Hermes
Current Days
Riding my motorcycle through the grumpy, heavy traffic of São Paulo, I headed toward the city of Barueri, about twenty kilometers from the capital.
Thanks to the GPS, it wasn't hard to find the exclusive Champs-Élysées condominium, a cluster of mansions in a green area surrounded by huge walls, electrified fences, and security cameras. It was home to the rich and famous, even boasting a helipad on its grounds.
"Probably some rich guy killed his wife," I thought to myself as a condominium security guard, accompanied by two military police officers, checked the badge I’d shown them.
"Do you know how to get to the house, sir?" asked a sergeant after confirming my credentials.
"I’ve got it in the GPS," I replied, and with a nod from the officer to the security guard, the heavy automatic double gates opened, granting me access to the beautiful area.
Wide, tree-lined streets with large grassy sidewalks, in the American style, flanked by enormous mansions and imported cars in the driveways.
Following the coordinates, I turned into the configured street and quickly spotted several military police cars at the scene, along with two unmarked SUVs bearing the markings of the Homicide Division.
As I approached, a military police officer raised his hand to signal me to stop. I parked at the curb, took off my jacket and helmet, which I stored in the trunk, then grabbed the badge hanging on a chain and slipped it over my neck.
Before I reached the officers behind the police tape barrier, I noticed TV and radio reporters gathering, like vultures descending on carrion.
"Any updates, sir?" one of them asked, someone I already knew.
"Guys, I was just called in, I don’t have any details yet. Later, you can reach out to the Homicide Press Office," I replied, brushing them off and preparing to cross the barrier.
I noted more military police vehicles at the scene, as well as a silver four-door sedan—unmarked—that belonged to my team.
"Over here, boss!" shouted a stocky white man with messy, almost completely gray hair, about five foot three and as wide as a barrel, making his way toward me.
He was my chief investigator, a cop with nearly thirty years of service. Many had underestimated him because of his stature—some paid for that mistake with broken bones.
"What do we have here, Doca?" I asked, using the nickname he was known by throughout the department, although his real name was Eduardo.
"A mess, boss, that’s what. Roberto Kelson Marques was found with a knife stuck in his chest, right over the heart, and his throat slashed," he reported, walking beside me toward an impressive mansion where I could see civil and military police, as well as forensic experts.
"What?!" I exclaimed, stopping abruptly and gripping his forearm tightly as I stared at him.
"Are you okay, boss?" he asked, surprised. "You know him?"
Everyone had heard of Roberto Kelson Marques—he was a billionaire entrepreneur, involved in construction, steel, and investment industries. A philanthropist who donated part of his profits to social causes, he had saved São Paulo's exclusive Jockey Club from bankruptcy, donated art to museums, and was rumored to be a future mayoral or gubernatorial candidate.
And worst of all, he was married to Fernanda Cervino Abrantes—the woman I had loved with all my heart, the woman I had proposed to and who had accepted, promising to marry me when I graduated from the police academy. But mysteriously, three months before graduation, she left me without any satisfying explanation. The only thing she left behind was a note. When I tried to reach her, she ignored my calls and refused to see me.
Inaccessible, I swallowed the pain of our breakup until, finally, I learned from tabloid magazines about her extravagant wedding.
"No, it’s nothing. Let’s go," I ordered, trying to mask the emotions exploding in my chest.
We entered the mansion through a spacious foyer with white marble floors. Forensics were combing the area for fingerprints, while curious military police officers looked on.
"Anyone who isn’t forensics or homicide division—out!" I ordered, irritated.
I didn’t stop to confirm they obeyed and walked into a large, high-ceilinged living room, furnished with elegant, expensive furniture, decorated with sculptures and paintings. The floor was marble—a typical mansion often featured in celebrity TV shows or luxury magazines, showcasing the owner’s wealth and taste.
"How was the body discovered?" I asked, trying to remain as professional as possible.
"Good morning, chief," greeted a tall, muscular Black man, nearly two meters tall, with a close-cropped military-style haircut. He was one of my investigators. "The maid, who sleeps in the guesthouse, entered the office and found the big shot’s body on the floor, knife in his chest, throat slashed. She ran upstairs and told her boss, then called the police," he explained.
"Thanks, Jorge," I nodded. "Where’s the victim’s wife?"
"Still in the couple’s bedroom, in shock. She said she woke up with a cut on her hand and saw more blood in the bathroom. Before she could do anything, the maid ran in screaming that her husband was dead in the office."
"All right, people, the chief called me early asking for discretion. Keep the press and lookie-loos away. I don’t want any pictures leaking to the media!" I warned.
"Too late, chief, the mikes got here first," Jorge replied with a grin, using the slang for military police.
"Cut me some slack, damn it!" Doca snapped, directing his irritation at Jorge.
"Doca, you know what to do. I want the condo and mansion’s security system computers seized, as well as the victim’s phone, his wife’s, and the maid’s. Interview the neighbors—if any of them have useful info, subpoena them to the station for questioning. The maid must be questioned today," I began directing the investigation as we moved through the room.
We stopped at the threshold of a partially open oak door, which I assumed was the office. Upon entering, I noted a massive bookshelf filled with books. One wall had a large French window hidden behind voile curtains. On the southern wall sat a heavy wooden desk with a leather chair behind it. Asymmetrical art adorned the other walls.
In the center of the office, there was a low table surrounded by armchairs and a sofa that could comfortably seat five.
Next to the table, on a Persian-looking rug based on the geometric patterns, the victim lay in a large pool of blood, accompanied by two forensic technicians—one taking photos, the other examining without touching, using a pen to point out what needed to be photographed.
The victim was about six feet tall, dressed in black dress pants, matching shoes, and a long-sleeved white shirt—now soaked with blood, just like his neck, from a gruesome horizontal cut. His head was turned sideways, revealing straight blond hair.
Upon noticing me, the lead technician stood, while his partner continued photographing the body.
"Sir!" he greeted me with a nod—his gloves were stained with blood.
"Fábio, what have you got for me?" I asked the chief technician.
"Probable homicide. A horizontal slash from a bladed weapon, almost decapitated him. I believe it’s the same weapon stuck in his chest, which hit his heart directly. There are signs of a struggle, as you can see," he said, pointing around.
The desk had various items in disarray.
I put on gloves that the technician handed me and picked up a picture frame. It showed the victim and his wife on their wedding day. He was smiling, apparently happy and proud in a morning suit, while she wore a bejeweled wedding dress, smiling too—but her smile didn’t match the one I’d known and fallen in love with. It looked forced, and her eyes were sad.
I put the frame down and surveyed the rest of the room—the glass coffee table was shattered, one of the armchairs was knocked over.
"Cause of death—the neck wound or the chest wound?" I asked.
"Only the autopsy will tell," Fábio replied.
"I want a full fingerprint sweep of the entire house," I ordered impatiently. "Once your team finishes, mine will search every room."
"No problem, sir. We’re almost done here—just the upstairs remains. A medical team is with the victim’s wife. I did a quick check—she has blood on her hands, and we found blood in the bathroom. I collected samples for DNA testing."
"Once the scene’s cleared, my team will conduct a more thorough exam," I said.
"There’s more blood on the back patio, leading to the garden and pool," Doca added.
"Yes, we found bottles of alcohol, glasses, shards, and blood trails. Samples already collected," the chief technician confirmed.
"Thanks, Fábio," I said, signaling for Doca to come with me.
We climbed a marble staircase to the mansion’s upper floor. At the top was a lounge area with a few sofas and two branching hallways. I spotted an investigator from my team standing in front of a door and approached him.
"Morning, boss," greeted the 25-year-old with messy brown hair, rockstar-style.
"Morning, Carlos. Is the victim’s wife alone?" I asked, already uneasy about what I’d have to face.
"Yes, sir," he said, chewing gum and popping a bubble as he opened the door.
"Doca, wait here. Let me speak with the victim first."
"Yes, sir," the chief investigator complied.
I entered the bedroom—it was enormous, nearly the size of my tiny apartment. The floor was carpeted, abstract paintings hung on the walls, and the furniture was sleek and modern.
The door to what I assumed was the ensuite bathroom was closed and sealed with forensic tape. Straight ahead, a bed large enough for two couples stood, its silky sheets rumpled only on one side.
Near the huge window that opened to a balcony I’d seen earlier, there was a sitting area with a coffee table and four armchairs. In one of them, back turned to me, sat Fernanda. Her long black hair was tied in a bun, her legs curled into her chest in a fetal-like position.
I tasted bitterness in my mouth, followed by a stab in the heart. It had been a long time since I’d seen her.
Seeing her again brought back memories of the night I returned to our apartment—then still "ours"—after graduating from the police academy, and found a note in h
er elegant handwriting:
*Hermes,
Forgive me,
I don’t love you anymore. I don’t want to get married. Don’t look for me.*