Viper

by Unknown

  A shooter.

  That’s what he was.

  When the chips were down and he had to react rather than plan, when he had to get down to business rather than indulge his fantasy, he was a shooter.

  And shooters were cold and deadly. Remote, unemotional and detached.

  They had to focus their hunt on finding a man who regularly handled a gun. Someone who was a proficient shot, felt confident and comfortable enough to kill strangers without hesitation.

  Was that really Franco Castellani? Could you get that sort of proficiency from shooting rats in a pit?

  Sadly, today’s video game generation was proving to be among the world’s deadliest and youngest shooters. Pennsylvania State, Columbine, Iowa, Omaha, Virginia Tech, Dawson, the list went on and on. Stats showed that around a dozen kids a day died in the States from gunshot wounds – kids these days were made to leave their innocence at the school gates.

  Maybe psychology was going to have to bow to forensics. If the Castellani kid was guilty, then his DNA would be inside the young couple’s car. His fingerprints would be on the bodywork and his trace evidence would be somewhere on the girl or on her clothing. Forensics could make an impressive prosecution case and Jack knew it would take more than his niggling doubts to dismantle it.

  He took a pen and paper from the desk and totted up the ten major things that he believed he now knew about the offender.

  He kills his victims and – with the exception of the murders at the pit, where he was disturbed – disposes of them in separate places.

  He uses a gun to control his victims and take them to where he wants.

  He is turned on by power and control. That turn-on is of a sadistic nature. More than anything he enjoys witnessing the suffering.

  He has a vehicle, something big enough in which to conceal and move a victim, no doubt bound and gagged.

  He has excellent local knowledge and the burial site is so well known to him it probably has a significant memory for him.

  He is fit and strong enough to climb mountain paths and get in and out of deep pits in a hurry.

  He is sexually active but is probably not in a relationship, so he is sexually frustrated.

  He is noticeably cruel, perhaps even violent, and is probably known to be dangerous.

  He is able to come and go of his own free will. He is not accountable to a close partner or scrupulous boss who might question his movements at odd times.

  The use of fire is indicative of massive internal stress and frustration, which is only relieved when the flames roar and someone else suffers.

  Suffers externally like he suffers internally – could that be it? This last thought hovered in his mind.

  Jack reviewed the ten points. Franco Castellani ticked some of the boxes, but not all. One thing for sure – this kid undoubtedly knew all about suffering. Perhaps he felt compelled to share suffering around.

  Inflict it on others.

  Get others to feel the agony that was slowly killing him.

  Given the age, race and gender of the victims, Jack summarized the profile.

  White male/s

  Has experience and knows how to control violence, probably aged thirties to fifties (maybe younger if two people involved)

  Single or divorced – a loner

  Born and lives locally

  Has special local connections to National Park area where victims’ remains found. Also connections to holiday campsite in Pompeii where murder scene discovered

  Holds driving licence. Owns – or has access to – vehicle big enough to move victims around in

  Comfortable with a gun – possibly law enforcement officer (or works with such officers), ex-military, rifle-club member, sports shooter, prison officer. Perhaps a career criminal. A Camorrista with a history of violence?

  Sexually active with fetishist/paraphilic tendencies

  Sadistic – has a need to see others suffering

  Once more the fit wasn’t perfect. He trawled the list again. On reflection, he really didn’t feel this was a two-person crime. And if you ruled out a second person then Franco really didn’t seem to have the maturity and cunning to fit the profile.

  Jack scanned the rest of the outline. He also didn’t think the profession was right. There was a difference between shooting vermin every day and taking human lives. Unless Franco saw those really pretty women – the ones who rejected him and ridiculed him – as vermin. That would make sense. That would make perfect sense.

  He was still caught in the tangle of contradictory thoughts when his cellphone rang.

  ‘Jack, it’s Sylvia. I just got a call from Sorrentino. One of his excavation teams has just found another body. The third. And it’s another woman.’

  66

  Campeggio Castellani, Pompeii

  It took Antonio Castellani two more pots of coffee to tell Pietro everything about Franco, Paolo and his hugely dysfunctional extended family.

  The more he heard, the more Pietro was convinced that Paolo Falconi was no gunman and no serial killer. But his cousin Franco stayed top of the list of key suspects.

  He was about to wind up and leave when Antonio stopped him in his tracks. ‘There is something that I didn’t tell you yesterday. A secret I thought I would take to the grave.’ He opened his hands expansively, a sign of surrender. ‘With all this happening, I think I should talk about it.’

  Pietro couldn’t help but glance at his watch. His business was done and whatever secret Antonio had, he was sure it wasn’t going to help his case.

  ‘For years now I have been paying debts to the Camorra, to the Finelli clan.’

  Pietro nodded sympathetically. ‘You and many others. I have colleagues who may be able to help you. I’ll write…’

  ‘Shush, let me finish. This is not about the pizzu. I don’t mind a little tax here and there. This is something more.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Please go ahead.’

  ‘Finelli sent his yobs, his guys, to frighten me away from my home. I have a debt from decades ago – fifty years in fact – now they want to foreclose, shut me down and build on the land. I’ll have nothing.’

  Pietro was worried. This was a messy secret. Messy secrets meant a lot of social work and wasted time, something he couldn’t afford right now. ‘You won’t lose your home. These days we have special units that can protect you. People can intervene and –’

  The old man cut him off again. ‘You young are so impatient. Let me have my say. It will not be the waste of time you fear.’

  And so Pietro sat back and gritted his teeth. Slowly the story of the gambling debt and the crude and cruel threats of the hired muscle unfolded. His sympathy went out to the old man. Life had certainly dealt him the proverbial losing hand. He was about to try – for the third time – to give him a contact name and number in the anti-Camorra unit, when Antonio Castellani shuffled to the back of the caravan and returned with half a dozen scrapbooks and photo albums.

  ‘Signor Castellani, please. I really must go now.’ Pietro rose and began to pull on his coat.

  The old man ignored him. ‘When your team searched the other day they only glanced at these. They should have looked closer. They should not have rushed – like you are doing now.’

  Pietro’s eyes fell on the faded newsprint and old black and white pictures stuck in a cheap cardboard binder that was thick with dust and smelled like stale bread.

  ‘These books go back half a century,’ said Antonio proudly. ‘They are records of every payment I’ve made. Every meeting I’ve ever had with the Camorra. They start with the late Luigi Finelli and then go on to his son, Fredo.’ He turned a wad of crinkly pages and stopped at a news cutting that showed Bruno Valsi going to prison. ‘And then they finish with Fredo’s son-in-law, this little bastard. I’m sure you recognize him.’

  Pietro certainly did. He took the book in his hands. The pages at the front and back were decoys. They were filled with boring family memorabilia – marriage certificates, birthday
cards and school reports. But sandwiched between them was a layer of dynamite. Antonio Castellani’s scrapbooks were personal logs of all the dealings he’d had over the years with the Finelli clan. He’d kept an account of all his payments, taken notes of all his conversations with them, jotted down every rumour and half-truth he’d ever heard about how they operated. And he’d listed every name and associate he’d heard mentioned. Antonio explained that his dearly departed wife, God bless her soul, had even secretly taken photographs of protection money being paid and countless henchmen coming and going in a variety of cars.

  The biggest prize of all, though, were the photographs and corresponding notes and maps relating to weapons that Fredo Finelli had demanded Antonio hold for him. It had been an old gangster trick. Wipe a gun clean of your own prints and then have it held – and in doing so, printed – by someone indebted to you. If it was ever discovered by the cops, then the holder was expected to take the fall. Certainly they’d never dare divulge the true owner’s identity. The consequences would be fatal.

  Antonio had clearly kept all the stuff as an insurance payment, and now – with Valsi and his thugs threatening to evict him – it was time to cash it in. Pietro stared in silence at the documents. They were Camorra treasure maps. Find the guns, match the documents and, with Antonio as a witness, it would be a prosecution gold rush.

  Antonio nodded at the undivided attention he was now getting. ‘I’ll make more caffè,’ he said. ‘I think it will take you a while to get through all that.’

  And it did.

  It was dark when Pietro left the caravan and walked back to his battered and rusty Lancia. He sat inside with the engine off and let it all sink in.

  The futures of Bruno Valsi and Fredo Finelli – the two biggest names in Camorra circles – lay solely in his hands.

  Suddenly, finding Franco Castellani really didn’t seem to matter as much as deciding how he handled the information that he knew could change his career forever.

  67

  Capo di Posillipo, La Baia di Napoli

  Fredo Finelli was in his garden when his daughter found him. The rain had stopped, the air was fresh and he was meandering around the borders, trees and shrubs, lost in his own world.

  ‘Needs more colour,’ said Gina.

  He was surprised to see her. Then happy. He kissed her and hugged her. ‘I think you’re right. I’ve had tulip bulbs planted for the spring; they should look wonderful.’

  ‘Mamma’s favourite.’ Gina felt a pang of sadness.

  Her father felt it too. ‘The gardeners have planted them like she used to.’

  ‘You mean all the colours laid out separately, rather than mixed together?’

  He smiled. ‘Yes, you know how she loved symmetry. Everything had to have its place. Have a balance. Your mother was so fond of ensuring order.’

  Gina put her arm around her father’s waist, hugged him and then rested her head on his left shoulder. ‘I still miss her too, you know.’

  ‘I know you do, sweetheart.’ He kissed the top of her head. ‘All these years, and the loss still hurts like it was yesterday.’ He moved half a pace away from Gina and took her hand. ‘Anyway, let’s not be sad. We have happy memories and happy things to look forward to.’ He lightly patted her tummy. ‘Any more grandchildren for me?’

  Gina was horrified and her father couldn’t help but notice it. ‘Papà, I don’t want to have another child. I know you expect Bruno and me –’

  He cut her off by raising his hand. ‘Then don’t.’

  She tried to calm herself. ‘You’re not mad?’

  ‘No, my sweet, not at all.’ He smiled at her. ‘Come and walk with me. It’s going to rain soon, let’s make the most of the dry weather.’

  The garden was nearly an acre. In summer the orchard was lush with apples, cherries and pears, but now the dark leafless trees looked as sad and sombre as Fredo’s daughter. ‘I know things are not good between you and Bruno, haven’t been good since he came out of prison.’ He stopped and turned to face her. ‘But tell me honestly, Gina, just how bad are they?’

  She felt ashamed. Personal failure was something she hated. ‘He doesn’t love me, Papà.’

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I’m sure. He’s told me as much.’

  Don Fredo flinched at his daughter’s pain.

  ‘He says I am fat and ugly and he will take his pleasures elsewhere. The marriage is a sham, Papà.’

  Finelli pulled her close to him. ‘Oh, baby. My poor baby.’ He held her and felt anger boiling inside him. ‘This man is not good enough for you. We have our customs, but this cannot be tolerated. You and Enzo must come and live here with me, while we sort this out.’

  Gina felt tears welling in her eyes. Tears of relief. Tears of shame. ‘The other day, in the house, he beat me. And then – then, he raped me.’

  Fredo Finelli clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white. He spoke softly but there was a hardness in his words. ‘I will kill him, Gina. For this alone, I will kill him.’

  Gina was silent for a second. She hung on to her father, just as she’d done as a child when she was hurt and worried. ‘I hope so, Papà. I really hope so.’

  And then she shut her eyes and prayed to God that she’d done the right thing.

  68

  Parco Nazionale del Vesuvio

  Jack felt he was getting to know the park’s 130 square kilometres better than most locals. As well as his visits, he’d studied maps and websites in every spare moment he’d had. He’d memorized its nine main footpaths and how they lifted people to more than 1,200 metres above sea level. He’d studied its flora, fauna and geology. Soon – very soon – he hoped he’d know the area as well as the man he was hunting.

  ‘Buon giorno! ’ shouted Sylvia, as he completed the last bit of the climb after the carabinieri car had dropped him. ‘Sorrentino, the big guy over there, was called by his team. They’ve found more fragments of bone. As I said on the phone, they’re sure it’s another body.’

  Jack looked across the site as they walked together. The unearthed graves of Francesca Di Lauro, the still unidentified second victim and now the third and newest victim were all so close together that there was a danger of the scenes being cross-contaminated. Access planks and grid lines only went so far in protecting multiple-victim scenes, and Jack could see workers struggling not to step into each other’s territory. Sorrentino was now on his knees in the third site, sifting soil, shouting and pointing at people.

  ‘Let me introduce you to him.’ Sylvia wiped strands of wind-blown hair from off her face. ‘His English is good and lately he’s been behaving himself.’

  ‘No leaks to the press?’

  ‘None. Maybe the Great Lion is tamed.’

  ‘Good.’ Jack noticed she was missing her trusted sidekick. ‘Where’s Pietro?’

  ‘He’s still interviewing Antonio Castellani. He might join us out here if he finishes in time.’

  ‘Any news on the grandson – Franco?’

  ‘No. We’ve still got cars out searching. He has no wheels, so he can’t be far.’

  ‘And his cousin?’

  ‘Paolo. There’s news on him. Forensics don’t put him at the pit. Or near the car in which Rosa and Filippo were killed, or in contact with the underwear or trophies we found. We’ll take DNA for further comparison tests, hold him until nightfall, then have someone re-interview him before we let him go.’

  They gingerly made their way along the last narrow plank to the newest site.

  ‘Bernardo, this is Jack King, an American psychological profiler who is helping us with our case.’

  Jack held out his hand but Sorrentino didn’t take it immediately. His brain had to absorb the fact that there was someone around who might, just might, be more interesting than himself. ‘Bernardo Sorrentino, Professore Sorrentino.’ He stressed his title as he finally took the profiler’s hand.

  Jack nodded at the hunched figures toiling in the dirt. ‘Looks like
a major job. You got any pattern yet?’

  Sorrentino unveiled his most patronizing of looks. ‘Aah, I wish it was that easy. This is not a structural burial. There are no rooms, no underground chambers, and no buildings of any kind that can provide us with the type of design that would make discovery easy.’

  ‘Rough time frame?’

  ‘Francesca we dated around five years. The second is more like six. And I’d say the third is the same – maybe even a little older.’

  Jack’s mind wandered to the killer. How had he carried the victims’ remains here? Sacks, bags, buckets? What had he used to get his bearings? A compass or just strong memories? Why had he buried them apart – was it by accident, or out of respect? Did he have some twisted, fractured but still prevailing sense of decency deep inside him? Or did he want them to have separate graves for other reasons?

  Sylvia and Sorrentino were talking Italian now. She was asking whether the new bones would yield DNA and Sorrentino was hopeful. She was pushing him for dates on when it would be done – when she could expect results. As he wandered away, Jack smiled at the hard time she was giving Sorrentino. He liked women with ambition, dedication and determination. Liked them professionally, liked them personally.

  The profiler stopped and banged a heel into the ground. The earth was as stony as hell. The killer wouldn’t have been able to dig exactly where he liked, so he would have had to have chosen softer ground. He eyed the bushes, the brambles, the patches of overgrown grass and the trees, the circle of pines and cypresses that stretched out their roots like tentacles. Jack had soon walked a full twenty metres away from the others and was now entering a copse of trees south of where Sylvia and Sorrentino stood. From here he looked back on the steel poles that had been driven into the ground. They were labelled UNO, DUO and TRE – like the numbers of a clock.