Free Requiem for a Killer by Paulo Levy Page A

suit, and a cangaceiro hat, like those worn by the old outlaws in
Brazil’s northeast, which caught his eye and led him to ask:
    “Family?”
    “My grandpa,” answered Maria das Graças.
“The two men in black are his brothers. The woman next to him is my
grandma. The other one is the wife of one of the other two.”
    Maria das Graças stepped next to the
inspector and pointed to the photo beside it. A lady with black,
well-coifed hair covered with white lace was sitting on a bench
with a baby bundled up in her lap. Standing next to her was a boy
of about six in short pants and a buttoned up shirt.
    “My mom, my brother and me.”
    “Where’s your father?” asked Dornelas,
looking for a photo of someone who could fill that role.
    “He was killed right after I was born,” she
answered sadly. “After that we came here.”
    “When did that happen?”
    “1972.”
    “Can you tell me what happened?”
    She left the room and returned dragging a
chair with metal legs and a white Formica seat and backrest. The
chair and sideboard were probably part of a set. The chair’s twins
and a table were likely in the kitchen.
    “Sit down, sir,” said Maria das Graças,
pointing to the couch.
    Dornelas made himself comfortable.
    “It’s a long story,” she said.
    “I’ve got time.”
    Maria das Graças clasped her hands
together.
    “My grandpa was a cangaceiro up north
in Pernambuco. He was shot when he and his gang were ambushing a
police patrol. After the fight was over, and almost everybody was
killed, they went over to him and thought he was dead. They just
left him there in the sun. He was rescued by a family and survived.
They say the wound wasn’t even that bad, that he was just playin’
possum to get away. With the little money he had, he made the best
of his luck and ran away to Minas Gerais. He hid in a little town
out in the countryside and met my grandma. They got married and had
three girls, my mother and my two aunts. This picture was taken
years later at a birthday party. He was real proud of havin’ been a cangaceiro . But he loved life more than the cangaço ,
so the hat was the only thing he saved.”
    “Did he fight with Lampião’s gang?”
    “No. Anybody who joined Lampião’s crew only
got out dead. My grandpa got into the cangaço life of highway
robberies a little after Lampião was killed in Grota de Angicos, in
1938. He fought with Dadá and Corissco, but by then that style of
life was nearly endin’. He didn’t stay in the cangaço long.
    Maria das Graças lowered her eyes, looking
for her next words on the floor. She lifted her head and stared at
the inspector before continuing.
    “My mom and dad met in Minas Gerais. He was
a mechanic. Just before I was born a pal at work convinced him to
move with all of us to São Paulo to work in an auto factory.
    The story of Maria das Graças’ family
emerged sadly and painfully, as if it were coming out of an old,
dusty trunk that she kept locked in her heart.
    “Once he was in the auto industry it was
easy for my dad to get mixed up in the union, the worst thing he
coulda done” – she covered her face with her hands and began
sobbing quietly. “The military dictatorship killed my dad. I never
knew him, not even in a picture.”
    Dornelas watched her silently. She lowered
her hands and dried her moist eyes with the corner of her
apron.
    “After that,” she went on, “my mom brought
us here, far away from all that stuff. And we’ve been here ever
since… and now this thing with my brother…”
    Dornelas heard the sound of a door banging
open in the kitchen and the pitter-patter of little paws moving
quickly over the cement floor. A spotted mutt appeared wagging his
tail. He went straight for Dornelas who, while the dog nuzzled his
head in the inspector’s pant leg, patted him unalarmed. And then he
heard footsteps dragging painfully along the kitchen floor.
    It took a while for a wrinkled old woman to
come through the door into the