Hermes
I kept watching Fernanda... Nanda... as she left the clerk’s office accompanied by her lawyer. Although I kept my expression impassive and cold, inside I was desperate.
Her testimony hadn’t been the best; there were many gaps. The fact that she requested a contested divorce and the existence of the will only raised more suspicions. I was torn between wanting to believe her and holding her in my arms to comfort her, and the duty to fulfill my role, which was to clarify a crime.
At the end of the testimony, I made up my mind: I would give her the benefit of the doubt, although I knew I would be pressured by my director and the press.
“Do you think she’s innocent?” Suelen asked.
“I don’t know, but right now I don’t have enough evidence,” I replied, feeling uneasy, and turned to the clerk. “Agenor, take Suelen’s statement as the lead investigator on the case, and as soon as Doca arrives with the maid, hear her as well.”
“Understood, doctor,” he said.
“Take the suspect’s cellphone for forensic analysis; we need to know if there’s anything relevant about what happened.”
I went to my office and let my body drop heavily into the chair. I rubbed my temples while waiting for the computer to boot up; I definitely needed a painkiller.
With the speed that comes from practice, I typed into the system the order not ratifying the arrest in flagrante delicto, citing the need for DNA test results from the blood found on Fernanda’s skin, clothes, and in the bathroom, as well as fingerprints found in the library and on the weapon’s handle.
I stated, in conclusion, that there was a possibility she hadn’t committed the crime and, in doubt, the best course was not to ratify the arrest but to continue the investigation.
After finishing the typing, I read the entire order. My judgment was that my arguments were weak, but as a chief, I had the discretionary power to ratify or not ratify an arrest. At least Fernanda had bought herself some more time, because imagining her being taken to a provisional detention center, even with a special cell for people with higher education, filled me with deep concern.
She, as beautiful as she was—no, not just beautiful, stunning and sexy, I corrected myself—would not escape the experience unscathed. I knew the prison system too well to not know what awaited her. If she fell into one of those criminal factories, Fernanda would be violated, physically and emotionally abused, and I would never allow that. But: what if she was guilty? An inner voice asked. Would I be able to order her arrest? And worse, would I be able to keep her in custody?
Suddenly, the phone rang, pulling me out of my painful reveries.
“Hello,” I answered.
“Doctor Hermes, one moment please, Dr. Bittencourt will speak,” said the female voice of the secretary.
“Okay.”
“Doctor?” came the voice on the other end. “Have you decided about the arrest? They told me the suspect left with her lawyer.”
“Yes, doctor, I did not ratify the arrest,” I replied, hearing my boss sharply inhale.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said firmly after a moment of silence. “Go down to the press room and explain why you did not make the arrest.” I heard the line click dead.
Now I had to face the beasts of the press.
Tired and discouraged, I changed out of my police jeans and polo shirt into the formal attire I wore when not on police operations: navy suit, cream shirt, black tie, and a pair of black shoes.
I fastened the holster with my gun to my dress belt, and after hanging my badge on a chain around my neck, I took the elevator down to the press room floor.
“Nanda, I hope you’re innocent,” I whispered softly.
I arrived at my apartment after midnight, following a tumultuous day.
The press conference, where reporters tried at all costs to get more details about the crime, bombarding me with questions, was difficult. I myself wasn’t sure if my decision was because Fernanda was who she was, or if it was really because I needed the forensic results.
Besides that, I had also overseen the testimonies of the maid and the doorman on duty the night of the crime. In the end, I still met with my team to strategize the continuation of the investigation.
I shed my clothes and after a cold shower, collapsed into bed. I knew I had missed calls from my parents on my cellphone, but I wasn’t in the mood to talk to them about the case—they had probably seen the news about Fernanda.
My father and mother adored her; they never understood our separation. Throughout the time we were together, Nanda always seemed to like them a lot. Again, the mystery of her departure haunted me.
Had it all been another one of her lies? Pretending to like my parents? Just like the lie when she said she loved me and wanted to spend the rest of her life with me?
“How many other lies have you told me, Fernanda?” —
I thought, feeling the old pain that had corroded my heart for years return.
Nanda
Five years ago
I watched Fernanda... Nanda... leave the clerk’s office, accompanied by her lawyer. Although I kept my expression impassive and cold, inside I was desperate.
Her testimony hadn’t been the best; there were many gaps. The fact that she had filed for a contentious divorce and the existence of the will only raised more suspicion. I was torn between wanting to believe her and holding her in my arms to console her, and the obligation to fulfill my duty, which was to clarify a crime.
At the end of the testimony, I made up my mind: I would give her the benefit of the doubt, even though I knew I would be pressured by my director and the press.
“Do you think she’s innocent?” Suelen asked.
“I don’t know, but at the moment I don’t have enough evidence,” I replied, feeling restless, then turned to the clerk. “Agenor, take Suelen’s statement as the officer in charge of the arrest and, as soon as Doca arrives with the maid, take her statement as well.”
“Alright, doctor,” he complied.
“Take the suspect’s cellphone to forensics; we need to find out if there’s anything relevant about what happened.”
I went to my office and let my body fall heavily into the chair. I rubbed my temples while waiting for the computer to start up— I definitely needed a painkiller.
With practiced speed, I typed into the system the order not to ratify the arrest, citing that I needed the results of DNA tests on the blood found on Fernanda’s skin, clothing, and in the bathroom, as well as fingerprints found in the library and on the weapon’s handle.
At the end, I argued there was a possibility she hadn’t committed the crime and that, in doubt, it was better not to ratify the arrest but to continue the investigation.
After finishing typing, I read the whole order. My judgment was that my arguments were weak, but as the chief detective, I had the power of free conviction to ratify or not a detention. At least Fernanda had gained more time, because imagining her being taken to a provisional detention center—even with a special cell for people with higher education—caused me deep concern.
She, as beautiful as she was—no, not just beautiful, stunning and sexy—I corrected myself, would not come out of the experience unscathed. I knew the prison system too well to know what awaited her; if she ended up in one of the places that produce criminals, Fernanda would be raped, physically and emotionally abused, and I would never allow that. But: what if she was guilty? An inner voice asked. Would I be able to ask for her arrest? And worse, could I actually detain her?
Suddenly, the phone rang, pulling me out of my painful daydreams.
“Hello,” I answered.
“Doctor Hermes, one moment, Dr. Bittencourt will speak,” said the female voice of the secretary.
“Okay.”
“Doctor?” asked the voice on the other end of the line. “Have you decided about the arrest? I was told the suspect left with her lawyer.”
“Yes, doctor, I didn’t ratify the arrest,” I replied, hearing my boss take a sharp breath.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” he said emphatically after a moment of silence. “Go down to the press room and explain why you didn’t make the arrest.” I heard the line click as it ended.
Now I had to face the beasts of the press.
Tired and discouraged, I changed out of my police jeans and polo shirt into the formal suit I wore when not on police duty: navy blue suit, cream shirt, black tie, and a pair of black shoes.
I fastened the holster with my weapon to my dress belt, and after hanging my badge on a chain around my neck, I took the elevator down to the press room floor.
“Nanda, I hope you’re innocent,” I murmured quietly.
D a y s l a t e r
Exhausted, much more from stressful moments than physical effort, the only thing I did after leaving the police station was stop at a store to buy another cell phone and have my number transferred, since the police had confiscated my device.
I chose to stay at a hotel in the Itaim area because neither my father's house nor my own seemed like healthy options.
"Put everything in that suitcase I usually use for quick trips," I asked after explaining to Cícera, our live-in maid, which clothes and products I wanted to have with me at the hotel. "I'll ask Nonato, my mother’s driver, to come by and pick up the clothes and the bag of creams."
After ending the call, I turned off the phone so I wouldn’t be disturbed. My lawyer already knew which hotel I was staying at, and if the police... the detective... needed to reach me, they could do so through Dr. Alencar, who was tasked with notifying the authorities of my location.
It was hard to accept that, at this moment, Hermes represented nothing more to me than a risk to my freedom.
Knowing I was being treated as a suspect was desperate, but the biggest blow in my life wasn’t that. It hurt deeply to see that the man I had always loved was the very one leading this suspicion.
Hermes truly didn’t know me.
