Recluse:The Induction



  Recluse: The Induction

  Recluse: The Induction

  Published by Walibba .J. Philip

  Copyright 2014 Walibba .J. Philip

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  In Memory of Father John Ssenyondo

  Prologue

  Thursday 1:53am

  Detective Rodrigo Rodriguez was called to a crime scene in the upper room of a thin storied brick building in the Rochina favela –slum of Rio de Janeiro. A young woman lay on the cold concrete floor in the densely populated slum. The Rochina overlooked sprawling skyscrapers in the valley below, a beautiful bay to the south and two of Brazil’s wealthiest neighborhoods of Sao Conrado and Gavea. The iconic city's ancient rugged terrain spoke of sugar cane and coffee plantations that had once flourished at the expense of lives bought from Africa to labor many centuries ago, and so did the glistering rows of metal and glass buildings that shot skyward in the Rio metropolis although these spoke of an entirely different era of civilization, a time when another kind of business flourished, one of Narcotics.

  Rio was a city under siege. Armed gangs were entangled in a deadly capriocas with rival gangs for control of the city’s immensely lucrative illicit drug trade which had already claimed countless lives in an endless cycle of violence. In the Rochina like in all the other six hundred or so slums littered across Brazil, drugs ruled and as detective Rodrigo Rodriguez bent his tall frame to enter the room, he knew this was yet another victim of the drug war threatening to swallow up his beloved city and its inhabitants.

  The small stuffy room was dimly lit by a bulb stuck horizontally to a picture plastered wall. He felt her palms and neck for a pulse. The woman was already dead. Shifting his gaze to his surroundings, he swept the room for any sign of life. Assuring himself there wasn’t any, he returned to examine the victim. Her long black curly hair was mingled with blood clots and parted to one side revealing a calm expression on her now pale skin. Turning her head over, he noticed she had taken a blow to the back of the head. Her attacker had surprised her from behind. Bending over to examine the wound, he sensed an overpowering lemon scent emanating from the corpse. He could see she wore long gold earrings which peered through her blood soaked hair. The rest of her body was covered in a long elegant red gown. His handsome rugged features relaxed as he mused at how beautiful she looked even in death. He reckoned she may have been on her way out of the room or had just returned when the attack took place. Rodriquez’ trained eyes did not sense the presence of an intruder so far. Again, he could see no sign of forced entry. He also saw no evidence of drugs or sensed the smell of alcohol in the room apart from a sealed bottle of wine-a Cabernet Sauvignon sitting on the floor next to the woman’s lifeless body.

  He heard a rattling sound and turning to look, he noticed it came from the glass window which lay opened. A cold breeze rushed in beating against his hard face. He straightened his tall frame and approaching the window, he bent and gazed out. He could easily make out the star-streaked skies and silhouettes of cliffs in the distance thanks to the great myriad of night lights glittering across the famous Copacabana and Ipanema beaches whose hotel lights stretched for miles facing the dark salty Atlantic waters. Both beaches were soaked with droves of tourists spending reais and dancing to sounds of loud samba tunes oblivious to the grisly scene that lay before him in this cramped room.

  Drawing back in, he stared at the small bed tucked in the corner. On it lay a visibly old blanket, blue in color, neatly folded on all four edges. The bed, he observed, revealed no signs of recent occupancy. To his right, hidden under an ill-fitting pink table cloth sat a fourteen inch television atop a wooden table. He was startled by a sharp buzz coming from a phone. Someone was calling the dead girl. The buzz kept coming from under the small bed. Rodriquez reckoned it must have fallen under the bed during the attack. He backed down under the bed stretching out his right arm until he reached it. As he pressed the answer button, he hoped whoever was calling would give him a lead. A husky male voice barked into his ear in rapid Portuguese. 'Oi Isabella, o que levou tanto tempo para pegar o meu apelo? Voce tem a informacao esta pronto?'This was what Rodriquez had hoped for. A clue. He now knew the victim’s name, Isabella, and it seemed Isabella was in possession of some vital information. ‘Isabella esta fora.’ He lied reckoning the caller wasn’t expecting a stranger’s voice at this end of the line and he didn’t want to further alarm him. Rodriquez hoped the caller would reveal his identity which would make tracing him through the vast criminal database back at the station much easier.

  ‘Quem e esse?’ inquired Rodriquez. The line went silent. Rodriquez felt like smashing the phone onto the floor. The caller had hung up, it seems he was suspicious. Rodriquez hastily checked for the caller's ID number.

  The man had used a land line. Disgusted, Rodriquez slipped the phone into his grey trench coat and collapsed his weight on to the bed. He took out a packet of Hollywood cigarettes, lit off a stick and proceeded to stare at the corpse. His mind was racing. What vital information did this girl have? Someone had killed her for it. But again, Rio de Janeiro was a dangerous place with people getting killed every single day and for mostly anything.

  He wasn’t sure whether the man would call back. As he run his fingers through his Raven-black hair musing, the musty smell of cigarette smoke filled up the tiny room. Suddenly, his big brown eyes caught a glimpse of a white piece of paper protruding underneath the corpse’s belly area. Approaching the corpse again, bending, he drew the piece of paper out and opened it. For a moment it didn’t make sense, and then it did. Rodriquez stiffened. Skipping over the body, he yanked the creaky metal door open and slipped out into the dark corridor.