So you confirm that the knife is yours? — asked the delegate.
On the table, inside a transparent plastic bag, lay the knife with a carved wooden handle.
— Yes, I already said! It was my fishing knife… — Durval reached out towards the knife. But Moreira, the delegate, pushed his hand away.
— I don’t know how it ended up with Botelho — Durval continued. — It’s been a while since I went fishing. Especially now, all broken — he pointed to the cast on his leg.
Durval looked deep into Moreira’s eyes:
— It seems you’re not going to believe me, are you?
— You’re the one saying that.
— Is it possible that you think I am the murderer? Just me, the only person who from the beginning said there was a corpse in this story? You didn’t even believe that.
Durval felt the blood boil in his face. He clenched his fists tightly and stood on the edge of the chair as he spoke in an increasingly hoarse voice filled with rage.
— If I were the murderer, why the hell would I be investigating? Why would they have pushed me off a cliff in my own car? What would I be…
He was short of breath. He started to cough and clear his throat. He wanted to keep talking, to rant. He couldn’t stand the idea of them suspecting him. Of doubting his integrity, his honesty. Worse still, thinking he would have the cold blood to kill someone. That was absurd! And where was Dolores?
— Where is my wife?
— In the other room.
— I want to see her immediately!
Moreira stood up from the chair and left through the door.
Durval tried to catch his breath. He lowered his head and took a deep breath, squeezing his eyes shut. They might need a lawyer.
In less than a minute, the door opened and Dolores entered.
— Durval! My dear? What did they do to you?
— Nothing, Dodô. I’m fine. And you?
Dolores looked at the delegate who was standing. Durval saw sparks coming from the woman’s eyes.
— Delegate, I’m going now with my husband to our home! If you have more questions, you’ll have to arrest us.
Dolores began to help Durval to stand up.
The delegate just watched as the couple walked down the police station corridor towards the front door.
Durval stood at the door while Dolores went to the sidewalk to find a taxi. Durval felt proud of his wife. He wanted to hug her right then, to tell her he loved her and that she had been magnificent confronting the delegate like that.
It had started to drizzle when Dolores managed to get a taxi to stop. She returned to the police station door and helped Durval walk to the sidewalk and get into the taxi.
During the ride home, they held hands in the back seat. They didn’t say a word. Durval was exhausted.
And then Durval felt a chill run down his spine when he remembered the last day he had used that knife with the wooden handle. He clearly recalled the fishing trip he had at the Santa Tereza reservoir. Botelho was with him and had asked to borrow the knife. The professor never returned it.
JOSÉ GASPARFilmmaker and writerwww.historiasdooutromundo.comjagramos@gmail.com