We are waiting for all those who spoke last with Aphrodite, based on what we know so far. The two suspects are left for the end. We are preparing to welcome the protagonists of last night.
‘‘Good evening.’’
Ioannis Vasilikos is standing at the door, next to the police officer. He hesitates to enter. I mingle my eyebrows, trying to distinguish the large stamp on his left sleeve. He is wearing a thick jacket in a light, burgundy tone which has scattered representations of ancient Greek frescoes. He approaches us and I notice a stripe on his left sleeve, which is trying unsuccessfully to match with his black, leather trousers.
‘‘Come in, Mr. Vasilikos…’’
The petite rising star proceeds with his hands glued to the side sits in front of us and rests his palms on his knees, which are placed at an angle of ninety degrees to the floor. He seems as if he is at the starting line, ready to run in a race.
‘‘Tell us what happened at the dance school last night.’’
My husband starts the interrogation, and I am really curious about the responses he will get.
‘‘Hmm…’’ he mutters and clears his throat. ‘‘We had gone for a rehearsal…’’ he opens his eyes and lowers his chin.
‘‘You, the lyricist, the composer, and the dancer. Move on.’’
‘‘Indeed.’’
He dry coughs. I wasn’t so embarrassment even on the day I first met Peter and he had crushed me with questions about the qualifications of a proper police officer.
‘‘I learned… I mean I was learning… Basically, I had learned…’’
‘‘Will I have to wait for you to conjugate the whole verb?’’
The fear that has overwhelmed Vasilikos overshadows his possible offended reaction to Peter’s attack. I wonder how there is a fan base for this weak personality; a skinny embarrassed boy who melts admirers’ hearts in his passage nonetheless.
‘‘Forgive me… I can’t recover yet…’’ he says and lowers his gaze on his fingers.
‘‘Do you want us to offer you a drink to relax, Mr. Vasilikos?’’ he mocks him again.
‘‘No thank you, I never drink.’’
He can’t be so naive. Surely, he is kidding us.
‘‘What happened last night?’’ Peter insists. ‘‘I don’t want to learn the choreography. I am asking you to tell me what happened when you left from there.’’
‘‘We just left. All of us. Each one on his own.’’
‘‘One after the other?’’
‘‘No, no. Dima and Nektarios left together and I accompanied Aphrodite to the bus stop. It was late, I couldn’t leave her alone.’’
‘‘So, you didn’t leave alone, as you said ten seconds ago, but you followed her.’’
He sighs. ‘‘I didn’t touch her. I swear to you. I accompanied her to the bus stop and left. There were other people there. I didn’t touch her.’’ His hands are resting on his chest.
‘‘Where did you go next’’?
‘‘I went home. For the last few days, I have been going to bed early because adequate sleep is good for the vocal cords. I am preparing for Eurovision,’’ he states with a soft voice.
‘‘So, you have no alibi for the time of the murder.’’
Vasilikos blinks quickly. He opens his lips tilting his body slightly forward and turns back, looking up and down.
‘‘Officer, I would never harm Aphrodite… Never her…’’
His eyes are watery. I make a gesture to Peter and take the initiative to continue myself. ‘‘Mr. Vasilikos, you know that Dima Vladimirov is the main suspect, mainly because he is linked with Natalie’s death, but also because of the existence of the two melodies. What do you believe?’’
I bring the laptop forward and let him listen to the melodies that were found on the dead bodies. He leans forward. He looks at me and throws fleeting glances at Antonella. He excludes Peter from any eye contact.
‘‘I don’t believe that Dima wrote these melodies. He doesn’t write like that…’’ His lips are armed with confidence. His voice is stable.
‘‘How long have you known each other?’’
‘‘About six months.’’
‘‘So, you consider that you know him well?’’
He clears his voice again. His eyes are going back and forth in the room. ‘‘I don’t know… Sincerely I don’t know… He is a good person. He has helped me a lot,’’ he smiles mechanically and then gets serious in a second. ‘‘Dima helped me find the courage to fight for my dreams!’’
Did the artistic figure, whose face looks like a portrait of an anonymous painter, have a dream to become a star of the music scene?
Surprise fills my eyes and makes me observe him as if he was a piece of art and I was his appraiser.
‘‘In our lives, we sometimes meet people who may be completely unknown to us, but yet begin to be of great interest before we even say a word with them. From the first moment I met Dima, I felt close to him…’’
‘‘The possibility of someone trying to trap him is still under our consideration. Do you believe such a theory?’’ Peter asks him and gets up from the desk.
‘‘Maybe. I don’t know,’’ he sulks as if the indictment has fallen on him. ‘‘Dima knows only me and Nektarios here. I don’t know if he has spoken to anybody, but I didn’t tell anyone he is the one writing my songs,’’ he states, and the obvious question comes from Antonella’s lips.
‘‘Why doesn’t he want it to be known?’’
‘‘Personal reasons.’’
‘‘Do you believe that the lyricist could trap him?’’ Peter takes over again.
‘‘I can’t exclude it…’’ he says, and I take a meteoric expression of surprise. I never expected this artistic anxiety could blame someone. In general, nothing he does or says was expected from him. ‘‘Nektarios doesn’t comply with ethical rules. He could do anything for money.’’
Peter comes in front of him and sits at the edge of the desk. ‘‘Who talked about money, Mr. Vasilikos?’’
The singer loses his courage and luster. ‘‘I don’t know, I don’t know… I don’t know what to tell you…’’ he breaks out and the first tears come out of his round eyes. ‘‘I simply believe that a man who doesn’t respect someone else’s work…’’
‘‘May even be a murderer?’’ he is ironic, receiving a frightening gaze as a response.
‘‘Do you know if any of them had a personal contact with Aphrodite? We want the truth, Mr. Vasilikos,’’ I ask him charging my last sentence emotionally. Invocation to emotion.
‘‘No. Basically, I don’t know, but I exclude it. I am telling you the truth, only the truth,’’ he confesses trying to persuade us without any argument. I am sure he wants to say something more, but I have no way of making him speak. And the pressure Peter exerts on him doesn’t seem to be more efficient.
‘‘Go and tell the truth to your confessor. You will only tell us what your lawyer or your associates have advised you. We won’t change the whole interrogation system because of you!’’ Peter resigns. I feel his irritation, the moment I analyze Vasilikos’s weakness. He tries to answer when he accepts the disapproving nod of our criminologist. ‘‘You don’t need to say anything else. The verb conjugation was enough. You may go.’’
He gets up from his chair with his hands glued on his side again. He stands short and looks at our desks. Maybe he wants to say goodbye. His movements seem so innocent that they irritate me. I emphasize the word seem in the easily manipulated part of my brain.
‘‘One last question, Mr. Vasilikos…’’ Antonella rekindles the battle. The truth is that I had forgotten her existence. The rising star can easily distract you, without doing anything special. This is the key to his success.
‘‘Based on our few months experience with the composer, do you believe he is capable of committing a murder?’’
His body shows more stagnation than even the door. Antonella stopped the time. It worries me that his answer is not
coming spontaneously and effortlessly from his lips.
‘‘I can’t know.’’
The information we receive constantly confirms that it is the same killer who applied exactly the same technique to the murders of both girls. The same amount of anesthetics was found in Aphrodite’s body, as in the case of Nomikou.
‘‘May I come in?’’
Nektarios Giannatos, the lyricist of the composer’s creations, a friend and collaborator of his, enters the room and we pass to the second stage of interrogation. Grey coat, black glasses, and a distinctive perfume. His well-groomed beard and his glasses give him an extra charm. He could also be of Italian descent. He is scanning all three of us.
‘‘Mr. Giannatos, what can you tell us about yesterday night?’’
‘‘We rehearsed normally and then I went for a drink. I invited Ioannis with me, but he didn’t want to come.’’
‘‘Why not Vladimirov?’’
‘‘He is not used to going out.’’
‘‘Therefore, you have an alibi? Are there people who can confirm that you were somewhere between twelve and one last night?’’
‘‘I don’t know. Only the bar owner could remember me. I am not a regular customer there.’’
‘‘Did the girl leave with you from the school?’’
‘‘We parted in different directions. Ioannis left with the secretary.’’
‘‘Did they leave together?’’
‘‘He said he would accompany her to the bus stop.’’
‘‘When did the three of you team up?’’
Peter notices that the lyricist is in the mood of revelations so he takes the opportunity. If we had Ioannis, we would still be in the good evening part.
‘‘Dima and Ioannis knew each other before. I met them at the record label.’’
‘‘Beforehand? For how long?’’
‘‘They met in the hospital where Ioannis was practicing. I don’t know details.’’
We exchange instantaneous glances which are all turned to the interrogated lyricist. A doctor knows about anesthetics and their dosages. A doctor complicates, even more, the situation. The tangle of the case complicates again, creating more complex knots.
‘‘Are they both doctors?’’
‘‘Not Dima. Ioannis was about to be, but when he purchased his real dream, he abandoned his science.’’
‘‘The person in charge of the dance school told us that he collaborates with the dancers of the school for his video clips. Do you know what kind of relationship he had with Aphrodite?’’
‘‘I don’t know. I first met her on Wednesday. We all wanted to have an opinion on the choreography, so this is why we went to the school.’’
Peter turns the laptop on and the mortal melodies play again.
‘‘Do you believe they could have been composed by Vladimirov?’’
‘‘With some basic knowledge of composition, everyone could write a melody, officer…’’
‘‘Therefore, neither you can exclude the possibility of Vladimirov being the killer of the two girls,’’ Antonella is testing him.
‘‘Me neither? Did Ioannis say that there is such a possibility?’’ An ironic smile pops up as he raises his black, bony glasses with his left hand. ‘‘It is difficult to be on the top. It is not so easy to succeed, especially for a young person such as Ioannis. When someone claims your position, you want to get him out of the picture. When you love glory, you don’t want anyone to come in front of you. You want everything. You seek everything. You can’t stand being mediocre…’’ he unleashes his riddle and suddenly the artistic portrait becomes a candidate for complicity or guilt in the crime.
‘‘What are you saying, Mr. Giannatos? Vasilikos has all the recognizability. Mr. Vladimirov hides behind his secrets. He is in obscurity…’’ Peter rightly claims.
The interrogated smiles again. I think this smile conceals knowledge, awareness of a situation we are trying to sort out.
‘‘For whom is all Greece talking about, officer? It is not the mystery of the invisible that draws all this attention, but the master mind creating all these top songs. What matters most is what every person is seeking. I don’t hide it; I want to make as much money as I can. Ioannis is not interested in money, but in applause.’’
Yes, I can easily believe that. His eccentric outfit is enough for this finding.
‘‘You are incriminating Vasilikos with great easiness, Mr. Giannatos… Should I assume that your relationships with him is not the best?’’ Antonella is looking at the lyricist with suspicion. She dislikes him for supporting the composer.
He shakes his head, looking first at the ceiling and then at the floor. ‘‘I am not incriminating anyone. I simply don’t believe that Dima is capable of murder. He is extremely sensitive and emotionally vulnerable. A man who is sacrificing himself to make the others happy can’t take a life away.’’
‘‘Is he sacrificing himself?’’
‘‘I am sorry, but I don’t have the right to talk about his personal life.’’
‘‘So, you support that someone trapped him and that this someone is Ioannis, right?’’ Peter simply interprets his words.
‘‘I believe someone is playing with him, but I don’t know who he is,’’ he corrects the previous targeting of his collaborator.
The second round is over. Ioannis comes forward as a former trainee doctor seeking for glory and the composer as a sensitive soul incapable of committing a crime, along with many secrets about his personal life. All this information is very contradictory. The image of the two men, as they have been presented to us, supports exactly the opposite.
We proceed to collect information from the Criminological department. No marks of struggle or of sexual abuse were found on Aphrodite’s body, only the specific quantities of anesthetics. Peter goes to the commander’s office. The pressure of the case deprives him of power. He does not want to fail in any case. As always.
‘‘I don’t believe him… He simply wants to protect the composer. I still believe the Russian is the killer,’’ Antonella claims and drinks the last sips of her coffee while my mind is trying to create the image of Vasilikos as a murderer.
Impossible.
When my thoughts are self-defeating one another side by side, I choose to place my bet on Victoria. She convinces me more.
He rests his palms on the edge of the sink and raises his face in the mirror. He is only twenty-seven years old but faces a tired man. An exhausted mind adds wrinkles to the brain. His fears come to life. They come forward. His obsessions are burning him. They are devouring the flesh of his brain. The grey matter is inflamed. He can’t take control of this rage.
He opens the door and sees Aimilios waiting for him exactly outside. The misguided question of the latter, as to whether he feels OK, strikes on the white wall. He drags his feet to the bed. He lies down on his side and looks outside of the open window which lets the light get in.
‘‘Close it.’’
‘‘Will you sleep again?’’ he asks him discreetly while lowering the curtains.
He turns on his back. He has convinced himself that he is the sickest person in the Metropolitan hospital. He believes in the strength of will and what it can provoke. When he was studying in the US, he had gone to a mentalist’s demonstration, one of those who move and bend spoons with their mind. He was impressed by his concentration. Deficit attention was one of his disadvantages his father kept stressing, however as far as he remembers himself, he always had the same look as the mentalist’s. He calls it focused. Orpheus lost. The latter had the power to convince him for the correctness of his own characterization.
He lets his eyes be fixed at the ceiling. He knows that the game is not over. He just got some extra time. He looks at the sterile white and draws mental lines upon it. He starts with ‘‘today’’, connects it with ‘‘tomorrow’’, and this, in turn, with ‘‘the day after tomorrow’’. Then he draws a door. His home. The next line connects to his fathe
r and the next to America. He must find Manolis.
‘‘What did the police officer ask you?’’ he asks Aimilios staring at the ceiling.
The housekeeper hesitates to turn towards him. Deligiannis was right. He fears him. He fears Aris and his unstable world. He wants to go far away from this family, but even this choice fills him with insecurity. Someone who knows secrets and stops being useful is an obstacle that should get out of the way. The thoughts are spinning in his mind, the moment he turns towards the patient.
‘‘Tell me what he said to you.’’
‘‘He asked me about a girl.’’
He smiles. ‘‘What did he tell you about the other?’’ His sight have been blurred. The tone of his voice becomes heavier. It is a mixture of hidden tears and fear.
Aimilios is looking at the door. ‘‘He simply asked me about a girl. Nothing else.’’ He takes steps towards it.
‘‘He knows the truth. He knows it and is kidding me,’’ he mutters behind his teeth.
The loyal housekeeper of the Nomikos family is seeking a chance to escape. He is not looking for an escape from the room, but from the abyss of secrets this family is hiding. His heart rate goes up. Aris’s words ignite the red bell. He is in danger.
‘‘Do you need me for anything else?’’ he asks him, having already arrived next to the exit.
‘‘What did he ask you about Maniatis?’’
‘‘He didn’t ask me about a man called Maniatis, Mr. Aris.’’
‘‘He didn’t ask you…’’ he laughs softly, but the sobbing exchanges laughter with tears. ‘‘They will learn the truth… Everyone will learn the truth…’’
His life has been standby for the last two weeks. He feels that the time has come for him to be punished. To pay for what he did that night in America. When he went to the appointment set by Maniatis he believed that the case would close by ensuring the lawyer’s silence even temporarily, but his death put him in a game with an invisible enemy.
The weight is unbearable. The video Maniatis had in his hands burns the perpetrators and brings the two victims, who until this day are on the missing list, to the surface. He believes that this video has passed to the hands of a stranger waiting to blackmail him, as Apostolos had warned him. He bets it is the same person who killed Maniatis. He is totally sure that his death is not a suicide.
The Last Symphony Page 19