In the woods on the outskirts of São Paulo, Brazil, a dog unearths a human bone, buried recently. Chief Inspector Mario Silva of the Federal Police and his team of investigators are called in from Brasilia and discover a clandestine cemetery. And then another. Someone has secretly disposed of the bodies of hundreds of human beings, their corpses often interred in family groups. To get to the bottom of these heinous deeds, Silva must navigate a twisted and dangerous web of politics, corruption, and greed.
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"SOMEWHERE AROUND HERE," HANS said, swinging his flashlight beam from the dark tunnel in front of them toward the thick wall of vegetation on the right.
Geraldo acknowledged with a wordless grunt, pulled the truck onto the high grass bordering the rutted dirt road, and hit the brake.
Hans clambered down from the passenger's seat and disappeared into the brush.
Twenty seconds later, he was back.
"Yeah, here," he said, "on the other side of that big tree."
"They're all big trees," Geraldo said.
"That one," Hans said, shining his light up and down the trunk.
Gilda Caropreso hesitated for a moment, reluctant to leave the warmth of the cab. The others started opening doors and unloading equipment. Geraldo slung on his cam-era cases, freeing his hands for the heavier work ahead. Fernando produced a thermos bottle of hot coffee. They stood around for a while, leaning against the vehicles, blow-ing into their hands, waiting for dawn.
Then they set out to recover the body.
Frost coated the samambaia ferns like a sugar glaze. Nocturnal animals rustled in the darkness. Gilda's breath came out in white clouds, spreading and vanishing in the windless air. Twice she heard gunshots punctuating the rum-ble of traffic on the nearby belt road. The temperature was two degrees below freezing. The location was a rain forest less than twenty kilometers from the largest city in the Southern Hemisphere. The jungle that surrounded them was as thick as any in the Amazon.
Yoshiro Tanaka looked down at his feet and grunted. His weight had carried him beyond a crust of ice and into a thick ooze of red mud. The little cop stepped onto firmer ground, bent over, and started scraping at the gooey mass with a handful of dead leaves from the forest floor.
Tanaka, shorter than Gilda by half a head, was a delegado titular. A man in his position had no need to risk his shoes. In fact, he had no need to be out there in the rain forest at all. But within the confines of his domain, the area covered by his precinct, Tanaka could do whatever he damn pleased. And what pleased Yoshiro Tanaka was the adrenaline rush he got from visiting crime scenes.
Gilda took a lead from his misstep and leaped clear of the slime. Her two assistants, Fernando and Geraldo, burdened by the toolkit, body bag, and stretcher (and in Geraldo's case the extra weight of the camera cases), were unable to follow her example. They squished their way through the mud, muttering imprecations as they went.
Beyond the rise was a clearing. On the far side, perhaps fif-teen meters away, a ball-like object protruded from the ground. Hans stopped and waved his arms.
"I was right about here," he said, "when The Mop spotted me."
Hans — his last name was something Teutonic, and Gilda had promptly forgotten it — was about twenty-five, blue-eyed and blond-haired, clearly the offspring of German immigrants. The Mop, twenty years younger, brown-eyed and properly called Herbert, was an old-English sheepdog, owned by Hans's employer, Senhor Manfredo. To hear Hans tell it, the animal was an escape artist, the Houdini of the dog world. Hans claimed he spent half of his working life chasing after him.
"He picked up this big bone," Hans said, moving forward again and holding his hands apart as if describing the prover-bial fish that got away, "and came running toward me with the damned thing in his mouth. I thought it was from a cow — until I saw that."
He pointed at the ball-like object.
By then, the skull was only a few meters away. Gilda could see both of the eye sockets, but the mandible was still buried in the earth.
Fernando and Geraldo put down their burdens. Fernando lifted the lid on the box and started unloading tools. Geraldo unpacked a camera and started loading film. Gilda knelt down for a closer look at the corpse. The bones were free of flesh. There was no smell of corruption. Some wisps of black hair still clung to the cranium. She took a pair of latex gloves out of the pocket of her jeans, blinked at the flash from Geraldo's first shot and selected a medium-sized brush.
Tanaka rubbed his hands together to warm them and said something to Hans that Gilda couldn't hear. Whatever it was set Hans to talking all over again. Most people become silent, almost reverent, in the presence of death, but not Hans. Hans was a talker.
He'd first missed The Mop, he said, just before lunchtime. He didn't have any idea how long the animal had been gone because it was a big yard, with bushes and shrubs where The Mop liked to hide. Besides, there were a lot of things that Senhor Manfredo expected him to do around the house, like washing the cars and cleaning the swimming pool. He couldn't be expected to keep an eye on the damned dog all of the time.
"And then I saw another hole under the fence. Every time he digs his way out I drive stakes into the ground so he can't crawl through the same place again. But then he goes and digs somewhere else. I've got stakes all over the place. The back of the yard is starting to look like one of the forts you see in those old American movies, the ones about cowboys and Indians."
"Dog never came back on his own?" Tanaka asked.
"Never. He likes wandering around, pissing on other peo-ple's fences, sticking his nose into other dogs' assholes — uh, sorry, Senhora."
"Senhorita," Gilda corrected him without looking up.
"Senhorita," Hans repeated. "And running around after kids. The Mop is crazy about kids."
"The damned mutt will go to anyone who calls him. Anyone. And then he slobbers all over 'em."
"It would make him easy to steal, I suppose?"
"You suppose right. From what I understand, he cost a bundle, and Senhor Manfredo is scared to death of losing him. If I see The Mop is missing, I'm supposed to drop what-ever else I'm doing and go after him."
"Doesn't sound as if you like him much," Tanaka said.
Gilda, following the conversation as she gently dug around the skull with her trowel, had a feeling that Tanaka had only asked the question to get a rise out of the caseiro.
If that was the delegado's intention, it worked.
"Like him? Like him. Are you kidding?"
"So why don't you let him get lost — permanently?"
"Because Senhor Manfredo would have a fit, that's why. You should see the scene when he gets home from work. The Mop whining and licking, and Senhor Manfredo making little kissy-face sounds and stroking. I swear if The Mop learned how to cook, Senhor Manfredo would ditch Senhora Cristina and marry the dog. I lose that animal, and the next one out the door is going to be me. Senhor Manfredo would fire my ass in a heartbeat. First thing he asked me when I applied for the job was whether I liked dogs."
"And you told him you did?"
"I wasn't lying," Hans said defensively. "In those days, I did. And then Senhor Manfredo calls The Mop, and The Mop jumps all over me, and I scratch The Mop behind the ear, and Senhor Manfredo gives me the job. Jesus, if I'd known what I was getting into, I would never have applied. Did you see all that hair? Senhor Manfredo wants it brushed every day. Every. Single. Day."
Tanaka had, indeed, seen the hair. In fact, some of it was clinging to his pants — as was a stripe of Herbert's drool — from earlier that morning when they'd stopped at the house to pick up their guide.
"You have my sympathy," Tanaka said, but not as if he meant it. "Let's get back to what happened. You picked up his leash ..."
"Yeah, I picked up his leash and went out to look for him."
"But not right away?"
"No. I told you. I had lunch first. A man's got to eat, doesn't he? Didn't take long. Maybe twenty minutes, that's all."
"So there I am, walking around, walking around, for the next four hours or so, and then, just before dark, I hear him barking."
"And you knew it was your dog because ..."
"It's not my dog. It's Senhor Manfredo's dog. And I knew it was The Mop because The Mop's bark is different. You heard it. He sounds like he's hoarse or something. Like some guy who just walked out of a stadium, somebody who screamed so much he lost his voice."
Tanaka smiled politely, as if it were the first time Hans had made the comparison.
"So, like I said, I followed the sound, found the path, came into this field, and found him chewing on that bone. He only let me take it out of his mouth because he thought I was gonna throw it for him."
"So then you ..."
"Took one look at the skull, put the leash on him, got the hell out of here, and called you guys."
Tanaka nodded and addressed Gilda.
"I decided to leave it until morning," he said. "Can you imagine trying to find this place in the dark?"
Gilda shook her head and stood.
"We're on a incline," she said. "The grave wasn't deep. She was probably uncovered by erosion."
"She?" Tanaka sounded surprised. "A woman?"
Gilda pointed to the black hair still clinging to the skull. It was long, unlikely to be a man's.
"She's been here for quite some time," she said. "Hardly any flesh left at all."
"The dog, maybe?" Tanaka said.
"Not the dog. Decomposition and insects. Most of the bones appear to be in place, but I'll only be able to verify that once we get her back to the IML."
The IML, the Instituto Médico Legal, was the headquar-ters of São Paulo's chief medical examiner and the place where Gilda spent most of her time. She was a slim brunette, who looked too young to be a full-fledged pathologist. When she neglected to pin on her name tag, visitors to the morgue often took her for a secretary or a medical student.
She was about to kneel down again when the sun crept over the encircling rim of forest. Long shadows fell across the field, emphasizing irregularities in the carpet of green. In the altered light, row upon row of rectangular mounds suddenly became visible.
Gilda saw them first and narrowly avoided putting one of her latex-gloved hands over her lips. Han's mouth dropped open. Fernando and Geraldo looked at each other. Tanaka just stared.
Graves. Tens of graves, lined up row-on-row.
Herbert, The Mop, hadn't just found himself one corpse to play with. He'd found himself an entire cemetery.CHAPTER 2
"WHAT'S THIS CRAP ANA handed me?"
Nelson Sampaio raised his jaw and looked pugnaciously at Mario Silva. Sampaio was the director of the Brazilian Federal Police. Ana was his long-suffering personal assistant. What he was referring to as crap was a request for two round-trip airline tickets, Brasilia/São Paulo/Brasilia.
Ana had served five directors in succession, one more than Silva, and averred that Nelson Sampaio was the worst of the lot. The director was a pink-faced, prematurely balding man with suspicious blue eyes. Mostly, his eyes were enlarged by spectacles, but this morning he was trying out a new set of contact lenses. He kept blinking at Silva, while his hand remained splayed over the form in front of him. The two men, Silva and Sampaio, were on opposite sides of Sampaio's desk in his spacious office in Brasilia, the nation's capital.
Everything in the room had been chosen with an eye to making a statement: The national flag demonstrated Sampaio's patriotism; the portrait of the president bespoke party loyalty; the photographs around the walls assured visi-tors that they were in the presence of a man who rubbed elbows with Brazil's movers and shakers; the triptych on his desk (his wife flanked by his two daughters) showed that he was a good family man; the sports trophies (Silva suspected that at least some of them were bogus) revealed that he'd been an athlete in his youth; the awards for public service attested to his social conscience; a couple of knickknacks (fashioned by schoolchildren) indicated that Sampaio hadn't lost the common touch; and the two (Brazilian) paintings established his artistic sensitivity. Even the view made a statement: The window behind him overlooked the Ministry of Culture.
"You mind telling me what's so important that you have to take a couple of days out of your schedule and go galli-vanting off to São Paulo when there's so much to do right here?" Sampaio continued.
"It's all there on the form," Silva said, patiently. "And, with respect, Director, it's not gallivanting."
"Oh? What is it then?"
"You've seen today's newspapers?"
"Of course, I've seen today's newspapers," Sampaio snapped. "I read three of them every morning. So what?"
Nelson Sampaio had been a successful attorney before he entered government service. A political appointee, whose ambitions went far beyond his current post, he was a man who'd never been to a crime scene and had never smelled a corpse. When he spoke of reading three newspapers, Sampaio meant the front pages, the editorial pages, and the social columns. The majority of the articles that attracted his attention were those dealing with the Machiavellian world of Brazilian national politics. They were unlikely to be the same ones that interested Mario Silva.
"Then perhaps you read about that clandestine cemetery in the Serra da Cantareira?" Silva said, making the state-ment a question.
"What about it?" the director said, neither confirming nor denying his awareness of the article in question.
"There were children in some of those graves," Silva said, plunging on in the face of his boss's apparent lack of interest. Silva, childless after the death of his son from leukemia at the age of eight, could get particularly passionate about the murder of children.
"Kids, adults, what's the difference?" Sampaio said. "I asked you a simple question: What's so important? Don't you think you have enough on your plate right here in Brasilia?"
"I wasn't aware that I had —"
"Not aware? Not aware? Mario, for God's sake, what about Romeu Pluma?"
Romeu Pluma was a former journalist and the current press secretary for the minister of justice, Sampaio's immedi-ate superior. Pluma and Sampaio loathed each other.
"I told you, Director, we haven't been able to find any-thing in Pluma's background to suggest —"
"And I told you to keep digging. Everybody has something to hide. You, him, even me. I want to know what Pluma's hiding. Is that so much to ask?"
Sampaio was a believer in using the powers of his office to forward what he considered to be good causes, and foremost among all good causes was the continued advancement of Nelson Sampaio.
Romeu Pluma had the ear of the minister. He'd been whispering into it, questioning Sampaio's competence and criticizing his effectiveness. And, even worse, he'd been ex-pressing those same opinions to the press. Pluma was quoted as being an "unnamed government source," but that didn't fool Sampaio. He always knew who was out to get him. He desperately wanted something to hold over the press secre-tary's head, and he expected Silva to get it for him.
"With all due respect, Director, the children in that ceme-tery deserve —"
"There you go again," the director said, cutting him off. "You remind me of Vulcano."
The director owned a fazenda where he raised cattle. He didn't do it for the money. It was more in the nature of a hobby, and it was an activity that interested him far more than apprehending criminals. Vulcano was his prize bull. Comparing Vulcano to Silva was as close as Sampaio ever got to paying him a compliment.
"Just like you," Sampaio explained, "Vulcano is always charging off whenever he gets wind of something he thinks is threatening his territory. But you're not a street cop any-more, damn it! You're my chief inspector for criminal mat-ters. You've got people to do the legwork."
The director held up a hand. "What's more important? That damned cemetery or your investigation into the back-ground of that filho da puta Pluma?"
Silva looked at his lap.
"Exactly," Sampaio continued, as if he'd successfully made his point. "The corpses will wait. Pluma won't. The bastard makes me look bad every chance he gets. If he has his way, I'll be out of this job right after the election and that, as I don't have to remind you, is less than two months away." Sampaio glanced at the huge desktop calendar where he'd penciled in a countdown to election day. "In fact, it's only fifty-two days. Forget the cemetery. Or let your buddy Arnaldo handle it."
"I need —"
"Or get that hotshot nephew of yours, whatshisname?"
"Yeah, him. Get him to work on it."
"He's already working on it, Director, but he needs all the help he can get."
Sampaio showed no sign of having heard him.
"Pluma is an ex-journalist for God's sake. All those guys smoked marijuana or used cocaine at one time or another."
"I hate to be insistent —"
"Which you're being."(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Buried Strangers"
Copyright © 2009 Leighton Gage.
Excerpted by permission of Soho Press, Inc..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
Most Helpful Customer Reviews
First Line: "Somewhere around here," Hans said, swinging his flashlight beam from the dark tunnel in front of them toward the thick wall of vegetation on the right.When Herbert the Escape Artist (AKA an Old English Sheepdog) proudly brings back a human bone and waits for praise, the police are called instead. There, in a rain forest twenty kilometers from São Paulo, police find a clandestine cemetery. And another. The corpses of hundreds of human beings-- often interred in family groups-- have been secretly buried.This is a case that Chief Inspector Mario Silva can become very passionate about, since he lost his only child to leukemia when his son was eight years old. But there's a problem named Nelson Sampaio who just so happens to be Silva's boss. Sampaio is one of those political appointees with his eye on promotion, and he is absolutely convinced that another politico is sabotaging him. To Sampaio, nothing is more important than Silva digging up the dirt on his nemesis. Does this bother Silva? No. One of the delights of this series has turned out to be watching the machinations of Silva as he circumvents the human obstacles in his way in order to do what must be done.Although the first book in the series, the excellent Blood of the Wicked was a bit heavy-handed with torture, this second book deals more with the interactions between the characters and is laced with humor. As Silva and his team slowly piece together tiny clues, the reason for the mass graves becomes horrifyingly clear.The extra dashes of humor were welcome intervals between corrupt cops and politicians and secret cemeteries.With just two books, this series has become one of my favorites because of the strength of its characters, its strong sense of place, its powerful plots... and its ability, not only to educate me about an unfamiliar part of the world, but to leave me with a sense of outrage over injustice. What am I outraged over? I don't want to say very much because I don't believe in spoiling the plot for people who haven't read the book. I'll just say that cattle in Brazil have more documentation than many of its two-legged citizens.Entertaining, educational, emotional. Haven't read a book written by Leighton Gage?Why?
Mario Silva, Chief Inspector for Criminal Matters of the Federal police of Brazil, is trying to solve a crime in the city of Sao Paolo. What are these bones discovered when a dog dug one up? They're obviously human, but there appears to be a mass grave with 30-40 bodies. When the local cop on the scene, Delegado Tanako, is killed, Silva's boss reluctantly lets the team go from their base in Brasilia to investigate, although he'd much rather they stay in town and dig up some dirt on the man who is running against him in the upcoming elections.While in Sao Paolo, Silva and his deputy Arnaldo and his nephew Hector, also become involved in locating a family missing from that cities' infamous favelas (slums). Could this disappearance be connected with the bodies in the mass grave? Many theories are advanced, many palms greased, a little romance blossoms, and Silva goes back and forth between Sao Paolo and Brasilia, while his crew continues to track clues. Who are these people? Are they related? Why were they killed? And what happened to the witnesses who reported the other family missing? There are characters who are quite nasty, others who are quite likeable, and the plot certainly contains enough action and clues to keep us turning pages. In fact, I was so engrossed in finding out how it ended, that I read the last 35 pages while working out on the eliptical!Leighton Gage, the author of this well-plotted who-dunnit, lives part-time in Brazil. His knowledge of this huge country is obvious, and his ability to weave the language, the regional diversity and the mores of this nation into the story is exceptional. The reader gets a clear picture of modern day crime activities in Brazil, and gets a crime detective who hopefully will appear in upcoming episodes.
Second in the Chief Inspector Mario Silva series of the Brasilian Federal Police.I¿ve spent a good deal of time in Brasil, staying, for periods ranging from 6 weeks to 3 months, with either poor families or with Catholic missionaries. During every visit, I heard rumors of street kids disappearing, victims, my Brasilian friends insisted, of the traffic in organ transplants. Gage has written a chilling novel involving that trade. One of the strengths of Gage¿s strong writing is the atmosphere of authenticity he gives to his locales. They feel ¿right¿, and his characters behave as Brasilians, and are thoroughly believable. Brasil is a violent country, and what Gage describes is not exaggerated.Gage writes very dark police procedurals indeed; they are very well written, fast-paced, powerful. But be prepared for the violence.According to Gage, who in his notes talks about the rumors of trade in organ transplants, they¿ve never been confirmed. I found the same thing; no one could ever come up with proof that it existed. But the rumors persist.Highly recommended with the qualification that the violence level is high.
Buried Strangers by Leighton Gage is a riveting police procedural set in Brazil that leverages both the political and social nuances of law enforcement in this South American setting to provide an entirely engrossing novel. This second book in the Chief Inspector Mario Silva Investigation series begins when a body found in a jungle that neighbors a housing development in Sao Paulo turns into a cemetery of bodies with many of the graves containing complete nuclear families: father, mother, and children. Who are these victims? How did they die? When and why? When the local delagado performing the initial criminal inquiry is executed with a car bomb, the national criminal investigative team directed by Chief Inspector Silva pursues the investigation despite lack of interest and cooperation from their supervisor.Gage¿s characters are realistically drawn; the plot is intricate and disturbing; the setting is intense and the action fast-paced. This is definitely a unique addition to the cannon of police procedurals
This book did not impress me. It has the tired old police thriller plot line of a smart detective who has to disobey his superior to solve the crime. The crime itself is unique in my reading and perhaps the purpose is valid but it just seems way over the top to me.
In the Brazilian rain forest, people are murdered for the body parts. Chief Inspector Mario Silva keeps the story moving.
The story is old, I won't read any more by this author
What an entertaining read! I received this book directly from the author and I'm very glad I got a chance to review it. What first attracted me to the story was its location. It's not very often that detective novels take place in Brazil, which made it stand out from the crowd. I loved the gritty atmosphere, the detailed descriptions of the country's underbelly, and the use of the language throughout the pages that never gets too repetitive or distracting. The characters are not as important as the plot, but still we get a good glimpse at private lives and of one particular character who is anything but usual and more than a little disturbing. The pace is quick, never allowing for boredom and never including extraneous information that might make the reader sigh and wish he or she were doing something else. The writing style itself is straight-forward, as you would expect in a mystery/thriller novel. I can highly recommend this book, (this whole series, really) to all the fans of crime shows and novels, and as soon as I finish with this I am going to start the next part in the series, Dying Gasp.
Leighton Gage's first book, BLOOD OF THE WICKED, starts with the assassination of a Catholic bishop; from the first pages it is a book that can't be put down. Gage's second book, BURIED STRANGERS, begins with a dog and a bone and secret cemeteries. It, too, is a book the reader will not want to put down. Chief Inspector Mario Silva and his team are investigators for the federal police in Brazil. Although based in Brasilia, the capital of Brazil, most of the action takes place in Sao Paulo. As with BLOOD OF THE WICKED, the author creates an atmosphere and sense of place by the descriptions of the unimaginable poverty of a favela, the neighborhoods of the destitute, and the lavish, protected mansions of those who need not answer for the source of their affluence. More cemeteries are found, with rows and rows of graves, and DNA proves that families are buried together. These are not the graves of the "disappeared", those critics of the government who vanished without a trace. These are more recent, and in such great numbers, that Silva and his team know that these people are victims of greed and a lack of humanity beyond the worst instincts of the majority of mankind. The author builds the story on some of the greatest accomplishments of science and the inevitable perversion of the talents of those who can best improve the lives of some of society's most desperate people. That the author does not keep the reader in the dark throughout the novel only makes the end more satisfying. Chief Inspector Silva is a worthy member of the club that includes Garcia-Roza's Espinosa, Mankell's Wallender, Grimes' Jury, Wilson's Falcon, Vargus' Adamsburg, and Rankin's Rebus. I look forward to the next book in this series.
In the Brazilian Rain Forest near Sao Paulo, Brazil, Herbert the ¿Mop¿ sheepdog finds a human bone. His owner Hans escorts local cop Yoshiro Tanaka, pathologist Gilda Caropreso, and others to the location of a grave. They soon realize they have found an unmarked mass grave site.
In Brasilia, Federal Police Chief Inspector Mario Silva persuades his reluctant boss Nelson Sampaio to allow him and his top investigators Hector Costa and Arnaldo Nues to look into the mass graves in spite of the politically connected supervisor wanting the case buried before it harms tourism and his career. Each victim including the two dozen children had a body part removed leading Sampaio to fear a cult involvement will keep the westerners home and he will have to answer why. While Tanaka tries to extort money from his inquiries, Silva and his comrades begin to tie the deaths to the Sao Paulo travel agency whose customers were allegedly heading to North America, but never left the country. The killer remains unknown.
The second Brazilian police procedural (see BLOOD OF THE WICKED) is an exciting whodunit made more fascinating by the corruptness of Tanaka. The story line is fast-paced while providing readers with an intriguing look at the country¿s largest city. Fans will be engaged with this tense crime caper as the local cop competes with the Federal Police trying to uncover the identity of the culprit for different reasons; one wants to make a lot of real money while the others want to solve the case.