The road to Botelho’s house was winding and hard to access. He lived in a site far from the city center. Durval had a map, but he always got lost anyway. Luckily, the day was clear; the dirt roads became impassable when it rained, and Durval’s 78 red Corcel had no traction to get out of a mud pit, as had happened once before.
Durval knew that his friend, the Biology teacher, could tell him if that red stain he had found near the armchair was blood or not. After all, it would be a way to prove to himself that he wasn’t senile as the delegate had made it seem. He, his wife, and the maid Joana had found a corpse in the kitchen of the house. But, as if that wasn’t surprising enough, the corpse had simply disappeared a few hours later.
Durval knew that the kitchen door was easy to open from the outside, and while they waited for the delegate, someone could have entered and removed the body. On the other hand, why had the delegate taken so long in the kitchen if he hadn’t found anything there? And that white cat that had been by the body the whole time? Durval had never seen it around before. Was it the neighbor’s?
Durval was feeling active again. He loved the feeling of investigating, and a murder case was the best there was. After years of retirement playing Buraco with his wife and Bocha with the tedious friends at the corner bar, he felt excited to be involved in a real investigation.
After some dead-end dirt roads and several turns, Durval finally arrived at Botelho’s house. The entrance to the site had an arched wooden gate. And above it, there was a sign that read “Quinta da Neblina.” Indeed, at night, nothing could be seen in that place. Durval honked, and the limping caretaker came to open the gate. If it were night, he would think he was about to enter Dr. Frankenstein’s castle.
Botelho was waiting sitting in a wicker chair on the terrace of the house. Upon seeing his friend, he stood up and came towards him. He was a tall, thin man, with white, somewhat yellowed hair, long and tied back in a ponytail. His hands were large and bony and always caught Durval’s attention when he greeted him.
— Botelho! Long time no see…
— Not here — interrupted the Biology teacher, looking around. — It’s better if we talk inside.
The limping caretaker was trustworthy; he had been with Botelho for years. But Durval knew well Botelho’s quirks and paranoia. The man was more cautious than an old fox. When he mentioned the corpse over the phone, his friend didn’t even want to talk anymore, thinking that the phones might be tapped. Durval was aware that if there was a corpse, there was also a murderer, and that the guy wouldn’t like to know someone was investigating. But the professor was overly cautious.
In the living room of the house, Botelho closed the windows, taking care not to leave even a crack between the curtains.
— Where is the sample? — he immediately asked.
Durval took the plastic with the piece of red-stained carpet from his backpack and handed it to Botelho.
— The stain is dry. Can you tell if it’s blood? — Durval asked.
— Blood is blood, whether dry or wet. Let’s go to the lab.
Episode VII continues in the next edition.