Hermes

Hermes
While Suelen parked the patrol car in the underground garage, I accompanied Fernanda to the elevator.
Having her so close shook the promise I had made years ago to forget her. The incident on the road, when she fell ill and I helped her—holding her in my arms for a brief moment—reopened old wounds even more, as if that were still possible.
Now, glancing at her sideways, standing next to me as the elevator ascended, she seemed lost in thought.
We exited on the floor where my team and I worked; the movement was constant, as always, since the area was divided into several offices occupied by police chiefs, investigators, and clerks.
As usual, I led her to my office, sparsely furnished: a desk with a chair behind it, a computer, and two upholstered chairs for visitors—old and patched. A metal cabinet stood against the wall behind my chair, where I stored some confidential files, an Imbel IA2 rifle, four magazines, and a ballistic vest.
I gestured for her to sit, and she did so silently. I dialed on my phone the number she had given as her contact point, and once the call connected, I handed her the phone. As she took it, our fingers brushed for a moment—I thought I saw her blush, but it was fleeting.
“Dad?” she said. “Roberto was murdered inside the house… no… listen… let me speak!” she raised her voice. “I'm at the homicide division headquarters in São Paulo. I need you to send me a lawyer, please. Dad… not now… please find me a lawyer. Thank you.”
She ended the call and returned the phone to me.
“Fernanda, you have to tell me what happened,” I asked, sitting on the edge of the desk facing her.
“I don’t remember!” she declared, as I noticed tears forming in her eyes.
“You need to remember. Your husband was found dead. There’s blood in the bathroom and on your clothes. You have an injury on your hand!”
“I only remember drinking last night, that's it…” she replied, sounding desperate, her eyes brimming with tears.
“It seems you don’t understand—I have to decide whether you’ll be placed under arrest for being caught in the act!” I said, raising my voice slightly.
I felt irritated. Part of me wanted to treat her like any other suspect, but another part screamed that the woman in front of me was the one I had once loved so desperately.
“Please, Hermes…” she sobbed, burying her face in both hands, hiding the tears that streamed down. “You know me, you know I could never do something like that.”
“I’m sorry, I know this must be hard. The man you love, your husband, was found dead. But I want to help you. If you’re innocent, you have nothing to fear. But you need to help me help you,” I said, softening my tone.
She lowered her hands and looked at me with those deep, black eyes.
“Is that what you think? That I loved my husband?” she asked, a bitter edge in her voice.
“Wasn’t it for him that you left me?” I shot back, instantly regretting it.
Fernanda stared at me for a few seconds before opening her mouth to respond, but just then, we were interrupted by knocks on the door and Suelen’s head peeking in.
“Sir, the boss wants to see you now—in his office,” the investigator informed.
“Right, Suelen. Please get water or coffee for Mrs. Fernanda,” I instructed. “I'll be back shortly to take her statement.”
Without looking at Fernanda again, I left the office and headed to the elevator. I went up five more floors to the office of the DHPP director, and his secretary—a woman around thirty—announced me over the phone.
“Dr. Bittencourt, Dr. Hermes is here… Yes, sir, right away…” she responded to his instructions. “You may go in, Doctor,” she said with a kind smile.
If my office was spartan, the director’s was the opposite. A fine carpet and dark-toned furniture decorated the room elegantly. A large panoramic window helped the chandelier hanging from the high ceiling light the space.
Behind a heavy hardwood desk, the director, who was on a call, gestured for me to sit in one of the armchairs in front of him.
“Don’t worry, everything will be fine… very well, take care,” he ended the call and looked at me, drumming his fingers on the desk.
“Have you charged the woman in flagrante delicto?” he asked directly.
“Not yet, sir, it’s a bit premature,” I responded cautiously. “I need more information to form a conviction.”
“I don’t know what else you need—you’ve got the body, the weapon, and the suspect covered in blood, likely the victim’s, and an injury on her hand.”
“We still don’t know if the blood is from the victim. The wife doesn’t remember what happened.”
“How convenient,” Bittencourt cut in. “The press is already making a fuss. The victim was a top businessman, even considered for a gubernatorial run. You can’t imagine the pressure I’m under.”
“I must act based on my conviction,” I responded, masking my irritation.
The director stared at me in silence, and I held his gaze.
“Very well. You’re an excellent detective, you’ve solved some high-profile cases, the press loves you—but let me give you a warning: just as the press lifts a name, it can also tear it down. Everyone’s watching you. One mistake, and you’ll be transferred to some precinct in the outskirts.”
“Is that a threat, sir?” I tried not to show my frustration.
“Just a warning. You may go—but keep me informed.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied and stood, leaving for my office.
Upon reaching my floor, I went straight to my team’s room. It was empty; no one had returned yet. So I called my lead investigator.
“Doca, what did you find? Any surveillance footage?”
“Negative, boss. The footage from the house appears to have been wiped, along with the central security system of the condo. But I got footage from a neighbor’s house—it shows the victim’s BMW passing down the street and likely parking at 11:17 p.m. We seized several documents for analysis. The safe looks like it was rummaged through, but we found five thousand dollars and three thousand euros inside.”
“They didn’t take the money? What were they looking for? Did the maid say anything relevant?”
“She said she went to bed around eight, after being dismissed by the missus, who was drinking by the pool. She says she heard a loud argument shortly before midnight, and again around one a.m. But since the couple often fought, she didn’t think much of it.”
“What about the victim’s phone?”
“We recovered it, but it’s odd—it had no password protection, like it was formatted. There’s an app that deletes WhatsApp messages. There are plenty of contacts in the directory, but no call logs.”
“Alright, conduct a thorough search of the scene. Then come back. We’ll request the phone records. Bring the maid in for a statement. Assign a team to interview the wife’s parents, their friends, neighbors—I want to know what the couple’s relationship was like. Discreetly, also investigate the victim’s habits—if he used drugs, gambled, visited sex workers, the company’s financial status, everything!” I ordered, rubbing my temples. My headache had only gotten worse since morning.
“Okay, boss. Oh, one more thing—a lawyer showed up here, saying he heard about the murder on the news. He didn’t want to explain why he came, but after I pushed him, he confessed the victim apparently left his entire fortune to his wife. I got his number. I’ll text it to you.”
“Thanks, Doca. Keep me updated.”
Almost immediately, I received the message and called the lawyer. I needed to connect the dots—not just for my career, but now that Fernanda was involved, I needed the truth.
“This is Detective Hermes. Do you have a moment to speak with me?”
“Ah, good morning, Detective.”
I explained that I was in charge of Fernanda’s case and that we needed all available information. He was hesitant at first, but then opened up.
“I was recently hired by Mr. Roberto. I accompanied him to a notary public, where he formalized a will. I don’t know if you’re aware, but my client was a very wealthy man. However, he no longer had any direct heirs—only collateral ones, like an uncle and two cousins—but he chose to exclude them from the inheritance, leaving everything to his wife. When I learned of his murder today, I wanted to inform you about the will. I plan to meet with Mrs. Fernanda soon to tell her. Could you let me know when I’ll be able to speak with her?”
“Doctor…?” I asked.
“Oh, my apologies—Dr. Afonso,” the voice replied.
“Very well, Doctor. I can’t help you just yet. I recommend contacting Mrs. Fernanda’s family.”
“Understood. Thank you, Detective.”
“Before you go—could you tell me the estimated value of the estate?” I asked.
“Well, it’s professional confidentiality, but since the wife is reportedly a suspect, I suppose it doesn’t hurt. The estate is worth millions in stocks, various assets, and properties—not counting the company, whose market value isn’t documented.”
“Thank you, Doctor.”
I hung up with one thought in my mind: Fernanda was now a millionaire.
Was I trying to deceive myself? Could she really have killed her husband for the inheritance?
She had always been rich—born into luxury, her world unreachable for most.
I was the one who had been deluded, thinking she would give up her life of opulence to be with me, a public servant who, while earning more than most Brazilians, could never offer even a fraction of what she was used to.
Maybe that was exactly why she left me, I thought, as I walked back to my office.
Time was running out, and I had only a few hours to decide whether to arrest her.