The Killer’s Shoe (Chapter VII)

— It’s a footprint, no doubt about it — said the professor.

Botelho’s lab was in the basement of the house. The ceiling was low, and Durval kept his body bent forward to avoid hitting his head on the wooden beams that supported the house above. The walls were filled with dusty shelves, crammed with glass jars, test tubes, and devices with needle gauges. Some containers had brownish liquids. Looking closely, Durval noticed there were pieces of something floating in the liquids, more like a rounded mass that looked moldy, covered in those green hairs that grow on moldy bread.

— Broccoli! — said Botelho.

— What? — asked Durval.

— Inside the flask you’re looking at. It’s broccoli. I used it for a Rota Pulchra culture — he said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

— Ahh…

— Fungus. That green stuff you see on top of the broccoli. My idea was to develop computer memories based on plant proteins. Spinach microchips — he laughed.

— Didn’t work out?

— It did! But… — Botelho lowered his voice. — They wouldn’t let me continue.

Durval was already well aware of his friend’s paranoias and quirks, but he thought it polite to ask.

— Who wouldn’t let you?

Botelho leaned closer to Durval and whispered:

— The government, who else?

Durval widened his eyes and shook his head in agreement.

— I was removed from the University, forced to retire. I couldn’t even teach anymore. Absurd! But it was better than having my memory erased.

— No doubt, no doubt — said Durval.

— Well, let’s get back to your stain on the carpet.

Botelho took a helmet from the drawer and put it on his head. The contraption didn’t have a top part, and in front, there were two lenses that fit over his eyes, and a light in the center of his forehead. He brought the piece of carpet closer to the lenses.

— Hrum! — Botelho said and pointed at the stain.

— I believe it’s from the delegate’s shoe — said Durval.

— Does this delegate wear high-heeled shoes?

— What do you mean?

— Look at the mark, it looks like it’s from a high-heeled shoe.

The stain indeed had two parts, two half-moons, one on each side, one larger and one smaller. As if it were the front part of the shoe and the heel right behind. But no one in the house wore high heels. Dolores, since she had arthritis in her ankles, only wore sneakers. And Joana wouldn’t risk her one hundred and thirty kilos on a heel. If it wasn’t the delegate’s, could the stain have been on the carpet before Moreira arrived? Had a woman entered the room while they were sleeping?

— Now let’s see if this is blood or ketchup — said Botelho.

He took two white pills from a drawer and started crushing them with a pestle inside a small container.

— What is that? — asked Durval.

— Laxative.

— Laxative?

— Yes, it has a substance called phenolphthalein. I would have preferred to use Luminol, which emits that blue light when it reacts with blood like you see in the movies. But here we’ll use laxative and caustic soda from soap.

Botelho mixed the powder that the pills turned into with alcohol and caustic soda in a test tube and shook it with his long hands.

He took a wooden stick, dipped it in the liquid, and rubbed it on the stain. He lifted the stick into the air, looking at it through the helmet lenses.

And then, as if by magic, the tip of the stick lit up like a flame, turning bright pink. It looked like a glowing strawberry gum stuck to the stick, so strong and bright it became.

— Blood, my dear! — said Botelho.