Perfect Hatred by Leighton Gage

the
counter in front of the window. “There, at the sink, washing dishes. The children were in the living room, watching cartoons. They interrupted the program to show Julio being
shot. The children saw it and began to scream.”
“My God!” Silva said. “That’s horrible.”
“I ran into the living room,” she said. “I don’t know how
many times the children saw his neck gushing blood before
I got there. They were playing the scene over and over in
rapid succession. They said, later, that some of the material
was too violent to show on television. But that, apparently, just applied to Plínio. They didn’t seem to have any
compunction at all about showing what happened to my
husband.”
Silva visualized the scene. It turned his stomach. “Where are your children now?” he asked.
“With my sister in Florianopolis.”
“Has she sought counseling for them?”
“They’re seeing a psychologist.”
“A psychologist will help, but what they need most is their
mother.”
“There’s nowhere I’d rather be, but the police won’t let
me leave Curitiba, and I couldn’t keep them here. The other
children at school, the people on the street, the telephone
calls. . . .” She threw up her hands.
Silva took out his notepad. “Give me the contact information for your sister in Florianopolis.”
She did, spelling out the street address, looking at his hand
as he wrote.
“You can leave as soon as we’re finished,” Silva said.
“Should further questions arise, I’ll contact you there.” She leaned forward. Silva thought she was going to grasp
his hand, but she grasped the coffee pot instead. Her nails, he
noticed, were bitten to the quick.
“Thank you,” she said. “Are you a father yourself?” “I was, Senhora. My son died of leukemia a number of
years ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
She hadn’t been expecting either sympathy, or confidences, from a policeman. It seemed to shake her equilibrium
even more than it had been shaken already. She bit her lip
and said, “More coffee?”
He shook his head.
She leaned back, not taking coffee for herself either. “It’s my understanding,” Silva said, “that your husband was
a supporter of Senhor Saldana’s.”
“You see? That’s another thing that doesn’t make any sense.
Julio used to call Plínio the only honest politician in the State . An
exaggeration, I know, but that’s what he used to say.” As she warmed to him, the tendons in her neck, steel wires
under her pale skin, began to relax. Silva took his time phrasing the next question.
“Did he know Plínio personally?”
She nodded. “He did. Not well, but he’d met him.” “Did Julio often support political candidates?”
“No, but he was a great one for causes. I mentioned the
abolition of firearms. He also fought for the preservation of
the rainforest, recycling, the rights of our native peoples,
transparency in government, saving the whales, all sorts of
things.”
“Some people,” Silva suggested, “turn to violence in
defense of their beliefs.”
She shook her head. “Not him. Never him. Ask anyone
who knew him. I know you’re going to find this hard to
believe after what he’s done, but he was a peaceful man.
Before this, I never saw him raise a hand against anyone.” “It’s also my understanding you were in need of money. I
don’t mean to pry, but I have to ask.”
“We were in need of money. I still am. Julio had life insurance, but the insurance company has no intention of paying me anything. They’re making a case it was suicide. They
don’t pay out in cases of suicide.”
“Suicide?”
“That’s what they’re calling it. They’re saying that Julio
couldn’t have possibly believed he’d be able to commit murder in the presence of an armed bodyguard and come out of
it alive, that his intention was to die in the attempt. I can’t
fight it. I don’t have any money in the bank, and no lawyer
will take the case without money up front.”
Silva had once intended to be a