Chapter IV

There was controlled panic in the Hotel.

MAVET SAT BY, watching the hushed and secretive actions of the other Swiss Guardsmen and Brazilian Federales as they covered the crime scene. He was curious what the effects of his most recent killing might be.

Would there be widespread controversy surrounding the Pope?

Would the conspiracy to move the prints finally be unmasked?

Probably neither, he figured. A secret the size of this will not easily be broadcast. What’s more: who would even believe it if it were to suddenly be publicized? People aren’t yet ready to face the ramifications of their actions. Especially when the results could spell the end of their way of life.

Two forensics agents walked by talking in rapid-fire Portuguese. Mavet could understand well enough. After all, he was inside the body of a new Swiss guard. He hadn’t wanted to get into a question and answer session with the powers that be, but he was still curious.

“It is very likely that he made the incisions while he was intoxicated, perhaps we’ll know when the lab results come back. I don’t, uh . . .” the forensics man paused as he took in a breath, considering something, and nervously straightened his light jacket.

The other asked, “But if they don’t find drugs in his system?”

“Yes, well, this is a problem, then.” They both lowered their voices as they neared the elevators. “You have to wonder about a man who would do this just hours after being with the Pope. From the incisions it is clear that this wasn’t just make a cry for help. No, precise upward cuts that guaranteed no possible means of stopping the bleeding.”

He shrugged, squinting his eyes and rubbing the center of his brow, just above his nose, “Maybe . . . if we had a vascular surgeon on the scene in the first ten minutes . . . maybe.”

“Both arms, both legs. The cuts were so crisp. No jagged angles. A martyr perhaps? I don’t know. The press is going to be all over this . . . it will be streaming in the next few minutes. We should probably get our boys on YouTube to see if any suspicious video appears.”

Ding.

The elevator door opened beside them. Their conversation ceased as they made their way into the elevator car.

As Mavet turned he noticed one of the other Guards, Peter Reddien, moving down the hall at a high rate of speed. There was another agent next to him, but he hadn’t seen him before. It still took a while to recognize all of the faces, and the matter was compounded by the fact that his face was changing bodies faster than the weather.

In one body, out the next.

Peter was barking orders through clenched teeth. This was the shit-rolls-down-hill part of the show. “Davide,” Peter barked to Mavet, “come with us.”

Mavet never considered himself a Davide, but he nodded and followed anyway. Peter was concerned about the strangeness of this alleged ‘Suicide.’

“You know he talked to the Pope just hours ago. Was going to initiate the sermon, introduce the Pope. How’s that for a coincidence?”

The underling just shook his head from side to side, doing his best to seem shocked, but still possessing the skills necessary to do his job.

Peter continued, “Why would you go through all of the trouble to prepare for a day like today, then you finally have a face-to-face with the Pope . . . and they you kill yourself? That really sounds strange.”

Again, more nodding.

Mavet would have loved to answer that question. He would have reveled in idea of telling these humans what he really thought about what they deserve, and how they’ve thrown everything away due to their greed and self-serving feeling of entitlement. But those were discussions for another time. He even entertained the idea of dropping a few clues to speed the humans along, but then . . . that didn’t fit the grand scheme.

He could have exposed the priest for having been a bad man. The truth about this dead religious hypocrite was much worse than he figured the police would ever understand. He hadn’t respected the Pope, nor did he give a damn about the Catholics. He was a two-bit hustler that used to be something. Sure, long ago he probably cared. Maybe even did some good.

But all of that idealism and those morals went right out the window when he started making money. They always take the path of least resistance. Humans are so fickle, simple things that waiver at even the slightest hint of wind.

There are those rare few, of course. But Mavet hadn’t seen too many. He could count on one hand the decent humans that he’d witnessed. That wasn’t enough to save the race. No, once the entire community willingly decides to live in disgrace, then they deserved what they had coming to them.

The next few minutes were a blur. The room was filled with blood. This seemed a hindrance, nothing more. These men were all used to seeing death. They specialized in it.

And so did Mavet.

They weren’t letting the press get anywhere near this one. The room itself wasn’t all that extravagant. There was a sliding glass door near the bed that opened onto a balcony that gave a rather modest view of Sao Paulo’s skyline. The room had large brass fixtures that held electric candles and taller brass stands for lamps. The bed was large and undisturbed. It looked as if De Silva had just come back from his meeting and decided to slit his wrists and femoral arteries on both sides of his body.

The cuts started near the base of his palms—on his hands—and about a hand length from his knees—for the leg incisions. He had bled out in a matter of minutes. The incisions were very deep.

“He did that with a shaving blade?” One of the guards said with a quizzical look on his face.

One of the investigators threw his hands up as he kneeled over a straight razor that sat in a large puddle of sticky, dark blood.

“So how were the cuts so clean and precise when he would have had to use the other hand? At least for the cuts on the right, you would think they’d be rushed and jagged. He didn’t have all that much time,” Peter surmised as he kneeled close to the dead priest.

Mavet walked forward, admiring his work.

“Holy Christ!” another guard blurted. He was pointing to the priest’s eyes.

“What?” Peter returned.

“When I first glanced I thought, eight-ball hemorrhaging, but this is different. The eye lids ,”

Peter squinted his eyes and leaned in toward the priest. The body was laying, spread eagle, as if he had been sitting with his legs straight and flat, then made the deadly incisions, and simply laid back to falloff into death. But his arms weren’t at his sides. They were out.

“Anybody move this body . . . even one inch?” Peter snapped as he stood and looked at the others in the room. People stopped in their tracks. Finger-printers stopped brushing. Evidence bags hung, dangling from the hands of forensics investigators. Everyone stopped.

Peter nodded at one of the Brazilian Catholic Enclave’s men. They knew what to do. It was time for a cover-up.