The woman said nothing, her green eyes leveled at the policeman’s face. Then she turned and strode off toward the café near the funicular stop.
When they had sat down at the little café table and placed their order for three espressos, the woman hissed: “Why can’t you understand? There’s nothing at all to find out. Nothing to investigate, nothing to discover. My daughter . . . she’s raving, she’s dreaming, she’s fantasizing, but she just writes down her dreams. And that’s all.”
“You see, Signora,” said Aragona, removing his glasses, “you don’t have to convince us of it. We know that Martina made it all up.”
“What? I mean, in that case, you . . . then, if so, why did you come up here? I need to get to work, I can’t—”
Romano said, in a low voice: “So, aren’t you interested in knowing how we came to this conclusion? Because I can imagine that you understand that the crime of which your daughter has accused her father is one of the foulest and most odious crimes known, a very grim matter that the law generally delves into without pity, bringing in psychologists and magistrates. These are long and painful procedures, and they can ruin a person’s life. Or even many people’s lives.”
Antonella sat there silently, slowly shaking her head as if rejecting out of hand even the mere hypothesis of what Romano had just foreshadowed. A tear rolled down one cheek, and she wiped it away with a brusque gesture of one hand.
“No, I’m not interested in hearing how you figured it out. The only thing I’m interested in is having you leave me alone, and more importantly, having you leave my husband alone. He’s a good person, and the last thing he deserves—”
Aragona let loose with a crude burst of laughter.
“Once again, we’re completely in agreement, my dear Signora. Your husband is a good person, and this is the last thing he deserves. There are lots of things he doesn’t deserve. Don’t you agree?”
Romano was pretty sure that his partner had just been unnecessarily crude, and intentionally so, but he didn’t feel he had the right to scold him for taking that minor satisfaction.
“We aren’t interested in entering into the details of your relations,” he said. “Luckily for us, that’s none of our business. What does concern us, however, is the fact that your daughter is spreading the idea among the people who know you as a family that her father is molesting her. We need to understand why, in order to reassure people who might someday decide it’s worth submitting a formal criminal complaint. So, either you talk to us, or else we’ll have to talk directly to your husband.”
For a few seconds, Antonella Parise sat there, motionless, inexpressive. Then the dam burst, and the woman opened her heart to Romano and Aragona as if they were a pair of father confessors, not a couple of cops.
My husband doesn’t make much money. It’s not like he doesn’t make much in any absolute terms, I realize there are people who get by on far less and maybe even have more children. I’ve often thought that perhaps that was our mistake: if we’d had more than one child, the kids might have had their heads screwed on a little straighter.
Martina, you know, is intelligent. Really intelligent. And clever, too. She’s always been a sharp kid, much more so than other girls her age. She knows how to manipulate people to get them to do what she wants; she has the gift of guessing other people’s weak points and using them to her own advantage. I know, it’s not very nice for a mother to talk this way about her own daughter, but it’s the truth.
The parents do their best, but it’s just that sometimes they don’t realize that what they think is their best really isn’t. For instance, we wanted the girl to attend an elite school, alongside the children of distinguished professionals and industrialists. We thought that by doing that we’d give her a path to enter fine society, and perhaps, in time, to meet someone who could emancipate her from her mediocre status.
We were wrong.
We were wrong, because the only thing we achieved was to instill in her a sense of inadequacy. She learned to act a certain way, instead of being something specific. And she developed a sense of envy.
My daughter envied her girlfriends or, actually, her classmates, from the first day of school on. She envied them their shoes, their jackets, their backpacks, their chauffeur-driven cars that dropped them off at school, the homes to which she was invited for parties. Since she couldn’t rival the other girls in terms of clothing or social circles, she decided to become their leader. And she succeeded.
She started hating her father three years ago. She blamed him for what he couldn’t afford to buy for her. And in the end she couldn’t think of anything better to say than that Sergio is a miserable loser, unable to provide us with what we deserve. She didn’t take it out on me because I’m pretty so, in her opinion, I just need to find a wealthy boyfriend and make her rich too. Her father, on the other hand, is nothing but a ball and chain, a hindrance.
In a certain sense, it was she who pushed me into the arms of Pasquale, the owner of the shop where I work. Our relationship began before he hired me; we met in the waiting room at the dentist’s office where I took Martina. She calls him Uncle Lino, short for Pasqualino. He buys her fake affection and, more importantly, her silence, by giving her gifts, and in exchange, she offers him an opportunity to . . . well, it seems to me that you already understand that part.
Are you wondering if I feel dirty for what I’ve done? Yes, I feel dirty. But not for the reasons you’re probably imagining.
My husband knows about my relationship. About six months ago, Martina told him about it, hoping that that would drive him away. She thinks that if we can just get rid of Sergio, Pasquale would leave his wife and all three of us could live together in happy luxury. That, of course, is not what would happen. It’s one thing to hand a young girl a hundred euros so that you can fuck her mother without being disturbed or inconvenienced, it’s quite another matter to destroy your life. What’s more, everything’s in his wife’s name, and he’d be left without a penny to his name.
I tried to explain it to my daughter, but she’s convinced that if we play our cards right, it’ll all turn out for the best. The only obstacle as far as she can see is Sergio. When she tried to tell him, he started yelling that he didn’t believe it and that he wouldn’t believe it even if he saw it with his own eyes. He didn’t even ask me to quit my job, because in that case we would have to retrench drastically: sell the car, move house . . . And things would just be worse. Better to turn away and pretend nothing’s happened.
Martina’s latest fixation is this thing with sexual molestation. So you’re not willing to leave? she decided. Then I’ll get them to come take you away. I’ll get you arrested. She got the idea from a TV show in which the father is hit with a restraining order keeping him from coming within a mile of his children. Ridiculous, isn’t it?
I no longer love my husband, let’s be clear about that. We were just kids when I got pregnant with Martina. But that doesn’t mean I’d dream of accusing him of that kind of filthy crime, not in my wildest dreams. I’d rather just go on living like this, at this point, I can’t turn back time.
I know I can’t.
Romano and Aragona sat there in silence, their eyes fastened to the woman’s face.
They stood up, went over to the cash register and paid for their espressos, and left the café with an oppressive sense of anguish that they hadn’t had when they’d gone in.
There was just one last thing to do, before they could consider the matter settled.
XXXVI
Lojacono and Alex followed Professor Forgione through a maze of hallways and staircases. The lieutenant was increasingly convinced that without an expert scout to guide them back out, they would have remained prisoners for the rest of their lives in the coils of that building.
When they got to the laboratory, they were quite impressed. The place was spacious, tidy, and spotless. Deep down inside, the lieutenan
t was forced to admit that often his negative prejudices against that dirty and chaotic city were proven wrong by the things he encountered in real life.
Renato was standing in front of a complicated system of test tubes and very narrow glass pipes. He was staring into the middle distance, as pale as a rag; with one hand he was tormenting the hem of his lab coat. His grief at the loss of his friend and the trauma of having stumbled upon his corpose were far from having been metabolized.
There were at least eight or ten other people in the room, and at the sight of the professor they all grew agitated. It was clear that the boss was rarely seen around there, and the general intent was clearly to make a good impression.
“Signori, buongiorno to you all,” said Antimo Forgione. “Forgive us if we interrupt the work you’re doing. As you know, the university and our institute in particular have suffered a terrible loss, that of our friend Dr. Varricchio. This gentleman and lady are from the police and they’re conducting an investigation into the case. I’d like to ask you to make yourselves available to them and answer any questions they may wish to ask of you.”
Lojacono appreciated the peremptory tone of that request.
“Thanks, Professor. For the moment, we’re happy just to speak with your son, whom we have already met before.”
The others in the room exchanged glances, heaving a sigh of relief, and silently went back to the work that they’d been doing.
Renato came over, saying hello.
The professor led them to an office that was separated from the larger room by glass walls, transparent but soundproof.
“Renato,” he told his son, “these policemen want to know about the last period of Biagio’s life: how he was doing, whether he was having any troubles. I told them what I could, but you were his friend. I also told them that recently you’d been covering up for his shortcomings with the work you did . . . ”
The young man waffled defensively.
“Papà, come on, I told you a thousand times, that’s not the way it was, he—”
The professor gently touched his arm.
“My dear boy, do you think I don’t know how to judge my own coworkers? I always know what you’re doing in here, and also what you aren’t. For the past six months, for the most part you’ve been in charge of the projects assigned to the two of you. But that doesn’t matter, I knew just how capable and skilled Biagio was, it was just a matter of waiting for the bad times to be over. Unfortunately, as we know, they didn’t end at all.”
Renato opened his mouth, and then shut it again. The hand that he raised to adjust his eyeglasses was trembling.
Lojacono and Alex were speechless. Before his partner had a chance to say something unnecessary, Lojacono took back control of the situation.
“Professor, we thank you for your time. We don’t want to take up any more of it. Why don’t you let us ask a few questions of our own? We’d like to spend a few more minutes with young Dr. Forgione, here, and then we’ll get out of your hair.”
“Let me thank you for your diplomatic approach, you want to talk to Renato alone because you think that he might find it awkward to talk with me here. But let me assure you that my son and I have no secrets between us, and—”
The young man weighed in, decisively.
“Papà, why don’t you just let us talk. Biagio wouldn’t have wanted me to reveal things in your presence that he had told me in confidence.”
Forgione nodded.
“Yes, you’re probably right. Signori, my regards. If you need anything, you know how to get in touch.”
And he left the room.
Once the professor had left the laboratory, after saying goodbye to the other researchers, the young man relaxed. Alex recognized in his eyes the often debilitating effects of the influence of an authoritative father.
Renato caught her look, and sighed.
“My father is a great scientist, a fantastic man, but sometimes he just doesn’t understand certain situations.”
Lojacono tried to reassure him.
“Don’t worry about that. Among other things, he was very helpful, and I assure you that’s rarely the case. To come back to us, when we spoke with you at the apartment, we were interested in you inasmuch as you were the one who found the victims. Now we’d like to talk to you as a friend of Biagio Varricchio’s, to better understand his life and his sister’s life. We’re going to need to track back to whoever—”
Renato waved his hand.
“I understand perfectly. Go ahead and ask: I’m as eager as anyone to ensure that whoever committed . . . that terrible deed should be identified and made to pay for it.”
Alex noticed that the resemblance between father and son become more unmistakable the moment that the young man lost his usual indecisive expression.
“The professor referred to the fact that Biagio had been somewhat distracted on the job. Can you tell us more?”
Renato gently shook his head.
“You see, our line of work involves a few initial hunches followed by lengthy, boring routines, taking measurements, re-checking them, experimenting: all to prove whether a single hypothesis is true or false. All it takes is the slightest oversight and you run the risk of taking for granted a reaction or a process that invalidates all the rest. Error lurks around every corner.”
“So?”
“Biagio was always a fantastic researcher, full of brilliant hunches but especially determined and careful when it came to the successive steps, the process of verification. Recently, though, it was as if he’d lost his ability to concentrate. I had to double check his data, which delayed the completion of the research project. I think that’s what my father was talking about. I was happy to do it, Biagio helped me out when I was studying, and even afterward: in some sense I was just returning the favor. It was a bad time for him.”
Alex wanted to get a clearer understanding.
“So are you saying that the problem was that Varricchio’s calculations, or whatever they were, had to be done over again?”
“That was part of it. Then there was the issue of how seldom he was showing up in the laboratory. He’d stay at home with his laptop and say he was working from there. But he’d stopped bringing anything back here. It was clear that he had other things on his mind.”
“Had he confided in you the reason for his uneasiness?” Lojacono asked.
Renato shrugged his shoulders.
“Biagio didn’t talk much, in part because he didn’t have anything going on outside of the university. He used to say that he’d start going out, spending time with other people, once he’d attained the professional goals he’d set for himself. Actually, though, he was just shy, even with me, and I was his only friend.”
“But you must have had some idea of your own, right?”
“You can’t live with a person for ten or twelve hours a day without understanding, at least a little, what is going through his mind. The problem was his sister.”
“Had he told you anything about her?” Alex persisted.
“Yes. When he was at the university, we would eat lunch together, and if we were working late, I would drive him home. In those periods of time, he had an opportunity to chat a little bit.”
The young man tended to dole out information with an eyedropper. Perhaps that was typical of the work he did, Lojacono thought to himself.
“Then, do you think you could explain to us why his sister would have been a problem?”
Renato looked at him, in some surprise.
“Didn’t you talk to Paco and Vinnie? Grazia had turned Biagio’s life upside down. Before she came, everything was calm and quiet, there was a smooth and orderly routine. After she arrived, the place turned into a circus. Just think, when there was work to be done even after the laboratory had closed for the night, Biagio preferred to come to my house, just like in the
old days when we’d study together. In fact, if I didn’t see him for a while I’d start to worry. That’s actually why I dropped by to see him the other morning.”
“What do you mean, a ‘circus’?”
“That her boyfriend would come and go, and he and Grazia were always fighting furiously. Then there was his father, constantly threatening to show up there and drag his daughter back down to the village. Biagio was terrified of him. He described him as a hulking monster, violent and capable of anything. Then there was the whole thing with the photograph.”
“What photograph?”
“Grazia had brought Biagio a snapshot with her name on it that she’d had taken for a modeling agency; she was practically nude, wearing nothing but a skimpy swimsuit. Only her boyfriend happened to get a look at it, too, and he ripped it into a thousand pieces and then attacked her. Biagio, who certainly was no fighter, found himself forced to stand up for her.”
Lojacono thought it over. The episode fit in with everything he’d learned when he’d questioned Foti and Cava; and the young man’s reaction seemed to fit right in with his personality.
“What was Biagio planning to do?” he asked.
“He loved his sister very much. In an almost paternal way. He’d worked himself half to death to be able to study and at the same time pay for her expenses living with their aunt and uncle. I myself helped him out financially when he was in his direst straits. I think he wanted to go on helping her, but she had no other real gifts, aside from her beauty. Becoming a model, all things considered, was a pretty good idea, and Biagio was happy about it. But her boyfriend and the father would never have allowed her to do it.”
“And so?” asked Alex.
“And so Biagio was in a state of crisis. His mind was accustomed to finding solutions, but now it was chasing endlessly around the problem without being able to make head or tails of it. And that was draining him, exhausting him. Sadly.”
“Speaking of money, Doctor,” Lojacono jumped in, “had Varricchio asked you for any money, recently? Even a small sum, but above and beyond his usual needs.”
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