The Whisperer

by Donato Carrisi

  As they had their dinner they talked about the day. Tommy told him how his plans for summer camp were going. Goran asked him about school and was proud to discover that his son had got outstanding marks in gymnastics.

  “I was lousy at almost all sports,” Goran admitted.

  “Which one were you good at?”

  “Chess.”

  “Chess isn’t a sport!”

  “What do you mean? They play it in the Olympics, don’t they?”

  Tommy didn’t seem entirely convinced. But he had learned that his father never told lies. That had been a hard lesson, in fact. Because the first time he had asked him about his mother, Goran had told him the whole truth. No beating around the bush. “No funny business,” as Tommy always said when claiming someone’s loyalty. And his father had immediately agreed. Not out of revenge or to punish his mother. Lies—or, worse, half-truths—would only have increased the boy’s anxiety. He would have found himself on his own, facing big lies: the lie of his mother who had left, and his father who didn’t have the courage to tell him.

  “Will you teach me to play chess one day?”

  “Of course.”

  With that solemn promise, Goran put him to bed. Then he went and closed himself away in his study. He picked up Ronald’s letter and read it for the umpteenth time. One thing had struck him about the text since he first read it. The phrase: then HE came. HE understood me. HE taught me.

  The word “HE” had been deliberately written in capitals. Goran had heard that strange reference once before. It was on the tape of Ronald’s confession to Father Rolf.

  He comes only for me.

  It was a clear example of personality dissociation, in which the negative I is always separated from the acting I. And becomes He.

  “It was ME. But HE told me to do it. It’s HIS fault I’m what I am.”

  In that context, everyone else became “NOBODY.” That too written in capitals.

  NOBODY came to save me. NOBODY can prevent all this.

  Ron wanted to be saved. But everyone had forgotten him and the fact that he was, in the end, only a child.

  She had gone out to get something to eat. And after wandering pointlessly among shops and restaurants that had closed early because of the weather, Mila had had to settle for some ready-made soup from a grocery store. She thought she would heat it up in the microwave she had noticed in the Studio kitchen. But she had remembered too late that she wasn’t even sure it worked.

  She went back to the apartment before the searing cold of the evening paralyzed her muscles, keeping her from walking. She wished she had her tracksuit and jogging shoes there: she spent whole days not moving much and the lactic acid building up around her joints made moving more difficult.

  As she prepared to climb the stairs, she saw Sarah Rosa on the pavement outside, in animated conversation with a man. He was trying to calm her down, but without apparent success. Mila thought it must be her husband, and felt a great deal of sympathy for him. Before the harpy could spot her and thus have one more reason to hate her, Mila entered the building.

  On the stairs she bumped into Boris and Stern who were coming down.

  “Where are you going?”

  “We’re calling in at the Department to check how the manhunt’s going,” Boris replied, putting a cigarette in his mouth. “Want to come?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Boris noticed the soup. “Then bon appétit.”

  Mila continued on her way upstairs, and heard him addressing his older colleague. “You should take up smoking again.”

  “You’d be better off taking up these…”

  Mila recognized the sound of Stern’s box of mints, and smiled.

  She was alone in the Studio now. Goran was going to spend the evening at home with his son. She was slightly disappointed. She had got used to him being there, and found his investigative methods interesting. Apart from the daily prayer. If her mother had been alive and had seen her taking part in that ritual, she wouldn’t have believed her eyes.

  The microwave worked. And the soup wasn’t too bad. Or perhaps it was her hunger that made it seem better than it was. With the bowl and a spoon, Mila went and sat in the guest accommodation, happy to have a bit of time for herself.

  She sat down cross-legged on the camp bed. The wound on her left thigh felt a bit tight, but it was getting better. Everything always gets better, she thought. Between one mouthful and another, she took a photocopy of Dermis’s letter and put it in front of her. She studied it as she went on eating. Of course Ronald had chosen a very strange moment to reappear in this business. But there was something about his words that wasn’t quite in tune. Mila hadn’t had the courage to talk to Goran about it, because she didn’t think he could offer any advice. But the idea had tormented her all afternoon.

  The letter had also been made available to the press, quite unusually. Clearly, Gavila had decided to stroke their serial killer’s ego. It was as if he were saying, “You see? We’re paying attention to you!” when in fact he only wanted to distract him from the little girl he was keeping prisoner.

  “I don’t know how long he’ll be able to resist the impulse to kill her,” he had said a few hours before.

  Mila tried to banish that thought from her mind, and focused on the letter once again. She was irritated by Ronald’s chosen form for the missive. That was what she found discordant. She couldn’t have said why, but the text centered on the page, in a kind of single unbroken line, prevented her from fully grasping its contents.

  She decided to break it down. She set down the bowl and picked up a notebook and pencil.

  for those who are hunting me:

  –billy was a bastard a BASTARD! and i was right to kill him. i hated him. he would have hurt us. because he would have had a family and we wouldn’t.

  –what was done to me was worse! and NOBODY came to save me! NOBODY.

  –i have always been here in front of your eyes and you didn’t see me

  –then HE came. HE understood me. HE taught me

  –it was you who wanted me like this you didn’t see me now do you see me? worse for you in the end it will all be your fault

  –i am what i am. NOBODY can prevent all this NOBODY.

  –RONALD

  Mila reread the sentences, one at a time. It was a rant, full of hatred and rancor. It was aimed at everyone, without distinction. Because Billy, in his murderer’s mind, represented something big and all-absorbing. Something that Ron would never be able to have.

  Happiness.

  Billy was cheerful, even though he had witnessed his parents’ suicide. Billy would have been adopted, even though he was a grade B orphan. Billy was loved by everyone, even though he had nothing to offer in return.

  By killing him, Ronald would erase his smile forever from the hypocritical face of the world.

  But the more she reread those words, the more Mila realized that the sentences in the letter weren’t a confession or a challenge, they were answers. As if someone were questioning Ronald, and he couldn’t wait to leave the silence in which he had been imprisoned for so long, to free himself from the secret imposed on him by Father Rolf.

  But what were those questions? And who was asking them?

  Mila thought again of what Goran had said during the prayer. About the fact that good is not demonstrable, while we constantly have examples of evil right in front of our eyes. Proof. Ronald maintained that he had performed a positive, necessary action by killing his fellow-orphan. For him, Billy represented evil. And who could show that he had not done something good? His logic was perfect. Because Billy Moore, as he grew up, might well have become a very bad man. Who could truly say?

  Going to Sunday School as a little girl, there was one question that Mila had always asked herself. As she had grown up, the question had stayed with her.

  If God is good, why does he let children die?

  If you thought about it, it did contrast with the ideal of love and justice that
filled the Gospels.

  But the fate of dying young is perhaps the one that God reserves for his worst children. And perhaps the children she saved could turn into murderers, or serial killers. In all likelihood what she was doing was wrong. If someone had killed Adolf Hitler or Jeffrey Dahmer or Charles Manson when they were still in nappies, would that have been a good or a bad deed? But their murderers would have been punished and condemned, certainly not celebrated as saviors of humanity!

  She concluded that good and evil are often jumbled up. That the one is sometimes the instrument of the other, and vice versa.

  Just as the words of a prayer can be jumbled up with the ravings of a murderer, she thought.

  Suddenly there was that familiar tickle at the base of her neck. Like someone emerging from a hiding place behind her. Then she repeated the last thought to herself, and realized at that moment that she knew the questions that Ronald had tried to answer in his letter.

  They were contained in Goran’s prayer.

  She struggled to remember them, even though she had heard them only once. She made various attempts in her notebook. She got the order wrong and had to start again, but finally there they were, right before her eyes.

  Then she tried to match them up with the sentences in the letter. Reassembling that long-distance dialogue.

  At last she reread everything…

  And it was all quite clear from the very first sentence.

  For those who are hunting me.

  Those words were aimed at them, at the police. To answer the questions that the criminologist had spoken into the silence…

  –Why did Billy Moore have to die?

  billy was a bastard a BASTARD! and i was right to kill him. i hated him. he would have hurt us because he would have had a family and we wouldn’t.

  –Where did Ronald Dermis’s hatred come from?

  what was done to me was worse! and NOBODY came to save me! NOBODY.

  –What happened to him during those years?

  i have always been here in front of your eyes and you didn’t see me.

  –How did he learn to kill?

  then HE came. HE understood me. HE taught me.

  –What led him to choose evil?

  it was you who wanted me like this. you didn’t see me. now do you see me? worse for you in the end it will all be your fault.

  –And why does he not put an end to all this horror?

  i am what i am. NOBODY can prevent all this. NOBODY.

  Mila didn’t know what to think. But perhaps the answer to her question lay at the bottom of the letter.

  A name.

  RONALD

  She would have to test her hypothesis straightaway.

  18.

  Snow fell from purple clouds in a heavy sky.

  Mila managed to find a taxi only after waiting in the street for more than forty minutes. When he learned where she was going, the taxi driver protested. He said it was too far away, and at night, with that awful weather, he would never find another passenger to bring back. It was only when Mila offered to pay him twice the going rate that he changed his mind.

  Several centimeters of snow had already accumulated on the road, making salt-scattering pointless. It was only possible to drive with chains, and the gears plainly resented it. The taxi smelled of stale air, and Mila noticed the remains of a kebab with onions on the passenger seat. The smell mingled with that of a pine air freshener right over the heating vents. It really wasn’t a nice way to receive customers.

  As they crossed the city, Mila put her ideas in order. She was sure her theory held and, as they approached the place where they were headed, her conviction grew even stronger. She thought of calling Gavila for confirmation, but her phone was almost out of battery. So she postponed the call until she had found what she was looking for.

  When they reached the motorway tollbooths the police were sending the traffic back.

  “There’s too much snow, it’s dangerous!” the officers were telling the drivers.

  Some articulated lorries were parked on the edge of the road, in the hope of continuing their journey the following morning.

  The taxi passed the roadblock and set off along a secondary road. The orphanage could be reached without taking the motorway. In the past this had probably been the only way, and luckily the taxi driver knew it.

  She asked him to drop her off near the gate. Mila didn’t even think of asking him to wait for her and offering him money again. She was sure she wasn’t wrong, and that soon the place would be full of her colleagues again.

  “Don’t you want me to stay here till you’ve done what you have to do?” the man asked when he saw the dilapidated state of the building.

  “No, thanks, just go.”

  The taxi driver didn’t press the point, but turned round and changed into first, leaving a faint whiff of kebab and onions.

  Mila climbed over the gate and walked up the dirt path, her feet sinking into the muddy snow. She knew that the police, following Roche’s orders, had removed their patrol. Even the mobile unit’s camper had been taken away. There was nothing there that could be of interest to the investigation.

  Until tonight, she thought.

  She reached the front of the building, but the door, after being forced open by the special units, had had its lock replaced. She turned towards the priest’s house, wondering whether Father Timothy was still awake.

  She had come all that way, and she had no choice.

  She headed towards the priest’s dwelling. She knocked several times, until a second-floor window lit up. Father Timothy appeared a moment later.

  “Who is it?”

  “Father, I’m Officer Vasquez. We’ve met before, do you remember?”

  The cleric tried to focus his eyes on her in the middle of the dense snow.

  “Yes, of course. What do you want at this time of night? I thought you’d finished your work here…”

  “I know, but I’m sorry, there’s something I need to check in the laundry room. Could you let me have the keys, please?”

  “Fine, I’ll come down.”

  Mila was already starting to wonder why it was taking him so long, when a few moments later she heard the sound of rattling behind the door as he undid the bolts. She saw him appear, wrapped in a threadbare cardigan with holes at the elbows, and with the usual mild expression on his face.

  “You’re shivering.”

  “Don’t worry, Father.”

  “Come in and dry yourself for a moment while I look for the keys. You know, you lot left a terrible mess behind.”

  Mila followed him into the house. The sudden warmth produced an immediate effect of well-being.

  “I was about to go to bed.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “That’s OK. Can I get you some tea? I always have some before I go to sleep, I find it relaxes me.”

  “No, thanks. I’d like to get back as soon as possible.”

  “Drink it, it’ll do you good. I’ve already made some, you’ll just have to pour it. In the meantime, I’ll get the keys.”

  He came out of the room and she headed towards the little kitchen that the priest had pointed towards. The teapot was on the table. Its scented steam wafted over to her, and Mila couldn’t resist. She poured herself a cup and added a large amount of sugar. She remembered the squalid cold tea that Feldher had tried to get her and Boris to drink in his house on the dump. God knows where he got the water to make it.

  Father Timothy came back with a big bunch of keys. He was still trying to find the right one.

  “Feeling better now, aren’t you?” smiled the priest, pleased to have insisted.

  Mila returned his smile: “Yes, much better.”

  “Here we are: this should be the one that opens the main door…do you want me to come with you?”

  “No, thanks,” and she immediately saw the priest relaxing. “But you could do me a favor.”

  “Tell me.”

  She handed him a piece
of paper. “If I’m not back in an hour, call this number and ask for help.”

  Father Timothy turned white. “I thought the danger had passed.”

  “It’s just a precaution. I don’t think anything’s going to happen to me. It’s just that I don’t know how to get about in this building: I could even have an accident…and there’s no light in there.”

  As she said those last words, she realized it was a detail she had never considered. How did she think she would do it? There was no electricity, and the generator used for the halogen lamps would certainly have been dismantled and taken away along with the rest of the equipment.

  “Damn!” she said. “You haven’t got a torch, by any chance?”

  “I’m sorry, officer…But if you’ve got a mobile phone, you might be able to use the display light.”

  She hadn’t thought of that.

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  “You’re quite welcome.”

  A moment later, Mila went back out into the cold night, while the priest slid the bolts of the door shut, one by one.

  She walked down the slope until she reached the front door of the orphanage. She slipped the key into the lock and heard the echo of the clicks disappearing into the space beyond. She pushed the enormous door and closed it behind her again.

  She was in.

  The doves gathered around the skylight greeted her presence with a frantic beating of their wings. The display of her phone gave off a faint green glow, revealing only a very small portion of what she had in front of her. A dense darkness lay in wait on the edge of that bubble of light, ready to invade and attack her at any moment.

  Mila tried to remember how to get to the laundry. And she set off.

  The sound of her footsteps violated the silence. Her breath condensed in the cold air. Soon she found herself back in the kitchens, and recognized the outline of the big iron cauldrons. Then she passed into the refectory, where she had to be careful not to crash into the Formica tables. She bumped into one with her hip, knocking over one of the chairs that had been placed on top of it. The noise, amplified by the echo, was almost deafening. As she was putting it back, Mila saw the opening that led to the lower floor via the narrow spiral staircase. She entered the stone intestine and slowly went down the stairs, made slippery by the wearing of the years.