A Death In Calabria

by Michele Giuttari

  Murray handed Reynolds an envelope. ‘Here’s our preliminary report. This has all the results we’ve obtained so far, including the examination of the .22 calibre cases and bullets. ’

  Reynolds saw them out and then opened the envelope. It contained, as Murray had indicated, the results obtained from the .22 calibre bullets and cases found at the scene of the crime. There were no positive matches with anything in records, but it was clear that in the apartment, as in the doorman’s booth, shots had been fired from weapons equipped with silencers.

  The envelope also contained the results of checks run through the FBI’s Fingerprint Identification System, to which all police departments throughout the country had access. None of the victims’ fingerprints were on the database, which meant they were all clean. None of them had criminal records.

  The incontrovertible fact, though, was that there was a link between the two crimes aside from their having happened at about the same time: both had involved silencers.

  Then he started looking through the file on the April 2002 homicide. The first document, a few pages long, was a summary of the basic facts of the crime, information on the victim, and the results of the phone taps and interviews. As he read, Reynolds felt the blood quicken in his veins. The door had shown no signs of forced entry and no one, apart from the cleaning woman, had keys. The investigators had surmised that the victim knew her killer. The cleaner had a cast-iron alibi and had immediately been taken off the list of possible suspects.

  Reynolds pushed his chair back and went to get himself a drink. He needed some water and a cup of coffee before going on.

  When he resumed going through the file, he found a pile of duty reports and handwritten notes: the sort of things that always got left at the bottom of a file, which could sometimes provide useful leads if you knew what to look for.

  Next he studied a series of 6 × 4 photographs taken inside the victim’s apartment. Everything seemed tidy, except in the bedroom. He lingered over the photographs of the body. It was lying on the floor, beside the half-unmade bed. From the chest up it was hidden by the bed. The victim, Susan George, was thirty-five, a slim, attractive blonde. She had been shot four times: twice in the chest, once in the right shoulder, and once in the head.

  Then he read through the notes on the interviews - nothing helpful - a chronology of the victim’s last days - nothing special - and, finally, a few press cuttings - nothing new. The investigation had focused on Susan George’s ex-husband, from whom she had been separated for years, but it had turned out that on the day of the murder he had been in Brazil on business. The woman’s private life had also been probed to identify possible lovers, but they had drawn a blank there, too.

  Reynolds leaned back in his chair. He closed the file. Could there be something linking the crimes?

  The whole scope of the investigation was widening.

  ‘Drugs are what makes the world go round these days. The killers could have been coke heads.’

  The comment came from a member of the drugs squad. He and Bernardi were in the corridor, drinking coffee, when they heard a telephone ringing from Bernardi’s office. Bernardi rushed in and grabbed the phone.

  ‘Seventeenth precinct, Detective Bernardi.’

  ‘Michelino?’

  ‘Who’s that?’

  ‘Salvatore, your uncle from Italy. What time is it over there?’

  ‘This isn’t a good line, Uncle,’ Bernardi replied in his shaky Italian. ‘It’s eleven twenty at night. Has something happened?’

  ‘No, I just wanted to know what’s going on over there. I’m here in the bar with some friends and we just heard the five o’clock news on TV. They said there was a massacre . . . Everyone here is shocked . . .’

  ‘Massacre? What do you mean?’

  ‘All those murders, Michelino. It’s like the days of Al Capone . . . You know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘Yes, I do. That’s why I’m very busy at the moment, Uncle . . .’

  ‘Be careful, don’t take too many risks, they’re animals . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Wild animals - no, worse than that . . .’

  ‘Take it easy, Uncle. How are you all? How’s my aunt? How’s Mario?’

  ‘Fine, the usual life, the usual diseases of old age. We sent you a package, with salami, chestnuts, sundried tomatoes—’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll phone you when it arrives. I hope to see you on my vacation next summer.’

  ‘Is that a promise?’

  ‘Yes, I’m coming to Sicily.’

  ‘Then I’ll see you soon,’ his uncle said by way of conclusion.

  ‘Yes, soon, I’ll see you soon,’ Bernardi was saying, but his uncle had already hung up. He slowly put down the receiver.

  His mind went back to the first trip he’d made to his parents’ birthplace, Piazza Armenia, when he was barely seven. He remembered cycling with his little cousin Mario, Uncle Salvatore’s son, down a long, narrow lane. That plunge into the past troubled him. It was as if the daily course of his life had become that lane.

  The phone rang again. This time, it was Reynolds asking him to come to his office for an update.

  9

  Monday, 3 November

  The news exploded on to the front pages like a bomb.

  All the newspapers implied that these were Mafia killings. Some speculated that a new gang war had broken out and predicted more deaths to come. Inevitably, they all linked the murder of the doorman to those on the nineteenth floor.

  The New York Post headline screamed: BLOODY SUNDAY: MAFIA SLAYINGS IN MANHATTAN.

  It was the kind of headline usually reserved for wars or national and international disasters. That was the way of the world.

  Under the headline, there was a photograph of the entrance to the building on East 42nd Street.

  The Italian media, too, led with the ‘Mafia slayings’ in New York. The angle adopted by their correspondents, as well as by the leading news agencies, was that this had indeed been a Mafia-style execution.

  It was a few minutes to seven and already the pink and blue hues of dawn had filtered into the room.

  John Reynolds was still in bed, in a half-waking state, when the telephone rang on the night table. He slowly opened his eyes, picked up the receiver and said in a flat voice, ‘Hello?’

  ‘Lieutenant Reynolds?’

  ‘This is he.’

  ‘Dick Moore, FBI. Did I wake you?’

  ‘No, go on.’

  ‘We’ve been brought in on the Fedeli case and I need to meet with you. When do you think you could get here?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Federal Plaza.’

  ‘I could drop by sometime this morning.’

  ‘It might be best if you came as soon as possible. We’d like to start immediately. We’re waiting for you, Lieutenant.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘And bring all the documents with you, including any reports from the Crime Scene Unit.’

  ‘I’ll have to swing by my office first.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Reynolds put the phone down, wrinkling his nose as if he could smell something unpleasant. He lay for a while longer in bed, then, as soon as he heard his wife muttering, he got up.

  ‘Linda, you’re right,’ he said as he walked towards the bathroom. ‘I really hope this will be my last case.’

  ‘Let’s hope so. But this isn’t the first time you’ve said that. At your age, you should be thinking about slowing down . . .’

  ‘No, this time it’s going to happen. The transfer is really only a matter of days away.’

  She sighed and rubbed her forehead. It was still hot. The fever had not completely subsided yet even though her temperature had gone down.

  ‘Your daughter is grown up now, she’s already married. And she’s seen so little of you in all these years. What you have - what we have - isn’t a life . . .’

  ‘We’ll go and see her for Christmas.’

  ‘Let�
�s hope so. Christmas, at least!’

  ‘Darling, we’ll soon have a normal life. I promise.’

  He brought her breakfast in bed: a steaming cup of coffee and a couple of brioches. Then he kissed her warmly on the lips, said goodbye and left.

  At work, John Reynolds had a reputation for being tough and uncompromising. But he was a man who knew when and how to show his feelings.

  The Jacob K. Javits Federal Building at 26 Federal Plaza in Lower Manhattan is more than forty storeys high. John Reynolds got out of the car and paused beside the low wall where the name of the building is displayed on a plaque. Tired and heavy-lidded from lack of sleep, he took a last drag of his cigarette and flung it away irritably.

  An agent was waiting for him in the marble-floored lobby. He led him to a row of elevators. They rode up to the FBI’s New York field office on the twenty-third floor in silence. Leaving the elevator, they walked down a long corridor lined with offices until they came to the conference room. The agent opened the door and stood aside to let him in.

  A group of agents were sitting around an oval walnut table, lit by ceiling lights. There was one woman, and she was wearing a white blouse and dark pants suit. The men were severely dressed in grey business suits, matching ties and white shirts.

  With one exception.

  Next to this one exception, Reynolds recognised the FBI’s assistant director for New York, Dick Moore. He was sitting at the centre of the table with a colour photograph of President George W. Bush behind him. Reynolds needed only a quick glance to recognise the woman, too. Her name was Mary Cook. Before joining the FBI, she had been a detective in the homicide squad, the youngest at the time.

  ‘Lieutenant Reynolds, good to see you again,’ Moore said, standing and walking towards him with his hand held out and a polite smile on his thin, intelligent face.

  Dick Moore was forty-five years old. He was over six feet tall, light-skinned, and of regular build. His most prominent features were his aquiline nose and his receding hairline. He was as punctilious in his relations with his colleagues as he was in his dress.

  Reynolds shook his hand. ‘Same here,’ he replied. But he felt a curious sense of foreboding.

  ‘Let me introduce my colleagues,’ said Moore, leading him round the table. Then they sat down and Reynolds took the documents from his leather briefcase.

  ‘Maybe you could start by giving us a summary of the case,’ Moore said.

  ‘Of course,’ Reynolds replied, biting his lower lip and rubbing his chin with his hand.

  For the next half hour, he gave an account of the homicides and the progress of the investigation to date, including the interviews with Rocco Fedeli’s family and the details relating to the Beretta found next to his body. Dick Moore and his colleagues listened attentively.

  ‘So you didn’t learn much from Fedeli’s family,’ Moore commented when he had finished. ‘But that filed-down licence number on the gun clearly suggests an organised crime connection. ’

  ‘I agree.’

  ‘And how about your search of the apartment?’

  ‘We took away a lot of material. My men are examining it now.’

  ‘Who’s in charge?’

  ‘Detective Michael Bernardi.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. There are two safes in the apartment. One of them contained a number of documents.’

  ‘Interesting!’ Moore said, turning to the agent sitting next to him, who looked absolutely at ease in sweater and jeans. This was Bill Hampton, head of the Criminal Investigative Division of the Organised Crime Section.

  Then Moore turned back to Reynolds. ‘And what do we have so far from the labs?’

  Reynolds went through the ballistics results. Everyone continued following his words intently.

  ‘It seems pretty obvious to me we’re dealing with professionals, ’ Moore remarked when he had finished.

  Reynolds nodded.

  ‘Now it’s my turn to tell you something,’ Moore went on. There followed a few moments’ silence. Reynolds waited for Moore to continue. He had only one concern: were the Feds going to take over his investigation?

  Right then, he’d have bet his life on it.

  Dick Moore cleared his throat. ‘Rocco Fedeli has been known to us for some time,’ he said.

  A heavy silence fell over the room. Reynolds gave Moore a questioning look. Seeing this, Moore said, ‘I understand your concern, Lieutenant. Let me say right away that I think it only fitting that my office cooperate with your squad. Those are the DA’s instructions. We’ve already been in contact with Assistant DA Morrison—’

  ‘—who was at the crime scene yesterday,’ Reynolds cut in, anticipating him. If what Moore was offering was simple cooperation, then that was fine by him. He already had more than enough problems to deal with in his precinct, starting with the string of assaults on young girls. The Feds would be able to take some of the burden off his men: thanks to laws passed since 9/11, they now had wider investigative powers.

  ‘I know,’ Moore said. ‘We exchanged a few theories.’ He fell silent for a moment and sipped at his drink. Then he examined a few sheets of paper on the table in front of him.

  No one spoke.

  ‘Lieutenant,’ Moore resumed, ‘I think we need to be clear about our respective roles from the start, to avoid any possible ambiguity.’

  Reynolds gave him another questioning look and shifted uneasily on his chair. His mind was racing. Their respective roles? That sounded ominous . . .

  ‘Your detective squad will continue to run the investigation, ’ Moore went on. ‘You can assure your men of that, especially Detective Bernardi.’

  Reynolds nodded. At last his face seemed to relax.

  Suddenly a giant screen on the wall lit up.

  Moore raised his right hand, and one of the agents brought up the first images: two very well-dressed men at JFK Airport, both carrying suitcases in their right hands.

  The agent froze the image, and Moore said, ‘These men arrived in New York two months ago and met with Rocco Fedeli.’ He ordered the agent to resume the slideshow.

  More images of the two men appeared, showing them at different times on the same day - the date and time was displayed in the bottom right-hand corner of each image - and always in the company of Rocco Fedeli.

  ‘Did they come here specifically to meet with Fedeli?’ Reynolds asked, perhaps only to get explicit confirmation of what he already suspected.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Drugs, we suspect.’

  ‘Who are the two men?’

  ‘Mafiosi. Here’s a copy of what he have.’

  Moore handed Reynolds a thick file with the name Rocco Fedeli on the cover, and below it, written with a red marker in block capitals, the word: SUSPECT.

  Reynolds was about to open it, but Moore headed him off. ‘You’ll be able to read it at leisure in your office. This copy is yours to take away. You’ll find everything in there, including why we first started to take an interest in Fedeli.’

  ‘I’ll have a look at it as soon as I get back to my office.’

  ‘Good. The important thing now is to establish a plan of action. I think it’d be a good idea to divide up the tasks.’

  Reynolds nodded.

  ‘Getting back to the murders,’ Moore went on, ‘one thing seems certain to me: this was a Mafia execution, possibly a settling of scores. The question is, which organisation was responsible? Have you any ideas yet, Lieutenant?’

  ‘Not really. At this point I’d rather read your documents first.’

  ‘In any case, it’d be good to take a long hard look at Rocco Fedeli and his activities, which are probably only a cover. And to find out all we can about the sister and the families of the other victims.’

  ‘My men have phone taps on Fedeli’s sister, his restaurant and hotel.’

  ‘Excellent,’ Moore said. ‘We’ll be doing a few phone taps as well.’

  The Feds cert
ainly wouldn’t meet any objection from the judges, who had become more malleable since the resurgence of terrorism. You didn’t even need reasonable cause any more to get authorisation for phone taps: you just had to show that your investigation conformed with Federal law. Everything had become much easier.

  In conclusion, Moore suggested they meet again over the next few days, or even the next few hours.

  Reynolds put the Rocco Fedeli file in his briefcase, gestured in farewell and left the room, thus sparing himself the usual FBI smiles and handshakes.

  The agents trooped out one by one. As they did so, Dick Moore motioned to Bill Hampton to come with him to his office.

  When they got there, he immediately closed the door.

  A large sheet of paper lay rolled up and secured by a rubber band at the back of the desk drawer. Moore took it out as carefully as if it were a religious relic and handed it to his colleague.

  Bill Hampton was nearly six feet tall, with an athletic build and longish black hair. He looked more like a rock star or Tony Montana in Scarface than an FBI agent. But what was most striking about him were his round eyes, usually hidden behind dark glasses, which gave the impression of capturing the tiniest detail, even the most apparently insignificant.

  ‘Read it,’ Moore said, visibly tense.

  Bill Hampton had witnessed Moore handling a lot of difficult situations lately, but he had never seen him look so worried. The first thing he noticed when he looked at the paper was that it was a confidential document. At the top, in the middle of the page, he read:Transcript of a telephone call received 1 November - Classified

  Persons involved: Assistant Director Moore - Mr X.

  Mr X: Director Moore?

  Moore: Yes. Who is this?

  Mr X: You may not know me personally, but I consider myself your friend.

  Moore: I see. Go on.

  Mr X: Some hit men have arrived in the city. There’s going to be a lot of blood spilt.

  Moore: Who are they?

  Mr X: I don’t know . . . Not yet, anyway . . . Don’t ask too much of me.