She had a prosthesis where her missing left arm had been.
Standing beside the girl was her father, Mike. Mila had met Mike when visiting Sandra, and had liked him. In spite of his separation from his wife, he had gone on looking after his daughter, with affection and dedication. Sarah Rosa was with them. She had changed a lot. She had lost a few pounds in jail, and her hair had turned white very quickly. She had received a stiff sentence: seven years and a dishonorable discharge, which had also cost her her pension. She was there on special leave. Not far away was Doris, the surveillance officer who had come with her, and who nodded a greeting to Mila.
Sarah Rosa got up and walked over to her. She tried to smile at her.
“How are you? All OK with the pregnancy?”
“The worst thing is the clothes: my size is constantly changing, and I don’t earn enough to change my wardrobe so quickly. One of these days I’m going to go out in my bathrobe!”
“Listen to me: enjoy these moments, because the worst is yet to come. For the first three years, Sandra didn’t let us get a wink of sleep. Isn’t that right, Mike?” And Mike nodded.
They had all met up several times. But no one had ever asked Mila who her child’s father was. God knows how they would have reacted if they’d known she was carrying Goran’s child.
The criminologist was still in a coma.
Mila had gone to see him only once. She had seen him from behind a pane of glass, but she had managed only a few seconds before having to leave.
The last thing he had said to her before throwing himself into the void was that he had killed his wife and child because he loved them. It was the incontrovertible logic of someone justifying evil with love. And Mila couldn’t accept it.
Another time Goran had claimed: We think we know everything about people, when in fact we know nothing at all…
She thought he was referring to his wife, and she remembered the words as a banal truth, no real match for his intelligence. Until she had found herself involved in what he was saying. And she of all people should have understood. She who had said to him, Because it’s from darkness that I come. And to darkness that I must, from time to time, return.
Goran too had often visited that same darkness. But one day, when he had reemerged, something must have followed him. Something that had never let him go.
Boris came back with the present.
“What took you so long?”
“I couldn’t close the door on that old banger of yours. You should get a new car.”
Mila took the box from his hands and gave it to Sandra.
“Hey, happy birthday!”
She bent down to kiss her. The little girl was always pleased to see her.
“Mum and Dad gave me an iPod.”
She showed it to her. And Mila said, “It’s fantastic. Now we’ve got to fill it up with some good honest rock.”
Mike disagreed: “I’d rather have Mozart.”
“I’d like Coldplay best,” said Sandra.
They unwrapped Mila’s present together. It was a velvet jacket, with various kinds of frills and studs.
“Wow!” exclaimed the birthday girl when she recognized the label of a famous designer.
“Does that ‘wow’ mean you like it?”
Sandra nodded with a smile, without taking her eyes off the jacket.
“Let’s eat!” said Stern.
They sat down at the table in the shade of a gazebo. Mila noticed that Stern and his wife were constantly coming back to one another and touching each other like young lovers. She felt a little bit envious of them. Sarah Rosa and Mike were acting out the role of good parents for the benefit of their daughter. But he was also very solicitous of Sarah. Boris told a lot of jokes, and they laughed so much that officer Doris choked on a mouthful of food. It was a pleasant, carefree day. And Sandra probably forgot her condition for a little while. She received lots of gifts and blew out thirteen candles on a chocolate and coconut cake.
They finished lunch just after three. A gentle breeze had blown up, making them want to lie down on the lawn and sleep. The women cleared the table, but Stern’s wife let Mila off because of her belly. She took advantage of the fact to join Sandra under the cherry tree. With a little effort she even managed to sit down on the ground, next to her wheelchair.
“It’s lovely here,” the girl said. Then she watched her mother carrying in the dirty dishes and smiled. “I’d like this day to go on forever. I kept missing my mother a lot…”
The use of the imperfect tense was revealing: Sandra was talking about a different kind of longing from the one she felt when her mother went back into jail. She was talking about what had happened to her.
Mila knew very well that those little hints were part of the effort that the girl was making to put the past in order. She had to arrange her emotions and come to terms with a fear that, even though it was all in the past, would lie in wait for her for many years to come.
One day the two of them would broach the topic of what had happened. Mila thought of telling the girl her own story first. Perhaps it would help. They had so much in common.
First find all the words we need, my little one, we have all the time in the world.
Mila felt great tenderness for Sandra. In an hour, Sarah Rosa would have to go back to jail. And each time that separation was a source of great distress to both mother and daughter.
“I’ve decided to let you in on a secret,” she said to distract her from that thought. “But I’m going to tell only you…I want to tell you who my baby’s father is.”
Sandra gave a cheeky smile. “Everyone knows.”
Mila was paralyzed with amazement for a moment, and then they both burst out laughing.
In the distance Boris saw them, without knowing what was going on. “Women,” he called out to Stern.
When they finally recovered, Mila felt much better. Once again she had underestimated someone who loved her, creating pointless problems. But in fact things were often incredibly simple.
“He was waiting for someone…” Sandra said seriously. And Mila understood that she was talking about Vincent Clarisso.
“I know,” she said simply.
“He was to come and join us.”
“That man was in jail. But we didn’t know. We’d also chosen a name for him, did you know that? We called him Albert.”
“No, that’s not what Vincent called him…”
A gust of warm wind stirred the leaves in the cherry tree, but that didn’t stop Mila from feeling a sudden chill running down her spine. She turned slowly towards Sandra, and met her big eyes, which stared at her completely unaware of what she had just said.
“No…” the girl repeated calmly. “He called him Frankie.”
The sun was shining on that perfect afternoon. The birds sang their song in the trees, and the air was full of pollen and perfumes. The grass of the lawn was inviting. Mila would never forget the precise moment when she had discovered she had much more in common with Sandra than she imagined. And yet those similarities had always been there, in front of her eyes.
He always took girls, never boys.
Steve preferred girls too.
He chose families.
And like herself, Sandra was an only child.
He cut off a left arm from each of them.
She had broken her left arm when she fell down the stairs with Steve.
The first two were blood sisters.
Sandra and Debby. Like her and Graciela many years before.
“Serial killers, with the things they do, are trying to tell us a story,” Goran had once said.
But that story was her story.
Every detail sent her back into the past, forcing her to look the terrible truth in the face.
Your last pupil failed: Vincent Clarisso couldn’t complete your plan, because child number six is still alive…which means that you too have failed.
And yet it hadn’t happened by chance. And that was Frankie’s t
rue finale.
It was all meant for her.
A movement behind her brought her back. Then Mila lowered her eyes to her ripe belly. She struggled not to wonder if it too was part of Frankie’s plan.
God is silent, she thought. The devil whispers.
And in fact the sun was still shining on that perfect afternoon. The birds hadn’t tired of singing their song in the trees, and the air was still full of pollen and perfumes. The grass of the lawn was still inviting.
Around her, and everywhere, the world contained the same message.
That everything was the same as before.
Everything.
Even Frankie.
Who had come back, to vanish once more into the vast expanses of shadow.
Author’s Note
Criminology literature began to address the issue of “whisperers” during the rise of cults and sects, but had great difficulty finding a definition of “whisperer” for use in a legal trial, because mere suggestion is so hard to prove.
Where there is no causal connection between the guilty party and the whisperer, it is not possible to envisage any type of crime for which the latter might be liable. “Incitement to criminal activity” is usually too weak to lead to a sentence. The activity of these psychological controllers involves a subliminal level of communication which does not add criminal intent to the psyche of the agent, but brings out a dark side—present in a more or less latent form in each of us—which then leads to the subject committing one or several crimes.
Often cited is the Offelbeck case of 1986: a housewife who received a series of anonymous phone calls and who then, out of the blue, exterminated her family by putting rat poison in their soup.
Anyone who sullies himself with heinous crimes often tends to share moral responsibility with a voice, a vision or imaginary characters. For this reason it is particularly difficult to tell when such manifestations spring from genuine psychosis and when they may be traced back to the hidden work of a whisperer.
Among the sources I used in the novel, apart from manuals of criminology, forensic psychiatry and texts of legal medicine, are quoted studies by the FBI, an organization with the merit of having assembled the most valuable database concerning serial killers and violent crimes.
Many of the cases quoted in these pages really happened. For some, names and places have been changed because the investigations relating to them are not closed or the trials have not yet taken place.
The investigative and forensic techniques described in the novel are real, even though in some circumstances I have taken the liberty of adapting them to the needs of the narrative.
Acknowledgments
Many people think that writing is a solitary adventure. In fact, many people contribute, however unconsciously, to the creation of a story. They are the ones who have nourished, supported and encouraged me throughout all the months of gestation of the novel and who, in one way or another, are part of my life.
In the hope that they will stay beside me for a long time to come, I should like to thank them.
To Luigi and Daniela Bernabò, for the time and the dedication that they have given to this story and its author. For their valuable advice that allowed me to mature as a writer, helping me to mold the style and effectiveness of these pages. And for putting their hearts into it. If these words have reached your eyes, I owe it mostly to them. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.
To Stefano and Cristina Mauri, who invested their name in mine, believing in it until the end.
To Fabrizio, my “whisperer,” for his ruthless advice, for his kind firmness, for having loved every page, every word.
To Ottavio, the friend anyone would wish to have beside them their whole life long. To Valentina, who is truly special. To little Clara and Gaia, for the affection they fill me with.
To Gianmauro and Michela, in the hope of finding myself close to them when it truly matters. And to Claudia, my light.
To Massimo and Roberta, for their support and their sincere friendship.
To Michele. My first and best friend. It’s good to know that he will always be there when I need him. And it’s good that he knows I’m there too.
To Luisa, for her infectious smiles and the songs sung loudly at night, in the car driving along the streets of Rome.
To Daria, and the destiny she gave me. For the way she sees the world and the way she makes me see it through her eyes.
To Maria De Bellis, who guarded my childish dreams. If I am a writer, I also owe it to her.
To Uski, my peerless “companion.”
To Alfredo, volcanic companion in a thousand adventures.
To Achille, who isn’t there…but is always there.
To Pietro Valsecchi and Camilla Nesbit, and the whole Taodue.
Thanks to everyone at the Bernabò Agency, who followed the first stages of this novel. And all the friends who read this story from its beginnings and helped me to improve it with valuable suggestions.
To my whole big family. The ones who are, the ones who were…and the ones who will be.
To my brother Vito. The first eyes to meet this story, and many others, always. Even if you can’t hear it, the music in these pages belongs to him. And to Barbara, who makes him happy.
To my parents. For what they have taught me, and what they have let me learn on my own. For what I am, and what I will be.
To my sister Chiara. Who believes in her dreams, and in mine. Without her my life would be terribly empty.
To all those who have reached the end of these pages. In the hope that I have given them a gift of emotion.
Part of the proceeds from this book will go to an association for long-distance adoption.
About the Author
Donato Carrisi studied law and criminology before he began working as a writer for television. The Whisperer, Carrisi’s first novel, won five international literary prizes, has been sold in nearly twenty countries, and has been translated into languages as varied as French, Danish, Hebrew, and Vietnamese. Carrisi lives in Rome.
Extraordinary acclaim for Donato Carrisi’s The Whisperer
“The Whisperer is one hell of a ride. This story screams high tension, high stakes, and high velocity. Superb.”
—Michael Connelly
“Brilliant and very creepy.…A great book.”
—Ken Follett
“A gripping read. I defy anyone to guess the denouement.”
—Laura Wilson, The Guardian (UK)
“The Whisperer employs the graceful turns of phrase common to literary fiction.…Carrisi’s villain is a suitable cohort for Hannibal Lecter, and his detectives are intelligently nuanced, each struggling, sometimes failing, to cope with the depravity into which they immerse themselves in the name of good. A haunting, disconcerting, devastating portrait of evil.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Profiler Mila Vasquez and criminologist Goran Gavila race headlong against time, following obscure and elaborate clues laid out by a serial killer who seems almost prescient; whichever way the police turn, their quarry seems forever one step ahead, taunting them. Thanks to Carrisi’s intricate plotting, the criminal also keeps at least one step ahead of the seasoned mystery reader, ensuring a couple of major surprises as the novel draws to a close. The Whisperer has already won several literary awards abroad and has been a bestseller all over Europe. I predict no less for it here.”
—Bruce Tierney, BookPage
“Donato Carrisi has a unique gift for blending fascinating forensic detail, mind-bending plot twists, and empathetic characters into a seamless, powerful narrative. The Whisperer intrigues, informs, and haunts simultaneously, a novel that will linger in the mind long after you’ve finished.”
—Michael Koryta
“Exquisite. Readers who appreciate manipulation, both of plots and themselves, by the author, and those who appreciate a shock of bloody horror will be absolutely enthralled by this offering.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
“Brutally awesome.…Thomas Harris by way of Ian Rankin.”
—Will Lavender, New York Times bestselling author of
Obedience and Dominance
“More than delivers on its ghoulish promise.…You might not want to read this alone in the house.”
—Time Out London
“Intriguing.…An engagingly gruesome tale.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Serial killer books are a horror staple. With Donato Carrisi’s The Whisperer, the genre is not only receiving a breath of fresh air; the book is taking dark literary thrillers to a new level.…A great, creepy, tension-filled thriller that keeps a frenetic pace for more than four hundred pages. Carrisi’s prose is sharp and his phrasing has a distinctive literary slant that helps make even the grisly portions of the novel a pleasure to read.”
—Gabino Iglesias, HorrorTalk
“In this stunning thriller, Donato Carrisi has created a masterful balance of good and evil, deftly shaded by the flawed humanity of those who seek to impose some order on crime and violence.…From that first eerie graveyard to the shocking ending, nothing in this tale is predictable. Shock waves tremble throughout an impressive and deeply satisfying piece of work.”
—Luan Gaines, CurledUp
“Carrisi’s narrative is unforgettable and disturbing, one that will have you waking up at night and making sure that the doors to your home are locked and your children are safe. The Whisperer will take you places that you have never been by routes you will never find again. Prepare to be terrified.”
—Joe Hartlaub, BookReporter
“A murder mystery. A puzzle. A challenge. An intriguing portrait of society, of you and me.”
—Emilina Minero, EDGE Boston
Coming in October 2013
The Lost Girls of Rome
A Novel
By Donato Carrisi
The second thriller by the author of the prizewinning international bestseller The Whisperer.
A young girl has mysteriously disappeared in Rome. As rain lashes the ancient streets, two men, Clemente and Marcus, sit in a café near the Piazza Navona and pore over the details of the case. They are members of the ancient Penitenzieri—a unique Italian team, linked to the Vatican and trained in the detection of true evil.
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