three tens in cash, and the pilot’s personal documents. There was also a membership card from the Cattle Raisers Association of Mato Grosso do Sul.
    It would be wise for me to get rid of everything, toss the pack in the river after weighting it down with stones.
    I decided I would do that the next time I went fishing.
    I put the watch on my wrist and stored the other objects in the backpack before returning it to the crawl space.
    As I was getting dressed, I remembered a pawnshop that belonged to an old Arab, near the Santa Cruz cemetery, where I had hocked my mother’s wedding ring when I first came to Corumbá.
    At eleven, the city shuttered under the sun. I parked behind the cemetery, and as soon as I got out of the car my glasses fogged up. I arrived at the pawnshop bathed in sweat, and offered the Arab the watch.
    He carefully examined the green sticker with a hologram on the back of the watch, where the serial number was.
    Then he ran some figures on his calculator and offered me an amount that I promptly accepted, happily signing the pawn ticket.
    I went back to the car patting the money in my pocket, thinking that at least for the time being I could get by.
    Before going home, I bought a precision scale, plastic bags, adhesive tape, and a sackful of red stars.
    They would be my trademark, over.
    Around seven o’clock, I parked in front of the police precinct and waited for Sulamita. She came out, accompanied by detective Joel. Ciao, Sweetheart, he said. Ciao, Tranqueira, a nickname that means albatross. That was how they addressed each other. Sweetheart and Tranqueira.
    On the way home we bought a pizza. We ate with the television on, drinking beer, with me paying careful attention to the news.
    Later, in bed, I tried to get some information out of Sulamita that was important to my new undertaking. I linedup questions one after the other, calmly, so as not to draw attention to them. Along the way, I embedded some words of praise. And kisses, over. And then the questions started up again.
    That was how I learned that the drug setup in Corumbá was no different from the rest of Brazil, which meant there were no more cartels or mafias, only a network of businessmen who mixed in a single bundle auto dealerships, cattle ranches, auto parts retailers, slaughterhouses, chop shops, warehouses, air taxis – all with the aim of facilitating the drug traffic. It was hard to break into that setup. You had to have things, and I had nothing. You had to know the right people, and I wasn’t even from Corumbá. That’s how it works in wholesale, Sulamita said, adding that in retail the traffickers didn’t follow any specific pattern. That’s my approach, I thought. Small-scale, over. There are people who work alone, said Sulamita, mules recruited here in the backlands, the unemployed, people in debt who agree to haul the drugs wherever. Those are the ones we catch in a bust. I mean, I’m not talking about myself. I don’t do any of that. Administrative assistant is a position without any specific role. You plug holes doing what the others don’t want to do or don’t like doing. That’s my routine. I’m always up to my neck in investigations and taking statements, dealing with what I call the “I dunno” crowd. The guy doesn’t know anything. Never saw the victim. Never killed. Never robbed. Wasn’t even in the city the day of the crime. Nothing to declare. I’m sick of all that, Sulamita said. I’m getting out; I’ve taken the exam for chief of autopsy.
    It was almost eleven when my cell phone rang. It was Rita.
    I feel sad, she said, I can’t even eat. Can I come over there? I had the impression she